oh we'll shed our skin
we'll walk the other side
oh we'll brace for it
and conquer everything
–son lux

▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄  09  ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄

                    SOMETHING'S MISSING. She's missing.

    They've been feeding me countless, circular pills every day, getting whiny nurses to coax me into swallowing, then getting the non-whiny nurses when I don't. Come on, Mr. Ainsworth. We need to take our meds if we want to get better. Swallow the damn pills, Jesus fucking Christ, Mr. Ainsworth.

    Insufferable imbeciles, making me drain a full cup of mud colored water after every meal, shoving food down my throat and threatening me if I don't swallow the atrocities.

    In my mind, an escape route is taking shape.

    It's obvious they think I'm what people call mentally unstable at the moment, since the doctors spent hours explaining to me why I'm in this certain ward. I'll be damned if I knew what they were on about most of the time.

    As the week passed, I was carefully concocting an escape rout. I made sure they led me to all the bathrooms in that hospital when they took me for walks around the premises. A couple incompetent guards are always on patrol here and there, but the hospital I'm admitted to seems completely down at heel, which is strange, since my family has the means to send me to a respectable hospital.

    In my head, I thank them over and over again for this surprising act of non-generosity.

I'm sprinting, faster and faster, away from the bulky nurse howling at me to stop. She thought she was going on a regular walk with a patient.

    I am a madman. In the midst of the busy, hustling street, I spot an empty cab. Next thing I know, I'm spitting the address at the driver. I sense the immediate negation when he hears the neighborhood's name, but I quickly tell him something about Ainsworth Corporation, and he must've recognized my features because, next minute, he's on his way.

    My heart is beating in my chest. I need to see her, need to apologize, need to understand why she did what she did.

    I need to tell her I'm sorry. Over and over again. It's all I know. I need to tell her I'm sorry, I need to beg her to forgive me.

    I shout at the cab driver to stop when I spot the rusty bed and breakfast sign. I tell him to drop by our headquarters tomorrow for money at a time I already forgot.

    I am a madman. Caterina needs to forgive me. I don't know for what. She needs to. She needs to kiss every single one of my bruises better, needs to sing me to sleep while stroking my hair, needs to shower me with her affection until I am satiated, until I can't take no more.

    I bang on her door until I can't feel my knuckles, and blood starts oozing out onto the wood. I call her name, once twice, thrice.

"Open the door, sweetheart. I'm sorry. Just open the door." My voice is shaking. "I didn't mean to do it," I hesitate, feeling something in my brain, an intruder, and it makes me nauseous for a millisecond. "I mean, you didn't mean to do it,"

    I feel my shoulder thrust against the wooden door. A pain shoots up my side and stomach. I do it, again and again, the hospital gown doing nothing to lessen the blows against my skin.

    At last, the door is knocked open. The same horrifying smell I've gotten used to assaults my nostrils. My eyes quickly scan the room. I see the shards of glass on the floor. I see my dried blood staining the carpets.

    I quickly head to the bedroom, my heart stopping in its chest. She isn't here. I head up, to the roof, and feel my insides squeeze when all I see is vast, empty space. I feel a shift in gravity, as if all the memories had a weight of their own, as if long nights and honey-dipped conversations were a physical entity. I'm dizzy. This is what waiting to die feels like.

    I run everywhere. I sprint up and down the stairs, checking behind pots, closed doors, and hidden corners, as if she were a small cat, or a drifting feather. My chest repeatedly meets my chin as I try to take in a breath. I am a madman.

    I head back down to her room, my steps echoing against the cheap, rusty metal of the stairs. When I enter, she will be there, giggling at my desperation, or carrying a knife to skin me alive, or staring into the void. I don't care. I don't care.

    I push the door in. My father awaits me on the couch.