Page 3 of Halluci-Dating A Demon
My wardrobe has drastically changed over the last year. So many fabrics and materials don’t feel comfortable enough against my skin. Some dig too much into my hips, rubbing over my scars from old wounds and surgeries. The looser the clothing, the better. I run a brush through my hair, still ignoring my reflection, trying to focus on all the objects nearby to distract me from my brother’s bloodied face that’s still clinging to the front of my memory.
It’ll stay with me all day long too, lasting all night and morning until I see him all over again. “That wasn’t my brother,” I say again, almost screaming this time.
I’m thankful for the distraction my phone brings when it starts ringing. Setting down the brush and turning off the bathroom light, I rush toward my dresser to answer it. My sister Amy’s name lights up the screen. She’s the only family member left who still talks to me, the only one who doesn’t hate me or blame me. She should, though. Everyone has a right to. I mean, who the hell allows themselves to fall asleep at the wheel? How did I not feel it coming on? There had to have been a warning sign, hadn’t there?
They’ve taken a while to recognize over time—the warning signs—and I learn how to hold onto control a little more every day. To avoid any known triggers and heavy machinery. I might think I have a handle on my neurological disorder now, but that doesn’t mean I do. I didn’t even know about it until after the accident. I hadn’t been diagnosed prior. My doctor called it stress, my lack of ability to hold focus and the random moments where I was hit with onset fatigue.
He told me to pick up some vitamins and cut back on my work hours. Which helped for a while . . . Or so I thought. Stress does worsen the symptoms, but even with that lessened, they don’tgo away completely. At the end of the damn day, I still have narcolepsy and can’t be trusted on the road ever again.
The phone keeps ringing, and I finally answer the call on the fourth one, clearing my throat before saying, “Hiya, Ames.”
“Hey, jerk face! I didn’t wake ya, did I?”
I laugh, wishing the small smile on my face didn’t fade so fast. Wishing the happiness I get now was more than the small glimpses of what I used to have. “Nah, I’ve been up for an hour or so. Getting ready to head to the coffee shop.”
“Oh good. I never know what your sleep schedule is these days.”
“That makes two of us.” I walk to the small kitchen, rummaging through the fridge for some lunch meat and cheese. Usually, I eat something small at work, but today I’m too hungry and a little faint from all the energy drained from me earlier.
“So, how’s life? Talk to Mom lately?”
“No.” My stomach tightens. “She uh . . . hasn’t called in a while.”
“You haven’t called her at all? What about Dad?”
I let out a sigh, gathering all the ingredients to make a sandwich and setting them on the counter. “I don’t think they want to hear from me, Ames. It’s . . . The line is always quiet on their end, and last time Mom came to visit she couldn’t even look me in the eyes.” Dad was convinced for a while that I was under the influence of something because of my history as a teen, skipping class and getting high with some friends behind the building. I put that shit behind me, though, after I graduated and saw my future in a run-down old building with a large for-sale sign on the boarded window.
At first I thought I’d be running a bakery when I finally had the funds to buy the place, but life has a funny way of sending you in a different direction when you at least expect it. Instead of immersing myself in the smell of custard and sugar everymorning, I enter my shop inhaling the strong scent of coffee beans.
“It’s been a hard year for everyone. Give them time, they’ll come around. They know it wasn’t your fault.”
“Are you sure about that? Dad—”
“Was grieving. That’s all. I can tell he misses you whenever I go up there to visit. He talks about the juice spill on the carpet from our last game of charades as a family every time. About how it’s still there over a year later and what a good memory it is now.”
“I miss everyone too. I really do. I just . . . I’m not ready to face them again yet. Does . . . does he still go over for dinner sometimes?” I don’t have to mention any names for her to know exactly who I mean.
Minutes pass before she says, “Yes. He lives only ten minutes away in those new condos they built.”
“He sold the lake house?”
“Yeah. He did.” She goes on, not saying his name, knowing how hard it is for me to hear it. It wasn’t always just him going to visit. It was both of us once—together. Then I lost who I was, after the accident, and he didn’t know how to be with me anymore—or this shell of a person I’ve become. I don’t blame him. I am sad he lost the house of his dreams, though. Especially after how much work he put into making it ours.
“Is he doing okay?”
She lets out a breath, and shuffling sounds coming from the other end of the line. “Yeah. He got that job he’s been wanting. He’s not seeing anyone that I’m aware of, and he asks about you too.”
“I uh . . . should get going. I shouldn’t be late when I’m the boss. Gotta set an example and all.”
“Okay, but call me tomorrow when you wake up. That way we can plan my next visit. I’m getting you out of that apartment more too. We can go to the beach or something.”
“Sounds good. I love you, little bit.”
“I love you too, jackass.”
I laugh, hanging up the phone. After making my lunch, I gobble down my sandwich and head downstairs with a bag of chips in my hand. Two sets of eyes look my way as I turn the corner, heading toward one of the coolers.
“Morning, boss,” Leah, one of my employees says, handing me a cup with ice.
