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 dozen of 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 and 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 make 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.