"I don't have any."

She looks genuinely surprised. "None?"

"No."

"You should really have some."

"Do you have health insurance?"

She doesn't. I know she doesn't. Her shake of the head doesn't surprise me a bit. Insurance means records, which means a trail of paperwork that can lead someone straight to you.

"Well, I don't need any," I say. "My doctor takes cash payments instead."

"Anyway," she says, disregarding my statement as she holds up the pill bottles. "I went ahead and just paid full price for them, you know, since I didn't know if you had any coverage, and I didn't want to wake you up to ask."

"I appreciate it, but you shouldn't have bothered," I say. "I have no plans to take them."

Her expression falls quickly as she looks between the pill and me. "If you're worried… I mean, if you think I messed with them, I swear I didn't. You can count the pills… check them. You'll see."

"It's not that."

"Then what is it?"

"I don't like being medicated."

"But you need them," she says, shaking the pill bottles at me. "Ones an antibiotic. You don't want to get any sicker. And the other's just for the pain. I know you have to be in pain."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not," she says, raising her voice, the last word cracking a bit as she forces it from her lips. I can see the gleam in her eyes from where I stand, unshed tears building around the edges. "You're being stubborn. You won't eat my soup, you won't take your medicine, you won't rest… I had to fight with you to get you to accept a damn blanket. You tell me I overthink things. Ha! Look at you! You're worse than I am!"

She's yelling at me.

Yelling.

She's beautiful when she yells, too.

A smile cracks my face, but it does nothing to calm her down. If anything, it gets her more riled up. She glares at the sight of it, cocking her head as she studies me. "What are you smiling at?"

"You," I admit. "You're still so beautiful."

"And you're goddamn delirious," she says, her voice dead serious as she steps toward me again, thrusting the pill bottles right at my chest. I wince as she hits me, nearly stumbling backward, letting out a low hiss as the jolt in my body makes the fire in the wound rage. Her expression shifts as if she's been doused with a bucket of ice water, eyes wide with regret. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Don't apologize," I say, clutching hold of the bottles. "I figured you'd like seeing me suffer."

"Yeah, well, you figured wrong," she says. "Believe it or not, I'm not that kind of person. I'm not a sadistic freak who gets off watching others struggle."

I stare at her as she takes a step back away from me. There's a fire in her today, stronger than it's ever been before, but I don't think she has it in her to be intentionally cruel. "Like me, you mean?"

"What?"

I palm both bottles in my left hand, reaching for her with my right. She startles as I run my fingertips down her neck, my hand coming to rest at the base of her throat. "A sadistic freak who gets off on others struggling."

"I didn't mean it that way. I wasn't calling you—"

Before she can finish, I pull my hand from her skin and turn away from her, shaking the pill bottles. "I'll consider taking the antibiotic."

"What about the pain killer?"

"I don't want to kill the pain," I say. "If I stop feeling it, I might forget."

"Forget you're wounded?"

"Forget someone wounded me."

She doesn't respond to that, standing silently as I toss the bottle of narcotics straight into the trashcan before setting the antibiotic on the counter. Shuffling over to the refrigerator, I grab a bottle of water and unscrew the cap, taking a sip.

"Masochistic," she mutters. "That's what you are."

"Those are some pretty powerful words for someone who just used her first safe words two months ago."

Rolling her eyes, she fishes the pain killers right back out from the top of the trash can and sets the bottle on the counter with the other. "Just think about taking them both, okay? I think you've suffered enough. No reason to torture yourself. God knows you torture me enough for the both of us."

She starts to walk out as I lean back against the counter beside the refrigerator. "Sounds like you're calling me sadistic again."

"Yeah, well, like I said earlier, if the shoe fits…"

I laugh to myself once she's gone, lingering there for a moment, sipping on the water. My thirst is unquenchable, my chest aching and stomach tearing up as wooziness continues to overwhelm me. After a moment, I push away from the counter and stroll out, slowly making my way upstairs.

I desperately need that shower.

I bypass the bedroom, where Karissa lays full dressed on her back on the bed, arm draped over her eyes. I think she slept less than me the past two days and don't want to disturb her when she's trying to rest. Instead I make my way straight to the bathroom, grimacing the second I glance in the mirror.

I took a shotgun blast to the chest and never looked this bad.

I was younger then, more resilient… or maybe I just didn't notice myself back then. The world revolved around everything I lost, when today what matters is that I'm still here. I'm falling apart, and I feel like shit, but I'm alive, and breathing.