Page 88 of Unhinged

"What's going on?" he asks. "Are you sick?"

I lift my knees to my chest and rock, and it does a little bit to ease the discomfort.

"I have my period."

He blinks, and something like pain flashes across his face.

"Your period," he repeats, staring at me.

I nod.

"They're really bad when I get them. I have a… condition."

I shake my head.

It hurts too much to explain about scar tissue, illness, and the fucking plague of my life.

Now I know why I’m wet between my legs. And I want to get to the bathroom to clean myself off, but I’m in so much pain. I don’t trust myself to move. The doctor I saw in Paris told me the pain level mimics active labor.

I’ll never know.

"You’re in pain because of your period?" he asks. Is it my imagination, or is his voice wobbling? This big, strong, fearless psychopath. Why does he sound unsteady?

I nod and squeeze my eyes shut as a spasm of pain takes over again.

There are meds that I can take, but I don’t have them. I’ve tried a few different things, but I’ve been on the run for too long to gather an arsenal of necessities—things like hot water bottles and the right supplements. Those are the types of things you have when you have a… home.

I haven’t had a home in over a decade.

I squeeze my eyes shut when the pain wraps around my midsection, stabbing between my legs, my back aching like it’s being pulled apart. I try to breathe through it, pressing my lips together and inhaling through my nose, but this is the worst I’ve ever experienced. I whimper, hot tears splashing onto my cheeks.

He’s standing, wringing his hands, looking at me in helpless confusion.

"What can I do?"

I kick off the blanket when the pain hits me again. To my shame and embarrassment, blood smears my legs.

"Oh god," he says, shaking his head as if reliving his own trauma. Maybe he is.

"I don’t know." It hurts too much to think right now. "Give me something to clean myself up. Please," I tack on like an afterthought. It’s hard to talk.

One spasm builds on another, then another. I hear his heavy footsteps retreat, then return. The bed sinks down when he sits next to me.

"Let me," he says softly.

I shake my head and reach for the washcloth in his hand while he stands there helplessly.

"Leave me alone," I tell him, riddled with shame and pain.

"This doesn’t bother me," he starts.

"It bothersme! Leave me alone, please."

I get a momentary break from the pain. I breathe through my nose, clumsily clean the blood, dab my wet legs with the towel, and toss everything in the general direction of the laundry hamper.

I curl up on the bed, and I hear him talking on the phone.

I’m afraid he’s going to call an ambulance and have me taken to the hospital, but when I breathe hard and try to listen, I’m hit with another spasm of brutal, blinding pain. And I can’t think anymore.

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