Chapter 7: Painkillers

You don't believe your ears. As you stare at Piper, the beautiful woman that you've been in love with for what seems like lifetimes you can't help but think that there is something seriously wrong about this picture. She is 17 years old and you feel like a pedophile. But she's also a woman in so many ways.

You've had a list as long as your arm of relationships; casual, serious, almost marriages. But you've never been with someone so easy to love and live with than Piper. She is mature about several aspects of her life and with a calm that you envy sometimes. She never takes things for granted, she's incredibly responsible – with her work, her money, her things – and she takes good care of you and your relationship. But she's 17. She's also lied and manipulated you with such ease you wonder if there anything else you should know about.

When she gets home, she tries to explain and looks so damn contrite, it irritates the hell out of you because you don't want to feel sorry for her, you want to stay mad. Otherwise, you'll let this whole thing go and fall to her feet, asking for forgiveness.

She stays quiet after you call her a manipulative cunt and it makes you feel even worse. When you finish ranting, she looks tired a diminutive. When she finally starts to talk and mentions Stella your feathers get ruffled all over again.

Only to get thrown a bucket of cold water right in the face when she talks about – GOD! – being beaten and committed. It's like you've been punched by a pretty girl with a pink, princess dress. Completely unexpected. She doesn't look at you when you touch her forehead and brushes the hair back from her brow, worrying about the unhealthy color of her face and vacant eyes.

You ask questions that don't seem so important now and when she mentions that she goes to school in the mornings as you work you struggle between being disappointed because that was something else she lied about and being awed and wondering how the hell she manages such long workload.

Even though you despise yourself, you tell her you need to think. You don't want to stay because you pity her. You need to search within yourself to really understand what you feel and how to overcome this. You tell her about your trip to Berlin and how you are going soon and you see as she - you don't know how to explain this - goes away in front of your eyes.

You have her body with you but it's like the rest of her is gone. Her blue eyes are a terrible shade of grey, kind of misty and tears fall non-stop down her cheeks now, almost like she has a terrible leak somewhere in her brain. You don't think she feels it, though.

She propels herself out of the couch and sways. You call her name but when she turns her head, she looks sluggish, like she's drugged somehow. Crap, that's now how you envisioned this going.

"I'll walk you to the door. Sorry about everything and…hmm…have a nice trip to Berlin."

She smiles but it's like a child smiling for an unwanted picture. All stretched and tight and fake looking. Breaks your fucking heart. And her voice, Jesus, it's dead. A chilling monotone that scares the crap out of you.

You touch her back because she starts to sway again.

"Pipes, c'mon… We'll work things out, don't… just, I'll stay here, ok? I'll sleep on the couch and I can go home tomorrow."

But she turns towards the door, mumbling things about bears and you are seriously worried, now. You can see she's not being manipulative or trying to get you to pity her. Suddenly, you wished you were more careful with your words, with how you confronted her.

You leave and as the elevator doors close the only thing left are your regrets.

Days pass as a blur to you.

Your father's assistant calls again. Cold as a winter night she tells you your mother is dead.

Car accident. Two months ago. Your father called because there was something in her will to you. You aren't sure how you feel about it. You don't know you have enough to feel about it. Your mom and you were strangers long before you left home. You feel bad not because your mother is dead but because no one told you before and you had no opportunity to say goodbye to the woman who put you in this world. You stay silent through the cold assistant's explanation and just tell her to have the lawyer contact you.

Nights, days, afternoons and the meals between are all bunch together like a childhood memory you want to recall but it's become blurry with age. You think about Alex all the time. Sadness pulls you under like an iron ball around your ankle. You have to leave home because the walls drive you a little mad. Everything about your apartment reminds you of Alex and there isn't a single space in there you can find solace from the memories.

Sleep is never an option as well because since you've opened that humungous can of worms a week ago at Alex's place you can't seem to close it again. Your brain is tired. You can't seem to get a wink of rest. Every time you close your eyes and sleep grabs you, you scream yourself awake, feeling the pain, the humiliation.

You are afraid you're losing your mind. Again.

Eating is sporadic and you do it only when Red or Nicky or Poussey badger you and keep feeding you random things that never taste quite right. Everything is like paste in your mouth. Tasteless, with a strange texture, difficult to swallow.

You work until your drop. Since Alex left, you've started coming at the beginning of the shift, before Nicky and before Poussey. Red tried to talk you out of it on the first couple of days. But once she saw you would keep coming anyway, staying out of the club, sometimes in line with customers, she decided it would be best to keep a close eye on you.

So you went to work, you went home. You slept maybe two hours each night and ate here and there just to keep your friends happy. Sometimes you have headaches and on the second week Alex's gone you wake up one day with a sore throat. But you just shrug it off and keep your rhythm. So on week 3 without Alex your body decides to collect.

You open your eyes in the morning and your head feels like it's being speared by something sharp and wet – why is your bedroom ceiling spinning? – and you have to close them again because they feel too dry.

Everything hurts too much for you to bother. You just burrow further under the covers and let sweet oblivion come. When you open your eyes again, it's already night out. You feel feverish and sluggish and you realize it's probably time to go to the club. Even though you're hot, when you throw the duvet off you, suddenly it's like you're standing naked in Antarctica.

Chills are so strong you're like a dancing skeleton walking to the bathroom.

Your body wants to throw up but you don't have anything worth throwing up in your stomach. You sort of blackout on the toilet. When you come to again, you're confused. It's hard to stand but you do it out of sheer stubbornness. Your body's last energy reservation is used getting you to bed.

The world stops spinning momentarily when you lay down and you're suddenly so, so cold.

Your throat is on fire, you can barely swallow. What was an uncomfortable raspy feeling is now molten lava. You grab your phone and text Nicky, asking her to please tell Red you're not feeling too good and you need to stay home for a couple of days.

And then you bury yourself under your covers.

When you wake up, screaming again, your body is on fire and you think your brain is leaking through your ears. Your head hurts and you cry. You hate being sick… There's a pounding sound, persistent and annoying that you think is your head but it's actually the door.

You cocoon yourself into the duvet and have to drag yourself out of bed and into the living room. White spots dance in your vision, that's rapidly funneling. Crap, you're going to pass out. As you open the door, you can only catch a glimpse of bushy hair before the floor rushes to meet you. Arms cradle you close as a litany of very colorful curses in a melodic raspy voice sounds in your ear.

"Nicky?"

You get back from Berlin before the aforementioned three weeks but you decide to keep that time apart and think a bit more about things. So that's why, when your doorbell rings at 3 am on a Saturday you actually think somehow Piper has figured out you're back and came to talk. Maybe Nicky spilled the beans while trying to play matchmaker, you don't know.

She wasn't very forwarding with information about Piper so you guess everything was ok. Something didn't feel right for you, though. You have a nagging feeling in the back of your brain, like a small, blinking light that won't leave you alone.

The doorbell shrills again and you yell a COMING, wanting to complement with a "hold your horses, motherfucker", but if it's Piper you don't want her to feel hurt.

You pad barefoot towards the door, on your grey pajama pants and white top, putting your glasses on.

When you burst open the door, a little too harshly, you stared dumbfoundedly, because the person standing there, looking at you is not Piper. It's Nicky.