Page 28 of Let the Light Shine Through

Rowdy only lifts his eyebrows, asking, “Fletcher stole them?” like all this is normal.

I guess he has a point. One time a girl keyed the side of my truck…with me still in it. She wanted the usual—public displays of affection, dates at the local hotspots, the whole nine—and I didn’t. It wasn’t her specifically, just like it’s not Roz specifically. I don’t want that stuff with anybody.

Do I? I did kinda do the PDA thing with Roz, didn’t I?

No, that was a sloppy hook-up for entertainment purposes. And I was high. It doesn’t count. It barely counts.

I was completely sober today though, and I still wanted to kiss him. I could’ve. I would’ve… Does that count?

Whatever. This isn’t the first time I’ve pissed someone off with a swift kick to their ego and it won’t be the last.

Ask T.J. Rejection rolls off my tongue more fluently than Italian and the seventeen phrases I remember from French do. It has to because the alternative…

Shaking the thought away, I turn over my ignition, answering Rowdy’s question. “Fletcher stole them.” I don’t know for sure that it was Fletcher, but it was totally him.

Either way, I’m sure Roz is about to find out.

I wonder if sex is the only time Fletcher squeals like a pig.

Roz

The stain on the ceiling above my bed changes from a sunny-side-up egg to Saturn, depending on which eye I’m closing while looking at it.

Egg.

Saturn.

Egg.

Saturn.

Even though the growing stain obviously means there’s a leak of some kind, I’m grateful for it. The rest of my room is bare now that I ripped all the posters down, so it’s literally the only thing to look at. Yesterday it was just a nipple, but today it’s a planet. Or food.

My stomach growls, reminding me it exists, so I place a hand on it, petting it like an old dog. When my stomach dips, feeling completely foreign, I sit up, looking down at myself. When was the last time I ate?

I’ve been up here in my room for…

I did leave this morning, I know that.

But that was to go to the bathroom, not the kitchen.

Last night? No.

Yesterday? Did I eat yesterday? I don’t think so.

I actually can’t remember the last time I ate anything. Or showered.

I flop back on my bed.

Fuck. I should get up. I should eat. I should human.

But…

I don’t fucking want to.

Do I even need to? My stomach will shut up eventually, and there’s nobody around to smell me. I haven’t heard from any of my roommates since the day I punched Fletcher in the nose, and it’s not like anyone else is coming around. Hell, my corpse could be rotting up here and no one would know.

Am I rotting?