go home this weekend, I should just stay there. Is that what you want? Would that make you happy?” With the way I felt at the moment, I knew that it would definitely make me happy.
Zach sat down on the floor beside the futon and begged me not to leave. “No! Ruby, please! I don’t want you to leave; I just want you to stop torturing me!”
For the next few minutes, I sat there dumbfounded, watching him rock back and forth on the floor while mumbling to himself.
“Okay, I’ll stop,” I finally whispered with no clue as to what I was actually agreeing to. I opened up the bottle of melatonin and dug one of the tablets out for him. “Here, this will help you get back to sleep.”
He swallowed it without question. “Will you please get me some ibuprofen, too? My head is killing me.”
I did as he asked then helped him back to bed. I laid down beside him but never closed my eyes. The sound of snores as rhythmic as the purr of a kitten told me that he was once again asleep but I was fully awake. Whatever was wrong with Zach was growing exponentially worse.
The next few days were sheer hell for me and for him, too, I would imagine. His headaches became full on migraines. He missed every single class. He spent most of his time in bed sleeping. And at least once a day, he had some sort of psychotic episode that could only be pacified through more sleep. Even though I was doing everything I could possibly do to help him, he always found a way to blame me for everything. I was quite surprised that he didn’t fight me when I told him that he had a doctor appointment with my dad on Saturday. As soon as I got home from work on Friday, we left for Charlotte’s Grove. Zach slept the entire ride home.
When I dropped him off at his parents’ house, I drove away with a sense of relief. For tonight, at least, he wasn’t my problem to deal with. I was exhausted from worry that he would never be the old Zach again. I was exhausted from fear of what might be wrong with him. I told my dad everything—every last detail. He agreed that a drug test was in order. And he arranged for a psychiatrist to be present during the physical exam.
Around 2 am, I woke up with a terrible new theory about what could be wrong with Zach. And that’s when I realized that he might be right. This could, in fact, be entirely my fault. His claim that I was torturing him could be closer to the truth than I wanted it to be. Exhausted or not, I didn’t get another moment’s worth of sleep that night.
15. Unaired Theory
Dad practically had to drag me out of bed for my appointment in the morning. I was too tired to get up. My head felt better than it had in days but the fatigue was getting worse. It was coming to a point where I was asleep far more than I was awake. And every second spent in slumber was spent dreaming about Ruby.
Why couldn’t I get her out of my head? She was sheer torture. I vacillated between loving her and hating her; lusting after her and despising her at the same time. She’d become nothing but a disease. But I didn’t want there to be a cure. It was all so damn sick. I was so damn sick. But she was every bit as messed up as I was.
She wanted to go to my appointment with me but I told her to stay home instead. She was with me constantly even though half of the time it was only in my dreams. Ruby was an addiction and I needed a break from her.
Dr. Matthews and his new assistant, Dr. Landon, ran every battery of test known to mankind. I answered question after question. What were my symptoms? Where did it hurt? When did I first notice that something was wrong? I answered them all truthfully. But the questions they failed to ask, I also failed to answer. In my heart of hearts, I felt that my
Zach sat down on the floor beside the futon and begged me not to leave. “No! Ruby, please! I don’t want you to leave; I just want you to stop torturing me!”
For the next few minutes, I sat there dumbfounded, watching him rock back and forth on the floor while mumbling to himself.
“Okay, I’ll stop,” I finally whispered with no clue as to what I was actually agreeing to. I opened up the bottle of melatonin and dug one of the tablets out for him. “Here, this will help you get back to sleep.”
He swallowed it without question. “Will you please get me some ibuprofen, too? My head is killing me.”
I did as he asked then helped him back to bed. I laid down beside him but never closed my eyes. The sound of snores as rhythmic as the purr of a kitten told me that he was once again asleep but I was fully awake. Whatever was wrong with Zach was growing exponentially worse.
The next few days were sheer hell for me and for him, too, I would imagine. His headaches became full on migraines. He missed every single class. He spent most of his time in bed sleeping. And at least once a day, he had some sort of psychotic episode that could only be pacified through more sleep. Even though I was doing everything I could possibly do to help him, he always found a way to blame me for everything. I was quite surprised that he didn’t fight me when I told him that he had a doctor appointment with my dad on Saturday. As soon as I got home from work on Friday, we left for Charlotte’s Grove. Zach slept the entire ride home.
When I dropped him off at his parents’ house, I drove away with a sense of relief. For tonight, at least, he wasn’t my problem to deal with. I was exhausted from worry that he would never be the old Zach again. I was exhausted from fear of what might be wrong with him. I told my dad everything—every last detail. He agreed that a drug test was in order. And he arranged for a psychiatrist to be present during the physical exam.
Around 2 am, I woke up with a terrible new theory about what could be wrong with Zach. And that’s when I realized that he might be right. This could, in fact, be entirely my fault. His claim that I was torturing him could be closer to the truth than I wanted it to be. Exhausted or not, I didn’t get another moment’s worth of sleep that night.
15. Unaired Theory
Dad practically had to drag me out of bed for my appointment in the morning. I was too tired to get up. My head felt better than it had in days but the fatigue was getting worse. It was coming to a point where I was asleep far more than I was awake. And every second spent in slumber was spent dreaming about Ruby.
Why couldn’t I get her out of my head? She was sheer torture. I vacillated between loving her and hating her; lusting after her and despising her at the same time. She’d become nothing but a disease. But I didn’t want there to be a cure. It was all so damn sick. I was so damn sick. But she was every bit as messed up as I was.
She wanted to go to my appointment with me but I told her to stay home instead. She was with me constantly even though half of the time it was only in my dreams. Ruby was an addiction and I needed a break from her.
Dr. Matthews and his new assistant, Dr. Landon, ran every battery of test known to mankind. I answered question after question. What were my symptoms? Where did it hurt? When did I first notice that something was wrong? I answered them all truthfully. But the questions they failed to ask, I also failed to answer. In my heart of hearts, I felt that my
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