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That’s how I measure time now. Through pain. Less pain = easier to pass time.
Time slows when the pain increases.
I can’t think forward, either. If I anticipate time, think about the future, the pain increases, too.
Mental pain.
Mental pain that will soon convert to physical pain.
What are they going to do to me?
As I move, my hair tickles my neck. Because I’m living with my skin on fire, every nerve quick and ready to react, even a gentle touch like strands of hair against my skin feels horrible. My mind keeps playing through memories of the video I’ve seen of what they did to me.
My gut tightens. I’m close to throwing up.
If they’re going to torture me and kill me, I wish they’d just do it.
But then again, if I draw this out long enough, Drew may have enough time to find me and save me.
Which path do I choose? If I open my mouth and provoke them, I can get out of this no-man’s-land. I’m stuck waiting for them to act.
I’m at their mercy on multiple levels.
You get to a point after a while when any outcome is better than no outcome at all. Where any choice is better than not choosing.
Where inaction turns you insane.
And being stuck in your own head, a prisoner to your scrabbling mind, can be worse than death.
There is a book on Drew’s nightstand, crooked and jutting out. It’s on top of a stack of books. I twist just enough, scooching over, moving slowly. I’m bored out of my mind and anything – anything – is better than staring at the ceiling and envisioning my own death.
My fingers gain purchase on the book and it drops onto the bedspread.
The title:
Jane’s Military Aircraft Recognition Guide
You have got to be kidding me.
A laugh bubbles up, coming out like a snort, a choked gasp, the sound of disbelief and betrayal and the surreal in one bundle of air. I didn’t expect Eat Pray Love, but are you kidding me?
My very last book I ever read will be this.
I’m pretty damn sure my friend Jane isn’t the one who wrote it.
Jane.
Where’s Jane now?
And then I wonder: seriously, Drew? This is your bedtime reading?
I have so much to learn about him.
A pang of sadness, of regret, powers through me at that thought.
I’ll never get that chance. Ever. I’ll never learn about his domestic habits. Does he snore? What does he wear to bed at night? Does he like the room warm, or does he open the window? Is he a spooner? What’s his favorite breakfast?
What’s it like to just spend time together living? Boring old daily life sounds like heaven – literally, heaven – to me right now.
