Like Orion & Spark

13: The Complex Art of Making Excuses

In case you were wondering, which you most likely weren't: I was not okay.

In fact, I was the antithesis of okay. I was pretty sure blood was dripping into my eye, and I couldn't see—couldn't do anything but lie there, on the scratchy carpeted floor, wondering who the fuck thought it was a good idea to ask me that question. Of course, I wasn't okay, who would be?

So, I did the only sensible thing left to do. I just burst into laughter, and I didn't intend to stop until the crowd of people dressed in business casual quit staring at me as if I had just grown a second head.

To be fair, it was probably the most interesting thing to happen to them all week.

Orion's voice boomed from outside my line of sight. "I think you've learned your lesson. Next time, I won't be as forgiving."

The businesspeople gawked. As a collective unit, they took my shoulders and heaved me upright.

I squinted at the ripped floors, stripped bare and frayed, like a set of train tracks, marking the distance I'd travelled. The boundary walls separating each cubicle were punched with holes wide enough to see through to the other side. The gap was shaped like the outline of my body, only a little less cartoonish and much less flattering.

I stumbled my way to the elevators, acutely aware of the stares driving into my skull. It felt like I was surrounded by crows circling me, watching with their red-jewelled eyes, waiting for me to keel over.

The elevator arrived. I climbed on, stuck my finger under the sleeve of my sweater, and used the fabric to press the button for the lobby. Halfway down, an older-looking woman got on, and she sunk into the corner as we descended to the lower floors.

I hobbled out the front door. The driveway opened up to a semi-circle where taxis were parked. I was somewhere along North street; I recognized the layout.

Retracing my steps, I carefully strayed from the main road until I was alongside the trail which connected to the direction of the university campus. I shoved the mask into my pocket and zipped it up. My mind whirred with ideas of where I could go—and if I should make a stop at the park—but I didn't know how bad the damage was, and the world seemed to lurch with every step.

When I reached the fraternity buildings, a sigh of relief escaped me. The door to AZI swung open and Trevor dashed out.

"Holy shit!" he yelled as he reached me, grabbing my arm. The feeling seemed faint and distant. "What happened? Where did you go? Riley?"

He was questioning me so rapidly that I was barely processing it. My hold on reality wavered, and I blinked at him through eyes that I could no longer force to open.

"Fine," I said, somehow, "I'm... tell Kieran I'm going to be a little—"

Late for our date. But the words faded, and I didn't finish the sentence before Trevor's grip loosened. Darkness shadowed with red overtook my eyes, and I was gone.

***

I was encompassed by a room awash with white. White walls, a white ceiling, and harsh fluorescent lighting.

I could hear my name, spoken by different voices, at different intervals and uttered with a degree of severity.

And that fucking question, over and over. Are you okay?

The quiet swish of bedsheets. A pulling sensation near the base of my chin. The members of AZI, watching me curiously.

I sat up, the breath escaped from my lungs. I was in a hospital bed, rigid and stiff, with an IV poking into my hand. The line coiled upward, connected to a blood bag.