It Wasn’t Her

We’d eaten enough candy to make a dentist cry in despair. Amongst our feet lay the crumpled and sticky remnants of candy long since devoured, stale kernels of over-buttered popcorn, and half empty soda cans. I’m sure it reeked, but we had long since gone numb to the smell, somewhere past 1 A.M, possibly before 3. It was spring break and, for me, this was as good as it got. I’d gotten all A’s in my classes, and that combined with my not viciously attacking the phlebotomist who came to take my blood during my appointment that morning had convinced my parents to provide us with a new video game, to go with our candy coma. I had a bit of a phobia, you see. Anything sharp and aimed at me kicked off a fit, of which I never remembered a thing. Nobody knew why. All I knew was the object, aimed and ready to hurt me. But the trials of that morning no longer mattered, as we geared up for another round of Smash Brothers, chased with Sprite and pixie sticks. What mattered was that her Kirby was kicking my ass. Round over and I had lost. I tore open another pixie stick to drown my sorrows, reached over to hand her one as well.

But she didn’t move.

And she didn’t speak.

Without acknowledgment, she stood up and went to the computer, sat down, got online. I knew better, but a caffeine high and little sleep creates a vortex of poor judgement, and I couldn’t stop myself from questioning her. Bugging her. But she didn’t move, and she didn’t speak, so I gave up and turned towards the couch for a solo game. I didn’t hear the chair slide back. I didn’t see her get up. I just felt a dull and sudden pain in my side that sent me toppling forward. I closed my eyes.  My head hit the coffee table, an ancient thing of gouged wood and glass.  I struggled to plant my hands to the floor, push myself up, but the room kept turning and I had to hold on to keep from falling away. I felt something sticky on my face. Eventually she spoke, and it was her again. I could hear her if I focused hard enough. She gasped and asked what happened.

And the room kept turning

She started crying and begged me to say something.

And the room kept turning.

And then, finally, she went for help.

Eventually, the room stopped turning, but I held on anyways.

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