Thought

Chapter Five

Word Count: 1654

~Luella

I didn't leave the house for a few days.

My phone sits beside me, going off every few hours with missed calls and texts from Della. I haven't been interested in having any contact with the outside world recently. I'm not in the mood to have to explain to Della why I've been holed up in here, not wanting to tell her about my hallucinations.

Most importantly, I'm not ready to hear her call me crazy. Since the incident where I fell asleep in the bath, I haven't been haunted by any more hallucinations. My dreams have been persistent, of course. But that strange silver eyed man hasn't returned.

It's almost disappointing.

Instead of allowing myself to wallow in my pity, I've been writing. It's been the only constant thing in my life. Wake up, write, sleep. It makes me happy.

Suddenly, my peaceful environment is ruined, as the front door swung open, and Della comes inside. She folds her umbrella up, leaving it dripping at my doorstep. White plastic bags are hung over her arms, filled with groceries.

"God, when is this damn storm going to pass? It's been over a week," she mutters, walking into my kitchen.

I remain in my seat, refusing to get up and allow her to think she was welcomed in here. The last thing I expected was for someone to waltz in here and see my working environment. It's honestly a disgrace, with the curtains closed – only my lamp remaining on – a half-eaten bowl of stir-fry on the table, snack wrappers everywhere, and blankets scattered across the living room with no rhyme or reason.

Della returns from the kitchen, placing her hands over her hips, looking at me pointedly. I return my gaze to my computer, hoping she will walk away.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" she questions.

"I have a deadline for this book, Della. The rest of the world will have to wait a few more days," I mutter, pretending to type a few words across my keyboard, but none of it makes sense. I'm thankful that I at least have a job which will not only support me money wise, but allow me to stay inside when I need to the most.

Della flings the curtains open, making me hiss. I hadn't even noticed that it was still storming outside, until I see the rain slamming against the glass. The sun is beginning to set, also. My time perception has been all over the place.

"Tomorrow morning, I'm taking you to see another therapist. You've gotten so much worse, and I'm not going to sit here and watch you wither away into nothingness," Della demands.

I sigh, kicking my slippers together.

"I've brought your groceries, which you're going to use. You're going to shower, brush your hair, and go out with me to get you some real medication," Della demands, coming to lean against the chair I sit on.

"You talk to me as if I'm sick," I mutter. Della narrows her eyes on me, as if I just swore. I know she feels burdened by me. The last thing she wants is to care for me.

"You are sick..." she says warily. She hops away from my chair, moving around the room to collect my wrappers, trying to look as though she is helping me. I want to make a note that I was planning to clean it up, but there is no point in lying. "Nothing has helped so far, so this is the last option before you lose me forever. Got it?"

It's not a threat I've haven't heard before.

"I'm okay. I've been putting my head down and getting work done," I comment, motioning down to my computer. Half true, I suppose.