Fighting for Rain - BB Easton Page 0,46

left in this husk of a body, the fact that Lamar is more concerned about getting help with his brother than finding out why I spent the entire night curled up in a ball under a desk in a dark room might hurt. But it doesn’t. Nothing can hurt me anymore.

I’m not even here.

“Fine. I’ll do it myself. Again!”

The door slam echoes in my ears for several minutes after he leaves. Or could it be hours? I don’t know anymore. I feel like I’m floating in primordial ooze. Disconnected from reality. Disconnected from my thoughts and feelings. Disconnected from time.

The only thing I can feel is my body, and the longer I sit here, the more it makes itself known. My throbbing bladder, my growling stomach, my aching legs and back—they join together in a chorus of pain until I have no choice but to move.

With everyone still at breakfast, the store is quiet. I make my way down the hall on rubbery legs. I watch them as they lift and step, but my brain doesn’t register the impact. It’s as if I’m wearing virtual reality goggles.

Maybe I’m going crazy.

I open the door to the employee restroom and prop it open so that I can see what I’m doing as I shimmy my jeans down and sit on the edge of the sink to pee.

When I’m done, I continue to sit there, staring at a lacy spiderweb draped over a useless air-conditioning vent, admiring the dark gray nothingness swirling inside of me. Now that my bladder’s not full anymore, I am empty.

Truly and completely.

I zip and button my jeans with numb, clumsy fingers and make my way back to my cave. This time, I walk with my entire shoulder hugging the wall. I keep my gaze fixed on the entrance to the store—it’s too disorienting to look at my feet—but before I make it back to the office, a demon with slime-colored eyes and a mane made of snakes fills the doorway. Her jerky gaze lands on me—or what’s left of me—and a sneer splits her face from ear to ear.

I know I should be afraid of her, but that feeling is gone too. All I can do is stare back and wait for her to attack.

“There you are, Flush.”

She stalks toward me with the posture of a gangster even though she’s wearing baggy black men’s pants cut off at the knee, motorcycle boots, and a black T-shirt that’s at least three sizes too big. She doesn’t stop until she’s standing right in front of me. Then, she yanks the hood off my head. Grabbing a handful of my hair, Q jerks me forward. I don’t feel the pain. I only hear her take a long, deep breath as she lifts a fistful of my hair to her nose.

“Fresh as a fuckin’ daisy.” Q shoves my head backward, and her eyes blaze. “Riddle me this, bitch. How is it that you show up wit’ nothin’ but the clothes on yo’ back, you ain’t been eatin’ my food, you ain’t been usin’ my muhfuckin’ shampoo, yet here you is, alive and smellin’ like a gotdamn rose bush?”

I stare at her from the safety of the nothingness and blink.

“Where’s … yo’ … shit?” She jams two fingers into my chest with each word, her face mere inches from mine.

“I’m sorry,” I say, the sound of my own voice taking me by surprise. “Rain isn’t home right now.”

Q’s face darkens, and her hand coils into my hair again, yanking my head down sideways.

“Rain don’t have a home, bitch. This my home, and I’m here to collect my muhfuckin’ rent.” Her grip on my hair tightens to the point that I finally register the pain, and I’m almost relieved to feel it. “You got two seconds to tell me where the fuck yo’ stash is before I put you and ya little boyfriends out.”

Lifting my eyes, I glance over her shoulder at the white plaster mannequin in the center of the store. Q turns her head to follow my gaze. Then she shoves me to the ground and stomps off in that direction.

I watch from my sideways spot on the hall floor as the mannequin falls to the ground like a cut tree. The thud of it is quickly followed by the sound of a zipper and wild cackling laughter, but all I can focus on is the blank stare of the plaster man, lying in the same position as me. Expressionless. Empty. Unfazed.

Is