Page 9 of Amnesty

The guarded veil dropped over her eyes again. Amnesia somehow convinced herself I was one day not going to want her. That there was something out there with the capability to change the beating of my heart.

Or…

Am wasn’t the one who convinced herself. Someone else did it for her.

More specifically, that old bat lying unresponsive in the hospital.

Fuck not pushing. Fuck biding my time. If that bitch was somehow manipulating my girl’s head, even in her “catatonic” state, I was going to put a stop to it.

PS: I used quotations around catatonic because, let’s get real, the psycho was probably faking.

“What did she say to you?” I demanded, though I tried to do it gently.

Amnesia’s eyes moved away. “Who?”

“Am,” I growled.

She sighed. “I—”

The doorbell rang.

I swore to all that’s holy I was going to rip that ringer right off the side of the house. And then I was going to beat whoever it was that pushed on it with the broken pieces.

“Why do people always show up when we’re in bed?” Am wondered.

I made a rude sound. “Because people are assholes.”

Am giggled, and the sound lifted the darkest of the black settling over my mood. “Or maybe it’s because we spend too much time in here.”

I screwed up my face in horror. “I should make you eat a banana for saying that.”

She cringed.

The doorbell rang again. Repeatedly.

Instead of jumping off the mattress, I wrapped an arm across her waist and kissed her loud and sloppily all over her cheek. Her laughter floated out the door behind me as I finally stormed toward the front of the house.

“This better be good!” I roared and flung it open.

“What the hell, man!” someone roared back.

“Robbie?” I asked, even though he was standing right in front of me.

“Are you still in bed?” He scoffed, taking in my undressed state and glowering.

“What are you, my mother?” I retorted.

“If I was, I’d be half blind, because, dude…” He glanced down. “You need to adjust your junk.”

I glanced down and frowned. “I already adjusted it.”

“Made you look!” He announced and smacked me on the shoulder. His palm made a slapping sound against my skin.

“What are you, in fifth grade?” Even as I asked, a grin tugged at my lips.

“Those were the days.” He reminisced. “Cindy Vans was so hot for me.”

I rolled my eyes. “She still is.”

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