Page 47 of Melancholia

Thank fucking God. At this point, I’d been considering licking the inside of my old bottle in hopes that there were miniature particles of the drug in there. Which feels pathetic, even if no one is around to see it.

I’m out my door within minutes, and for this trip, I don’t bother taking my car. I just give Hestia a quick smile in the coffee shop, though I don’t stop to say hi with how busy she is.

I’ll get my disgustingly large iced coffee on the way back.

My phone buzzes in my pocket just as I push open the heavy glass door of Coffee Crest, the small white bag from the pharmacy in one hand as I fish out the phone with the other. I’m already heading up for the counter, where Hestia is now much less busy than before.

“Already got you, Nell,” the black-haired woman assures me, and I look up, deciding the message can wait. I don’t exactly have room for the cup in my hand if I’m holding my phone too, so it goes right back into my pocket as I accept the drink from her.

“You’re the best. Put it on my tab?” I ask with a small, lopsided grin.

“Always.” Hestia flashes me a grin, and I wonder if she actually keeps track of all the coffee she gives me. If she does, she hasn’t been charging me for it in almost two weeks. And while I’m proud enough to maybe feel a little bad about it, I’m not swimming in enough cash to press the issue.

“I’ll see you later?” she asks as I walk toward the back door where the staircase hides. “I’ll be working all day.”

“Yeah, I have more errands to run later. But I don’t work tonight, thank God,” I groan. “We had this crazy double⁠—”

“I adore you, Nell, but I do not want to hear the details,” Hestia interrupts with a grimace. “No offense. Just…not your target audience.”

My smile turns apologetic. “Ah, sorry. Sometimes I don’t think about that.” There isn’t really a target audience I suppose. Except for me and Cecil. Though when I consider that as I take the stairs slowly and with one knee popping like I’m getting old, I can’t help but think maybe he isn’t quite interested either. Not like I am. To him, it’s a job. A family business, sure. But it’s just a job he walks away from at the end of the day.

For me it’s a bit more than that.

I only belatedly remember that my phone went off as I open my door, and by then it buzzes again in my pocket to let me know I still have a text waiting.

“Yeah, okay,” I mutter as I toss my pills onto the bed. Sipping my coffee, I grab the phone out of my pocket once more.

Fuck.

“Please don’t be from Amir,” I whisper to myself, my stomach sinking like it’s full of stones. “Please, please please—” The devil on my shoulder whispers for me to just delete the message or block his number, but the less than pearly angel on my other shoulder reminds me those choices might not yield the results I’m hoping for.

The message comes with a picture, though I see the words first.

Was I not clear, little mortician? Do you actually need a preview of the consequences of behaving like a sore loser?

My heart slams against my ribs in its desperate bid to escape confinement, but my trembling thumb taps on the picture.

Cecil.

Sitting at his desk, just working. Obviously unaware that outside his window, there’s someone watching him. The threat is clear and awful.

Probably seeing I’ve opened the message, another one appears under the first, shorter, but no less nausea-inducing.

Don’t test me twice, Nell.

Fuck. I throw my phone onto the bed like that’ll somehow give me any kind of resolution. Like putting distance between me and the message will make it less real. But I still stand there, staring down at the messages from Amir.

Then, without a sound, without replying, I reach out to snatch up the pharmacy bag, ripping open the top with shaking fingers. I may not be able to actually get rid of him, or his threats, but at the very least, I can take myself out of this level of panic.

At least for a little while.

17

Waking up from an Ativan-induced nap is like coming out of a coma. My phone buzzing literally against my face is the only thing that really succeeds in forcing me to open my eyes, and even then, they feel heavy. My mouth is fuzzy, though I thankfully armed myself with a bottle of water by the bed, and immediately I reach out to pull it close to fix my cottonmouth.

I hate the feeling of my mouth being literally sticky. But the water does its job within a few seconds, and I’m able to focus on sitting up and wiping away the few droplets of water on my lower lip.

Clearly, I’ve missed my errands window. The sun has mostly set, and anywhere I was going to go is probably closed by now. Like the bank, and the post office to talk to them about some mail being sent to my P.O. box that definitely isn’t mine.