15-05-2021-052358It-Ends-with-Us

“I’ll show you your room,” he says. “There’s a shower if you need
it.”
I do. I want to wash the taste of scotch out of my mouth. I want to wash the
sterile smell of the hospital off of me. I want to wash away the last four hours of
my life.
I follow him down the hallway and to a spare bedroom where he
flips on the light. There are two boxes on a bare bed and more
stacked up against the walls. There’s an oversized chair against one
wall, facing the door. He moves to the bed and takes off the boxes,
setting them against the wall with the others.
“I just moved in a few months ago. Haven’t had much time to
decorate yet.” He walks to a dresser and pulls open a drawer. “I’ll
make the bed for you.” He takes out sheets and a pillowcase. He
begins making the bed as I walk inside the bathroom and close the
door.
I remain in the bathroom for thirty minutes. Some of those
minutes are spent staring at my reflection in the mirror. Some of
those minutes are spent in the shower. The rest are spent over the
toilet as I make myself sick with thoughts of the last several hours.
I’m wrapped in a towel when I crack the bathroom door. Atlas is no
longer in the bedroom, but there are clothes folded on the freshly
made bed. Men’s pajama bottoms that are too big for me and a T-shirt
that goes past my knees. I pull the drawstring tight, tie it, and then
crawl into bed. I turn the lamp off and pull the covers up and over
me.
I cry so hard, I don’t even make a noise.