Good Until it Hurts
29. Left Handed
"Shit," I mumble, cursing lowly for myself as my fingers slip again, the button refusing to hook into the buttonhole of my jeans. They had to cut off my sweater before, 'cause they couldn't take it off with my arm broken and all, and the only thing I have now is Tim's t-shirt. But even if it's long enough to cover my front it don't matter, 'cause my jeans are sliding down if I try to walk with my fly open. And I won't go out of the stall like this.
My fingers slip again when someone suddenly knocks on the door. "Curly, you asleep in there or what?" Tim barks through it.
"No," I scoff.
"You've been in there fifteen minutes already."
"I'm not finished yet!"
"You takin' a dump or somethin'?"
"No." I frown at the door, hoping he will go away and leave me alone. And first I think that he did, 'cause he gets quiet, and I continue to struggle with the button. But then he says, sounding a lot nicer this time,
"You all right?"
I roll my eyes. Fuck no, I ain't all right. I'm still dizzy from all the drugs they gave me before setting the bone in my arm straight, and the cast they put on is warm and heavy, going all the way from my fingers and up over my elbow, and I can't close my fucking jeans 'cause I only have one hand to use. But I don't say that, just keep struggling, the button still slipping, and I realize more and more I won't be able to do this.
"Curly?"
"What!" I snap.
"Come on, get out. It's midnight, I need to take Ma home."
"Yeah, shit, just wait a second, all right!"
I take a step back to sit down on the closed toilet-lid, rubbing my eyes. Shit, why the hell did I have to go and climb that fucking telephone pole? The doc said I have to have the cast for at least six weeks, and I've only had it on for, like, an hour, and I'm already tired of it. And we haven't even left the hospital, yet!
"Curly, for fuck's sake!" Tim bangs on the door again, a lot harder now, and I rise to unlock the door, and he rips it open before I have the time to reach for the knob.
"About fuckin' time. Come on." He turns around to go, but I don't move.
"Uh, Tim?"
"What?"
"I, uh..." I dip my head, 'cause I hate telling him. "I can't, uh, do it with the cast on."
"Do what, take a leak? Aim?"
"No! Shit. I can't close my fly, okay?"
I feel myself go red when he starts laughing at me. "It ain't funny!" I snap.
"Yeah it is," he says, but at least he tries to stop laughing, but he can't stop grinning. He reaches out and grabs the upper part of my jeans, and I don't think before jumping backwards, knocking my back against the wall so hard I almost lose my breath. I stare at Tim wide-eyed, memories rushing over me while I see another face, hear another voice, my head buzzing, heart racing...
"The fuck, Curly?" Tim says startled.
It's Tim. It's Tim!
But I feel other hands. Oh fuck. I turn around fast, get down on my knees and have just the time to open the toilet lid before I throw up. I haven't eaten anything the whole day so nothing comes up, but I heave and heave and just want to bawl. It's Tim! My brother Tim. He was just going to help me, right? He didn't mean anything by it. Fuck... I hate this, why can't I just forget? What is fucking wrong with me?
I drag my left arm over my eyes and rise slowly when I'm done. Tim grabs a paper towel from over the sink and gives it to me, and I wipe it over my mouth, hoping he don't see how my hand shakes. I feel my jeans sliding down again, and I drop the towel onto the floor to grab them and hold them up. Tim looks at me strangely, but I do my best to avoid his gaze.
"I just got sick," I mumble. "Must be the drugs, yeah?" I glance at him, but he still looks at me weirdly.
"Wanna do somethin' about it or what?"
I force myself to nod, to take a step forward. I hold my breath as he helps me with the fly and button, but I don't look at him, scared of what he thinks are the reason for my reaction, hating how I feel nauseous by his hands. 'Cause I really have to strain myself to not push him away, to tell him to not fucking touch me.
In the car home, my head is spinning with memories and thoughts and stuff, and as soon as we get to our house I head to bed, not bothering with my clothes or anything. Only I have to lie on my back 'cause of the cast, and I guess the meds are starting to go out 'cause I feel my arm starting to pulsate.
It takes a long time before I fall asleep.
xXx
I decide to not go to school. What's the point, I'm going to be held back another year no matter if I go or not. And I won't go with my arm like this, 'cause I can't do anything anyway. I can't write, or get dressed properly, so I keep the t-shirt on and change to a pair of shorts, and when I try to make a sandwich it's fucking impossible to make it lie still when I try to spread butter on it. So I trash it, going for a bowl of cereal instead. But even the things I manage to do take much longer time when only have my left hand to use.
I spend the day watching TV and smoke Tim's cigarettes. At least I can do that. Ma comes out of bed and asks me how I'm doing, and I say fine, even if I'm not, really. She don't ask anything else, just cleans up a bit so I guess it's one of her good days. I'm so fucking bored I think of saying I can help her, but when I think about it I don't know what I can do with the cast on, so I keep quiet and stare at the TV instead, my broken arm pulsating more and more. Then I remember the doc said I should try to keep it propped up high so it won't swell, so I take one of the cushions and lie it beside me, resting my arm on top of it.
Angie comes home first, wanting to take a look at my cast and laughs at me for being stupid. I throw the empty cigarette pack at her, but she just laughs harder and moves away so it hits the wall instead. Then she sits down in the armchair, watching the show with me and chats about school and boring stuff about her friends. She makes sure to tell me all the funny things that happened at school that I missed, but I don't bother to tell her I don't care. 'Cause I really don't, it's just that I'm bored.
At dinner, it gets really embarrassing, 'cause ma has to cut the food for me, and Angie grins again. And I think for the thousand times, I don't know how to do this for six weeks! If I see that kid Johnny again, I swear, I'm gonna fucking kill him. Even if I know it wasn't his fault. I guess it wasn't, so maybe I won't do anything. Besides, if I see him with my arm still broken, I guess it's bad trying to start a fight.
At least Tim don't nag at me about school. I guess he figures he won't be able to make me go, not when I can't use my jeans. And I make sure no one has to help me with the fly again, continuing to wearing my shorts and the t-shirt, 'cause I tried to take it off but it was too hard. Only it takes a week and then even I can feel the smell, 'cause I haven't showered either.
"You're so disgusting!" Angie complains when I sit down beside her. She pinches her nose, leaning away from me. "Tim, tell him!"
Tim looks over at me where he stands by the counter, drinking a cup of coffee. "Is that the same t-shirt I gave you at the hospital?" he says, raising his eyebrows.
"So?" I mutter. "I can have it if I want to."
"You haven't change in a week? Shit, I ain't goin' to sit next to you," Angie says, moving away.
I drum my fingers against my knee, staring down at the table top. What am I supposed to do, then? Ask Tim for help, and react like I did the last time? But maybe it won't be the same with the t-shirt, I mean, I didn't react so much when they cut off my sweater at the hospital, but I was drugged up real good, then.
Tim puts down his cup on the counter, nodding toward the doorway. "Come on," he says.
I get up on my feet and follow him, dragging my feet after me. I'm kind of glad that he don't say anything, just takes me to the bathroom and helps me take off the sling and then drags the t-shirt over my head.
"Wait here."
I sit down on the toilet-lid as I wait, and he comes back with a plastic bag and duct tape, wraps the bag around my cast and tapes it on real good.
"Take a shower, okay?" he says when he's done. "Angel is right, you stink."
Thank you so much for reading!
