Our Contract of Distrust

-- 28 --

Most times I find my former self irksome, but sometimes I really want to slap her in the face.

Why didn't she stock back up when it ran out? Was it laziness? Inexplicable obliviousness? Whatever her excuse, I cursed it given the present.

Suddenly it washes over me. My face flushes white as the blood drains from my head and I rush for the bathroom.

I've only just knelt by the toilet before retching turns to vomiting.

My hair dangles down on either side of the bowl, threatening to embrace unpleasant substances with any wrong tilt of the head. Before I can even attempt to tuck it behind my ears, however, I'm hit with round two.

It's only when my heaving eases into panting that it registers my hair is no longer in my peripheral and I jerk up to find Feodor holding it back for me.

This is the kind of situation that even decent people shy away from, where even good people fear to tread.

This isn't a space which is easy to enter. Not just on account of disgust and revulsion, but also due to the uncertainty of not knowing what to do or the fear of making things worse.

All awkwardness, silence and sullenness aside, Feodor really might be too kind.

I think this feeling might be guilt.

And a desire to crush such goodness rather than face the inadequacy which would inevitably be tied to an attempt at reciprocity.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

My face burns as blood floods it once again.

I manage to nod once through my shock. "Could you?"

"Oh, sorry," Feodor says and releases my hair. 

I brace myself against the wall and slowly rise to my feet and head for the bathroom sink.

"Can I get you anything? What- what type of medicine...?" Feodor asks as I rinse my mouth out. 

"I ran out," I say.

"I could go to the shops?"

I eye him in the mirror. I suppose there's no reason to refuse him. Not when my body is feeling so excruciatingly self-destructive.

After hobbling to the kitchen, I scribble down what I need on the corner of the shopping list and tear it off for him.

"Oh," he says.

I deflate into one of the chairs as Feodor rummages through the cupboard and places something in the microwave.

I thought he was keen to help, so what on earth is all this?

I slump my head onto the table as I contemplate where and how I might alleviate some of this pain.

Why does it make my mind feel so sluggish as well?

All I want to do is sleep, but it's hardly attainable in my current state.

"Here, Nadia."

Suddenly warm steam is wafting towards me.

I don't even bother lifting my head, just turn it to the side to eye Feodor's sheepish expression.

Why?

It takes a moment to register that he's holding something out to me. And then another moment to process that it's a heat-pack.

"Oh, thanks," I mutter as I lift myself up.