Page 36 of Bleed

Swiping up the tablet Albert pointed out yesterday, I start scrolling through delivery apps, searching for something greasy enough to absorb the alcohol and bring me back to the land of the living. As promised, they’ve all got Dr. Faulkner’s address and credit card information pre-loaded. I settle on a burger and fries from a 24-hour diner, place an order, then toss the tablet aside.

The silence immediately presses in again. My gaze drifts toward the giant windows, then climbs up the floating staircase.

Still weird that there’s another person in this apartment and yet somehow it feels completely empty.

I blow out a breath and head back toward my room, intent on distracting myself for a few hours with my sketchbook.

The urge to draw is a physical itch– I haven’t touched pencil to paper in over a week, and my fingers ache for it. Drawing has always been the closest thing I have to meditation. The only time my brain knows how to shut the hell up.

I carry my art supplies back into the living room, claiming a spot on the floor in front of the giant window wall. Propping my back against the cool glass, I tuck my knees up and rest my sketchbook on top of them, flipping open to a blank page.

The design I’ve been thinking about for the better part of a week immediately takes shape in my mind. I lower my pencil and start trying to sketch it out, but my lines are shaky, my hand clearly out of practice and the glare of sunlight too bright against my page.

“Fuck,” I groan, tipping my head back against the window.

The little houseplant sitting on the ledge catches my eye. I squint up at it, and I swear its leaves already look greener and perkier than yesterday.

“Traitor,” I mutter, reaching up to flick one of the leaves with the end of my pencil. “Thriving in captivity.”

If only I was adjusting so well.

I blow out a breath and look down at my sketchbook again, rolling my neck on my shoulders. I’m not about to have an existential crisis over a plant. Instead, I focus on the music humming through my phone’s speaker, do a full mental reset, then put pencil to paper.

Eventually, I’m able to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of sketching. Line after line, shape after shape, the world narrows to graphite and paper until the chime of the elevator pulls me from my trance.

I look up, assuming it’ll be the doorman with my food. Instead, Albert strides out carrying a grease-stained brown paper bag.

A wave of relief washes over me– not just for the food, but for the company.

“My hero,” I sigh, lowering the volume on my music before setting my sketchbook aside and pushing to my feet.

“Did you really order this under the name ‘Queen Bitch’?” he asks, quirking a brow.

I smirk. “If the crown fits.”

He shakes his head with a chuckle, crossing the room and handing over the bag. I snatch it from him greedily and drop into the closest chair, already digging inside.

“You’re really gonna put that garbage into your body?” Albert asks as I pull out the burger and tear into the wrapper.

“Damn right I am.”

I take a huge bite as he watches on with abject horror, his lip curling in disgust.

“Don’t judge,” I say around a mouthful of burger. “You literally drink blood.”

“And?” he asks, very much still judging.

“And there’s no food on earth grosser than that.”

He folds his arms, unimpressed. “Says the girl with grease dripping down her chin.”

I flip him off, then dig my hand into the bag for a napkin. “What are you doing here, anyway? Thought the doorman handled food delivery?”

“Doc asked me to stop by and give you the lowdown on your schedule,” he replies, tugging his phone from his pocket. “Also, to remind you not to uncork any more of the rare wines without permission.”

“Oops.” I fight a grin. “Tell him I’ll be sure to let it breathe next time.”

Albert sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Doc’s in for it with you, isn’t he?”