Pandora's Box

12. Psychic Headaches

I wake up on the floor of the bathroom, curled in a ball on the threadbare bathmat, shivering so hard my muscles are starting to cramp. With a slow, steadying breath I ease myself up. The room tilts, and I tip toward the toilet bowl. Vaguely aware of the fact that there is nothing left in my stomach, I wait for the wave of nausea to pass before trying to sit up again. Using slow movements and steadying myself against the tub, the counter, and the walls, I manage to stand and make my way to the bedroom with shuffling steps.

My head throbs, sending the world spinning and halting my progress down the short hall so often that it takes what feels like years to reach the comfort of my bed. Under the covers, darkness comes for me again and I fall into its arms willingly.

Dark shadows clash with blinding spots of light against the backdrop of my mind. Neither shade coalesces into a recognizable form as they slice through each other before receding, only to hurdle into the opposing side once more. The dance is dizzying and beautiful. This goes on for hours that give in to years which fold into decades that slip into eternities, with neither side gaining an advantage. At times the light will pulse brighter, biting back the shadows, which slink to the edges of my consciousness before wrapping around the light, slithering and creeping to extinguish the brightness. When it seems the light is lost, the tiniest spark flares, rearing up against the looming black. It sears the backs of my eyelids red, forcing my eyes open.

Light streams through the bedroom window, the brightness at odds with the murky depths of my sluggish consciousness. It must be late in the afternoon for the sun to be hitting the building like this. I pull the blankets over my head, shrinking away from the light.

My thoughts move like cumbersome glaciers, taking their time forming before crashing into each other all at once. Indie. Delian. Apollo. Kassandra. Molly. There's too much, the ideas too big for me to comprehend.

Indie is in love with Molly.

Apollo was in love with Kassandra.

Delian may not be who he says he is.

It is the last thought that ignites the rest of my body, moving me into action. The throbbing at my temples lets me know my headache won't be going away any time soon, but I've just thought of something that forces me to move through the pain.

"What the hell is that guy's deal? Didn't you just meet him? You just invite strangers to hang out?"

I don't know anything about Delian, the man I just met, but I left him with Molly. What the hell is wrong with me? Molly, the woman whose death I've seen not once, but twice in as many days, and I left her alone with a complete stranger.

Stumbling about my room, I pull on fresh clothes and grab my shoes, snatching my purse as I race out of the apartment. Glancing briefly at Indie's door, I decide against asking him for help or telling him my suspicions. It would only add to his anger.

Molly, Evan, and Arty share a ramshackle house in the burgeoning 'starving artist' district on the east side of town. It's too far for me to walk, especially in this state, so I hail a cab. The driver recoils at the address I snap at him, his eyes sliding over me before he decides I probably only look crazy. To his credit, he gets me to the house in under twenty minutes. My constant huffing and pathetic whimpers at the lancing pain in my temples every time we hit a pothole probably helped with that.

"Don't worry, I've got nothing left to hurl," I say to his reflection in the rearview mirror, my voice dry, mouth sour.

He doesn't respond, but he does peel away from the curb uncomfortably fast after dropping me in front of the band's house. The handle jerks out of my hand before I've fully closed the door, which rattles against the frame it hasn't fully latched to as the car bounces along the narrow lane.