Edited: Jan. 9, 2014.
Yo. I'm alive! Yaaay! Thank you all so so so much for the reviews and the favs and all that good stuff that made me feel horrible for not updating sooner. :|
Start Chapter Five: The Death of Me
Back home in America, I had a psychiatrist named Dr. Goldman who diagnosed and helped treat my schizophrenia. We tried a lot of things, each it's own varying degree of stupidity and genius, before we had to settle on using medication. Even then it took a damn long time before we found something that helped without a long list of ridiculous side affects. One, I recall, gave me a nervous tick in my left eye and an insatiable twitch in my neck, another sapped all the fire and life right out of me.
He also insisted upon some good old-fashioned CBT–cognitive behavioral therapy, that is. Dr. Goldman was nice, but his ceiling-to-floor book covered walls and gold-framed diplomas usually made me too nervous to cooperate properly. What if he found something even worse wrong with me? What if there wasn't anything else he could do? What if he was just trying to suck our bank account dry? What it, what if, what if. No, I preferred talking to Dr. Collins; my school psychologist.
She had striking black eyes that could cut your soul and beautiful skin like the women in commercials. Her golden sense of humor and take-no-shit attitude quickly made her one of my favorite adults. Whenever I'd wind up in her office on a Bad Day, she'd never hold her punches or use that placid tone, and I loved her for it. She doesn't believe children or teens can be adequately tested for serious mental issues because "kids are kids, and all kids are out of their minds". With a case like me though, where it's pretty undeniable there's a problem, she agrees with getting help, but urges parents to use medication as a last resort.
There's a school psychologist here in Scotland, too, and she's pretty much the exact opposite. Dr. Darrow has thin lips and dull skin; humor is wasted upon her, she's quick to frustration, and if you glare long enough, her backbone disappears. She speaks too softly and her Ss & Zs pierce my ears with a high whistle. She talks about family too much, keeps information to herself, and I don't like her.
During my mandatory evaluation, she'd been surprised to hear I was taken off my medication. She asked why and I told her it was none of her business. Her mouth popped open and slapped closed before writing her thoughts down in a little blue book. Afterwards, I overheard her urging my Aunt to get me on something right away. When she asked why, Dr. Darrow mumbled a vague response that basically meant: just to be safe. But since I wasn't deemed a raging loon, being medicated wasn't really a requirement. (Though, I would've liked it to be.)
Right now, I'm in an older man's office. He doesn't give me his name or what he does at this school, but I figure him to be a dean or disciplinary something-something. School security more or less dragged me here and one of the men is still standing by the door. He's watching my every move. It's eerie how similar it feels to the eyes. I have to peek back at him every few seconds to make sure that he's the one looking at me and not any of them.
Dr. Darrow walks in, blue book in hand, and I flinch out of my slouch. It dawns on me that they aren't going to treat this like a normal case–like a kid with a fiery temper who started a fistfight. No, to them I'm a dangerous schizophrenic who attacked another student; a Lord's grandson no less, which apparently matters.
The dean avoids looking at me until Dr. Darrow is seated comfortably, has leafed through her book, and nods up at him. That's when he starts going over the school's basic rules and conduct. He tells me I have three weeks worth of detention, that if I do something like this again I'll get in-school suspension or possible expulsion. My guardians have been phoned, my Aunt's on her way, and she's promised to speak with my father on this matter. His words are clipped and narrow. He doesn't give me a chance to speak or explain myself. He just keeps talking and talking to the point where all the oxygen in the room has been confiscated by his lungs.
When he's finally finished, he turns to the small woman and asks, "Do you have anything to add, Doctor?"
Dr. Darrow turns her attention to me and pulls her thin lips into a tight, tiny smile. She's trying to empty her face of judgment, trying to trick me into letting my guard down, but the lack of emotion paints her like a mad, soulless doll.
"Miss Thompson, our health records indicate your family hasn't put you back on medication like I suggested. May I ask why?" Her whistling words reach high notes and explode in the back of my mind.
"Can I explain that I didn't just up and attack, Lucas? He's been pushing me and pushing me for weeks now, so–"
"Answer the question, Miss Thompson," the dean interrupts. "Why are you not being medicated for your condition?"
My face pulls into a heavy scowl. The man recoils for a moment before tilting his head back and curling his lip into a sneer. Scoffing, I fall back against the chair and cross my arms crisply. I refuse to speak with a woman studying me like a bug or show respect to a man who only sees a dirty little speck clogging up his ideal school. Not when all they fucking see is a condition, sitting and breathing in this chair like it was almost a human being.
After a minute, Darrow repeats the question, leaning forward and speaking slower than before, like I'm too far-gone to understand simple English. The placidity is dripping from her tongue and it makes me so irate I can hardly speak. The armrests beneath cry out against my grip and the Doctor shares a nervous glance with the dean, who eyes security.
"Don't," I force. "Don't write off my anger."
"Why are you angry, Miss Thompson?"
"Why am I angry? Why am I angry? I'm angry because I'm a teenager! I'm angry because I'm a human being! I'm angry 'cause every time I have some kind of loud fucking emotion people write it off as a psychotic fit!" –They jump at the shriek in my voice– "'Cause when I don't wanna talk, people act like I'm fucking retarded! And when I scream 'cause you won't fucking listen, you look at me like I'm a damn animal! Because I–" My mouth clamps shut.
The dean is leaning as far back as his chair will allow, mouth wide and eyes filled with terror. Dr. Darrow is absolutely fascinated, leaning forward and staring at me wide-eyed while her hands scratch down everything I'm saying. My eyes are burning in frustration but they're still not listening.
The security guard is closer than before–on his way to restrain me no doubt–but becomes paralyzed when I snap my attention back at him. He's shocked, almost astonished by my outburst, but I can't tell if it's because he hears me or if it's 'cause the crazy bitch has snapped. Too exhausted to keep fighting, I disintegrate back into my chair.
"Never mind," I mumble, burying my face. "Never mind."
I don't know how long we've been sitting like this, but it's starting to get painfully awkward. Darrow is scribbling furiously in that book of hers, trying to make heads or tails of my unfathomable request to be treated like everyone else The dean is fiddling with a stack of paperwork, reorganizing his pens, and buttoning and unbuttoning his coat in a nervous frenzy. I can hear the creak in the floor as the security guard rocks quietly from one foot to the other. When he coughs, the rest of our heads snap back at him, hoping the sound will startle time back into motion.
There's a knock on the door and the security guard, after checking with the dean, opens it. Aunt Dot's shoes swoosh across the carpet with great force. She gives me a hard look but I avoid it and stand. The dean asks the guard to escort me out, but I'm already at the door, so he simply follows me.
There's a bench beside the office and I sit there quietly. The security guard doesn't leave and keeps both eyes on me. I give him one good look, daring him to stop me, then cup my ear and put it against the door. The man stays quiet and lets me do as I please.
Despite all of my attention being focused on the conversation, it's impossible to hear anything but muffled voices. I can't even tell who's talking. With a loud huff, I cross myself and slouch in my seat. The guard stays silent, though his lips are trembling and stretching forcefully down, trying to contain his smile.
"What're you laughing at?"
He shakes his head. "Nothin'. You seem pretty normal to me."
My eyes sharpen and I sit a little taller. "What do you mean?"
"I don't quite see how pissin' and moanin' and throwin' a fit every once in a while makes a person... ah, what's the word they use now? Abnormal? Yeah. I don't see it." He shrugs. "Now if you were shoutin' bout... ah... walls meltin' or somethin' then I'd be a bit concerned... but you seem well enough. Bit unruly, but not outta your head or nothin'."
My mouth twitches. I don't dare tell him about my morning. "Thanks, I guess."
He nods. The door opens and the guard returns to the silent, stoic man he's paid to be.
Aunt Dot walks out thanking the dean and doctor sharply. A sputtering Darrow rushes out after her. My Aunt glances at me, gives a stiff nod to the exit and I nearly jump for it. The doctor follows us out to the car, insisting that whatever she said in the office shouldn't be brushed off so eagerly. She doesn't dare repeat herself and is literally skirting around me like a lit fuse. Aunt Dot gives her a curt goodbye before slamming the door shut and starting the engine.
"The nerve of that woman!" She shouts, tires screeching.
"What happened?" My voice is small. I almost don't want to know what's gotten her so riled up. Almost. She's so upset; she can't form a proper sentence. Something about that woman, insinuate, and a mental ff– She stops herself, taking a deep breath.
"It doesn't matter. The important thing is, is that it's between you and your father and he would never do that to you." Her words are too harsh and decided for me to question. "Speaking of your father, I already called him. You're grounded. No TV, no cellphone, and no computer unless it's for school."
She huffs and turns up the radio, making me nervous. I don't ask questions and don't fight back. Hell, she's driving on the wrong side of the road again, but I'm sure not gonna be the one to tell her that. After a few minutes, she turns the music down to its regular, inaudible level and pulls into the correct lane.
"Can you at least tell me what happened?"
"It was a Bad Day."
Her eyes fold a bit. "Do you mean like a bad day or a Bad Day?" We haven't been living together long enough for her to know.
"People's faces were melting off," I mumble, trying not to think about it.
She nods quickly in discomfort, and switches her sight between me and the road. "Is everything...?"
"I'm fine."
"Okay... um... Tell me about Lucas. What happened there?"
"He said something and I got insulted, so punched him in the face. Simple as that."
"Jennive." She stops, thinks for a moment, then sighs deeply.
She wants to reprimand me, it's easy to tell, but it's hard to be mad at someone like me on a Bad Day.I certainly feel justified in my actions, but I understand it wasn't necessarily okay. It's an agreed upon thing in society that punching people and sending them to the nurses office is a big no-no. But not everyone tries to understand where I'm coming from or what I have to deal with. Everyone has a temper. Everyone has a breaking point. Mine's just a little easier to trigger, but I can't help that.
It's hard to remember this stuff's not real sometimes. When voices scream at me, clear as a bell; or when I'm talking to someone and their face starts pulling apart; or when something I'm told isn't there jumps out at me without any warning. It's hard. It's happening right in front of me and it feels so real. But no one else notices, no one else sees any of it. They just keep moving like it's not there. And to them, it's really not.
I'm fighting these monsters all on my own and it's terrifying.
Aunt Dot doesn't understand because she's lucky and hasn't had to live through hundreds and hundreds of Bad Days. She didn't have to train herself not to react, not to flinch. To look around subtly for other people's acknowledgement before being 100% sure something's real or not. I like to think she tries, though, even if she doesn't really get it.
"I think it would be best if we didn't leave Tony alone with you for awhile."
"What?" Scratch what I said before; she doesn't try either. Nobody does.
"Well, I have to talk it over with Bob, but I think it's for the best."
"Why not? This isn't... I'm not like this all the time. I'm fine most of the time, you know that!" It's becoming clear to me that the more you say, 'I'm fine,' the less people seem to believe you.
"Yes, I know, Jen. Don't get me wrong, honey, I don't think you'd ever hurt him or anything. I know you wouldn't. But... It's just..." She lets out a tight breath of air. "Did you plan to hurt Lucas today?"
"No! It just happened, and I'm not sorry. And I'm not sorry for screaming at those assholes either!"
"Jennive, calm down. I'm on your side, it's just.–"
"Just what?"
She sighs pulling into the driveway. "Tony got in a fight with the McAshton boys earlier." The car stops and she pulls her keys from the ignition staring at me. "Jennive please. Try to understand what I'm saying. It's not that I don't trust you, but... Tony has gotten a little more... physical since you've come to stay with us. What I'm trying to say is–"
"Yeah, I'm a bad influence. Got it. Whatever."
"Jen, that's–"
"I said I got it!" I slam the door and storm into the castle. My shoes bang against the floorboards as I charge straight into Tony's room. Immediately, my heart squeezes and my stomach drops. My cousin–my little, baby cousin who I held and cooed over as an infant–has two wads of reddening tissue sticking out of his nose. Band-Aids are scattered across his body and he's got an ice pack resting between his cheek and chin. A churning piece of acid tries to slither up my throat, but I swallow it; letting it burn me twice.
"Heard you got in a fight," I croak.
"They started it." He shrugs, his tiny shoulders already heavy from an unfair life. "I heard you got in a fight, too."
I shrug as well. "He started it." My mouth opens and closes a few times. I turn; walk through the doorway, then walk back in. "Don't... you... You shouldn't get into fights. You shouldn't break the rules."
Why did I say that? I shouldn't have said that. I do those things all the time. He doesn't want to hear that bullshit from me. I'm a fucking hypocrite. No one wants to listen to a hypocrite.
"You do it all the time." Case and point.
"I... Yes, I know. But we're different people, Tony. You don't have to do what I do. You really, really shouldn't do what I do."
"Why not?"
"'Cause it's bad. The stuff I do will make you bad. But you're good. I want you to stay good."
"But you're not bad."
A strange mixture of air, disbelief, and pain heaves out of my throat. "Well, I'm certainly not good. Just... don't be like me, Tony, okay? Just don't." With that, I leave him.
I flop onto my bed forcing a pillow over my head. Maybe I can suffocate myself. It would certainly look like an accident. It probably wouldn't matter anyway. It's not like too many people would honestly miss me. But what if Tony finds the body? He doesn't need that. He doesn't need to see death up close like I have. He doesn't need that at all.
"Jen?" The pillow comes off my face, revealing Aunt Dot.
"What do you want?"
She brings a phone forward, the landline Uncle Bob keeps in his office. "Your father would like a word with you."
I look from her to the grey plastic in her hand.
Bill Thompson landed his first 'real' job in 1987, but no matter where he worked, he almost always made employee of the year. Bill met Katrin Schultz in January of '89 and married her October 2nd, 1993. Bill had a great social life, loved his wife, and loved to explore nature with her. Katrin and Bill had me and loved me until I was 11-years-old.
William Thompson made vice-president not two years ago. William met Jane sometime around then and married her maybe six or seven months ago. William works too long and sleeps too little. William doesn't have time for anything outside of work. William forgets he has a child unless she starts fights, stumbles in drunk, or has a psychotic episode. Jane loves William because he's too busy to check his bank account and has a tendency to believe anything she says. William is killing Bill. Worse: Bill is letting him.
I stand and put the phone to my ear as Aunt Dot closes my door. I don't say anything, but he hears me breathing and can sense my shame. This is going to be a loud battle, so I move out to the balcony while I still can.
"Jennive Viktoria, I am so disappointed in you. You know better then this. You can't just go around attacking people."
"Dad, I didn't–"
"Do you know what itshows people, Jennive? Do you? It shows them you are a savage animal. Raised by animals. It gives you a bad name. It gives your family a bad name."
"I know–"
"Clearly, you don't. You're nearly an adult. Adults don't attack other people over nothing. If they did, the world would be in total chaos!"
"Dad, for crying out–!"
"Why are you acting like this? What happened to you? You used to be such a good girl, and now what? Hurting other people? Sneaking out? Abusing your medication? You're lucky I don't–"
"Will you shut up and let me talk!? What is it with you fucking adults and shoving your stupid accusations down our throats and not giving us two Goddamn seconds to defend ourselves!?"
"Je–"
"NO! Shut up! I'm talking now! You had your chance! I never abused my drugs, I fucking told you–"
"Don't use that tone with me, young la–!"
"I'll use whatever damn tone I want! I'm a million miles away and you can't fucking stop me!"
"You're digging your own grave, young lady!"
"Good! I'd rather die than have to put up with anymore of your bullsh–!"
"One more word and I'll–!"
"You'll what, dad? Huh? You'll what? Send me away? Huh? Oh, whoops! Too fucking late! You have nothing on me!"
He sighs deeply. "Jane was right."
"Oh, of course! Jane is always right! Jane says Jen's using her meds for a high, oh! Must be true! Jane says we should send Jen to Scotland, oh! Must be the best Goddamn punishment ever! Jane, Jane, Jane! I am so sick of that woman! Why can't you just see she's using you for your money?"
"Jennive Viktoria Thompson!"
"Oh! Oh! And lest we forget about our dear Evie Pie," I mimic that terrible woman. "You know why she wanted to send me away? Hm? 'Cause I can see through that little performance of hers! I can see she's just using you! She's such a bitch! I don't know how you ca–!"
Static screaming erupts from my speaker. "I have had it up to here with you! Jane is only trying to do what is best for this family! And this is the thanks she gets? You, calling her abitch? Why can't you be more like your mother? Didn't we raise you better than this? What is wrong with you? Where did we go so wrong with you, Jennive? Tell me that, just tell me that!"
"What's wrong with me? You wanna know... what's wrong... with me?" Laughter gurgles up from the back of my throat, and I can't make it stop. "Let... Let me give you a hint: it's name... is William... and it doesn't give a flying fuck... about a girl named Jennive."
The phone flies from my balcony at a startling speed and pieces of plastic fly when it smashes into the Earth before I even realize I've thrown it. I burst into my room and slam the glass so hard it shatters. I bits of it fall onto my head and scratch my hand, but I hardly notice.
It's not laughter. I thought it was laughter but it's not. It's sobbing. I see the glass at my feet, the slivers tangled in my hair. I see the thin red lines on my hand, stinging but not quite bleeding. The only thing I can feel is the scream that has somehow ripped its way through my chest and into the world.
Before I know it, I'm locked in my closet, screaming for my Aunt to go away, leave me alone! I hate when people see me cry. But I'm not crying. It's dark in my closet, some dust got in my eye, and I'm breathing heavy but everything's fine. I'm not crying. I haven't been sleeping well lately, but I'm fine. I'm bad, I'm fucked up. But I'm not crying. I swear I'm not.
My head comes off the ground spinning. The total exhaustion and stale taste in my mouth tells me I fell asleep. Looking around in the dark, I can just barely register the layout of my closet. Getting to the light switch is a bit difficult, my clumsy body stumbling into hangers and the wall being much closer than I remember.
"Ouch! Oh, for crying out loud…"
After a quick bout of sexually harassing the wall, the light finally flicks on. Sliding on a pair of pajama pants and a top, I unlock my closet door and teeter out like a pig on its hind legs. A slip of paper tacked to the door tells me my Aunt and Uncle have gone to buy a new glass door for my balcony and that there's a sitter down stairs.
It's not late at all, the sun is just fading from the horizon, but my nap was long enough for me to know falling asleep tonight is going to be difficult.
A small breeze whispers through the large, jagged hole. The sound is quiet, yet churns startling amounts of shame and guilt into my stomach. I smash the note into my face and groan heavily. Turning off my closet light with an elbow, I crumple the paper and toss it towards my little wastebasket. It hits the rim and rolls in another direction. Mocking me. I crawl onto my bed, falling down and giving up.
The wind howls, almost screeching, as it swarms past the opening. A shiver runs down my spine and my neck hairs start to tingle. Suddenly, there's that feeling again. Like I'm not alone and possibly in danger. Strangely enough, the first thing that pops in my mind is the grey phone and my old alarm clock. What if they come back to haunt me? Beeping in the middle of the night, tripping me with cords? Oh. My. God. I would die from outdated technology…
"Talk about pathetic," I mumble into a pillow.
In almost perfect unison, every alarm in my body goes off screaming and I jump. My instincts are telling my body to run, run as fast as I can and get out of my room. Sitting up, another shiver his me and I remember what happened earlier that morning.
The last inch of sunlight disappears as I lean over and pull away the bed skirt. To my upside-down shock, there's nothing there. Maybe he wasn't real, I tell myself. Today's been enough of a shitfuck that I could've made the whole thing up. I really need to stop trusting my senses with these things. Hell, I should just stop trusting myself in general.
A floorboard creeeeeeaks and my body jolts as I tumble off the bed. My skull aches from the fall, but I don't have time for such nonsense. Be ready, something says, Be ready for anything. My hand is grabbing the pencil off my nightstand as I stand. Back away, Prey, the voice warns. Back away. One uneasy foot behind the other until I bump into something. Swinging around, weapon at the ready, I come face to face with my own reflection in the cracked glass.
The girl looking back is wild, with green threads of insanity laced deep within her hazel eyes. Her face twitches then falls at the pitiful sight in front of her. I sigh, shaking my head. Today, the world only wants to watch me suffer. Rubbing the nape of my neck, small curses pass my lips. That's when I see the silhouette behind me. I spin and stumble over my feet. The figure move closer as my hand shoots for the door. My hand recoils when a thick, cold sting cuts across it. Falling onto my ass with a loud Thud!, I can already feel the blood sliding down my palm and through my fingers.
The not-alive-not-dead guy–Georgie or whatever–stares at me like I'm insane. A very astute observation I would be rolling my eyes at if I couldn't see his teeth–his fangs–gleaming in the dark. His beautiful, vicious, ready-to-kill red eyes staring right at me. There's a low sound resounding from the walls, like a growl or a hiss. I don't know if it's coming from him or somewhere in my mind. He moves and my head slams back against the glass in surprise. He's right in front of me now.
I can see my father, alone with that terrible woman who doesn't give a damn. He thinks I hate him. He's going to die thinking I hated him. I'll never get to tell him he's wrong, that I'm sorry, or that I do love him. Like I never got to tell Mom. The last thing he'll ever hear me say was how I hate him. Exactly like Mamma.
"I-I…" The pale creature leans in closer, his face unchanged. But he's not looking at me like that because he thinks I'm crazy. No, no, I can see it now. He's looking at me like that because he's crazy. His eyes are filled with the indifference of a predator who's caught its pray. Like whatever he's craving, or whatever he's about to do is simply nature at work. My eyes pinch shut.
"I d-don't…" If I say it out loud, maybe he'll hear it. Maybe he'll know. "I don't hate you." The fingers on my neck freeze and I flinch, waiting for them to tighten. After a second, I peek. Now he's looking at me like I'm crazy.
"What did you say?"
"Uh… I… don't hate you." My voice rises, turning it into a question. Greg or George or whatever shakes his head as his eyebrows crunch down. I move my fist closer to my chest and his eyes go crazy again. The hand slipping from my throat reattaches itself while the other snatches at my bleeding palm and brings it towards his mouth.
My foot pushes at his chest while I try to pull my hand away, but he's too strong. I bawl my hand into a fist and jerk myself forward. The hand on my neck catches me, but not before my knuckles whack his nose. His fingers jump from my throat to his nose as he lurches back in shock.
"You…" His eyes stare wide into mine. "You hit me."
"No shit!" I screech at him. He cringes and his hands fly to his ears, freeing me completely. I shove him away and pull myself to my feet. "What the fuck is your problem, asshole?!" He gapes up at me like he's never encountered something like this before, like somehow I'm the one in the wrong.
"Good Lord!" My head snaps to the door as my room is flooded with light and an older woman storms in. "What are yah doing screamin' up here like a–oh dear!" She runs over to me and grabs my bleeding hand. "What on earth have yah done tah yerself, child?"
My eyes shoot down then across the walls, trying to find Gregory. He disappeared when the lights came on. No, before the door had even opened. Something is laughing. I turn around, but only my reflection greets me. She's just as scared and confused as I am until her mouth splits into a sharp smile and her eyes drip red. I snap back at the old woman. Her hand jumps away from my shoulder.
"Are yah alright, dear?"
I can feel my head tilt and my mouth open, but nothing comes out. The woman's worry intensifies and turns to fear.
"Right," she says rushing for the door. "Yer mum told me there're bandages in the cupboard. Heaven help me, oh Lord." She turns back to me and waves her hand like I've stopped listening. "Now you stay right there. I'll fix yah right up, dear. Don't move; I'll be right back."
My head moves up and down, though she is already gone, and I don't blink until my mouth decides to close. I'm losing it. I'm losing it completely. There was no boy, ever. Not in my room or under my bed. Rudolph probably doesn't even have any siblings. I probably didn't even say anything to Tony in the car this morning. It's all in my head. It's all in my head. It all has to be in this fucked up head of mine.
But I have to admit it's getting better at playing this game. Who knew all this nonsense could get so real. Eyes shooting ice and fire through my bones or a voice rumbling against my ears and swirling around my head like wine. I carefully eased towards my bed, dropped to the floor, and yank up the bed skirt. Nothing. I guess that's the point with this disease. Real or not, there or not, never knowing the answer. It sucks.
I sit on my bed and stare at the closet door thinking about this everything and nothing life of mine. The old woman is rummaging in the bathroom down the hall. She's praying and cursing in English and gibberish, thin boxes falling lightly while a soap bottle topples over. I stare at the doorknob, dull and reflecting the world as a wonky opal with a clear, open center and tight outsides. Inching closer, my head gets larger and more oblong until it's covering almost the entire handle. Every tiny scratch and smudge transfers to my face and eyes. It's ugly and disfigured, wonky and wrong in everyway. It didn't use to be. It used to be shiny and new, reflecting a world closer to the truth. I reach out with my bloody fingers and smear red over my features.
The door, not as shut as I thought, moves at the touch. I pull my hand back wondering why it was even closed in the first place. My clean hand eases it open until the closet is entirely exposed then moves to the light switch.
"Don't."
I shriek and the old woman shouts: "Just hold on, dear!"
Gregory scoffs from the ceiling as I stare.
"Dude," I manage, clutching my shirt. "You're gonna be the death of me. Heart attack, or otherwise."
End Chapter Five