Chapter twenty-five:

 

 

It takes a long while to find the pharmacy. It’s funny, but it’s not, because I walk past it twice before I finally see it. And how could I miss it with its big glass windows and large green sign? My mind is in such a muddle. My hand hurts. I’m hungry too. But mostly, my heart aches that Carrie did this to me.

I know she didn’t mean to. It was an accident. She was confused. I’m certain she apologized at some point too. I’m certain she didn’t scream at me in fear and anger. I still feel bad that I hit her. Made her bruises even worse.

I did that.

Not the stairs.

Not the floor.

Not herself as she tripped. But me.

My fist as it connected with her face.

I feel bad. I am a bad person for doing that.

A man should never hit a woman. Even if she does stab him first.

My hand throbs in pain, reminding me that it’s still there. That the stab wound…no, the defensive wound is still there. But I don’t blame her. I won’t.

I need some painkillers, and I need some bandages and something to clean the stab wound with because I don’t want it to get infected. That would suck. Really suck. I bet the pain would be incredible. Worse than it is now, and right now it hurts a whole lot.

Come to think of it, I feel a little sick. A dizziness has taken over me. The world zooms in and out of focus, and a shiver runs down my spine. I feel hot and cold and everything in between. I push the door to the pharmacy open, and a small bell above rings faintly. It smells of medicine and cleanliness in here, and I like it because medicine means health and cleanliness means no germs. This place is safe for me and my open wound.

Defensive wound, I correct myself. It’s not an open wound, or a scrape or a cut. It’s a defensive wound. I shudder.

I go through the aisles, looking for what I need and mentally crossing them off my list as I put them into the basket that hangs in my uninjured hand. Bandages, gauze, tape, disinfectant, painkillers. I see condoms and decide to get a box while I’m here. I’m thoughtful and considerate like that.

I don’t know if Carrie has any at home. I hope so, because she’s been sleeping with Mr. Fancy Asshole Adam and the thought of her having unprotected sex, of him being inside her beautiful body without a condom, makes me want to throw up.

Literally throw up all over the floor.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” I say as someone comes and grabs me by the waist and I bend over and heave again.

I feel weak and shaky. They’re talking to me, but when I try to look at them their face is blurry. My mouth tastes of vomit and bile. Stomach acid, beans, and rank coffee with too much sugar. It’s disgusting. I need to clean my teeth. I need my own toothbrush. I can’t use Carrie’s now. There’s a line to sharing, and that would be it. I’ll get one while I’m here, I think.

“I’m really sorry,” I say again. “Could you show me where the toothbrushes are, please?”

And I am really sorry.

And I am embarrassed.

And Carrie will be embarrassed the next time she has to shop here, because I bet they’ll remember me, because you don’t forget someone who throws up on your floor. And we’ll be the sort of couple that does everything together, so when we come to buy more condoms, or things for Carrie’s periods, they’ll remember us and I’ll have to explain to Carrie why they’re looking at me strangely.

My cheeks flush hot with embarrassment.

“Come and sit,” the voice next to me says, and I’m ushered into a chair.

The chair is made of cold plastic. It digs into my back. I shiver again.

I still feel sick. But I will not throw up anymore, I decide. I just need to pull myself together for the sake of Carrie.

“An ambulance is on the way. Don’t worry, it’s all going to be fine.”

An ambulance?

I’m confused and the place is spinning and I feel hot.

My hand is lifted up into the air. To stop the blood. A fresh towel is wrapped around it, and the old, bloody one discarded of into a small trash can. Shit, I’ll need to get Carrie a new dishtowel, I think. She only had one to start with, and I just ruined it.

I try to pull away from the person holding my arm, but I can’t. I look at them, my eyes finding some focus, and I see a kindly old lady with thick-framed glasses and curly white hair pulled back from her face. She reminds me of one of my old neighbors. Mrs.…Mrs.…I can’t remember her name now. But she was kind and caring. She liked Carrie and me. She said we were thick as thieves. That we made a good team. That we looked out for each other. And she was right. We did. Because that’s what friends do. That’s what lovers do.

We care.

We love.

We cherish.

We protect.

No matter what.

That’s what I had said to Carrie.

‘I’ll take care of it, take care of you. No matter what.’

And hadn’t I done just that? Hadn’t I protected her? Hadn’t I cared all these years? And I’m not even mad at her. How’s that for being a good team?!

I can hear sirens. And the old lady smiles down at me again. But it’s a fake smile, not a nice one. And I wonder what she’s up to. Is it really an ambulance, or is it the police?

Christ, I hope she hasn’t called the police.

If they go to Carrie’s house, I know how it looks. I know how bad it seems. Carrie will support me, corroborate my story, and make them understand that I was looking after her—because she loves me and she’s a good girl like that. But it still looks bad. I might end up back inside.

I can’t go back to that place.

I can’t.

Mom and Dad will never forgive me.

And I’ve been doing so well.

I got a job, Mom. I got a job. And I found Carrie. And she’ll sort everything out now. I want to sob, but I won’t, because I’m not a pussy. I’m a man now, not a little boy, and men don’t cry or they get beat up. And I need to be strong. Please don’t hate me anymore, Mom. Please talk to me again, Dad. I miss you both.

I need to get out of here. I can hear the little bell at the front of the store ring as the door opens, and shit, I hope it’s not too late.

I stand up to leave, shrugging out of the old lady’s grip, because she is just an old lady and I am young and strong, not old and weak like her. I say thank you, but push her off me when she tries to stop me from walking away. And I think she falls, and I say I’m sorry because I don’t want to hurt anyone. I never did.

I need to go.

I need to get back to Carrie.

What’s wrong with me? I think as the floor comes up to greet me.