how to make a mixtape :: mgc (fin.)

28. vandalism reports & gift baskets

"Maricruz?" I hear Alejandro call me from the foot of the bed. My eyes are shut tight, and the curtains are drawn, although I know it's way past the morning, already. The shallow rustle of a plastic bag follows him, and his voice is coming from the door. "Would you like to come to 7-Eleven with me? We could both get something to eat afterwards, or we could go and take a walk, or go shopping..." He tails off. We both know we don't have enough money for relaxed expenditure.

I shake my head. It throbs whenever I move it, but I'm too exhausted to clutch it. "Not hungry."

He sighs, dropping something on the floor - the bag, I assume - and walks over to the side of my bed. His hand falls through my greasy and knotted hair, and his lips press clumsily against my forehead. I still don't move - even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to. Everything feels paralyzed, and I just want to throw up all the time. My chest and stomach feel empty, but I'm not hungry. My throat is dry, but I'm not thirsty. My head hurts, but I don't want sedation. That's the thing - I'm enforcing this sensation of disconnectedness. The numbness cornering my brain and the tingles in my fingertips are what's keeping me going. There's no point getting out of bed, or drinking, or eating, anyway. It's not like I'm going to do anything productive. It's not like I'm going to bother to go to the bathroom. It's not like I'm going to use the energy. Why waste things when they're going to be of no use to me?

He says, softly this time, "you still haven't told me how you got those bruises around your throat."

"Tight necklace."

"I don't believe you."

"Don't worry. Nobody does, nowadays."

With all the might I can muster, I roll over in the bed. I swallow back the vomit creeping up my throat and open my eyes. It's bright outside and through the curtains, but the motel room is dismal and quiet. There's an old TV sitting in the middle of the two beds, and there's a small nightstand on either side of the two. The roof is high up and pointed, like a cabin house, and there's one wooden beam crossing from point of the ceiling to the other. There is only a single window, which is barred up and grimy. The curtains hide this, though, although the muddy yellow fabric isn't any more appealing to look at. The carpet is a worn out brown, and it's the sole thing I like about this place. Outside, the wooden door connected to our room has the letters Occupied painted on it in white, thanks to Alejandro's DIY methods.

He lingers for a little while longer, before the door clicks shut.

I roll back onto my back in the bed, and stare up at the beam. It has cobwebs lining the corners of it in white nets, and even they look like they haven't been touched the spiders themselves in years. I sit up slowly, rubbing my eyes and looking around. I stare at the blinds; they blow under the draught of the thin windows. Would it matter if I don't draw them? I curl my toes underneath the bed sheets, and then decide to stand up. My legs are stiff from exhaustion, but Alejandro told me to always draw the blinds, or somebody might think this motel is unoccupied. Every time I draw the blinds, I always expect there to be a better view in front of me than last time, but it's always the same. It's always the same long, grey stretch of land, only touching the little patch of grass holding one tree. There are a couple buildings dotted behind the tree, but other than that, there's nothing.

Oh, and I have a therapist now. Her name is Ms. Martinez, and she's really the reason I leave the motel room on Sundays - or any day, really. She's twenty three, and has her hair in this really cool two tone of blonde and black. She wears this black shirt with a peter pan collar, and has red lipstick smeared on her mouth. Whenever she smiles at something I say, these accents move up beneath her eyes. Sometimes, I try to smile with her, but I'm not really used to it anymore. She takes me seriously, unlike everyone else, and is the only one who thinks that I'm not crazy. She's the only one who knows what Michael did to my neck, and after my first session, she gave me a bit of concealer so I don't have to answer any uncomfortable questions. She knows I have no technology when I stay in the motel, but she gave me a tablet and headphones for me to make mixtapes.