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I’m sleepinglike shit lately.

My grades haven’t suffered yet, but I’m walking around with permanent purple circles under each eye. I don’t know what’s worse—the fact that I killed a man or the fact that I am being blackmailed over it.

Or maybe the fact that Heather hasn’t spoken to me since we hooked up, and it doesn’t seem like she ever will again. I even stopped going to anatomy lab because whenever she’s there, she gives me this look that makes me sick to my stomach. I’m probably going to fail the final.

Right now, I am sitting on my bed, throwing a tennis ball against the wall. I keep doing it, over and over, thunk thunk thunk, trying to keep disturbing thoughts out of my head. It seems to work for a little while, but then I throw it just a little too hard and the ball takes a chunk of the plaster out of the wall. That kind of freaks me out. A couple of nights ago, I punched a hole in the wall in my sleep. I guess we’re not getting our deposit back on this room.

My cell phone rings, and I jump to pick it up without even looking at who’s calling. When I hear my mother’s voice on the other line, I sort of wish I had checked. I’m not in the mood to talk to her right now.

“Abe,” she says like I’m the same person I was when I left for med school. “I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“How are you doing, sweetie?” she asks. “How’s Heather?”

Oh, right. I haven’t told her that Heather and I broke up. I certainly don’t feel like telling her now. “She’s fine.”

“Are you eating enough?” she asks me.

“Yes,” I mumble. I could probably afford not to eat for a year and be fine.

“Do you need me to bring you a warmer jacket?”

“No. I’m good.”

“Do you need… money?” she asks me, as if she has money to spare. As if I would ever take her money when my parents need it to pay the bills.

“I don’t need money.”

“Okay.” She can sense something is wrong, but she’s not the sort of person who pushes me to share my feelings. “I just want you to know that I am so proud of you, Abe.”

Oh Christ, this is the last thing I need. “Thanks.”

“I mean it,” she insists. “Your dad and I didn’t even go to college. And now look at you. You graduated college with honors, and now you’re going to be a doctor.”

Sure, if I don’t end up in prison for murder. “Uh-huh…”

She’s trying to help, but this is not what I want to hear right now. I’d rather she tell me that she’s proud of me no matter what. Or that she will love me no matter what I have done.

Because I’ve done some pretty bad things.

“I gotta go, Mom,” I say.

“Are you sure you’re all right, honey?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

What’s one more lie? “I promise.”