Bad Rep

TWELVE

I haven't gotten out of bed in over two days—minus a couple of bathroom breaks. But other than that, I haven't eaten, haven't showered, hardly slept, my mind keeping me conscious with its constant racing—or maybe its the guilt or endless self-deprecation, because I'm void of any real thoughts all at the same time. The most productive thing I've done is pick up my cracked cellphone from the floor (now dead) and have the decency to tell my boss I'll be out sick today—Monday—and maybe a couple more days. My excuse was food poisoning, since I technically am sick to my stomach.

I contemplate getting up in search of a phone charger in this place, but I doubt there is one, and even if there is, it's not like anyone is going to call me, anyway. Why waste my energy? I already hinted to my boss that my illness will probably last more than a day, so I think she'll understand when I don't clock in tomorrow.

I sink deeper into the mattress, deeper into the darkest part of my mind, allowing myself to live there, feed on it. The darkness swallows me whole, and I allow it, practically welcome it.

You could have easily picked yourself back up and got your life back, but instead you chose to sit around and wallow, wanting to feel sorry for yourself.

Maybe Eli was right. Maybe the deterioration of our relationship was my fault—just like everything else. Maybe I shouldn't blame him for cheating on me. I probably deserve it.

A loud pounding pulls me from my intrusive thoughts, startling me. I realize it's the front door and relax, knowing it's more than likely an overeager sales person. They'll go away eventually.

Except they don't.

The knocking becomes more persistent and purposeful, and if everyone I loved wasn't already out of my life I'd be worried something was wrong.

The pounding persists and I begin to think maybe something really is wrong. Maybe the building is on fire or maybe a neighbor is concerned about the stench coming from my apartment (since I haven't showered in a few days). But instead of answering, not having the energy or even the motivation to get up, I wait a few more minutes for them to go away, but the knocking continues to ensue.

Exasperated, the sound starting to give me a headache, I reluctantly get up to answer the door. I shuffle to it slowly, my body feeling drained, delicate, a shell of what it used to be.

The sun is just starting to set, it's harsh rays announcing it's departure, and I half expect to find some big, burly police officer or fire fighter behind the door. Shamefully, even a stupid part of me thinks—sort of wishes—it was Eli, but I'm surly surprised when I answer the door. The sight is even more shocking than if it was Eli behind my door.

It's not a big and burly police officer or fire fighter, but the person is definitely big and burly, alright.

Rhodes stands at my door, looking frantic and disheveled. But what shocks me most about his appearance is his blooming black eye.

"You haven't been answering my calls," are the first words he says to me, and they come out rushed, but not harsh. His tense shoulders seem to ease a fraction in some sort of relief.

I open my mouth, close it, not knowing what to say, what to even think. "I—how did you get my number?" It's probably not the best first question to ask, but it's the first thing my mouth blurts out.

"From your forms at the gym," he admits, quickly brushing it off and moving on to a new subject while physically brushing past me and into the apartment.

He walks to the kitchen, taking a seat at the table. His tall and wide stature make the old chair creak under his weight and look so small, and I remember the first time Eli ever came over and I thought the exact same thing. He looks tired and agitated as he laces his fingers together over the table top, his leg bouncing restlessly under the table. His gray eyes don't meet mine as he frowns down at the table.