Drugs, Treasons and Other Demons

61. ALL THAT GLITTERS

Every day around eleven, the same ray of sunlight woke me up by gently tickling my face. Every time, I groaned and yanked the sheets over my head, wishing Pablo would take the hint and buy some curtains.

Instead, he made it a habit to have breakfast ready for me at that exact time of the day, which was the second-best thing he could do. He'd bring it in on a nice silver platter, pretending to struggle with the bedroom door and acting like he'd cooked it with love rather than just ordered it by texting one of his maids.

And every day, I'd give him a weak smile and say thank you as I grabbed my plate. Another morning meant another type of dish, and as it turned out, Pablo knew as many ways to cook eggs as he knew ways to mess with my head.

He'd picked some white roses and red carnations a few days ago, arranged them in a pretty bouquet, and left them on the nightstand with no apology or explanation.

Someone had changed the vase's water this morning while I was still asleep and opened the windows wide to let some fresh air into the bedroom.

Today, I woke up to the sound of hollering gardeners, banging hammers, and soft music playing on the other side of the garden – and again, that stupid ray of sunlight shining on my face.

As soon as I opened my eyes, they were slammed back shut by a searing headache. I hadn't had a single drop of alcohol in a few days now, and I hadn't even touched any drugs, and yet I barely felt any better.

"How are you feeling today?" asked Pablo.

As I let out a sound that was halfway between a groan and a sigh, he ran his fingers through my hair, only to get tangled in a knot about two inches into the tousled mess.

"I feel like a dehydrated blobfish," I muttered, painfully sitting up in the bed so he could settle the breakfast tray down on my lap.

"That's specific, but yeah," he chuckled. "Been there, done that."

I grabbed a glass of freshly-pressed fruit juice, and Pablo's hand followed mine as I picked it up.

"It's fine," I said, gently swatting him away. "I don't have the shakes anymore."

His hand awkwardly flopped back to the mattress, and a split second later, he stuck it on my forehead.

"No sweats either," I mumbled.

"Great," he answered in a falsetto voice. "That's great."

I could tell Pablo had enjoyed these past few days, when I was too sick to even get out of bed. Since the very minute that the drugs had left my system, I'd been pinned to the ground, nailed down onto the mattress like a dead butterfly behind a picture frame.

I'd spent the first day sobbing, and he'd brought me the softest tissues money could buy, so that I wouldn't hurt my nose from wiping it so often. The next day, he'd brushed my hair, then washed my face with a cloth because he was afraid I'd either collapse if I took a shower, or drown if I took a bath. Then he helped me make a list of all my favorite foods I felt like eating, and we laughed together at how many of those meals included pasta.

What Pablo had loved the most about me being so ill from the withdrawal, was that he got to keep me all to himself. I could hardly get out of bed, let alone out of the bedroom, so I was easier to watch over, easier to control, and most of all, he didn't have to share me with anyone else.

"Don't go in there, Gordita is sick," he'd scream at anyone who dared to open the door while I was awake.

He made sure I got some rest, and that I had everything I needed. Still, he reminded me loud and often that it was my fault that I felt this way, and I couldn't help but agree.