I called Laura and left her a bunch of messages. I remember that. I remember doing that much. I don’t think any of them made sense.
When she called me back the sound of the ringtone was unimaginable. I literally jumped away from my phone and hid in the corner. There’s a disease where people suddenly get deathly afraid of mundane things.
It took me three hours to get the balls to listen to her message. When I tried to text her back my hands were shaking so badly it took me a dozen tries on each word. I told her I needed her friend with the Quaker Oat hat. I told her there was something inside of me.
A few minutes later there was a knock at the door. There was no way it could have been him, it wasn’t even an hour later, but I wasn’t thinking straight. When I opened the door it wasn’t an old guy with a doctor bag and a Quaker Oat hat. It was a middle aged scrawny douche in skinny jeans and a shirt without sleeves. He looked the kind of guy that spends half an hour shaving his face to get the look of artful stubble.
“Who the fuck are you?” I asked.
He leaned forward to look in my eyes “Are you on meth? What is wrong with you?”
Good fucking question.