Band X

Chapter 6: Esoteric Liquor

I must have taken too many pain killers last night because I had a crazy dream. I was singing and then I fell and cracked my head on some concrete. And my mom was there and then my dad and then my brother was talking and he was making sense for a change. But then I remember. I didn't take any painkillers because my stomach was bad and they just make it worse. It's a vicious cycle, really. I need the medicine to make my pain stop. I take it, the pain goes away for a little while, but then my stomach lining is ripped to shreds. And it starts all over again. And again and again.

My mom says she's looking into alternatives for me so I don't have to rely on pills that make me hold one of our bathrooms hostage for an hour. Gross, right? But true. I don't know what the alternatives are, but I'm kind of hoping it's pot in some form. I haven't told her that yet because while she's a huge fan of legalizing marijuana for both medical and recreational use in every state, I'm not sure how she would feel about her daughter blazing up on a regular basis.

I suppose I'll have to go downstairs and find her to see what the plan is for today but I want to hide in my bedroom for now so that's what I do. My bed is so freaking comfortable that leaving it under the best of circumstances is difficult, but when I'm expected to visit and talk with doctors who may want to draw blood, make me go back to physical therapy, or do God knows what else to me with the hope that I someday, somehow, feel better, I really don't want to leave my room.

My head clears a little and the events of last night come back to me in fuzzy, disjointed chunks. Flashes of humiliation, stomach churning excitement, and disappointment swirl around my brain as I realize that maybe my impending visit to my mother's doctor of choice will be the least of my worries today. My stomach sinks as the images begin to fit together like puzzle pieces to form the full picture of what happened at Isabelle's house. I close my eyes in an attempt to make them stop, to try to push the memories that are becoming more and more clear by the moment out of my mind. It doesn't work, of course, and I try to take deep breaths as I feel my anxiety start to go off the charts.

I open my eyes to find something soothing in my room to focus on in hopes of calming down. I turn on my side and come face to face with my favorite stuffed animal, Orange Teddy. I've had Teddy since I was three years old and never plan to let him go. He'll have to move with me if I ever leave my parent's house. He's seen better days but I love him and he gives me comfort, so I stare at his one remaining button eye and grungy orange fleece body and smile.

Orange Teddy has a weird background. My dad is an expert at working the claw machine. Anytime there's one of those big machines with glaring lights, filled with all sorts of stuffed animals that the average person can't grab with the metal claw, he's able to win a prize for someone. My mom, Michael, and I have all received slightly cheesy prizes after my father pumped quarter after quarter into the game. I don't know if my mom or brother still have the treasures won by my dad but I won't ever let go of Teddy.

We left him at the mall once and I was so hysterical that my mom had to retrace her steps and go on an Orange Teddy scavenger hunt to find him and hopefully stop me from shrieking so loudly that our next door neighbor came over to ask if I was OK. Sure, we lived in a condo at the time but still. I was loud. Mom eventually found Teddy at The Gap, hidden behind a display of flowery dresses. She brought him home, tossed him to me, and I fell asleep almost immediately, worn out from all that screaming. I was four years old at the time in case you're worried this trauma happened last year when I was a sophomore in high school.

As I continue to wake up and the fog in my brain lifts, I vaguely recall the sound my phone made last night before I slipped into unconsciousness and slowly rise from my bed and make my way over to my desk.