Page 83 of Nemesis

I brace myself for another wave, my stomach cramping hard, but also brace for his snide comment. Something about how I ended up in whatever position he found me.

Instead, he silently gathers my hair back. He holds it with one hand and rummages in the drawer of the sink vanity with the other.

I close my eyes and throw up again.

Could this get any worse?

Today hassucked.

Something lightly scrapes at my scalp, and then Saint is sighing and moving away.

My hair stays in place.

I touch the plastic clip.

He flushes the toilet and holds out his hand. I carefully take it, letting him pull me to my feet. We eye each other for a minute. His eyes are bloodshot, and there are dark circles under them. He probably doesn’t get much sleep nowadays either.

“I don’t remember?—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupts. “You don’t want to know.”

My attention drops to his hand, which keeps flexing into a fist and releasing. His knuckles are busted, the cuts not yet scabbed over. It seems like they’ve barely stopped bleeding.

“What did you do?”

He stares at me. “I think you should sit back down.”

I roll my eyes.

Bad idea. My body immediately flushes hot, and my knees buckle.

Saint grabs me.

Saint stops me from hitting the floor.

Saint practically carries me back to the couch.

I think I’m inThe Twilight Zone. Because what the fuck is happening here? When I’m seated, I finally appraise myself. The hoodie is gone—and good riddance—but my shirt is ripped andbloody, my sweatpants have massive tears in the thighs, all the way down to my knees. Like the soft fabric was flayed open.

Plus the head wound, and my arms…

“I look worse than I feel,” I lie.

But honestly? How I look is a great indication of how I feel, which is to say, thoroughly chewed up and regurgitated.

The fear of that trap comes back to me, and I hold my breath. Like taking a dive, I use it to cut my panic short.

I’ve spent too fucking long panicking this week.

This month.

“Just stay there.” He points at me, then disappears around the corner into the kitchen. From behind the wall separating the two rooms comes the sound of drawers opening and closing, and then running water. Shortly after, he comes back with two glasses of water and a bottle of pills. “Take these.”

I shake out some of the painkillers and pop them in my mouth, accepting the water next. He does the same, and I eye him.

“What’s up with you?”

He stiffens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

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