The morning after my visit, Lizzie’s apartment was emptied…
…and an “apartment for rent” notice was pinned up on the bulletin board in the hallway.
I cried that night and the next two nights until there were no more tears. Then I fell into a deep sleep.
Sleep was my solace, my place of refuge.
But eventually, even that wasn’t enough. I got up, and once the tears dried up – anger rose with the sun.
I couldn’t believe that Lizzie was gone. She was supposed to be my friend; how could she just leave? Why didn’t she try to understand?
But being angry was futile because I realized that Lizzie couldn’t understand. After all, she didn’t know that staying away was my attempt to protect her. She couldn’t know – she only felt abandoned.
It took another day or two for me to finally leave my bedroom. And that was only because a courier was banging on my door, attempting a delivery. I opened my front door for the first time in days to collect the package, then I sat around in my apartment, wearing the same pajamas, adding my troubles up one by one.
The weight of it all was too much. I crumbled to the floor and spent too much time there, ignoring outside stimulation. I couldn’t hear the birds chirping outside or people chatting on the busy corner outside my window. I closed my eyes to the tiny streams of sunlight that played peek-a-boo at the edges of my makeshift curtains.
I even resisted feeling the pressure of my body on the floor.
Staying there on the floor felt safe. It was as low as I could get without falling. As long as I was there, I didn’t have to do anything. I could avoid everything, including mirrors, the TV screen, or any other surface with a reflection. I was already depressed, but being unable to see the only thing that tethers me to this world and ensures that I exist would probably be the end.
But then again, an empty mirror would be the perfect reflection of my life.
The time came when I had to pick myself up off the floor. I couldn’t continue to suppress my thirst. My empty stomach yelled out to me in a way that refused to be ignored.
I went to the kitchen and binged on the blood Doobie sent along with my swirling cyclone of hurtful feelings.
Why did it have to be like this? I finally had a cure for my thirst problem. My research revealed the breadcrumbs that could lead me to an antidote for this virus. But none of that mattered if I didn’t have a remedy for losing a friend.
Losing Lizzie was a serious blow, and it wasn’t my fault. I was a victim, too. If she had come back – I’d have done anything to make her understand, even if that included telling her the truth.
But if all of this wasn’t my fault, whose was it? Dray’s? Why was he in an empty alley in the dead of night anyway? Was it Lizzie’s? She knew I was sick. She witnessed my struggle – why couldn’t she give me more time to overcome it? I thought about what Doobie told me. Someone had to have turned me if I wasn’t born in this condition. But who? Who was responsible for ruining my life?
Me. The answer was me. There was no one else here to shoulder these displaced feelings, so it fell on me.
And there was no one here to help guide me through it, so that also fell on me. I was strong. I’ve been strong my whole life. All it took was one step – if I could get up from this couch, I could start the path to healing.
But then I told myself – not today. One spark of motivation wasn’t enough, and it fizzled out as quickly as it rose. I laid down on the couch, prepared to spend another day weaving in and out of states of consciousness.
But that didn’t happen either. Instead, there was a knock at my door.
Lizzie! That was my first thought. Could it be Lizzie at my door, telling me she had changed her mind? Maybe I was about to get another chance.
I got up much slower than I wanted because my determination to get to the door didn’t quite match the dead feeling in my legs. They needed a moment to adjust.
I made it to the door, undid the lock, and swung it open – ready to see my friend standing there with Dray jr. – beaming at me. But it wasn’t them.
It was someone unexpected.
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