Infected

Chapter 14

That night, after a bottle of wine and a frustrated battle reorganizing the tools in the garage, I made the decision to not confront Quin about the detective's information and instead would just ignore him. He didn't deserve my attention any more than a random person on the street, because that was who he was to me now... a stranger.

I rehearsed my plan to eliminate him from my life the next morning in the mirror and remained steadfast in my mantra when Mel pried about what made me leave so abruptly the night before.

"It has nothing to do with you Mel, trust me." I say to her after the awkward silence that pursued when I'd stated I wasn't in the mood for spilling my life anymore.

"Trust or not, I don't believe you." She mutters while shooing away a couple freshmen who were far too excited about our free condom bowl. She continues when she returns to her chair, "It's written all over your face that you're pissed off at someone, and I was the last person you saw last night. Is this about me sending you to admin with Quin? I really wasn't trying to cause a problem."

My jaw tightens at the name. Mel catches the small detail and leans back with her toned arms folded.

"Oh I see now. Did something happen with Quin?"

Dammit, I have go to get a hold of my poker face.

"Mel," I groan, "If I say it's fine, it's fine."

After a long pause mixed with a suspicious stare, she raises her hands in defeat, repeating what I said, "Fine."

She was quiet about the subject for the rest of the day, a feat that was impressive while also guilt evoking. I hated telling her to leave things alone. Finding out what was wrong with people was not just her profession, it was every part of her being. If she can't find a solution, she becomes a sad wilted flower, waiting for the moment she can fix things. 

I went home feeling more like shit than ever, exhausted from the rushes of students trying to seek advice and being on guard for Quin finding time to stop by. Luckily he didn't, possible because he was busy enough with his own curriculum.

I tossed and turned the entire night in bed, and gave into the sleeping pills when my alarm clock chimed to mark it was two in the morning. I slept so deeply that I barely budged when the sunlight broke through my curtains and woke up late for work, groggy and moving at a zombie pace. Even though I didn't remember any of my dreams I was still on edge the entire time I was in the house, looking over my shoulder for any wandering monsters and listening for bumps and creaks. It felt as if I'd be riddled with the real and unreal for the rest of my life, that I would always be paranoid of the impossible.

The remainder of August droned on with the cicadas that lined the trees as the students settle into their schedules. The excitement of the new year had died down quickly and everyone was now counting the days till winter break.

I'd given up on the sleeping pills after the fifth night, when I'd woken up in a cold sweat, screaming at things that weren't there and wishing that someone had been next me, telling me everything was okay. 

Dr. Samson didn't notice the dark circles forming under my wary eyes when I'd gone to my final check up a few days later, nor the significant weight I'd been losing from a meager diet of coffee and whatever I could shove into my mouth when I was feeling my blood sugar drop. As if to worsen the blow of my disbelief of seeing a light at the end of the tunnel, he had gone on and on about the progress I was making, that it was only an upswing from here.

It was his way of convincing me that I was on the road to healing, that I was successfully erasing my emotional trauma just like my body was with the physical, but it was complete opposite of that.