Obsessed

by R. J. Lewis

  My trembles eventually died down, and my tears stopped. A euphoric wave passed over me, and then…realization. I was holding on to my ER doctor, not Aston. He smelled like antiseptic wash, not spices. He also had dark eyes, not green, and I kept waiting for him to break out with lines from White Collar, but he did not. It was a day of disappointments.

  I pulled away abruptly, like I’d been jolted. His arm dropped straightaway as I backed into the bed, staring at him with wide eyes.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be tending to everyone else?” I asked him, forcing a fake smile. This was unbearably awkward, especially when I glimpsed at the wet patch on his chest. His hard chest.

  He smiled back warmly. “No, I’m all yours for the time being. I’m going to be back to administer a local anaesthetic and clean that wound up. It should be a relatively painless procedure.”

  “What procedure?”

  “You need stitches.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  “It could have been worse.” He got back up. “Give me a few minutes.”

  When I nodded, he left and I sat there, listening to more jingle fucking bells.

  *

  Doctor Crowe was very gentle. He put me back together again. Physically, that is. If only it worked that way with feelings.

  There was a nurse in the room with us, and I kind of wished she was gone. I liked when he had held me and told me it was okay. He’d been human to me, whereas now he was painfully professional. I kept waiting for him to act awkward about the whole hugging him thing, but he didn’t look flustered in the slightest. I realized very quickly this was a man that controlled every inch of his emotions. Like Aston. I should have been tired from guys like that.

  “It’s going to heal very slowly,” he informed me after he’d finished and bandaged it. “It’ll be red, then pink for a long time. You can use topical creams to help it fade. Take it easy with your hand, don’t prod at the stitches. If anything happens, you come right back. Aside from that, you’re all set to go.”

  When I nodded, he stood up. “Have a good afternoon, Miss Wright. And… take care of yourself.”

  He left a beat later, not a glance over his shoulder. Why was I expecting anything different?

  The nurse led me out. Adrian was still in the waiting room, and he smiled kindly at me as I joined him. We didn’t speak, but he wrapped an arm around me and took me back to the car.

  He took me home, but he purposely took a long, scenic route there. We drove through farmland, lakes and areas with stunning mountain views. The sky was so clear, I could see the mountain peaks, and the trees on them looked like giant green cauliflowers swaying in the light breeze. I felt soothed by the sight and the headache that had been pounding inside my skull dulled.

  “I know everything is hard,” Adrian told me. “You’ve been through a lot, Elise, but…”

  I glanced at him and shrugged half-heartily. “But it wasn’t right what I did. I know that.”

  “I’m concerned for you.”

  “You don’t need to be. What happened was…Shit, I don’t know what that was.”

  “A breakdown.”

  “Yeah.”

  He nodded, sighing. “I’m going to talk to your mother when we get back. She seems absent.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “She needs to be there for you. You’ve been alone. I saw that at the funeral. Aston…I can understand his grief. That boy’s been through hell and back as a child, but your mother needed to be there for you.”

  I didn’t respond. I just swallowed and numbly looked out the window again.

  “We all mourn differently,” he told me. “We shut down, we get angry, we run away. But eventually we have to find ways to move forward. You have to tell your mother that.”

  I just nodded because it seemed easier than to argue. He didn’t seem to understand Mom was gone. She couldn’t be brought back, not with my help anyway.

  “You’ll make it,” he said, confidently. “You will, El. With or without them.”

  *

  After my breakdown, I stayed in the house for the rest of the summer. I didn’t break windows or smash anything else to pieces. On the contrary, I barely moved at all. I felt beaten. The tears slowed, but sometimes I’d be struck with random sob fits that lasted a few minutes and stopped in the blink of an eye. Then I was normal again. Well, normal enough not to break shit.

  But I knew I’d changed. Inside of me, this anger sat, eating away at all my other emotions. I felt aggressive, like the sweet girl that loved to dance just a few weeks ago was gone. I was grieving her loss on top of everything because no amount of good music made me want to move. I was a shell.

  Adrian fixed Aston’s bedroom and put up a new window. He then went to Mom and tried to speak to her, but he always left the bedroom more frustrated than he was when he went in. I didn’t think he could help her either. He probably understood me now because he never brought her up again to me. He came and went, dropped off groceries, helped me around the house. He was a godsend.

  I spent my time thinking of Aston. I don’t know why, but I continued to hope. I tried to look at the bright side. He couldn’t mean what he said. He would come to his senses, pick up the phone and call me. But then days turned to weeks, and weeks turned to months, and I realized his silence spoke a thousand words. He had left me to manage our broken mother, and she didn’t want a bar to do with me.

  Hope was intangible and meaningless.

  Our home was an emptiness that couldn’t be filled.

  We were all drifting further and further away, and I had no choice but to accept it.

  *

  My first semester of high school was a fucking bitch on a stick riding a two legged horse in the pits of hell – on a good day. I was talked about. My infamy had reached all corners of the student body. My episode at the house, the confrontation with Aston – all of it had spread like a virus, mutating into ridiculous versions that made the real story unrecognizable to theirs. My life was out there and in the hands of gossipers and preachy old ladies who scowled at me with judging eyes. Misinformed fucks who believed Aston was my blood brother and I was an incestuous harlot who needed God. No big deal.

  It was hard. I won’t even sugar coat it. Imagine constantly putting up a front so they didn’t know they were getting to you. Because if they knew they were getting to you, they swarmed around you longer, poking and prodding for more of a reaction, until you erupted and they had a new wave of gossip to spread around.

  Mom remained introverted. When she eventually went to work, she spent most of her time there. Sometimes I wouldn’t see her for days at a time, and if we crossed paths in the house, it was mute and cold. It didn’t stop me from trying, though. I tried to ask her how she was, tried to be in the same room as her just so we could warm up to each other’s presence, but I got nothing back. She shut me out without reason, and I struggled to understand what happened to the warm mother I once knew.

  To top it all off, Aston didn’t return home for the holidays. He sent a Christmas card, and a small present for Mom, but that was it.

  I had gone from having a full life to a completely empty one. Worst of all, I was alone.

  And loneliness was a madness you couldn’t escape from.

  20.

  Elise

  You know how spinsters become cat ladies when they lose all hope in life after being burned time and time again by horrible, stupid men that squeezed their hearts ‘til it popped in their fists? Don’t linger on the gruesome images. Point was, I had become one.

  But first I became friends with a homeless druggie. I know, I know. I had lost my mind.

  On the weekends just before I went to work at the paintball field, I started taking walks in the mornings along the lake. The water reminded me of a good place in my life. It brought me closer to Dad and the memories of teaching Aston to swim in the water.

  Before I found Tuck hidden in a bush, I talked to this homeless dude named Ray. He’d sit o
n the boardwalk and throw bread at the birds, and I stopped once and said, “You know there’s a sign that says you can’t do that, right?”

  “Where?” he asked, all stoned-out from the blunt in his hand.

  “Right next to you.” I pointed to the sign two feet from him that had acted as a wind shield for him and read:

  DO NOT FEED BIRDS OR PIGEONS. Because pigeons didn’t fall under the bird category, I guess? The sign must have been made on a Friday.

  Feeding of pigeons or birds creates artificially high populations that cannot be supported by the natural habitat. DO NOT FEED BIRDS OR PIGEONS!

  Ray looked at the sign and then back at me. He didn’t read it. “You going to do something about it?”

  “No.”

  He turned back, offended by my presence, and resumed feeding the pigeons and birds stale bread. I left him alone after that first day, but every weekend I’d return and he was there, throwing bread either at the water for the ducks, or at the beach for the pigeons/birds. I showed up after the fourth time with a bag of bread from my house. I gave it to him and went to leave when he said, “You can feed them that, if you want.”

  I glanced around at the few elderly people walking by, staring at us with strange expressions. For the first time ever, it didn’t bother me in the slightest. I sat down next to Ray and I threw the ducks bread, totally in denial about how bad it probably was for their health. Was duck killer worse than brother-fucker? I hesitated on that thought and decided to put the bread aside. When I left him that day, I googled it and replaced bread with oats from my cupboard. Oats always died in my pantry, like bananas.

  I learned a bit about Ray. We weren’t talkers though, so my info was limited. He was only twenty-three and had black curly hair and scruffy cheeks. He was a drug head. I wasn’t stereotyping that shit; he’d told me himself once: “I gotta go buy some coke. Feed the birds my bread for me, will you?”

  I’d nodded and he’d left. When he came back, he was high off his ass and smoking a cigarette. He had the nerve to ask me if I could spare him some coin.

  “No, Ray,” I hissed, “I will not spare you some coin. Get clean.”

  “Fuck you, Eldorado.”

  “It’s Elise.”

  “Whatever.”

  I rolled my eyes. “That shit is going to kill you.”

  “Good.”

  I was a little startled by his tone. He honestly didn’t seem to care. “What do you mean good? Do you want to die?”

  “Nobody would care.”

  “Don’t you have family?”

  “My crew are my family.”

  “Are the people in your crew homeless too?”

  “Yep.”

  I pursed my lips. “What about your real family? What happened to them?”

  “I got abused, so I ran away from him.” Him. My heart hurt for my druggie homeless friend who liked to feed pigeons stale bread. He’d answered it so matter-of-fact. Nothing more, nothing else. It was kind of the perfect answer.

  “Sorry to hear that,” I muttered.

  He shrugged. “What’s your story?”

  “I fucked my brother.”

  “Nice.”

  “He wasn’t my real brother.”

  “I’m not judging.”

  I cracked a smile as he pulled a funny face. “Everyone talks about me. My father died and I kind of lost my shit. Aston – my adopted brother – took off on me.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry about your old man.”

  “Thanks.”

  That was the end of that conversation. It was the most we’d ever talked. I left him sometime later when I discovered I was late for work. I was walking down the beach when I saw something black scurry into a bush. I thought it was a rabbit at first. For some reason, I walked to the small bush and stood there for several moments.

  “Hello?” I asked, which was stupid. Was I expecting this bunny to say hello back?

  To my surprise, the black furry animal emerged from the bush and rubbed against my leg. Its furry ball of a head looked up at me and went, “meow.” It was love at first meow. I knelt down and patted the furry head. The cat was tiny, a kitten judging by its size, and all bones. I could feel the spine as I slid my hand from head to bum.

  “You’re a stray,” I muttered, looking at its collarless neck.

  I looked around, wondering what I should do in this situation. This wasn’t the first stray I’d seen. I’d always just walked right past them, these tiny little creatures that were all fending for themselves. When she nudged against my leg again and purred under my palm, I knew what she was asking for. Scraps of food. I wanted to give her more than scraps of food, though.

  I gathered her in my arms and walked back home with her. Then I called in sick to work, hopped a bus to the nearest vet, and sank a healthy chunk of my savings into her.

  Her was actually him, and he was nine weeks old and severely underweight. He got his shots done and we scheduled a date to get him neutered (God, that word sounded offensive).

  After that, I bought a crate, a litter box, litter, food, and a scratching post. Another hit to my unhealthy savings account. When I got home, I gave him a soft blanket and he crashed after a giant bowl of food.

  *

  I decided on the name the next day. I skipped school to spend time with my new furry friend. I’d just given him a bath, and it was surprisingly easy. He ducked his head under the running water with his mouth wide open. It was the strangest thing. I thought cats hated water. After he stopped smelling like a trashcan, I wrapped him up in a towel and was carrying him downstairs when the doorbell rang.

  I opened the door, half of me soaking wet, and stared at two old people holding a bible to their chest. They smiled widely at me, but they had knowing eyes. They knew who I was, and I wondered if they were sent by Becky who, incidentally, was watering her garden next door within view and peering at us.

  “Hello!” the woman with the bible and crazy hair cheered. “Awww, look at your wittle furry friend all tucked under your arm! Awww, isn’t that sweet, Howard?”

  Howard was staring at my chest, but he made a grunting sound. Meanwhile, I twisted my body to the side, shielding my poor little dude from the word “wittle”.

  “You guys want anything?” I asked, warily.

  “We wanted to give you this booklet,” the woman returned, handing me it. Jesus was on the front, all blue-eyes and blond hair (riiight), and on the top read, “DO YOU NEED TO BE SAVED?”

  I stared at the booklet for a moment. “Uh, wow, thanks. I’ll check it out later.”

  “Please do,” the woman went on. “It’s never too late to be saved until it’s too late.”

  I blinked. “Mmkay.”

  “Do you want us to go over some verses with you while your little angel is tucked under your arm? She looks sleepy.”

  I frowned, insulted even. “He.” Jeesh, I was already overprotective of him. How sad.

  “And no,” I added. “I’m kind of really busy right now. I’ll be saved later.”

  Before they could respond, I slammed the door shut and threw the booklet on the entrance stand. Then I went into the living room, my little dude still tucked under my arm, and knelt down beside the scratching post. I let him roam. He walked straight past the scratching post and dug his claws into the black leather couch. “No!” I yelped. “Not there!” I picked him up and settled him on the top of the post. He jumped back down and ate the leaves on the fake plant a few feet away. Fucking hell, I got up again and turned him away. This shit was hard. He was so dumb.

  I rested back on the rug and watched him destroy the room. He clawed at the leather couch again, but I just went “meh” and let him. Eventually, he moved over to me and stepped on me, like I was some freaking doormat. Was this normal? He balanced himself on my breasts and nudged his wet nose against mine. I heard him purr and laughed as he then proceeded to knead my neck.

  “Ouch!” I hissed, jumping beneath
him. He lost balance and crashed to the floor. I apologized profusely, and he stood back up, shook his head clear again, and wandered around once more. He was surprisingly chill. A cat that liked water, liked to be tucked under my arm, quick to bounce back from landing on his head. Most of all, he came back to me and tucked himself under my armpit and fell asleep.

  “You’re like me,” I told him.

  I called him Tuck because…well, he loved to be tucked into my side every night.

  But fuck he was expensive. 400 dollars went poof in a day.

  *

  Tuck got my mind off things. He was the perfect man. He gave me love when I was alone and drinking wine straight from the bottle. He watched Sherlock with me and listened to my tales of how fucking sexy Benedict Cumberbatch was. “Do you want me to have his babies?” I asked Tuck. He purred and head butted me. “Thanks. I think you’re freaking awesome too.”

  I let him out on walks with me, and he never went far. I could have put him on a lead if I wanted to, but I didn’t like the idea I’d be tugging his neck around. He woke me up in the mornings when it was time to go to school and the alarm was pissing him off. He protected me from branches that hit my window in the middle of the night by growling and smacking at the window.

  He also caught birds and dumped their carcasses at my feet. It was the sweetest thing. I’d never go hungry again if carcasses were appetising. I doted on him. I got him toys and those ridiculously overpriced premium foods with the words “organic” and “sea breeze” on the front. I considered getting him a friend to play with, but he was extremely territorial and the sight of another cat had him clawing at the screen windows. I had to get Adrian to replace three in one month.

  “Does your mother know about Tuck?” he asked me as he fitted the screens in.

  “Maybe,” I answered without care. “She hasn’t said anything.” She never said anything at all.

  He didn’t seem happy about that, but he kept his mouth shut and bent down to stroke Tuck. Tuck hissed and hit at his hand.

  Oh, he also didn’t like strangers.

  I’d gone from being that social butterfly to loving my solitude. Before I couldn’t go days without talking to someone. Now, I would happily go weeks so long as I was buried in a book or watching Star Wars.