David Kirby's funeral was this morning. I didn't go. It would look beyond strange if I did.
I wasn't sure he'd…done what he did because of that stupid note. I wish I hadn't left it lying around. Well, I wish I hadn't written it.
But I guess David didn't show it to anyone. Threw it away or burned it maybe?
I had one of those wild-monkeys-fighting-over-a-banana-inside-your-cranium headaches from worrying about it. I waited for Dad to go to bed then prowled his briefcase. He always had Xanax in there. Score. I took one. Then went back for another. This was two-Xan stress.
I took a long, hot shower, setting the pulsing jets of water on masochist and stood so it could drum the back of my neck and shoulders. I rolled my head as the steam swirled around and the water sluiced over me. The pills might be kicking in. An empty stomach was a welcoming friend to drugs. Thank the Lord Dad was a hypocrite. While he preached to me, he sure didn't say no to online rip-off pharmacies. Hallelujah.
Drugs definitely kicking in. I'd gone gospel in the shower. I got out and toweled off. I blow-dried my hair until it was damp thirty. My hair was dry enough so I slid into my nightclothes, pulled back the covers, and nestled in.
I watched the play of the lamplight from the end of my fingers. Nice. Drugs can make the simplest thing so entertaining. I switched the lamp off and settled into the drug drowse. Deep breath. No dreams, Cass. No trees. No ropes. No notes. No boys with big ears. Nothing.