The Art of Losing Touch

Chapter Three

The next morning I woke up before the sun, but that didn't mean much because December sunrises were always so late. The bees in my head were back and my stomach lurched and twisted when I sat up. I slammed my hand over my mouth and breathed in slowly through my nose. I swallowed. A wave of nausea crashed over me and I stood, running to the bathroom and slamming the door.

I hadn't eaten much the past few days. My throat burned. My tongue felt like it might dissolve it was so hot. I threw up until there wasn't even stomach acid left and dry heaved for another minute or so. My stomach and back cramped up tight. I jumped when someone knocked on the door and a twinge of pain shot right through both.

"Cal?"

I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand and coughed. It was Berke. He was back on my suicide shift.

"Yeah?" I coughed again and pushed myself to my feet so I could wash my face and my mouth.

"Are you all right in there?"

I spit out the water in my mouth and nodded, then said, "I'm fine." There were no locks on the doors. I didn't want him coming in.

"Okay," he said. "But I have to crack the door, just in case, okay? I won't come in."

The door creaked when he opened it, just a few centimeters. I dried my face on a paper towel and went back outside. Once the voices had gone away for good, I could stop taking the medicine and I'd feel okay again. I just had to wait until then, and everything would be fine.

I left the bathroom to see Berke in the doorway, leaning back in a small chair.

"What time is it?" I asked. He looked up from his book and glanced at his watch.

"Just past seven," he said. "So we'll have breakfast in about an hour."

I nodded. Usually we'd go out into the day room if we woke up any time past six, but –

"Is it okay if I just stay in bed until then?" I asked. "I feel really dizzy and sick."

"That's fine. But I'll need you to try to get up for the morning group after breakfast. Can you do that?"

I wiped my mouth again and nodded.

He smiled, bright white teeth against his warm brown skin. "Then it's a deal. I'll wake you up for breakfast, okay?"

I nodded and sat back down on my bed, the only one in the room, even though most had two. It was small and lumpy and made of some kind of pliable plastic, like a gym mat, but at least the pillows were normal. I turned away from the door, staring out the window at the dim shadows of the trees in front of the streetlights. For the first time in months, I thought about writing a poem, or maybe a short story. I didn't know what about, but I smiled because I finally wanted to again, after not caring for so long.

Then there was something at my ear, soft and crackly like autumn leaves. Something whispered, low and rustling and dry, like a snakeskin shed and abandoned or TV static. My hands clenched on the blanket and I grit my teeth and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to brace myself for the screams.

They never came, and the whispering faded.

"I was told that you were going to stop trying to fight your treatment, Cal?"

My hands clenched in my lap and I slowly looked up. "Yeah," I whispered.

Dr. Mackenzie smiled. "That's excellent. Can I ask, why the change?"

"Well..." I paused. How could I explain it without telling her I spit out my medication that night? "I guess I just decided I'd rather deal with the side effects than the symptoms. I'd rather be nauseous all the time than hear the voices constantly. So... I still don't like the medicine. But I understand why I need it."