Licking Our Wounds by Elise D'Haene

Author:Elise D'Haene
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2014-05-10T16:52:48+00:00

Thirteen

What I said: Esther, I quit my chargé d'affaires position. It's too much pressure and I'd like to do my editing from home for awhile. If you don't mind, of course.

What I thought: You fucking bitch, wipe that Nazi smirk off your fucking face.

What Esther said: Well, Maria, this comes as quite a shock.

What Esther thought: You no brain plebeian employee, I should just fire you.

What I said: Yes, well, as you mentioned previously, I have had to take too many personal days, and I feel it isn't fair to the others.

What I thought: Fire me bitch! (Authority issues.)

What she said: I'm sorry Maria, I've got to let you go.

What she thought: I make myself wet, I'm so powerful. You swine!

What I said: How dare you!!

Thought: Free at last!!

* * *

That bitch Lydia is having Peter inject himself with bovine hormones. She's suggested he lay off all antivirals, and has him on a regimen of herbs, vitamins, and extracted oils from plants. The bovine goo is a secret method she came across in Mexico. It makes him sick for forty-eight hours. Flaring headaches. Knotting intestines. Cramping muscles. His skin is pocked with several small lesions, as if a team of cleated football players has used his body as a playing field.

“It's called mushrooming,” Peter says. “For awhile the lesions burst and flourish, but Lydia says that's normal.”

He is lying on the floor in his apartment, a cold compress on his forehead, two ice bags under his arms to reduce the fever.

I came over to tell Peter the dismal news. One, I'm unemployed, and two, I got a postcard from Cup. I'm clenching it in my hand. An urn of ashes is sitting on Peter's coffee table. It's Matthew.

“Peter, don't you think I should talk to Lydia?” I say. “I am your agent for health care.”

“No, I don't want you to,” he answers, extending his muscled arms into the air. “Look, Mia, my muscle mass has increased on this stuff.”

“Mushroomed?” I spit. I want to shove a bovine cowpie down Lydia's throat. “Peter, since when do you follow someone's direction blindly, you never listen to anyone!”

“I'm transforming,” he coos wickedly.

“My ass!” I snap.

Peter lifts the compress off his eyes and glares at me. “Please leave your ass out of this discussion,” he says. He eyes the urn. “You can take those with you,” he says.

“Why?” I'm starting to hiss inside. He's pushing me away.

“I don't want any negative energy in my space,” he answers, staring at his flexed bicep.

I want to dump Matthew all over Peter, shroud him in the gray dust. Give me patience. I'm remembering how tired I became when Matthew was sick and how I marveled at Peter's patience.

Matthew had cryptosporidium, a pesky bacteria that swims in the drinking water, and his diarrhea was out of control. We had just gotten Matthew bathed and dressed to take him in to the hospital.

He was standing at the kitchen sink crying. Suddenly, Peter starts undressing. He pulls off his cowboy boots.

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