Mud Vein - Fisher Tarryn (онлайн книги бесплатно полные TXT) 📗

You’re dead, I thought. My eyes said it was true. I dressed, covering every inch of my body in clothing. I wore so many layers someone would have to cut me out of them to get to my body. Then I walked downstairs, flinching at the discomfort between my legs. I found him in my kitchen sitting on a barstool and reading the paper. He had brewed coffee and was sipping out of my favorite mug. I don’t even get the paper. I hoped he stole it from my neighbors; I hated them.

“Hello,” he said, setting his mug down. “I hope you don’t mind.” He gestured to the coffee setup and I shook my head. He got up and poured me a mug. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Neither,” I said. I didn’t want coffee but I took it when he handed it to me. He was careful not to touch me, not to get too close. I took a tentative sip and set my mug down. This was awkward. Like the morning after a one night stand when no one knows where to stand and what to say, and where their underwear is.

“What type of doctor are you?”

“I’m a surgeon.”

That’s about as far as I went with questions. He stood up and carried his mug to the sink. I watched him rinse it and place it upside down in the draining rack.

“I have to get to the hospital.”

I stared at him, unsure why he was telling me this. Were we a team now? Was he coming back?

He pulled out another card and set it on the counter. “If you need me.”

I looked at the card, plain white card stock with block lettering, then back to his face.

“I won’t.”

I spent the rest of the day on my back porch, staring at Lake Washington. I drank the same cup of coffee Dr. Asterholder handed me before he left. It stopped being hot a long time ago, but I cradled it between both of my hands like I was using it for heat. It was an act, a piece of body language that I’d learned to imitate. Hell itself could unfurl in front of me, and chances are I wouldn’t feel it.

I didn’t have thought. I saw things with my eyes and my brain processed the colors and shapes without matching them to feelings: water, boats, sky and trees, plump loons and grebes that glided over the water. My eyes traced everything, across the lake and in my yard. The heaviness in my chest kept pressing. I didn’t acknowledge it. The sun set early in Washington; by four-thirty it was dark and there was nothing left to look at but the tiny lights from houses across the water. Christmas lights that would be stripped down soon. My eyes hurt. I heard the doorbell, but I was unable to stand up and answer it. They’d go away eventually, they usually did. They always did.

I felt pressure on my upper arms. I looked down and saw hands gripping me. Hands, as if there were no body attached to them. Solitary hands. Something snapped and I started screaming.

“Senna! … Senna!”

I heard a voice. It was a clogged sound, like words said through a mouthful of cheese. My head rolled back and suddenly I realized that someone was shaking me.

I saw his face. He touched a finger to the pulse on my neck.

“I’m here. Feel me. See me.” He grabbed my face and held it between his hands, forcing me to look at him.

“Hush … hush,” he said. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

I wanted to laugh, but I was too busy screaming. Who is safe? No one. There is too much bad, too much evil in the world to ever be safe.

He wrestled me into what must have been a hug. His arms encircled my body, my face was pressed against his shoulder. Five years, ten years, one year, seven—how long had it been since I was hugged? I didn’t know this man, but I did. He was a doctor. He helped me. He spent the night on my couch so I wouldn’t be alone. He broke down my bedroom door to get my inhaler.

I heard him shushing me like a child. I clung to him—a solid body in the darkness. I was seeing my attack as he held me … feeling the panic, the disbelief, the numbness all at once until they tangled together in a fray. I wailed, an ugly, guttural noise like a wounded animal. I don’t know how long I was like that.

He took me inside. Picked me right up and carried me through the French doors and set me gently on the couch. I lay down and curled up, tucking my knees under my chin. He tossed a blanket over me and started a fire, then he disappeared into the kitchen and I could hear him moving around. When he came back he made me sit up handing me a mug of something hot.

“Tea,” he said. He had a few pieces of cheese and a slice of homemade bread on a plate. I’d made the bread on Christmas Eve. Before. I pushed the plate away, but took the tea. He watched me drink it from his haunches. It was sweet. He waited for me to finish and took the cup.

“You need to eat.”

I shook my head. “Why are you here?” My voice was raspy—too much screaming. My white streak dangled in front of my eye, I tucked it and looked at the flames.

“Because you are.”

I didn’t know what he meant. Did he feel responsible for me because he found me? I lay back down and curled up.

He sat on the floor in front of the couch where I was lying, facing the fire. I closed my eyes and slept.

When I woke he was gone. I sat up and stared around the room. Light was creeping in through the kitchen window, which meant I’d slept straight through the night. I had no reference for what time he carried me inside. I wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and walked barefoot to the kitchen. Had he taken off my shoes after he carried me inside? I didn’t remember. I might not have been wearing shoes. There was fresh coffee in the pot and a clean mug sitting next to it. I picked up the mug and underneath he had left another card. Clever. He’d written something along the bottom.

Call me if you need anything. Eat something.

I crumpled the card in my fist and tossed it in the sink.

“I won’t,” I said out loud. I turned on the faucet and let the water smear the words.

I took a shower. Got dressed. Started another fire. Stared at the fire. I added a log. I stared at the fire. Around four o’clock I wandered into my office and sat behind my desk. My office was the most sterile room in the house. Most authors filled their writing space with warmth and color, pictures that inspire, chairs that allow them to think. My office consisted of a black lacquered desk in the center of an all white room: white walls, white ceiling, white tile. I needed emptiness to think, a clear white canvas to paint on. The black desk grounded me. Otherwise I’d just float around in all the white. Things distracted me. Or maybe they complicated me. I didn’t like to live with color. I wasn’t always like that. I learned to survive better.

I opened my MacBook and stared at the cursor. One hour, ten minutes, a day … I’m not sure how much time passed. The doorbell rang, jarring me. When did I come in here? I felt stiff as I stood up. A long time. I walked down the stairs and stopped in front of the door. Every one of my movements was robotic and forced. I could see Doctor Asterholder’s car through the peephole; charcoal sitting atop my wet, brick driveway. I opened the door and he blinked at me like this was normal—him being on my doorstep. He had both arms around paper bags loaded to the brim with groceries. He brought me groceries.

“Why are you here?”

“Because you are.” He stepped passed me and walked to the kitchen without my permission. I stood frozen for several minutes, looking at his car. It was drizzling outside, the sky covered in a thick fog that hung over the trees likes a burial shroud. When I finally closed the door, I was shivering.

“Doctor Asterholder,” I said, walking into the kitchen. My kitchen. He was unpacking things on my counter: cans of tomato paste, boxes of rigatoni, bright yellow bananas and clear cartons of berries.