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It’s fitting he would ask that just as I rub my eyes with the palm of my hand and feel the sting of the burning need to sleep.
I chew on my lip, my fingers hovering over the screen. I don’t want to lie to him here, not on the phone; I don’t want to taint these messages that mean so much. After a moment I tell him the truth and see exactly what I expect in return.
Not well.
Have you been drinking your tea?
The vial is on my nightstand, staring at me as if I’m to blame for this shit. I nearly took it last night, but I don’t do drugs. Not any sort. I’ve seen what addiction can do. Although I’ve also seen what desperation can do. And I’m desperate for one night where I close my eyes and I’m not haunted by memories of the past. I was doing so well for years. Her murderer being found is what set everything off. And the nightmares have come back with a vengeance.
Take it.His message sends a chill down my spine. It’s as if he can hear my thoughts.
It takes me longer than I thought it would to write him back. Mostly because I don’t know what his answer will be, but I know what I want to read.
If I take it, will you leave me alone? I text him and then grab the vial. I don’t have a cup of tea handy, but I have a glass of water. Without even thinking, I put one drop, then another, then the third.
I watch the liquid swirl as I wait for his message. The other night I thought it was clear, since in the tea I couldn’t see its color.
But it’s pink, a pale, pale pink that quickly disappears in the water.
Before I take a sip, I check my phone only to see he hasn’t responded. The lip of the glass feels cold as I bring it up and take the first gulp, wondering what it will taste like.
It tastes like nothing at all. Maybe a tinge of sugar. Just a faint hint.
I’m still considering the taste when the phone goes off on my lap.You need to sleep. How typical of Sebastian to respond without answering my question.
He has no fucking idea how badly I need to sleep. I’m delirious.
I chug the rest of the glass and intend on telling him that I drank the stuff he gave me, or maybe telling him something just so he’ll stay with me on the phone until I’ve fallen asleep.
That doesn’t happen though. Instead, I stare at the empty glass, feeling lightheaded and drowsy all at once. My sense of time begins to warp, feeling like it passes slowly but quickly just the same.
I barely get the glass on the nightstand before the darkness takes over. I’m able to slip under the covers, feeling the weight of sleep pulling at me. And I give in to it, so easily.
* * *
“You’re late.”Tamra’s voice is clear as can be. She always had a slight rasp in the last word of every sentence and she kept her lips in the shape of that word for what seemed like an odd amount of time.
Where am I? I can feel my brow pinch; this room is familiar, but not so much that I know where I am. The carpet’s thin and worn out in front of the television where the car seats are. There are three of them, although they’re empty now. No one’s here but me, sitting on the sofa that’s just as worn as the carpet and Tamra, who’s standing in front of the open door.
“He made me stay overtime.” My mother’s voice drifts in through the tense air. She’s agitated and suddenly anxiety runs through me.
“Well, then, this is overtime for me. I can’t watch these brats for free.”
I’m not a brat. I swear I was good. I was good. I want to tell my mother, but I know to be quiet. With my hands in my lap, I wait stiffly. I’ll only move when I’m told, I’ll only speak when I’m spoken to. With my throat tight and dry, I wring my fingers around one another and glance at my bookbag at the end of the sofa. It’s already packed, and I didn’t forget anything. I never forget. If I do, I don’t tell my mom and I hope she doesn’t find out.
“Of course, you’re gonna fucking charge me,” my mother spits out her anger at Tamra. Anger which I know will be directed at me on Monday when she watches me again unless she tells my mom she’s not going to watch me anymore without being paid early. Which she’s done before. In that case, I stay in my room all day and don’t answer the door. But Mom got in trouble for doing that once.
“Let’s go, Chloe.” My mom barges into the living room as Tamra stays where she is, keeping the front door open. It’s late and I still have homework to do, but I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to read the words and I need someone to tell me, but Tamra won’t and Mom’s mad so I know better than to bother her.
I can tell from the way she stomps across the room it would be a mistake for me to do anything or say anything. I get up quickly. But I have to be quicker. If I move fast enough it won’t burn when she grabs my arm.
“I’m coming,” I tell her as fast as I can, snatching my bookbag and scurrying to her side even though fear is racing through me and begging me to run.
I’ll be quiet; I’ll go to sleep. Miss Parker will help me. It’s only second grade, she keeps telling me I have time to do it at school if I get there early, but that I have to learn to read. I’m trying. I promise her I am.
“You see how no one helped me?” I hear a voice from outside this moment, a voice that sounds so close, so real. So full of rage and vengeance. My mother. Fear runs down my skin and up the back of my neck, freezing me where I am as I swear I feel her hot breath at the shell of my ear.
She didn’t say that in the memory. She’s telling me now.
