Looking for Group by Rory Harrison

Author:Rory Harrison
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2017-02-16T16:00:00+00:00

(NIGHTSWIMMING)

I slide out of sleep like I’m slicked with oil. Greasy sweat trails fire along my skin. The bed lurches beneath me, or maybe I arch off of it.

Peeling Arden’s arm from my waist, I slip from the bed and stagger toward the bathroom. Nothing makes sense at first. The geometry of the room is off, with corners doubled up and the floor at an angle. One of the lights buzzes and it casts a greenish haze—maybe I’m just seeing greenish.

Splashing cold water on my face, I wait for a wave of nausea. I don’t know why I’m sick, I just know it’s coming. It’s gonna hit any minute. This isn’t chemo sick. This isn’t even detox sick, and fuck, I don’t miss that at all.

Snatches of dreams waver just at the edge of my thoughts. I was inside an MRI again; it clanged, something was wrong—the more I try to remember what happened, the worse it makes me feel. It doesn’t seem fair that a light show that your brain puts on when you’re unconscious should have any kind of power, but it does.

It woke me up, but it’s got claws in. It’s turning bad dreams into anxiety, making it flutter in my chest and twist in my gut. I lean over the toilet for a long time, but nothing happens. Nothing comes up, and finally I give up. I rinse my mouth and stumble from the bathroom. I bump the bed, then lean away from it. As if it’s the bed’s fault I had anxiety dreams—yeah, blame the mattress and the pillows that actually fluff, Dylan, do that.

I snatch the key card from the dresser and wobble to the door. I don’t want to be sick like this when Arden’s in the room. For a long time, the doctors had me on pills to help the anxiety. Funny thing was, they didn’t help a lot—you can’t chemical away being scared of dying when you’re dying, it turns out. Now, though, I sort of wish I had them. I’m scared for no reason, and I feel helpless. If she wakes up, she’ll feel helpless, too.

I gotta get out of here. Just long enough to get my head back. Just long enough to get some air. I fling myself out of the room.

The hall is too long and too tall, stretching like a cathedral above me. Chlorine stains the air, and I follow the smell. It seems like swimming would help, if I could just cool off. Get the sweat off me, and float a little bit. My mouth hangs open, spit pooling. I don’t want to swallow; it tastes like chewing foil, like licking batteries.

Pulling my shirt to my mouth, I spit into a fold of it and sway against the wall. It holds me up and I walk and walk and walk. Forever, it seems like. The walk from my bedroom to the kitchen is forever at night. Even when my mother craps out in front of the TV, and I have three a.

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