accustomed to ignoring the hunger pangs.
Other than my relentless hunger and thirst, physically I had never felt better. When I woke up yesterday, my mind quickly forgetting that strange dream, I felt refreshed, better than I had in years. My energy was pumping so hard that I honestly had to talk myself out of doing a backflip off my bed and onto the floor.
I bounced out of bed instead and caught my reflection in my vanity mirror above my dresser, gasping in pleasure. My hair fell in waves just past my shoulder blades, practically as luscious and thick as Macy’s. Usually, I was forced to fight with my hairbrush in order to tame my unruly tresses every morning, but now I barely had to run a comb through. My eyes sparkled, truly sparkled, like moonlight glinting across a dark aquamarine ocean. My cheeks were stained a light pink, my lips plush with the same pale rose color. I had to smile. I couldn’t help but think that this was probably how my mother felt on her good days.
This morning was no different, although my hair was definitely duller than it was yesterday. My cheeks were also not as flushed, my eyes not as bright. My skin had also toned down its subtle golden glow, but I still felt refreshed, though I didn’t have the urge to backflip off my bed like yesterday.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew that this all had to do with whatever happened Friday night. The unfortunate part was that I didn’t altogether rememberwhat happened on Friday night. All I could recall was that, as I flicked through all my Facebook photos and my Instagram feed, there was no Rob Morrow. Nothing. His smiling face did not appear anywhere, not in any party photos, not hanging out at Cream of the Cup with his arm slung over Macy’s shoulders. He was just…nowhere.
My mind tried to process this, even though it felt like I had gulped down fifty cups of coffee. My energy had been sky high, and it had been difficult to focus all day yesterday. Now, looking back in a much calmer state of mind, I allowed the concern to finally break through. I couldn’t possibly have made up a person . My mother, whom I considered to be the epitome of what it looks like when a mind shatters, never even made up a person. And my memories of him, how could they have been made up? So detailed, right down to the fact that I knew he hated flavored coffee and that it was because of him that I was finally able to learn Sudoku. He was always happy to talk whenever he came to the coffee shop. He even treated me like a friend, despite only knowing me through Macy. How did I make that all up?
Sighing in exasperation, I got out of bed, trying hard not to wake Macy as I moved, though my efforts weren’t really needed because she was sleeping like the dead beside me, another night out now safely ensconced in her drunken memories.
I headed quietly to my bathroom and turned on the shower. I always thought best in showers— hot spray misting over her body as she curled up in agony —and so that is where I decided to begin my Sunday. Today, I was going to seek some answers. While my conscious mind had deliberately blocked out most of what went on Friday night, I remembered enough to know that something horrible had happened. Since I refused to consider myself crazy just yet, I thought I might as well do some research on what else could possibly have happened to me. There is always more than one answer to a problem, my mother used to say to me. And on that point, she was right. I couldn’t necessarily explain away what was going on with me mentally, but my physical manifestations were hard to disregard as insanity. I wasn’t hallucinating my physical differences; other people had been commenting on them, too. Macy noticed the changes almost immediately when she saw me last night.
“Did you put on a new kind of make-up? And did you finally try a blow out? You look great!” she exclaimed as she bent over and reached into my tiny, waist-high fridge for the vodka.
I smiled and
Other than my relentless hunger and thirst, physically I had never felt better. When I woke up yesterday, my mind quickly forgetting that strange dream, I felt refreshed, better than I had in years. My energy was pumping so hard that I honestly had to talk myself out of doing a backflip off my bed and onto the floor.
I bounced out of bed instead and caught my reflection in my vanity mirror above my dresser, gasping in pleasure. My hair fell in waves just past my shoulder blades, practically as luscious and thick as Macy’s. Usually, I was forced to fight with my hairbrush in order to tame my unruly tresses every morning, but now I barely had to run a comb through. My eyes sparkled, truly sparkled, like moonlight glinting across a dark aquamarine ocean. My cheeks were stained a light pink, my lips plush with the same pale rose color. I had to smile. I couldn’t help but think that this was probably how my mother felt on her good days.
This morning was no different, although my hair was definitely duller than it was yesterday. My cheeks were also not as flushed, my eyes not as bright. My skin had also toned down its subtle golden glow, but I still felt refreshed, though I didn’t have the urge to backflip off my bed like yesterday.
I wasn’t stupid. I knew that this all had to do with whatever happened Friday night. The unfortunate part was that I didn’t altogether rememberwhat happened on Friday night. All I could recall was that, as I flicked through all my Facebook photos and my Instagram feed, there was no Rob Morrow. Nothing. His smiling face did not appear anywhere, not in any party photos, not hanging out at Cream of the Cup with his arm slung over Macy’s shoulders. He was just…nowhere.
My mind tried to process this, even though it felt like I had gulped down fifty cups of coffee. My energy had been sky high, and it had been difficult to focus all day yesterday. Now, looking back in a much calmer state of mind, I allowed the concern to finally break through. I couldn’t possibly have made up a person . My mother, whom I considered to be the epitome of what it looks like when a mind shatters, never even made up a person. And my memories of him, how could they have been made up? So detailed, right down to the fact that I knew he hated flavored coffee and that it was because of him that I was finally able to learn Sudoku. He was always happy to talk whenever he came to the coffee shop. He even treated me like a friend, despite only knowing me through Macy. How did I make that all up?
Sighing in exasperation, I got out of bed, trying hard not to wake Macy as I moved, though my efforts weren’t really needed because she was sleeping like the dead beside me, another night out now safely ensconced in her drunken memories.
I headed quietly to my bathroom and turned on the shower. I always thought best in showers— hot spray misting over her body as she curled up in agony —and so that is where I decided to begin my Sunday. Today, I was going to seek some answers. While my conscious mind had deliberately blocked out most of what went on Friday night, I remembered enough to know that something horrible had happened. Since I refused to consider myself crazy just yet, I thought I might as well do some research on what else could possibly have happened to me. There is always more than one answer to a problem, my mother used to say to me. And on that point, she was right. I couldn’t necessarily explain away what was going on with me mentally, but my physical manifestations were hard to disregard as insanity. I wasn’t hallucinating my physical differences; other people had been commenting on them, too. Macy noticed the changes almost immediately when she saw me last night.
“Did you put on a new kind of make-up? And did you finally try a blow out? You look great!” she exclaimed as she bent over and reached into my tiny, waist-high fridge for the vodka.
I smiled and
Similar Books
