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Gone.
No…
“Sh…shit,” I stutter, unable to make my hands and arms move.
My vision turns to spots and then clarity as I push my body forward, hovering over the search area. Panic rises like a heated sparkler, sending my mind into overdrive.
It takes me seconds to sweep lip gloss and spare change and travel tissues and credit cards onto the floor with the swipe of a hand. I spot two of the pills nestled inside an open pack of gum. My hand grips the little white beads, holding them like they are the most precious items in the world—an anchor, keeping me from floating out to sea.
“Fuck,” I groan as the pain refocuses my attention. How did I get on the floor?
I slip farther onto the tiles with some of the disposed purse items, rummaging through the wreckage in search of survivors. I frantically fix my hair wrap, to clear my eyesight from the damp locks spilling out of the sides. Along the bottom baseboard of the cabinet, I find another one. I have three total. Three out of the seven made it to safety. My mind cannot clear. It’s as if I am in an eternal fog.
Sweat beads on my forehead. I can hear the thump-thump of my heart beating wildly as I try to pick up the pieces that resemble my pathetic life. And that’s what it is.
Pathetic.
I crawl on the floor for at least five minutes. I lift up mats, check behind the garbage can, and run my free hand along all borders and trims. I just can’t get myself to stop, to give up hope.
Hoisting myself up from the floor, I spot three pills through the reflection in the mirror, concealed behind the soap dispenser. Carefully, I reach my shaky hand out to move the holder away from the fragile victims.
Slowly.
Steadily.
I extend my fingers to—
Nooo!
I watch in horror as tears escape my eyes and an agonizing whimper escapes my mouth as two plummet to their death in the dampened sink. I snatch up the dry pill still behind the dispenser to add to my collection, and then I make quick work to try to scoop out the other two from the basin.
One rests in the bottom part of the drain, dissolving almost instantly into the small amount of pooling water and soap residue. I scrape up the other one from the inclined wall and try to dry it before it becomes paste.
Mine.
I wipe the semi-damp pill on my tongue, licking my fingers to try to capture all of the effectiveness before it is too late. I turn on the cold water and cup some in my palm, slurping it up into my mouth. Once I get enough, I splash some on my face and start the countdown until I will start feeling better again.
I slide my back against the wall and shimmy down until my butt rests on the floor. A burp escapes through my throat, and I get the chemical soapy aftertaste instantly. I lean my forehead against bended knees and can once again hear the music, as if all is magically right in the world.
It takes my bottom going numb to decide to move. I scoop together all of the lost items and pack them back into my purse. The music gets muted and my four rescued pills find a new home in an empty Altoids mint container.
I make my way into the closet. On tiptoes, I reach up for my black leggings. I pull an oversized periwinkle cotton top off a hanger, knowing that the length will cover my butt to make the tight-fitting leggings less inappropriate.
The moon glows through my window. I can’t keep my eyes off it. It is the one thing that provides me comfort in the night. The soft illumination, lighting the darkness whenever the sun is gone.
I grab my hairbrush and sit at the window seat. I detangle my hair and wait for the sun to rise.
“Angie? You in there?” Claire yells a while later. “I woke up with a text from Zander. Everything okay?”
I look at the clock. It is already after eight. I lost track of time.
“I’ll be right down!” I yell back, feeling the throbbing in my forehead with an oncoming headache. I feel drained. I hear Claire mutter a few lines I cannot make out. “I’m fine!”
I hoist myself off the bench cushion and turn off the light. I finish up on the touches to my outfit and clean up the chaos that seems to follow me around.
Downstairs, I eat and drink what Claire has prepared, going through the motions.
“You don’t want to talk about it, huh?” she asks, pouring me more coffee from the ceramic pitcher.
