Page 12 of Violet Spark
In my hurry to log on and find Brayden, not only had I live-streamed the whole embarrassing brush-off, but the webcam had been on too.
And the cam was aimed right at me, wrapped in a towel, occasionally bootyshaking, now with my mother haranguing me in the background.
SirJacksalot was going to have a field day. God, the memes would make themselves.
Fuck no. Not if I could help it.
I dove for the keyboard. My fingers tapped as fast as they could.
Maybe he was still in the tavern with Baby. Or off on a quest. I could delete the video before any of my—shit!…one hundred and four?!—followers saw it.
Tappity tap tap. Return. Goddamnmy hand itched!
I thought I’d hit rock bottom. Turned out there was an abyss below it. And only time would tell just how far I would fall.
CHAPTER FOUR
ISTAYED LOGGEDoff the rest of the night. And the next morning, I logged off real life too, calling Rique at home to tell him he got to play manager for the day. He was so excited, it was sickening. But at least I could make someone’s life better while my life went in the toilet.
Literally, in the toilet. I woke up shaky and fevery, and before I could even properly contemplate how much my life sucked, I knew I was going to be sick. I rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom.
When I threw up, it was purple.
Gross. I’d guzzled the pomegranate freezie I poured for Brayden yesterday, but that was all that was in my stomach. I’d gone right to bed after squirting some fire extinguisher chemicals down the hole in my bedroom drywall to make sure no embers were smoldering. As I brushed my teeth, my hands were still shaking, and when I went to close the medicine cabinet, the mark on the back of my hand made me freeze. It wasn’t just still purple…it was inflamed and angry purple.
Gwumpki had given me rabies. Just my luck.
I slathered a giant X of antibiotic ointment across the back of my hand and slapped three Band-Aids haphazardly across the lines. With a shuddering sigh, I slammed the mirrored door—and ended up staring at myself.
My hair stuck up like the worst 80s hair metal band tease. My eyes had dark circlesandbags. And the cool undertones to my skin had gone a little green.
A tentative tapping came at the bathroom door. “Hun? You okay? I need to get ready for therapy this morning.”
“Shit,” I muttered. I raised my voice. “Yeah, just another second, Mom.”
I waited until the soft shuffle of her steps retreated from the door before I scuttled back to my bedroom. “Your turn,” I hollered before I tugged the door closed behind me.
Keeping the lights off, I bundled back into bed, and when she knocked at my bedroom door—that hesitant tap was like pounding right on my brain—I yelled, “Don’t come in. I think I have the flu.”
A long pause. “Should I stay home with you?”
Oh God, no. “You can’t miss your appointment. I’ll be fine. It’s probably just food poisoning.” Maybe the pomegranate freezie had been spoiled or something.
Another long hesitation. “Okay, I guess I’ll drive myself.”
I clenched the blanket hard under my chin. I usually dropped her off at the clinic on PT days before I headed into work and she took the bus home so that she didn’t “bother” me. I knew she was fighting to stay independent, but what “bothered” me was that we’d had to fight with her insurance to continue the physical therapy at all. “I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“I’m sorry,” I said in a louder voice. Which made it sound like I was angry. Like I was that furious teenager again when she was telling me I couldn’t go to parties because I might “get in trouble.” Like she had, pregnant too young and too alone. I’d avoided all that and had gone to art school with her help, but here I was back in the same house, throwing up first thing in the morning.
I groaned and rolled over into my pillows, as if I could smother myself in fiberfill.
I must’ve fallen asleep for a little while. When I woke again, the house was empty and quiet. And I was absolutely starving. Avoiding the bathroom and its evil mirror, I crept down the hallway to the kitchen and poured myself some cereal. I didn’t eat sugary cereal—got too much of the fruity sweetness at work—but I would’ve killed right now for something rainbow colored and sugar frosted. Instead I had Mom’s Raisin Bran. Speaking of smothering myself in fiberfill…
I choked down a couple of cardboard bites before my innards revolted again. I barely made it to the sink before puking up more purple.
“Fucking pomegranate.” My legs were shaking so bad it was likeIhad the spinal damage.
