Death By Drowning by Abigail Keam

everything in stride. I know sometimes my manners are bad. I grieve over them on long winter nights, but for the most part, I did everything according to the medical scripture, endured every humiliating procedure and fought back the odds every day. I think even you would say that my recovery is near miraculous. So, is it too much to ask for a fresh pain patch or a shot when pain is the one thing I will not, should not, and cannot endure?” Tears streamed down my face. “Damn you! I WANT MY PAIN MEDICATION!”
    “What’s going on here?” Matt asked in an uncertain tone. He entered the doorway, his patrician face lined with concern. “I could hear you both from outside.”
    Jake threw a glance at me. “I think you interrupted a hissy fit.”
    It was the first time I had seen Matt in six months. We talked several times on the phone each day but I had kept him away, telling him it was more important to stay at the Butterfly and manage the farm for me. The truth was I didn’t want him to witness my humiliating struggle to recover.
    I recoiled as though Jake had slapped me. “A hissy fit? You refer to my suffering as a hissy fit, you condescending turd. If I were a man, you wouldn’t dare treat me in this manner. Men always get more pain medication than women. Shame on you. Yes, shame on you, Jake Dosh.”
    Embarrassed that Matt was seeing me beg for drugs, I rushed to my bedroom locking the door behind me. The rage I felt was pushed away in the desperate search for my private stash of ill-gotten pain pills that my daughter had told me she had stashed when inspecting the house last month. “Where did she put them?” I asked myself, tapping my forehead. My memory was not what it use to be. Ahh. In my closet floor safe . Dragging a chair over, I sat and leaned down trying to reach the floor dial. With hands trembling, I rotated the safe dial. After many failed tries, I finally got the sequence right and yanked open the safe door. Ensconced were small bags of potent painkillers and another one of weed. All illegal little goodies that my daughter had procured in case of a rainy day. Well, it was pouring. Each bottle and bag had written instructions but I was frantic, searching for something that would dull my horrible pain.
    Ignoring Baby’s scratching at the door, I happily swallowed a pill dry. Stumbling to my bed, I let my Egyptian cotton sheets enfold my aching body as I lit a pre-rolled joint and inhaled the gentle smoke, calming my boiling emotions and swirling mind. Taking only a couple of hits, I put the joint out. It was all I needed. Until my accident, I hadn’t ever tried marijuana, but it helped with the nausea.
    Rolling on my back, I thought about what Jake had said, but I wasn’t sorry about my outburst. I wasn’t sorry about my needing drugs. If high-powered painkillers were what it took for me to get through the day – so be it. After all, even Sherlock needed his seven-percent solution.
    Folding my hurting limbs into the fetal position, I rocked myself, waiting for the pill to take effect until I heard a whimper and felt weight press on the mattress. It didn’t occur to me how Baby got into the room as I reached over and patted Baby’s massive head. “Oh, Baby. Am I ever going to be well again? Is this the best it’s going to get from now on,” I whispered to the concerned mastiff.
    Baby, with his large rough tongue, licked my arms as I rubbed his ears. When I stopped, he snorted in my face and circled three times before lying down in his bed. Listening to his contended breathing, I fell asleep. I dreamt that several honeybees flew into the room and crawled on my arm. I know their touch. One stung me. I must have rolled on her in my sleep. Or maybe she sacrificed herself for me so the cocktail of complex proteins in her venom would help ease my aching joints. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Zzzz.

7
    Awakening to the pressure of someone scooting next to me in bed and then loudly crunching on cereal, I reached