Chasing Sunshine

22 | In This Life And The Next

22 • In This Life And The Next

I sat there, on the cold floor for what felt like hours. It could only have been minutes though. A million thoughts ran through my head, most of them self loathing.

And then, like a switch, everything went numb and I was on my feet before I even realized I was moving. I stumbled to the kitchen, half aware of my own actions.

And then I was yanking cupboards open, pulling out cleaning supplies and detergents. I knew I should stop, that I was spiraling, that all the progress I'd made was about to go down the drain.

But it was like my mind had shut down and I was pushing random buttons trying to get something, anything, to work.

I poured the boiling water left from when he'd made tea into a bucket. I didn't flinch when the hot water touched my skin, I barely registered it.

It felt like seconds, like everything was dirty, messy and I needed to fix it. I needed to clean it. I turned everything upside down. Moved the couch, the TV stand, the coffee table.

I scrubbed the floors, the tables, counter tops, anything and everything until my hands felt raw and cracked. But I kept going. I scrubbed and disinfected, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't clean.

And when I could see my reflection in every surface, I paused. And a thought came to me. Everything was clean. But it wasn't everything that was the problem, it was me.

I vaguely registered the sound of the mop clattering to the floor as I tore through the kitchen, through the bedroom, into the bathroom.

I yanked at the tap of the shower, not bothering with the cold setting. I couldn't get my clothes off fast enough, practically tearing them from my body.

The water was boiling, it burned, but my mind was clear, silent. And then I began to scrub myself. Every inch of my skin, until I was red, raw, nearly bleeding.

I barely noticed the hands that gripped mine, turning the shower off. But the scent was familiar. Sweet and calming. Like the first blooming of flowers in spring.

He lifted me into his arms and carried me into the room. I laid still. I wasn't clean. But he was calm. He was clean. And I could bear it when his hands were on me.

He wrapped me in a towel, sat me on the bed. I didn't move. But my eyes drifted to him. I watched him move about the room, taking out clothes, boxes. My meds. I knew I didn't put them in my bag but he'd always kept some of them here, just in case.

He was gentle as he dried me, making sure not to irritate the raw flesh. It didn't matter. I couldn't feel it. Everything was numb and I could register nothing but the sound of his breathing and how beautiful he looked even when he was mad at me.

But that wasn't right. Because Spencer never got mad at me. He wasn't capable of it. He was sad. He was heartbroken. And I did it to him.

He tipped my head back, making sure I swallowed the medication before he sighed. Heavy, tired. As if the weight of the world had finally lifted from his shoulders.

And I looked at him again. Memorizing the lines around his eyes and the way he's brows furrowed. Committing his face to memory.