3

My head feels muddy the next morning, a beating ache already beginning to dance inside my skull. And dozens more all over my body, as well. The numbness from before is still working its magic, blocking out all possible thoughts and all possible movements. Because every single time I try to open my eyes, I find myself staying completely still.

My hands weakly clench something soft and fuzzy, shaking from how much strength I'm trying to push into them. Something burns in my palms whenever I try to move my fingers, and I don't know where the hell it's coming from.

Then I remember a single name. Rudy. Is she here? My lips try to move and form the word, but the moment I try to let in a single breath, my chest racks with dry coughs. A stab of raw pain runs through me, throat burning like hell. Where is Rudy? What happened to her?

"Ru- Rudy-" I manage. "Where- where are-"

"Maddy?" a sudden voice interrupts me. It's loud and it echoes painfully in my skull. "You're awake! That's good! Please stay down."

Weakly coughing and wheezing, I start squirming a bit, and I try to get up despite my foggy mind. "Where . . . is she?" I croak miserably. "I need her-"

"Settle down, seńor!" the voice urges me again. A warm hand then lands on my chest, gently keeping me down. Without much strength to fight back, I tiredly relax, my headache becoming worse as the seconds drag by.

"I want you to rest, m'kay? I don't really know what happened, but- but I think I can figure it out. Uh . . . just don't get up, 'kay, seńor? I want you to stay down. You've probably got one hell of a headache right now from . . . all of that."

"All of . . . All of what?" I groan, trying to open my eyes to no avail. My throat continues to burn.

"From all these bottles ya left here, obviously!" the voice exclaims.

I curl up, hissing and clenching my teeth. Everything is too loud, too sudden. It all feels like the chiming of bells ringing back and forth paired with the scratchy noise of radio static.

"Right along here," the voice continues. "Did you really drink all of these in one night, seńor?" Then the voice pauses. My blood is pounding in my ears as I can barely listen for it to speak again, this time quieter and more gently.

"Sorry, Ormad," the voice mutters. "I'll talk more quietly from now on, m'kay?"

I groan. I feel like I'm moments away from falling asleep. "My head hurts . . ."

"I know, Ormad. I'll take care of ya."

The warm hand brushes softly through my hair, a calming sensation compared to the monstrous storm swirling inside my mind. My worries of Rudy finally settle, if only for this small moment. I use all of my willpower to finally open my heavy eyelids, and I stare into blurry space.

What I see first is the shadow of a pitiful but grateful face. There he stands, the owner of the voice. Winsome is one of those people that is easy to recognize no matter how he dresses or how much he wants to cover himself up. And his smile is one of his many features that gives me a familiar vibe of love, platonically giving me a warm feeling whenever he wants to help me out. But unfortunately, I am not in a good enough mood to be glad that he is here.

"Mornin'," the kind clown greets me, still keeping his tone quiet as he promised. "Hope I didn't scare ya."

I grumble. "Don't want . . . to talk . . ." I cough again, trying to get rid of the dry feeling in my throat. It's like ice is burning within it.

Winsome gives me a sad smile. He pats me on the shoulder, gently. "That's okay, Maddy. That's okay. Just get some rest." Then he straightens, gives me one last affectionate look, and walks not far away, sitting down on a chair.

With the silence given to me, it's easier to clear my senses, even with the ache in my head. The process is slow, even a bit painful when I realize where I am, how weak my state is and what things I must discern in order to analyze it. I feel terrible. What an embarrassment I must be.

The blanket draped over my shoulders is soft and warm, so at least that's comforting. I still wonder where Rudy is, and what has caused me to worry about her too much. Trying to remember is like lifting my neck up after a bullet has encased itself into my flesh, so I let it stay foggy and unknown, instead burying the side of my face into the pillow beneath me. My throat continues to burn, and I bring up a haggard hand to feel my neck. Immediately, I flinch, drawing in a hiss. No wonder why it's so hard to speak.

Winsome sighs. "I'm sorry if I've made anything worse," he mutters. "I just want you to feel better."

". . . It's . . . fine," I groan, nuzzling the pillow with my nose and cheek.

I wrap the blanket around my arms, curling up underneath it. Then my breath stops. Thick bandages are wrapped around them, barely even recognizable as bandages from the amount of blood that has soaked it all up. It stretches from my wrists all the way to my shoulders, giving me an unhealthy reminder of what I've done last night. My gaze slowly travels to the clown across the room.

He simply shrugs, giving me a peaceful gaze.

"Did . . . Did I do this?" I ask him blankly, not expecting to be surprised if I did or not.

"The bandages? Nah. The injuries? I don't know," Winsome admits, but I can see the sureness in his eyes. Who else would've done it? "But I still patched ya up, seńor. Does anythin' hurt?"

"Mmhm," I grunt back in response.

"Ay-yai." He frowns. "I'll get ya some painkillers. They're in the kitchen, right?"

I begin to trace the lines of bandages around my arms with a thin finger, not lucid enough to be deep in thought and not numb enough to pass out again. "Yeah," I murmur.

Winsome's brow furrows, his bright lips forming into a line of concern. But as we continue to stare at each other, he lets out a sigh. "I'll be right back. Stay here, Maddy."

Not that I can really go anywhere else, I think to myself as I watch him go.

Groggily, I turn sides on the bed I'm in, squinting to try and peer through the bright light of the window some feet away from me. Trying to look at it with open eyes sends a wave of dizziness crashing into me, in which I reply by squeezing my eyes back shut and grumbling to myself. I caress the bandages on my wounds, wondering why I'm so relieved by its texture. I suppose it just makes me feel comfort in some strange way.

I wonder where Rudy is. I hug the blanket against my chest, ignoring the soreness of the night before. I wish she were here. Or . . . Or perhaps she's at school right now, and I'm just being a tad bit more desperate than I'm supposed to be. She must be safe there. Unless something else happens. Goddamnit. It's impossible to clear all of these dreadful thoughts with such a heavy head.

But I'm always worried about her. That shouldn't be anything new.

Winsome returns with the bottle of painkillers, and just looking at them irks another reminder of yesterday. I faintly remember taking some of those tablets, but I don't know how many. I don't think it would hurt to take some more. I'm not a doctor. I don't care. Eyelids fluttering, I weakly turn my gaze to him, that little action taking almost all of my energy.

"Ya sure you're good, Maddy?" Winsome inquires in concern. "I don't know if it's good for you to take these right now. Especially after . . . a hangover of all things. And I don't know if it works good on ya when you don't even eat anythin' . . ."

"It worked last time," I forcefully croak, hand on my throat. "I'll . . . be fine."

Winsome purses his lips in thought. He looks at the small bottle within his gloved hands, and he frowns. There's a pause that brings his entire body to a still. Then he walks over to the nightstand beside me and places the bottle there. His green irises droop with bittersweet affection as he looks into my own cold eyes.

"I-I'll just leave them here," the clown assures me. "And I'll be here, too. You just tell me when ya need them, aight?" His places a hand on the nightstand. "Just whenever, that's all."

I wearily nod, burying my face into my pillow and covering my shoulders with my blanket. How I want to sleep again. To faint and cut everything to black. All I need is to never have the terrible nightmares that eat at my mind like hungry vultures feeding on their prey. That's all I need. Winsome stays silent as I ponder on about what it is like to have dreams, real dreams with real imagery that I can finally find peace in. Or perhaps Rudy can wish me a gentle goodnight; that is an easier way. Then I will be okay. She tells me that everything will be okay.

Speaking of Rudy, I muster up the strength to ask where she is. That dread is making its return as a fireball in my chest. "Where's . . . Rudy . . . ?" I mumble, turning my head to look back up at Winsome.

He freezes again, shoulders squeezing up against his neck. Already I can tell I've answered a question that I should've stopped from travelling out of my mouth; my stomach clenches and the peeking anxiety lays its hands around my face as Winsome's fingers nervously tap on the nightstand.

"You don't remember?" he asks. Then he forces a crooked smile. "Well, uh, I mean . . . I don't really expect ya to remember, but . . ." His smile twitches, threatening to drop. ". . . really?"

"No."

Winsome pauses, his hand curling into a fist. "Oh." Awkwardly, he brushes a hair behind his pointed ear, sucking in a breath between his two front teeth. "I don't really think it's a good idea for me to tell ya right now. Since, um . . ."

"What's wrong with her?" I ask him unsteadily.

He turns away from me, then back again. It's like he's holding everything back. I don't understand why; Rudy is my daughter. I need to know if something happened to her or not.

"Well, I think you were drinking last night because-" Winsome inhales, then exhales with words speeding past his lips. "-because Rudy got hurt. She got stabbed, remember? It was on the news and stuff. And ya called paramedics, and-"

I can feel my stomach clench once again as disgusting, gore-filled images of Rudy bleeding to death on the kitchen floor speed through my head. The red liquid gushing out of her. The stained knife. How she was coughing and smiling like it was all nothing. Queasiness slaps me in the face as I clasp my hand over my mouth, already feeling sicker than ever. Oh god, Rudy. Oh god, no.

Winsome's expression curls in regret. "Was that too much?"

I don't have an answer for him as I fall out of bed and onto the ground, and I leap towards the trashcan just in time to start puking in it. Nausea squeezes my stomach like the body of a snake, pushing out the liquefied version of negative energy: my own blood. It's painful, moving past the base of the wound on my throat and pushing pressure onto everything else.

It isn't until a few seconds later when I stop, letting my head hang there as I try to spit the bitter taste from my mouth, only to start vomiting again when I think of her. I've been through too much of this shit.

"I'm sorry," Winsome whines behind me. He gently rubs my back as I continue to retch.

Around a minute or two afterwards, I finally lift my head up from the trash can, swaying haggardly back and forth from the dizziness and disgust. Everything from my arms to my hands are shaking wildly as I lean against the bed behind me. My head is spinning with thoughts and images, and I swallow to keep myself from throwing up once more, looking up at the ceiling with blurry eyes.

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I quietly groan, turning my head down to look at its owner. Winsome lets out a sigh as he does his best to connect his gaze with mine.

"I'm sorry," he repeats softly. "I . . . I won't say any of that again, Maddy. Not until you feel better, aight?"

I can't bring up the energy to respond. I can't feel anything but the twitches of my fingertips.

Winsome gives me a light pat, guilt ridden all over his face. I want to tell him that it's not his fault, that it's mine for letting myself get so sick in the first place. There isn't anything I can do to try and make him feel better, for I know how modest he can really be at times like these.

He waits for a moment before he wraps his arms around my waist and manages to pick me up onto my feet. My knees almost buckle upon feeling the pressure on my legs, and I feel like I'm about to pass out when he sits me on the bed. His warm hands keep me awake as they cup around my neck, keeping my head up and not hunched.

"You aren't gonna be takin' those," the clown tells me, gesturing to the painkillers on the table. "Sorry, seńor."

My eyelids flutter as I heave a breath in exhaustion, letting myself be held up. Now I know why I've been feeling so anxious about the poor girl. She's wounded. Perhaps even beyond repair. That sour taste on my tongue stays, no matter how much I want to throw it out. It almost reminds me of the scent of human blood, and I resist the urge to gag.

"J-Just do your best to relax here, okay?" Winsome says carefully, slowly laying me down with his hand behind my head. "No pressure or anything. I'll- I'll just . . . get ya some water, aight? Aight."

"She's going to die," I rasp miserably.

Winsome shakes his head. "No, she'll be fine," he reassures me. "I'm sure she will. I promise she will." He gives me a worried but heartening smile.

I only let myself suffer underneath a crestfallen frown. "Everybody breaks promises," I grieve.

He's too struck by my pessimism to make an answer right away. There's a sad, droopy look in his once-bright eyes, all of his encouragement having been killed by how pathetically negative I am. For a moment, all he does is stare in pity. Then he gently pats my bruised and beaten knuckles, a warm touch through all the cold.

"Rudy will be okay," he tells me. "She always ends up being okay."

Winsome leaves me in a forlorn shadow, keeping his eye on me as he disappears behind the door.

My lips are dry and I feel as sore as ever. Only this time I don't have the child that I love so dearly to come comfort me. She's away, somewhere else where nobody loves her but will at least care for her. Better to be there than next to a man who does love her but can barely bring himself together to care for her. What sort of bastard could be loved by such a sweet girl? He doesn't deserve anything and she deserves everything. It's such a stupid, drastic difference.

I miss Rudy.

Winsome stays with me for as long as he can, attempting to keep me entertained even though I'm drowning underneath the weight of my steadily growing melancholia. I lay my head sickly against the pillow, rubbing my fingers along the texture of the blanket. It reminds me of Rudy's hoodie. I should really get her a new one; she's had her default garment for far too long. I can just imagine her reacting to something new and fluffy for her to wear. Her happy, smiling face when I get her a hoodie like that. Then I can call her my sweet little ball of fuzz.

Instead of feeling joyful at these thoughts, I find myself dwelling deeper and deeper into desperate sadness. She isn't here. I can't see her smile, what the hell am I thinking? I don't deserve to see her.

The migraine in my head continues to thud, gradually growing louder and louder as time passes by. Winsome's quiet speech suddenly sounds like shouting. He doesn't stop, and I don't have the energy to ask him to stop.

I take my twitching fingers and massage my temples and the sides of my neck, closing my eyes and sighing. It comes out as a whistling wheeze. I just want everything to end. The smell of leftover blood in the trash can begins to spread around the room, coming out as a bitter nicotine scent. It's disgusting.

Whatever Winsome is saying, I do not pay any attention to, but it seems that there isn't any need for me to do that, anyway. His lips stop moving. Then he moves them again to mutter, "Am I annoying you?" There isn't any accusation in his tone; being the self-conscious person he is, he just wants to know because he cares. But he shouldn't waste it on someone like me.

I weakly curl up, staring at him with itchy, watery eyes. Slowly, I shake my head. "No," I croak.

"How are you feeling? Does your head still hurt?"

I want to fucking kill myself. "Yes."

"Do you want anything?"

Rudy. I want Rudy back. "No."

"Are you going to be okay here all by yourself?"

Don't leave me like this. ". . . Yes."

The clown stands up, and he cautiously makes his way over to me. His round, colorful figure looms over the bed, and his green eyes sparkle with a sense of worry. "Are you sure?"

I blink blankly. No. No, no, no, no. Don't walk away. Don't leave me here alone. I'm going to hurt myself again if you do. I can't control myself like this. I'm too scared. Please don't leave.

"Yes," I mumble into the pillow, refusing to look at him. "I'm . . . okay . . ."

He falls for the forlorn lie, even though he should know better. Winsome lets out a shaky sigh of relief as he gently runs a hand through my hair, looking down at me with his eyes swarming with tears. His smile wavers. "I-I'll be out in- in the living room," he stammers. "Okay? I'll check on you later."

I tilt my head towards his palm, for warmth is one of the things that I cherish so much. My words barely come out as a whisper. "Okay."

Winsome keeps his fingers tangled with the dark strands on my head for a few more moments. Then he lets go. "Hope you feel better, Maddy."

He finally leaves, and I finally begin to cry.