Antilove

Ventiquattro

CAPITOLO VENTIQUATTRO

terms to come to

***

LUCID, LURID, LUDICROUS. What defines a fever? A flash of cold heat cleaves right down the center of Rose's body as she coughs herself awake. The California heat has never made her skin feel like it's being set aflame.

    The second thing Rose feels against her skin is soothing water—a flash, a streak running down her right cheek. Heavy tears well up and they tumble as fast as they came. Only one word can sum up her feelings towards her current predicament.

    Disappointment.

    Disappointed that she tried to overdose on all the medication she can find. Disappointed that she even tried to ease the ceaseless pain. Disappointed that she's lying awake on her wrecked bed, staring at her half-covered windows.

    A rare sight: cloudy skies. It seems to promise rain and Rose sighs laboriously into her mattress. It's soiled through and through. Even if there's a wine stain here or there that she can fix with salt and bleach, she can't knowingly sleep on it again.

    Getting up shoots pains from the bottom of her skull to the roots of her teeth. Her habits have definitely caught up to her.

    The bathroom. It's the solid solace of this apartment. One day, Rose figures she'll sell it. Although it's what her mom left her, she hates it. She hates Los Angeles, she hates California. The days are too long and the heat stays forever, even in absence.

    But that time will never come. Rose will never sell this house because Rose will never get to live long enough to.

    She takes a bath this time. Almost immediately, as she dips her toes into the water and lights a candle, Rose can hear Alex's voice.

    "A bath? We're in a drought, you know."

    "Shut up," she murmurs.

    There's a leftover bottle of wine from god-knows-how-many-nights ago and Rose tips it to her lips. Some of it spills out and bleeds into the water, blooming until it disperses. Absolutely fascinated, the rest of the contents go towards the bathtub.

    The wine looks like roses as it swirls into the bathwater. Her lips twist and she wishes she were just as ephemeral and beautiful.

    When the water's turned into pale pink, Rose gets up and towels herself dry. Slipping on the ruined blouse from yesterday, she goes back to her room to find the pants she discarded.

    There's only one objective on her mind at the moment.

    Crouching under her bed, she finds her car keys and wonders if she's still intoxicated. Shrugging, Rose leaves her apartment, not even bothering to hear the door click shut on her way out. She lugs her ruined mattress behind her and throws it at the side of the street, in time for tomorrow's trash collection.

    Getting into her car, Rose ignites the engine and the dashboard lights up in the dimly lit garage. The clock tells her it's just past four and she questions whether she's been knocked out for one day or two. Her stomach has no reaction to it.

***

IT STARTS DRIZZLING three quarters through her route. Some cars slow down on the highway in amazement. Rose slams her hand on the horn.

    She's driving to Phoenix. The exit sign appear in just a few minutes. There's no definite address but Rose is as familiar with Phoenix as she is to Los Angeles. It's as if a switch clicked in her muddled brain and her muscles move without thought.