The best medicine

My brain wanted to argue that I had to stay up and elaborate everything I could remember from the last twenty four hours. Whatever the brain thinks, though, when it comes down to the wire, it's the body that's in charge. The body moved my mouth to say, groggily, “That's a good idea,” and to get me up and moving toward Eden's bedroom. She followed me just far enough to know I wasn’t going to crack my head on the doorjamb and then left me to my own devices. The bedroom was a mess, as it always was when Eden wasn’t planning on entertaining (and, honestly, half the time when she was; people weren’t picky if they wanted a night with her). Exhaustion kept me from caring that there was a pair of jeans at the corner of the bed. I slumped over onto the mattress, noticed the handcuffs still attached to her frame, and pulled the blankets around myself like a caterpillar ready for the big chance. And slept.

I dreamed. I don’t know what about. If I could I would say the confusion was just my brain, all addled by a long night out and maybe some bad molly, was creating half memories that didn’t really exist. Rania might be a figment of my imagination. It could be that I couldn’t remember the name or the face of the person coming out of the washroom because they didn’t have one. I never saw them. Lying in Eden’s bed after my ‘nap,’ staring up at the mirror hanging from the ceiling, I couldn’t make myself believe it. My mascara was in an even worse state after tossing and turning for a few hours (it could be, I hope, maybe), but it hid a much deeper tiredness in my face itself. The person looking down on me didn’t seem like she’d been out all night, she seemed like she hadn’t slept in days, and with barely any food in her stomach.

I got up. At some point Eden must have helped me get out of my dress--she knew it was one of my favorites. She’d replaced it with a too-big tee shirt, and, with as much care as possible, untangled my makeshift hair tie (my panties) and helped me put them on again. I felt like a wet sock. And just as fun for a man to finish inside of. Har har. Though, I hoped I was better than a wet sock. No comment on a dry sock by comparison. That would be getting too big for my britches.

The sun hadn’t gone down yet, but it was threatening to. This is a bad season to be having a psychotic episode, I thought. It was hard enough staying sane when all you had to worry about was seasonal affective disorder. Today I was dealing with something very different, I could tell. I tottered out into the kitchen and listened for sounds of Eden. There was the hum of the fridge and people yelling in the street outside, but nothing more. “Eden?” I said, feeling a little scared. She hadn’t left me alone, had she?