Companion

Chapter 2: Food and Boredom

When I wake up, it's dark outside. My arm is numb. My face is throbbing. I get up off of the hardwood floor and see a considerably small, yet still exsitent dark spot where my face was. I touch a finger to it. It's sticky and red-brown. Blood. I blindly rinse my face in the sink, patting it dry on my shirt, making my face sting even more.

Slowly, carefully, lethargically, I make my way into the living room. The sun is beginning to rise. I open up the cabinet, not expecting to find anything inside. But it's full. A cloud of dust rises, and I breathe shallow breaths so I don't inhale it. I slide a CD out at random, and the others slide to fill its place on the shelf. I snap the CD out of its case, and pop it in the CD player.

I listen, but dont really pay attention. i lie down on the couch and look straight up at the boring, white ceiling. I study every little crevice in the textured surface, trying to make out shapes like the people who find pleasure in watching the clouds.

Why would someone want to watch clouds in their spare time? Wait--do people really do that intheir spare time, or just when they're super bored? Does that make me a crazy cloud-slash-ceiling watcher too? Or does it just make me super bored? Am I alright in the hea--

The music stops. I look up. Edge is standing by the CD player, one hand shoved into his pocket, and the other making its way there, after shutting off the music.

"You look like shit," he says.

"I feel like shit," I reply.

"You woke me up."

"You stole my dinner."

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not."

"You're right. I'm not," Edge says, then he looks into his pocket. He pulls out a piece of paper, and walks across the living room, handing it to me. It's a bandaid. I put it on my cheek to cover the fork scratches.

"Thanks."

"It's nothing," Edge mutters. He walks into the kitchen, then walks right back out, remembering we haven't had our supply delivery yet. He throws himself down on the sofa. I walk back across the room and pick out a different CD. We sit in anticipation of our delivery, listening to "Broadway's Million Dollar Melodies."

When the doorbell finally rings, it's a mad dash to the door. Edge opens it, and three men come in, carrying boxes. They go into the kitchen and start unpacking. Edge and I watch them.

"Can you explain what this is?" One of the men asks, pointing to my blood on the floor. My heart stops for a second. I sense Edge starting to tense up beside me.

"Tomato sauce," I say, "Our neighbors brought over lasagna last night."

I watch the man's eyes dance over my bandaged face.

"This was like that before," I explain. The man goes back to work stocking the fridge. The other men stock the cabinets, coming in and out to get more boxes. It takes them about half an hour. And then they leave.

I notice that the CD has been put away.

+++++

The day passes blandly. We both take mental inventory of the contents of the fridge. We don't talk. At all. Lunch is eaten. It's really more of a glorified snack. Finally, Edge stands up and declares he's going out. I let him. I don't care.

I play the piano until I frustrate myself past sanity. I listen to CD after CD. I listen to my favorites again and again. I start to memorize my favorite songs.

Dusk comes. I microwave myself random food for dinner. At midnight, I go up to my room and get ready for bed. I lie awake on top of my covers for a good half hour before I hear the door open.

I can hear a girl giggle. I hear someone--probably Edge--shush her. The door closes. Something slams against a wall. I get under my blankets, curl up, and eventually go asleep in the midst of Edge's hushed noise downstairs.