Butala knocked before Lynch welcomed him in.
“Masters, glad to have you back,” he said with a hand on my shoulder. He was a small gentleman from India with a slight accent.
I dropped my head in a single nod. “Glad to be back.”
Butala took a seat beside me and rested my file over his lap.
“First and foremost, I want to apologize again for putting you in an improper position with Oscar,” Lynch said, his tone soft and sincere. “If I’d known, I would have never allowed it. Can we put that in the past and start over?”
“Yes, sir.”
Relief flashed in his eyes, but only for a moment. “Very good. Now that is out of the way, today marks the new school year, and we have already had a few mishaps over the last week. Though you didn’t advise me about your brother, can I count on you now to come to me if anything seems out of the ordinary?” Lynch asked, brow raised. “All I ask from this point forward is open communication.”
Though I understood each word he said, his voice came in and out as if my head was submerged underwater. Hoping it would clear the fog in my eardrums, I shook my head. “What happened?”
Lynch’s eyes darted from Butala then back to me. He drew in a breath, rolled his chair forward, and propped his elbows over the desk. “You’ll hear about it anyway so you may as well hear it from me,” he folded his arms, “It didn’t start until early last week, so it’s hard to say who is doing this, but there have been vulgar pranks. Now, I know it may be too much to ask, but you’re the only person I know that isn’t behind it, so I’m asking if you can keep your eyes and ears open.”
“Vulgar pranks? What happened exactly?”
“Cat mutilation found in a student’s dorm early last week. Then just yesterday there was a target sign written in blood outside a door,” Lynch said with distaste in his mouth. “Now I’m not asking for you to get involved, Oliver. I only need you to let me know if you hear or see anything.”
My stomach jumped.
I tried to swallow it back down.
“Absolutely.” I had a hard time focusing, my body slowly defied me, and I ran my zip-tied hand up my forehead and through my hair.
“Good, now let’s talk about your treatment plan,” he said, nodding approval to Butala.
Butala opened my file as I processed the pranks and why it was so hot in here.
“When was the last time you took medication?” Butala asked.
“Over three days now.”
“How do you feel right now, Oliver?”
“Sick…”
“Turn around, let me see you.”
Pivoting my chair, Butala took the stethoscope from around his neck. He brought one end to his ears and the other under my shirt against my chest. It was cold to the touch, and the room fell silent as he stared at his watch.
“Heart rate is abnormally high,” he glanced up, and our eyes met, “Pupils are dilated,” he turned to Lynch, “He’s already experiencing the beginning stages of withdrawal.”
Ha. Withdrawal. Such a simple word for the turmoil thrashing around within, eating away at the dead parts of me, only exposing the remanence of regret and guilt. Perspiration rolled down my hairline like ice against my hot flesh.
“Get it under control, I don’t want a repeat like the last time,” Lynch stated.
Butala turned back to face me. “Oliver, other than sickness, what else do you feel? Angry, sad, happy?”
My knee bounced again, and I stretched out my leg. “Nothing. I don’t feel anything, just this sickness.”
“We can restart his treatment today, but with already three days of skipped dosages, it could take a few days for it to take effect. You could keep him in solitary until the medication kicks back in, but I don’t recommend it. Keeping him confined may extend the recovery time.”
“What do you recommend?” Lynch asked Butala.
Butala sat back in his chair, studying me like a science project. “Get him set up in his new dorm and have him start his new schedule in a week or so.”
“Very well,” Lynch sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Oliver, please don’t make me regret this. It wouldn’t be a good start to the year.”
While the security guard escorted me to the nurse’s station, I kept my head down. A few times up the stairs, I lost my balance and quickly fought to regain it. Having both my wrists bound didn’t help.
It was mid-morning, and since classes started today, everyone should be on the third floor. Nurse Rhonda didn’t hold back and flung her arms around me. “Get these zip-ties off him, Jerry, this boy doesn’t belong in these!” She yelled at the security guard as she held me at arm’s length.
“Rhonda, you always had a soft spot for them,” Jerry chuckled and took a blade against my ties.
My wrist freed, and I rubbed the insides.
“Oh, Ollie. You need a proper haircut,” Nurse Rhonda shook her head, “I’ll do that, then you can go over there and take a shower. I’ll have Jerry get your belongings you left from storage while you shower, yeah?”
“Yeah, sounds good.” I strained a smile despite my dizziness.
She pulled up a chair and grabbed the scissors and comb from the cart and gestured me to sit. “You don’t look so good. You’re pale.” The back of her hand pressed against my forehead before she disappeared behind me.
“Going through withdrawals,” I explained and kept my head steady. “Not too short.”
Rhonda smacked the back of my head. “I’ve been cutting your hair for over a year, boy. I know what I’m doing.”
Despite my small laugh, it was enough to remember laughing was all I had done before.
Six months didn’t seem like a long time, but it was enough time. I’d known I loved the girl who owned my soul the second I felt her, and I’d spent six months convincing her we were meant to be together and loving her completely.
The last seven months I’d spent numb and without her.
Three days were spent off the pills, suffering a heat stroke in a winter storm.
And the last sixty seconds were spent counting the days since I’d met her to avoid the ripping my heart was doing during this wintery hurricane under the sweltering sun.
Yeah, my body was fucking confused … to put it lightly.
I rubbed my palms up and down the rough material of the blue pants I wore from the jail, allowing them to absorb proof of my weakness. Even through my struggles, she dominated every breaking fragment. The thought of her alone kept my blood pumping while the rest of me wasted away.
I had to know. “Ms. Rhonda?”
“Yeah?”
“How is she?”
“How’s who?”
I drew in a deep breath.
“Mia,” I exhaled. “How’s Mia?”
It was the first time I’d said her name out loud, and as soon as it left from my lips, the ache intensified, the need for her taste conquered the need of a numbing fix. Her name was both a stifling curse and a vital prayer. Her name invited more rips inside my chest and more memories of us together.
Memories of the way she made me feel.
Memories of the way I’d made her feel.
Perfection.
She’d always fit perfectly in my arms. She’d fit perfectly on top of me. I’d fit perfectly inside her. She’d fit perfectly beside me, against me, under me, bodies entangled and aligned.