Dark Rooms Read Online Free PDF Page B

walls, look out the window for hours at a time, be guided to meals by nurses with soft hands and voices, nothing expected of me, every decision made by somebody else.
    Though most days I felt numb and in a fog, I would, every so often, experience these attacks that would just completely undo me. Something would happen, some small thing—a T-shirt of Nica’s would turn up under my bed, or a movie she liked would play on TV—and, before I knew it, the door to the cell I kept my memories locked behind would burst open, and the vicious little thugs would swarm me, push me to the ground, hit me, kick me, violate me in any way they could think of. And for hours afterward, I’d be weak and shaky and without defenses, jumping at every noise, ready to cry at the drop of a hat. What I wanted was to be protected from these attacks. What I wanted was to feel numb and in a fog not most of the time, but all of it.
    And I got what I was asking for from my sessions with Dr. Karnani. Or at least from the prescriptions she wrote me at the end of them. Benzodiazepine derivatives, the most miraculous of the miracles of modern medicine, as far as I was concerned: Xanax, Valium,Klonopin. On these drugs, I didn’t just feel numb and in a fog, I felt sealed off, like I was behind a pane of glass and no one and nothing could touch me.
    But the day came when I could no longer stomach Dr. Karnani’s wrinkly neck and breath that stank of garlic and constant questions about my feelings and my feelings about my feelings, and I stopped showing up for our appointments.
    So what, then, did I do for drugs?
    Well, I wasn’t being totally honest before when I said I broke with Jamie, Maddie, and Ruben because I did still see quite a bit of Ruben. Our relationship now, though, was less personal than professional. Ruben dealt—mainly prescription drugs, but a little ecstasy and ketamine, too, the occasional popper—out of his room on Friday evenings between five and seven thirty, dining hall hours. I started swinging by.
    Each exchange followed essentially the same script.
    As I walked up to his door, I’d pull out my cash, a portion of the over-thousand dollars I’d saved from my summers teaching tennis at the rec center, have it ready in my hand. I’d knock twice. He’d make me wait a little, but then he’d open the door. More often than not he’d be dressed in a filthy kimono, the one his dad bought him on a business trip to Tokyo, and a pair of high-top sneakers with no laces. He’d be stuffing his face with potato chips or cookies or SpaghettiOs or one of those microwavable pizza things shaped like a fat stick with the crust on the outside. When he’d see me, he’d smile wide, say, “Gracie,” drawing out both syllables of my name. “Nice of you to stop by.”
    â€œHi, Ruben,” I’d say.
    He’d hold up an uno momento finger, making me wait again as he swallowed, ran his tongue along the line of his teeth, top and bottom. Then he’d say, “You look a little under the weather today. How’re you feeling?”
    â€œOkay. Having trouble sleeping, though.”
    â€œHuh. Bummer.”
    â€œBummer,” I’d agree.
    â€œNot sleeping’s becoming a regular thing with you. I’ve got to say, that surprises me. You don’t seem like the kind of girl who would develop that sort of problem.”
    â€œYeah, well, just goes to show you.”
    â€œIs it better this week or worse?”
    â€œWorse.”
    â€œOh my my. Worse again? You’re turning into quite the little raging insomniac. You know, I have trouble sleeping, too, but I keep it under control. Don’t have trouble sleeping every single night.” When I wouldn’t say anything back, “Not sleeping, you pay a high price for that.”
    â€œTell me about it.”
    â€œCan you afford it?”
    My voice tight, “I’ve managed so far,