Catharsis (Book 1)

by D. Andrew Campbell

  The debit card was certainly a significant treasure for me to find, but it brings with it even more issues. I can be tracked through it. More specifically, my parents can use it to locate where I am.

  For the past several days I have been working hard to not think about my family. At all. It's too painful to think about what they might be going through with my absence. I could call them, but what do I tell them? What would I even say? I'm not even sure what's going on myself, let alone know enough to try and explain it to someone else. Do I want them to know where I am? Would that make things better for me? Or worse?

  And then an idea hits me. This debit card can be a message that I send to them. I know my father is an intelligent man, and he will have the police looking for this card. Or he'll be watching the transactions that pop up on the account himself so that he can see where I surface and come find me (Normally that would be a good thing, and the thought of how much he loves me and how much he must be hurting right now is almost enough to tear me in two. Almost. But going home to my family right now is just too scary of a thought to even contemplate. What if the hunger struck while I was at home with my family? What if I attacked them? No. That is something that I can never let happen.). If I use the card tonight, then I know he will come here to ask about me. If he comes here, then that means I can leave him a message so that he knows I'm safe. But what kind of message? And how?

  Watching a sketchy, tattooed teenager in mechanic's coveralls (Even from here I can see the bright yellow emblem of a discount muffler store emblazoned on the back.) enter the store, the answer comes to me. If the store's normal clientele look anything like that kid, then they must have security cameras throughout the place. I just need to make sure I'm seen on the cameras and that I look safe and relatively happy. That will be my message. It's not the best message, but it'll work.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  With my fears now (mostly) conquered, I set about coming up with a mental shopping list of what I plan to get once I'm in the place. My original goal when I came out here tonight was to pick up a blanket and pillow for Lazzy (Gotta keep those good intentions front and center on this trip, right?), so I make that the first item on my list. I'm not sure a small chain drug store like this will have pillows and blankets, but I can always hope.

  And real dog food. Maybe even some canned dog food with actual moist bits of kibble in it. That could certainly be a nice treat, and might even help the little fella heal more quickly. If I'm getting canned food, then I better get a can opener to go with it. And those old cups I've been using for water should be replaced. Bowls would certainly be a nice upgrade for us. I add those to my list.

  Aside from food and sleep what else could my furry little companion need? Play toys! Definitely a ball or a chew toy or something that he can entertain himself with. I'm sure they have to have some kind of ball there. Maybe in the kids’ section if they don't have a pet area (Yes, because I'm sure drugstores on the edge of the city’s ghetto are just rife with well-stocked pet sections.).

  What else? Food, bedding and fun for Lazarus should keep him covered pretty well. At the very least it's a good start, and it's significantly better than where we were.

  As I think, I run my fingers through my hair distractedly only to realize that that small act is nearly impossible. My long, brown hair has become a tangled mess. I'd call it a rat's nest (Like my mother always would after I came in from playing outside as a little girl and hadn't worn anything in my hair to keep it safely tied back. She'd grumble about shaving my head one day to make the whole chore easier, and I'd giggle and tell her, "No mama. I love my hair." Sigh. I miss my mom.), but that would be both an insult to the hairy vermin and their lovely tangled homes. I'll have to wash my hair multiple times and probably even boil it with conditioner before a brush will even consider running through it.

  Ok, shampoo, soap and a hairbrush for me; I add those to my running mental list, and then realize cleaning myself won't do much good unless I have a towel to dry myself off. Of course after I'm dry, I'm not going to want to put these same clothes on after I've worn them for almost a straight week. I add a change of clothes to my list, too.

  Any food for me? I consider trying some of my favorite candy bars to see if they're worth eating even if they might taste like a lump of stewed homework papers, but I abandon the idea. I don't have much faith in food having any flavor right now, and trying to eat it will most likely just depress me more. Speaking of depressing me, I think about what I have been eating lately (If you can call gulping the lifeblood of small creatures like they're furry Capri Sun juice bags "eating".) and realize oral hygiene has not been a strong suit of mine lately, either. I don't even want to think about what horrible substances have crossed my mouth and teeth lately.

  "Toothbrush!" I blurt out loud. "Oh my Geebus (My mother would whoop me silly if I even thought of taking the Lord's name in vain. Still not a habit I feel ready to break.)! I am definitely picking up a toothbrush,” I pause and the image of those piles of rat carcasses behind the warehouse rushes back into my brain. "And mouthwash. Lots of mouthwash (Would drinking that hurt me right now? Hmmm. That might be an experiment worth checking out after what I've been putting my digestive system through these last few days.)."

  With my mental list finalized, I do my best to make myself presentable. Running my hands over my frayed hair, I attempt to smooth it down as much as possible. Even though the tangles force me to abandon the idea of combing it by hand, at least I can keep it from looking scary. Right now I'll even settle for pitiful.

  There's not much I can do about my odor, so I'll just have to work to keep my distance from people (Actually, that's probably a good idea on a number of levels.). Straightening my clothes as much as possible (I've never been what I would call "prissy" or "fashion conscious", but still the idea of going out in public - even to a place as horrifying as this one - looking as bad as I do would have mortified me just a week ago. I guess being style-savvy is now at the bottom end of the things-I-care-about chart.), I try to aim for some level of "I'm not a hobo" rather than "presentable". It's good to accept your limits.

  Standing up, I search myself for any presence of the hunger that's been haunting me. It's there, but it's faint and easily ignored.

  "I can handle this," I tell myself as I cross the street. "What could possibly go wrong?" And the thought of how many different ways I could answer that question makes me laugh as my feet lightly cross the store's well-lit parking lot.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  My first thought upon stepping into the brightness of the little store is, Thank God I remembered to bring my sunglasses with me.

  That is quickly followed by, My mom will kill me for using the Lord's name in vain. I've gotta stop doing that.

  And finally, She's not here. Sighing, I mumble "I miss her," and do my best to push those thoughts from my head.

  After the rapid fire thought attack passes, I let myself adjust to being overwhelmed by the sights, sounds and tastes of society. The crackling florescent lights above me are so strong that I have to close my eyes after moving just a few feet into the building. Experiencing nothing but darkness, old street lamps and diluted gray sunlight for the past week has atrophied my bright-light-reaction time. It's dizzying.

  With my eyes closed, I try to focus on my other senses to get a better sense of what's around me. Breathing deeply, I can pick out the scents of three different people. Two of them are quite strong, and I assume that would be the checkout clerk to my left and the wanna-be gangster I watched enter earlier. The remaining scent is faint and indistinct with all the conflicting stimuli hitting me at once. It's weak enough that I can only assume it must be someone shopping in the back of the store, or maybe an employee in the storage rooms.

  Other than the people, I get a sense of electricity all around me. It has a sharp blueness to its smell that undercuts everything. Even though it’s only from the bright lights and cash registers and heating and air systems, I haven't
been around this much running juice since I had fled my home of higher education.

  Pushing the popping blue smell away, I filter out what's left to get a sense of the place. It's old, and not well kept up, but it is cleaned often. The smell of chemicals is quite strong around me.

  CHING!

  The loud bell above the door barks directly behind me as the muffler-shop gangster kid wanders out, and the sound of it nearly stops my heart with surprise. I had been so focused on sorting what I was smelling, that I hadn't paid attention to the boy getting closer to me, let alone his attempt to leave the store mere feet from where I’ve been awkwardly standing.

  The whoosh of the door closing behind him isn't nearly loud enough to drown out the now deafening thump of my heart as it attempts to claw its way up my throat.

  "Gotta. Calm. Myself," I say quietly in an attempt to distract my ears. "You can do this."

  "Enough with the sensory exploration," I tell myself. "Let's get this done."

  Cracking my eyelids to a sliver, I let in just enough light through my sunglasses to allow myself to see where I'm going.

  "Carts," I say. "I'm going to need a cart for all this." Looking around, I see a pitiful lane of mini-carts to my right, each about the size of a small laundry basket. "Well, those are pathetic," I sigh. "But beggars can't be choosey."

  I pull the first one free and push it ahead of me and almost immediately regret my decision. Only five feet into the store and the squeak-squeak of the front wheel is nearly enough to break my tenuous hold on sanity.

  "Fine," I growl at the cart. "Have it your way." And I pick the cart up and just carry it under my arm like a metal picnic basket (It is times like this that my current well of strength comes in handy.).

  After an interminable amount of time (Actually it was twenty-three minutes, but for someone who can sense every shift in the store's atmosphere it sure felt like a lot longer.), I manage to find nearly every item on my list (No bath towels, so I'm making due with a pink princess beach towel left over from their long ago end of summer sale.). By the time I'm ready to head up to the checkout, I'm almost enjoying my time in the store. Almost. I've opened my eyes up enough to see where I'm going without bumping into things, and I no longer jump every time the cashier turns a page in his magazine or the heater kicks on overhead. Even with the scent of humans being so rich in this place, I haven't had the desire to give in to my hunger a single time.

  "This could be doable," I say out loud as I make my way to the checkout counter. "I think I can do this going-into-society thing."

  As I unload my carried cart (It became cumbersome and awkward to maneuver in the aisles as I carried it, but it never really got heavy...no matter how much I put into it. How strong am I?) onto the little counter between us, I realize the cashier isn't even paying attention to me. His eyes drift across me as he grabs items and rings them up (That sharp ding as the register tallies each item is a bit grating. Before my ears experienced their steroidal growth in power, it was something I could ignore, but not now.), but he never really sees me. If given a quiz immediately upon my exit, I'm not even sure he would be able to correctly verify my gender let alone give an accurate description of me. All my fears of being this close to another person seem to be unfounded. This is easy.

  Too easy. I find that thrill-seeking side of my personality (A side of me which used to be content finding thrills in just putting off homework until the next morning as opposed to doing it at night. Now it's been amplified. Now I have to go and taunt cops or run my hunger dangerously low or whatever it is my brain is contemplating now.) wanting to start a conversation with the quiet Middle-Eastern fellow across from me just to see what will happen. Will he ignore me? Will he be shocked to see a young girl out by herself in this neighborhood? Will he even care?

  Before I can get too far into my scenarios, he finishes scanning the last item (A can of some cheap dog food they had - Bark-O brand.) and drops it into the bag.

  "Cash or credit card, please?" he asks in the beautiful lilting accent that I have come to know from every TV show with a Quick-E mart in it (Really me? I guess one of my new powers didn’t happen to be the abolishment of stereotypes, huh?).

  I freeze. This is a conversation. The first one I've had with a person (I'm not counting Lazzy here. He may be friendly and forgiving, but a great conversationalist he is not.) since I attempted to eat our school nurse. The weight of that settles on me as I attempt to formulate a response.

  Nothing. I've got nothing. My brain just whirls like a car stuck in neutral on ice, and I can't get any words out. What am I supposed to say when someone speaks to me? What am I supposed...

  Instead of replying verbally (Which apparently is beyond my ability at this time.), I dig my hand into my pocket and pull the debit card out of my retro Hello Kitty wallet (Just because I see the benefits of carrying a wallet doesn’t mean I have to give up embracing my feminine side!) and thrust it at him.

  "Thank you," he says with that wonderfully soft voice and proceeds to swipe my card and make our transaction official.

  Was that weird? I think. Did I take too long to answer? How long was I standing there like a doofus just staring at him? It had to have been forever. Ok, forever is obviously an exaggeration. Maybe thirty seconds? A minute? (Once I had time to think about it later, I realized it was only about two seconds. I guess a drawback of my new abilities is that the slowing-down-time thing can really backfire when you're feeling uncomfortable.)

  As I stand there blinking at him and replaying the last few moments in my head, he pushes my card and receipt across to me. I quickly pocket them and pull my mountain of bags off the counter glad to make my escape.

  "I survived," I think as I waddle out the narrow doors with my Santa sacks of goodies. "That wasn't so bad. I could easily do that again."

  But the worst part of my night wasn't behind me. It was just about to begin.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The bags are certainly cumbersome as they bump against my legs as I cross the deserted parking lot, but I still wouldn’t say they are heavy. Glancing down at my burden as I walk, I can tell they must be heavy by the strain being put on the plastic handles. They're heavy, but I don't feel it. I might as well be carrying bags stuffed with helium-filled balloons covered in goose feathers (Ok, that's certainly an exaggeration. I can feel the weight of the bags, it's just much more negligible than I would have expected.) for all I can tell.

  "This is definitely a side effect I could learn to live with," I mumble as I reach the far side of the street. The last several days have been far from pleasant, but I have to admit there have been some interesting diversions to help distract me. A well of unending strength is a welcome relief after spending my previous sixteen years as a - let's call it “size-challenged” - girl who could do pull ups in P.E. class, but they were nothing to write home about. I was too stubborn and strong-willed to ever be "weak", but I certainly wasn't making many boys flinch when I punched them in the shoulder after flirty banter gone awry.

  The best reaction I ever got was a "Hey, you punch kind of well. If you had any strength, then that might actually hurt". But even spending the last few years taking Krav classes with my dad it’s only allowed me to hit better. Not harder. Our instructor kept telling me I had good form, and if I'd just hit the weights and bulk up a bit then I'd have a chance of being a solid slugger. But that wasn't for me. Krav I can do. Mobile. Active. Fun. Lifting weights? Ugh.

  But now? Now I think I could pull off some of the hits that my instructor always wanted me to do. If I hit some of those boys with the strength that allows me to carry these bags and not even notice their weight? Yeah. Now, it'd be a whole different game.

  Maybe when I get back to the warehouse tonight I can try and set up a punching bag of some kind and see what I can do with it. These plastic bags could probably come in handy if I filled them with sand or dirt from the back lot behind the place. I could fill them, tie them off and hang them from a doorway. That w
ould help me let off steam and burn away some worry and fear.

  The more I think about it as I walk, the better it sounds.

  Only one problem, I realize: my hunger. I'll have to work to make sure I can keep it contained. It's one thing to test my strength and see what it will allow me to do. It'll be quite another if I just use the punching bag to work myself into a murderous froth of blood lust as I push myself further than I should. On the bright side, though, it doesn't feel like using my strength to carry these bags is pushing my abilities at all. So maybe if I'm careful, then my strength issue won’t be an...issue (Smoothly done there, me.).

  Stopping suddenly, I mutter, "Oh, poopy socks!" Something's wrong. I don't recognize this area at all. These buildings aren't the same ones I passed on the way to the store.

  "Where am I?" I ask and look around for any kind of familiar landmarks that might catch my attention, but I'm left with nothing. I'm in the right part of the city; I didn't walk long enough to completely leave the area, and the few buildings I see around me are run down and mostly abandoned. This has to be my new neighborhood, but how am I supposed to find my warehouse among all these monstrous dilapidated wrecks.

  Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply and try to retrace my steps. If I can figure out where I went wrong, then maybe I can backtrack and...

  "...and Holy Glorious mother of mighty crap!" I exclaim in a whisper (This is about as rough and tumble as my rebellious expletives get. If my parents knew I just combined something holy with something found in a toilet then there's a good chance they would...I don't know. But it'd be unpleasant and repetitive, I can tell you that much.). With my memory, not only can I accurately retrace my steps since leaving the store, but I can mentally map out my current path and see how it went awry from the one that would have led me back to the warehouse.