Chapter Eighty-Five

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Two and a Half Weeks Later...

The steam whistle goes off, the makeshift bell blasting its signature roar all over West Campus, signaling that my last final is finally over.

"Alright, time's up everyone," Mr. Belikov, my mechanical composition professor, says. "Stop writing and hand in your exams, please."

It's been a tough week, but I'm just relieved it's over and done with. I put my pencil down and look to find that I'm one of only five people left in the auditorium—including Mr. Belikov and his TA, Shanda.

The two other students get up, but I continue to sit for several more seconds, feeling a particular sense of emptiness and hollowness fill me to the brim—a feeling I haven't felt in six years, not since right before I dropped out of college my freshman year.

I breathe out a tired, slightly depressed sigh, and the action only makes me feel physically weaker and even more sad. When I made the hard decision to come back to school, I never once anticipated that my academic goals would get derailed yet again, not in the way they've been. I never imagined that I'd find myself in a similar bind all over again, experiencing the same feelings of demoralization, losing focus, defeat, demotivation, fatigue, and worst of all, indifference.

I'm not completely there yet, but if the way I feel right now is any indication, I'm bordering pretty damn close to it, and that's not anywhere near where I want to be mentally or emotionally. I don't want to go through any of it again. I can't. I wouldn't be able to survive it a second time. If I lost interest in pursuing music, in singing, there's nothing out there that can or will revive my desire to have even the smallest inkling of living a fulfilling, satisfactory life. There would be no coming back from that after everything I've been through. I know that better than anyone ever could.

I stand slowly, bracing myself against a bout of oncoming lightheadedness. My skull feels like a cheap balloon that's been stretched to capacity, like it's made of flimsy rubber instead of bone, as if it's been pumped full of hot, humid air while the rest of my body feels contrastingly heavy and uncooperative, as if I've just been stuffed with a hundred pounds full of sand and gravel from the neck down. I wish I didn't feel so funked-out, but I guess that pretty much describes my entire existence for most of this semester. It's practically been my M.O. for weeks on end so I suppose it's only fitting that the semester ends with the same "crappy-feeling" theme.

Still, I'm grateful that all my finals went fairly well considering all the bullshit I've been dealing with for the past several weeks. I make it down the center aisle staircase, one heavy step at a time as I hear the last pair of footsteps filtering out of the large room, followed by the soft click of the double doors closing. I hand in my exam, placing the stapled sheets of paper on the table, avoiding my professor's eyes even as I feel his on me. I barely register the generic but soft-spoken "Have a good break" from Shanda. I can only manage to mumble the most unenthusiastic "You too," in response as I head out of the auditorium.

The hallway is mostly empty, with only two or three other people walking about, more than likely getting ready to leave. Usually, I'd meet up with Bill and Trixie after this and we'd all head straight to the Mushroom to get an early start on celebrating the fact that finals are over and to get ourselves into the "holiday spirit". It's actually become something of a tradition between the three of us over the two years I've been here. We've done it every semester without fail, and even during shorter school interims like Fall and Spring Break. But not this time.

Even if I were up for it—and let the record show, I am absolutely not—after Bill filled me in on the details of his and Trixie's blowup at the Mary Higgins' Dance, I highly doubt either of them have resolved their issues with each other or have even gotten back to the point where Trixie and Gina can coexist in the same room, aka, where Trixie can be in Gina's presence without wanting to grab the nearest chair and haul it straight to her forehead. Still, I need to talk to them both before they leave for the holidays.

My journey home is more or less a blur, and as soon as I get into my apartment, I head straight for my bedroom and practically collapse in my bed.

I'm unwilling to do anything else but lie here even though I don't actually feel like going to sleep. I feel simultaneously restless and tired, fatigued but unsettled, and I'm unable to do anything about it.

As I continue to lie there, my skull begins to feel strangely tight, like it's constricting itself, and as if it's suddenly too small for my brain.

Abruptly, everything rushes through my mind at once. My brain feels like it's on the verge of exploding inside my head with all the thoughts racing through it at the same time, each one clamoring for my attention like a mile-long checklist:

- Gran and her deteriorating health.

- Gran's house on the verge of being foreclosed.

Trixie and Bill beefing.

- Trying to keep the fact that Gina's a call girl and cheating on Bill from them both.

- Hoping to God Gina won't—accidentally or otherwise—let in on the fact that I'm in the same boat as she is to either of them.

- Selling my soul—and quite literally, my body—to the devil for money.

- Facing the kind of shitty life-altering situation where I end up losing in some major way no matter what route I take.

My hands move to rest on my stomach, right where the tumor is positioned; the tumor that could ruin everything I live for, everything I've worked so hard for that's lying inside me as comfortably as I lie in my bed.

I picture the ugly, lumpy thing again, its uneven, purplish color so out of place against the pale apricot backdrop of the rest of my insides. And the thought of it only takes my thoughts to the man who showed it to me; to the man who has somehow become connected to it all:

Dexter motherfucking Frost.

It's crazy to think that just two months ago, he was a complete and total stranger whom I'd only heard of, and now, he's turned into something of a center-piece in the confusing, frustrating, and emotionally draining puzzle that has become my life.

Suddenly, I hear a loud beep from within my bedside drawer. The sound is foreign and only slightly muffled, and that only makes the realization kick in instantly.

The Ice Block.

My body jerks upright, lunging itself out of my fetal position as if I've just been electrocuted by a dozen angry eels. My eyes dart to the closed drawer, bulging wide open as a blended rush of surprise, anxiety, and perhaps a teeny tiny bit of excitement force my heart to pick up its pace. A hefty dose of adrenaline instantly floods my system, and all traces of tiredness and fatigue instantly disappear.

I extend my arm without thinking, my body moving on impulse, but my hand freezes as soon as it comes into contact with the drawer, my fingers going stiff and rigid as soon as they wrap themselves around the small knob.

After several more seconds and rapid, shallow breaths, I finally bring myself to pull it open, and when my fingers find the outline of the unmistakable hard, thin plastic device, my heart pumps so fast that I think it just might bruise itself from the exertion. I grab it from under the clutter of papers and random items, almost dropping it in my nervous klutziness.

And then I see it, displayed boldly across the sleek touchscreen.

A text message.

From him.

I feel my blood rapidly drain itself from my face, and I swear my stomach just dropped all the way to my curled toes, as if gravity has no bearing on it whatsoever.

Subject: First Session.

Address: 1741 Mulberry Dr. Milwaukee, WI, 53226.

Gate code: 6

Time: 7:55 PM, next Friday.

Important notes:

1) Do NOT be late.

2) Make SURE you drink at least three liters of water over the course of the day before you get here.

***

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