Page 65 of Petite Fleur

I don't like that this attitude is towards me. "I'll stand." I snap back.

Carlie rolls her eyes at me before shifting her gaze to Sean as if speaking to me isn't worth her energy.

"Carlie thinks you need to leave." He announces. His face looks a bit more sympathetic, like maybe he doesn't agree with this.

I'd like to believe that's true, like I haven't lost every friend I have because of a drunken confession.

"And what do you think? You're the main leaseholder." I remind him.

He sighs and crosses his legs to be more comfortable. "Carlie says if you don't leave, she's going to. And I know you can't afford to split the rent 50/50 with me like she can. It's not really leaving me with another option." He says sadly.

Well, at least he doesn't like this.

It doesn't change my circumstances, but it does make the blow hurt a little less.

"Fine. How long do I have?" I ask. I'm paid up for the next three weeks, so if he tells me any sooner, I want a check. However, I also wish he'd say I could stay during the summer since neither of them will be here during the summer anyway.

I'd be home alone, so why does it matter if I'm here if she's in Louisiana? "Until the new tenant moves in next week, I'll write you a check for the two weeks you're paid up and for your part of the security deposit." He promises me.

All I can do is nod. If I try to argue, I'll cry again, and I won't cry in front of them.

Carlie doesn't deserve to know that she got to me.

Chapter 24

Leon Aldon

When I open my eyes, I'm 14 and strapped to a cold metal table that has been my permanent residence for the last two weeks.

My arms and legs ache from being immobile for so long, stuck in place with thick and cold leather straps digging into my skin and I can't even move my head.

Everything is cold and all I want to do is close my eyes, but I can't.

Trying to sleep physically hurts me, and leaving my eyes closed for too long burns even more than leaving them open.

Everything hurts and my entire body aches and itches to move from this spot.

I hear the loud clack of my mother's heels from down the hallway, making me anxious and terrified the closer the sound gets until my mother is staring down at me with a clipboard in her hands.

"Day 15, Leon. How are you feeling?" My mother asks me.

I can hear her, and I know what she's saying, but my brain can't process a response.

I hear her talk to herself, something about cognitive function decline.

I don't know; I just wish I could close my eyes for longer than a second.

I feel sick, physically sick.

“Mom." I whine.

I wish I could say that my mother looked at me with sympathy when I cried out for her, but she stared down at me in disgust and marked something in her little chart.

I can't keep doing this.

This medicine she has me on hasn't let me sleep in over two weeks, and despite her knowing I could die from this, she keeps giving it to me.

I've not had a rational thought since day two. Everything in my head feels fuzzy; there's nonsense going on in my head, and I'm scared that I'm hallucinating.

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