10
JOHNNY
Iwake up in my bathtub, a thawed bag of peas and a bottle of whiskey at my side. I can barely see through the thin slits of my eyelids, but I imagine it's better than nothing at all.
Everything aches.
My head, my chest, my torso, even my fucking legs.
How did I get here?
The last thing I remember was…getting the shit kicked out of me. Instinctually, I bring my hand to my forehead and stumble upon a bandage of some sort. I kick away the blanket that I’m not really sure how I got and raise myself from my makeshift bed.
I glance in the mirror and take myself in. Yep, it looks as bad as it feels.
I don’t have a shirt on, but that’s not the surprising part. Instead of being covered in blood and left in that alley, I’m here, partially cleaned up and my wounds treated.
A piece of my hair falls onto my forehead and a memory assaults me immediately. The girl, the one who has been doing everything she can to avoid me, tucking the strand away.
That can’t be real. I must be fucking losing it. There’s no way in hellthatgirl came to my rescue. I’m dreaming, I have to be. Or maybe I’m dead. That would be much more plausible than a nameless angel showing me such kindness.
My vision swims with fog and lightheadedness kicks in. I stagger over to my bed and plop down on the edge. I probably have a concussion, but it’s the least of my worries.
I spot something unfamiliar on my nightstand. A glass of water. One that I didn’t put there myself. Next to it, on a napkin, two little pills. Some kind of over-the-counter pain reliever. I scoot over and examine the offering further.
Scrawled in black ink on the white material are the wordsfeel better.
My heart skips a beat, and my doubts are erased.
She was here. She saved me.
But why? I’ve been a dick to her.
She could have called an ambulance; she could have left me there to rot.
I think to that moment last night of hearing her say my name. I had thought I was hallucinating. That some pain-induced part of me created her in my imagination.
I shake my head in disbelief, and it throbs in response.
I down the pills and take the napkin into my hand, not wanting to let it go out of fear that it’ll disappear, and I’ll be stuck with the truth that I made all of this up.
I’m the one who does the saving, not the other way around.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and startles me out of my stupor. I pull it out and sigh at the busted screen, only then recalling the people who attacked me throwing all my shit to the ground.
I feel at my other leg, and the bulge of my wallet is completely unexpected. And if I’m inside my house, that means my keys were recovered, too. Unless she broke in, but I find that incredibly unlikely.
Given the questionable events that have taken place, I shouldn’t rule anything out just yet.
Through the cracked glass, I cringe at the number of missed calls and texts.
It’s then that everything comes full force into perspective.
I lost a package. Franklin’s package.
For the first time since I’ve dealt with him, I was unsuccessful at making a delivery.
Franklin made it clear that I was already on thin ice, and this fuck up will surely continue to seal my fate with him.
I should have known eventually I would mess up. I was never cut out for this line of work. But how was I supposed to turn it down when it was my only chance at doing the right thing?
Slowly, I go back to the bathroom, snatching the whiskey I had left behind. I spin the cap off, a memory of her tipping some of the liquid into my mouth pops into my head. I bring the spout to my lips and chug what’s left of the nearly empty bottle.
With my pillow and blanket in hand, I drag myself to my bed. I unbutton and step out of my dirty pants and crawl under the covers, ignoring the shit on my phone and tuning out reality.
I’m already a dead man—what’s the harm in resting before Franklin kills me?