In the Lion's Teeth: Second Edition

Chapter Seven

The rest of the day and most of the next are a blur. You slip in and out of sleep, and sometimes Mitch is there and sometimes he's not, and you never really know what time it is because the sky is still in a perpetual state of grey twilight. Nobody calls you, not even your old psychiatrist. But then, you don't know how much time has passed between the last time you saw her and now. When you finally wake up, the blinds are closed and the room is dim. Mitch is sitting on his bed, his computer on and headphones plugged in.

When you sit up and groan, the blanket falls down to your hips and you run your hand through your hair. He pulls his headphones off and drapes them around his neck.

"Hey," he says gently. "How you doing?"

You shake your head because you're not ready to speak yet, and you kick your legs off the bed, hands tight on the edge as you stare at the floor blankly. For a few minutes, your focus drifts in and out while you try to remember where you are and what day it is. Finally, you look up at Mitch. He's just watching you, brow furrowed, eyes nervous.

"Pascal?" he prompts.

You shake your head and finally meet his eyes. "A little better," you murmur. You blink and straighten your back, looking around the room.

"I feel like a human being again, at least," you say. He chuckles and you crack a smile and it feels amazing. You're exhausted and shaky and having trouble focusing, but, for now, at least, you're not hallucinating, and even if you're not happy, you're not depressed, either. Your mood is at its baseline, finally, and it's such a refreshing change from the empty hole of depression and the frenetic panic of mania.

"I need to take a shower," you say. Your skin is covered with a fine layer of grit and your hair is greasy and there's a visible layer of dirt underneath your nails. You haven't showered since you attempted to go to Medford, and you've gotten disgusting since then. Even though you hate the communal showers, staying in this state is absolutely unacceptable.

Mitch opens his mouth, but you speak first.

"We'll talk when I get back," you say softly.

***

It takes a few minutes to gather your things, your towel and soaps and shampoo, because it's been five days since your last shower. Mitch lets you borrow an extra plastic cube to bring all your things over, and you grab a new razor on your way out, too, because your face is rough with stubble.

Whatever time it is, it's either early or late enough that nobody is interested in showering right now, and the whole area is completely empty. You can't sing, but you hum tunelessly a little as you scrub yourself down, not so much because you want to but because the sound helps drown out all the other, dangerous noises. This state of mind won't last for long, but you want to hold onto it for as long as possible. Even if you're not happy, you're calm, and right now, that's good enough.

You're trying to scrub some water out of your ear as you enter the dorm again. Mitch is still on his laptop, but with his headphones out, now, and the laugh track tells you he's watching some kind of TV show. You tilt your head to the side and drain the remaining water out of your ear, then scrub at your hair one more time to dry it as much as possible before hanging your towel on the hook by the door and kicking off your flip-flops.

Mitch looks up to you and you look back at him, both of you silent, until he finally starts with, "So, Benji texted me and said she'll be over in an hour."

"Yeah," you say. "She's... she's bringing me some more stuff."

"That's what she said."

More silence, then he puts his laptop to the side and kicks his feet over the bed, sitting up straight.