The Mute and the Liar (74 page)

But
his
icy
words
from
a
few
minutes
ago
echo
in
my
mind:
you
mean
nothing
to
me.

And
I
make my
choice.

I
turn
around
and
walk
away.

???
March
2011

???
AM

I
’ve got
a
throbbing
headache.

I’ve
just
woken
up.
I
don’t
want
to
call
it
waking
up.
It’s
more
like
forcing
myself
to
get
up
over
the
melodramatic,
highly
exaggerated
fear
that
I’m
going
to
die
from
this
headache.

I
didn’t
want
to
wake
up.
I
wanted
to
stay
in
bed
for
the
rest
of
my
life.
Just
stay
here
until
I shrivel
up
like
an
orange
in
the sun.

I
don’t
know
what
the
day
is
or
how
much
time
I’ve
wasted
lying
here.
It
feels
like
minutes,
but
it’s
been
at
least
a
week.
I
tried
to
get
up
in
the
first few
days,
but
I
got
a
vertigo-like
feeling
every
time
I
tried
to,
where
I
felt
dizzy
and
ill,
like
al
the
blood
was
rushing
to
my
head
at
once.
So
I
gave
up.
Now
I
spend my time lying here in bed instead.
It’s
better
here.
Safer.

Everything
kind
of
just
blurs
together
in
this
room.
If
I
stayed
here
for
long
enough
I
can
imagine
myself
going
up
to
the
mirror
and
seeing
grey
hair
and
wrinkles.
That
thought
scares
me
and
I
pick
up
the
hand-held
mirror
on
the night
table
next
to
me just
in
case.
Thankfully, it’s
my
own face that
stares
back
at
me.
It
almost
isn’t. There are thick,
deep
purple
bags
under
my
brown
eyes
and
I’m
so
tired
I
can
hardly
keep
my
eyes
open.
My
brown,
once-curly
hair
has
become
completely
tangled,
every
ringlet
knotting
into
the
next,
to
the
point
where
it’s
partly
standing
on
end
and
there
are
knots
the
size
of
tennis
balls
running
throughout
it.

I
haven’t
been
able
to
sleep at
night.
My
sleeping
is
done
at
ungodly
hours
in
the
morning
and
at
lunchtimes.
The
rest
of
the
time
I
spend
with
my
eyes
shut
tightly,
wishing
everything
else
would
just
go
away.
I
slip
in
and
out
of
consciousness.
Sometimes
I
can’t
tell
whether
I’m
asleep
or
not.
I’m
just
drifting somewhere in between.

It’s
pitch
black
in
my
room.
I
like
the
dark;
it
feels
calm.
The
dark
is
consuming.
I
hope
that
if
I
stay
here
long
enough
it
will
consume
and
silence
all
my
thoughts.

There
is
no
time
here.
The
only
thing
that
acts
as
my
calendar
is
my
father,
who
comes
in
before
and
after
work.
He
brings
me
some
food
and
tries
to
talk
to
me.
Asks
if
I’m
awake
and
if
I’m
all
right.
Asks
me
if
I
want
to
go
to
school.
I
stay
silent
and
motionless
and
keep
my
eyes
shut
until
he
gives
up and
leaves.
That’s the only
reason
I
know that
any
time is
passing
at
all.
All
the
hours
pull
into
each
other,
one
by
one.

My
chest
hurts.
It’s
fed
up
with
my
heart,
which
only
has
two
states
now.
It
is
either
beating
with
dread
or
panic,
which
happens
whenever
I
remember
a
nything
that
has
happened
these
past
few
days
,
or
it
slows
right
down,
to
the
point
where
I
can
put
my
hand
on
my
chest
and
can’t
feel
anything.
That
happens
when
I
think
about
Jayce.
Not
scary
Jayce,
the
Jayce
that
tried
to
kill
Jeffrey
and
pushed
a
knife
to
my
neck.
The
Jayce
who
took
me
around
Bath,
who
wrote
me
a
song,
who
held
onto
me
when
he
was
having
a
panic
attack
at
Kit's
house.

My
head
keeps
throbbing.
It’s
become
even
louder,
to
the
point
where
all
I can
hear is
th
is
stubborn,
tireless pounding
against my
skull.

I
need
painkillers.

I
drag
myself
out
of
the
warmth
and
safety
of
my
bed
and
face
the
real
world
for
the
first
time
in
what
feels
like
months.
I
drag
my
feet
along
every
step
until
after
this
tiring,
endless
journey
I
finally
reach
the
bathroom.
After
showering,
dressing
and
drying
my
hair
and
combing
it,
I
haul
myself
to
the
kitchen,
a
journey that takes
even
longer.