Page 10 of The Company

Chapter Five - Harper

Oh, God. The headache. I turn over in bed and smell… what’s that smell?

My sheets smell delicious. Like a summer meadow. Fresh.

I inhale and then remember why I passed out in the first place and sit upright, my heart once again beating wildly. I don’t smell like the ocean and my clothes do not stink of salt, even though I jumped off a pier. And my bed is not littered with sand. I look around, trying to assess what’s happening.

Or what happened. When I fell asleep.

My head is so foggy from the Ativan. I look over at my bedside table and spy the bottle. How many did I take? Three? Four? More?

Too many after so many months clean. Enough to mess with my memory. But I only took them because I was freaked out. I thought…

What did I think?

I try to remember back. The pier. I jumped off a pier. Hit my head… my fingertips go to my left temple where the throbbing is. There’s no blood, just a scab and… stitches? I flick my finger back and forth across the tiny knots and there’s a jolt of pain as this pulls the tender skin.

Someone stitched my head.

I withdraw the hand.

Beautiful saved me. He stitched me back up.

No, no, no! Oh my God! That’s not what’s happening here, Harper! He’s working for them! He has to be, how else would he get my phone number? And why was he following me in the first place?

I silence the inner voice. I can’t stand it right now. It needs to just go away and let me react. Things need to be simple. If ever there was a time to rely on instincts, this is it.

And the simple truth is, that guy attacked me, kissed me, and insinuated he was going to have sex with me. He works for them. I know this. I’m certain of this. I’m not sure what kind of game he’s playing, but I’ve met a few of the hunters growing up. He’s definitely one of them. All cocky, charismatic, and calm. He seemed very sure of himself.

Didn’t he?

But why didn’t he kill me? Or take me back?

I look around for my phone and spy it on the table next to the pills. I scoot across the bed and grab it so I can search my messages. But when I open the log, there’s nothing there. Empty. Just as it should be. No one ever messages me. No one has this number.

But… he did message me. He asked me… damn. I can’t recall what, but I jumped off the pier when he asked me something and then I walked home, panicked when I got the message—the one that’s not here—and I took the pills and went to bed to ride it out.

But… I look down at my clothes. I’m wearing a pink tank top and white boy short underwear. I smell my skin. Nope, no trace of the ocean. I smell like soap. I must’ve taken a shower.

And changed the sheets?

Because there’s no sand in the bed. None between my toes. The shorts and sports bra I was wearing should be on the floor where I usually throw them when I undress, but they’re nowhere to be found.

I laugh as I get up and pad over to the kitchen to start some coffee. “I should get high on Ativan more often. Apparently stoned Harper is a neat freak.”

Or…

Beautiful came in, cleaned me up and stitched my wound, clothed me, changed my sheets, and did the laundry. I laugh at the thought.

Or…

God, I hate the incessant sub-vocalization of my mind. Why can’t it shut up?

Maybe I imagined the whole thing? Maybe there was no man on the pier? Maybe I took the pills and all that stuff was nothing more than an over-sedation fugue.

I really need to get out of this house. How long can one person talk to themselves before it’s considered a pathology? I have no idea, but I’m not into finding out. Maybe that guy was a dream, who cares. If he was here to take me back, I’d be back. I sure as hell wouldn’t be standing half naked in my kitchen making coffee.

Screw the coffee. I need to go somewhere. Anywhere. I check the time to see how long I was out and it’s seven thirty. On cue, a rumble erupts from my stomach. I haven’t eaten all day.