“Physical pain goes away, Jake … Don’t focus on injuries that healed in weeks.” I flop back down, the irritation rising to strangle out my mellow drunkenness. Dismissing it. I don’t need this right now. My insides start to clench with anxiety.
“What do you mean?” I sense his shift in position, so he’s looking at me.
Does he really have no clue?
The physical side means nothing in the grand scheme of things; it’s the emotional mess left inside of me that I don’t want Jake to see.
“He broke my arm and ribs; he almost broke my nose and he gave me a concussion that had me in hospital for days. But it all healed in time.” I don’t even remember how that felt.
Why am I telling him this? Alcohol is like a lubricant for my goddamn mouth.
I’m drunk and somehow it doesn’t feel as bad saying it o
