Page 59 of Employing Patience

I’m still drained as hell Tuesday morning when I wake up, smelling like roadkill and in desperate need of a shower. The first thing I see when I open my eyes is a bottle of water and some Tylenol on my nightstand, and I thank the universe Hannah was aware enough to duck out for some.

I down them, willing the drugs to kick in and do their thing before I try to climb out of bed. I’m torn on whether my need to shower or eat is stronger, and then I’m going to have to make some calls because I have no idea if I rang in for work, and it would be just my luck to get sick and fired all in the same day.

Art would be fine—he’s got more than enough employees—but I feel terrible for letting Freddy down when he should have more than just me around to help him.

I force myself up, and it’s beyond tempting to pull the covers back up and suffocate myself. I’m immediately hit with my constant worries about bills, work, and school, and I have no idea when it’s all going to end. It’s bleak when I wish the fever would take over again so I don’t have to think about any of it.

I stumble to my feet, grab the first clothes I pull from the clean washing basket, and stagger to the bathroom, hitting the wall a few times on the way. Fuck, I’m dizzy, but while the break from my worries was great, the break from my income will only be making everything worse. I need to get back to it.

I take a leak, then sit on the floor of my shower because standing too long under the hot water makes my head spin. I’m probably getting filthier than anything by sitting here, but I ignore the potential bacteria and relax into the steam, loosening up my muscles.

The haze around my brain slowly clears, and when I look down, all I can see are angry bruises all over my pale skin. For the first time in days, I smile.

Some of the smaller ones have already started to fade, but I sit there and look at them all anyway, getting butterflies over the memory. I wish that night never had to end.

Hannah’s obviously picked me up a new shower gel, and the smell immediately reminds me of whatever the hell Art uses. I marvel at the coincidence, pouring out way too much and coating myself in it.

I climb out of the shower, dry off, then stand there and give myself a quiet moment to inspect the marks covering my back and ass too. I look like a fucking mess, but there isn’t a single part of me that regrets it. I only hope Art feels the same.

And that once I’ve given him some time to process, he’s easier to get into bed next time. Yeah, that night has taken the desperate edge off, but every time I remember his deep voice in my ear, his rough hands, the way he expertly worked me over until I was powerless to stop myself from coming my brains out, the need hits hard all over again.

I thought work was torture before? I let out a weak laugh. Oh, this shit is going to be impossible.

You know. If I still have a job there.

I get dressed and head to the kitchen for coffee, only when I step out of the hall, I come to a complete stop.

What … what?

It takes me a second to realize I’m still in the same house.

“Is this still a fever dream?” I mutter, hand combing through my damp hair in shock. “What the …”

First, the windows are open. With curtains hanging beside them and glass so clean I can see out of them. The TV is sitting on a low, shiny white cabinet, our table and chairs have been replaced with something that also looks new, and there’s a rug and goddamn cushions on the couch.

I’m too scared to move in case I break this hallucination and abruptly find myself back in reality.

Slowly, I take my first step. Nothing changes. Then another.

“What in the fucking hell …”

The weirdness only increases when I open the fridge and find it full. The cupboard too. Container after container of pastries that have clearly been homemade and then a whole variety of dishes in the freezer.

I scramble for my phone and call Hannah, but she does that frustrating thing where she immediately hangs up on me.

Hannah: I’m in class

Me: Did you do this?

Hannah: Do what?

Me: The house, obviously. Where did all this shit come from?

Hannah: Oh, I just assumed you did.

Me: I’ve been sick.

Hannah: **shrug emoji**

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