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Phoenix tries not to look at himself in the mirror too much these days. Since his hospital stay following that disastrous trial, it’s been a fight to get out of bed in the mornings, let alone do anything else to take care of himself. His grades are falling rapidly. His advisor recommended a retroactive withdrawal from the semester. He can take a few classes over the summer and winter sessions to make up for the lost credit hours. With a little bit of hard work, he’ll still graduate on time.
That doesn’t change the fact that his life seems to be falling apart around him. He’s taken to wearing turtlenecks and scarves, even though it’s already spring. What’s a little heat if it keeps people from asking questions about the ugly scar down the front of his neck, pockmarked on the sides from where they took out the stitches a few days ago.
He’s on a liquid diet, too, for a few more days at least. Yet another follow-up appointment scheduled for the following week will bring with it news on whether or not he can go back to solids. Already on the thin side, losing weight as a result of everything is hardly doing him any favors. More than that, the constant exhaustion and his inability to make himself take his medication makes getting through each day a new type of torture.
More than anything, Phoenix wants to get back to his regular life. He wants to forget he ever met Dahlia Hawthorne. If he could, he would go back and do the past eight months and some change all over again. Really, it’s closer to nine months now, including the time he spent staring at the ceiling in his hospital room and the time he’s spent staring at the ceiling of his dorm. His voice still isn’t quite back. The doctors said he was lucky his larynx wasn’t permanently damaged by the glass. Even then, trying to speak again hurts like hell, like shards of glass are cutting down his throat all over again every time he pushes air past his vocal cords.
Larry is sleeping on Phoenix’s couch, for once not because he’s out of a job, but because Phoenix needs the company. He hates putting so much on his friend, but without Larry, Phoenix might have just dropped out of college entirely, might have kept spiraling disastrously like he was when all the company he had was four white walls and scratchy hospital blankets. Larry keeps making Phoenix smoothies and shakes and other things he can drink without irritating his throat too badly and Larry hasn’t brought up a girl in weeks. Phoenix hates that Larry is putting his own life on hold for this, because Phoenix can’t get his shit together and stop moping.
Mia Fey keeps checking in, too, calling Phoenix every few days to ask how he’s doing. It feels a little pathetic, needing his attorney of all people to check on him. She took his case pro bono. Phoenix might not owe her any money, but he definitely owes her his life. He can’t ever repay her, just for the trial and putting up with his blindness and naivete, let alone checking in so consistently after everything is already said and done.
Phoenix dragged himself out to Doug’s funeral early on. He sat in the back, tried to avoid everyone who actually knew Doug and pretended like he maybe deserved to be there. Like Doug’s death wasn’t at least partly still Phoenix’s fault. If he’d believed Doug, trusted him, then maybe things wouldn’t have ended this way. Still, when Doug’s family realized he was there, they’d invited him to come to the potluck afterward. Doug’s mom even gave Phoenix a hug, promised none of them held any ill will toward him for what happened.
The trial still feels like it happened yesterday, even though it’s been weeks. Phoenix keeps drifting, like his life no longer belongs to him, like someone else is living it, and doing a poor job at that. Sitting in his advisor’s office, he slowly works through the paperwork to file for withdrawal, not that he can afford to take the extra hours outside of the regular school year. Not if he wants to go to afford law school, certainly. Still, he won’t get into law school with his grades plummeting like this.
When he walks back out, he kind of feels like a failure.
Larry is waiting back at Phoenix’s apartment. They don’t talk. Phoenix sits quietly on the couch, sipping on a smoothie, and Larry putters around the kitchen, cleaning up the mess.
Phoenix loses track of time again. By the time he comes back to himself, his glass is empty, and Larry is putting another one in front of him. Apparently, Phoenix lost the whole afternoon. He missed class again. Larry sits down on the couch beside him.
Neither of them speak.
After a moment, Larry pats Phoenix’s shoulder, staring into the space in front of them. Nice might not quite be the word for it, but Phoenix appreciates the effort. The first week or so back, the two of them danced around each other. Larry handled Phoenix like a time bomb, like he might shatter at any moment and Larry wouldn’t be able to put him back together. Phoenix avoided Larry as much as possible, like that would keep Larry from worrying.
They’d fallen into a rhythm, eventually, though silence usually reigned supreme in the small apartment. Except for when Phoenix’s nightmares wake him. Maybe he’s not handling things as well as he’d like to pretend he is. At least they aren’t every night anymore, though, like they were the first couple of weeks. Sometimes, though, Phoenix wakes up in the morning and expects to still be in the detention center. He only spent two nights in that cell, but it might as well have been his entire life for how much it left an impression on him.
All Phoenix wants is to put this all behind him and move on his with life.
Instead, Phoenix presses the heels of his palms against his eyes to stave off a fresh wave of tears and Larry rubs soothing circles on Phoenix’s back, not saying a word.