1. Sam
1
Sam
‘ Y ou just ran over that old lady’s foot. ’
“No, I didn’t.” I gripped the steering wheel tighter. “She was on the path, I’m on the road.”
‘ What if you mounted the path for a second without realising? ’
“Literally impossible.”
‘ I bet she’s calling the police right now. You’re going to go to prison. You’ll lose your job. Your house. Everything. ’
That was a bit rich of my intrusive thoughts. Remotely working for indie authors was great, but I wasn’t exactly raking in the money. My house was a shitty one bed in an even shittier area. Before I went to bed every night, I would religiously check that the front and back doors were locked with the two deadbolts I’d installed in addition to the standard lock.
That wasn’t because of my obsessive compulsive disorder though. Well, it wasn’t just because of my OCD. It was thanks to the time I woke up to some random bloke snoring on my other pillow. Most gay men would panic thinking they’d had a one-night stand they’d forgotten about thanks to having one too many.
Me though? I didn’t drink. Alcohol and my meds didn’t mix well.
Given how long it had been since I’d woken up to another man in bed with me, it was an extra kick in the teeth to know he was there uninvited. To be fair, I think the bloke was just as terrified as I was when he woke up to me screaming.
I wasn’t a particularly scary figure on the best of days. At six foot two, my height was about all I had going for me. The gym and I weren’t friends, something very much evidenced by my lean physique. Well, my muscles were lean, but I had some soft padding around my waist and hips thanks to my snacking habits.
Anyway, waking up to me screaming probably wasn’t that scary. I think it was more the fact that I was clutching a rounders bat from my school days and swinging it wildly that sent the man over the edge.
Once we’d reassured each other that neither of us were murderers who wanted to wear each other’s skin as coats, he explained that he was a local student with no idea how he’d ended up in my bed. A bit of further digging revealed he lived one street over.
He’d managed to get so wasted that he’d thought my house was his. The fact that there was already someone in his bed wasn’t something his brain had worried about with the amount of alcohol swimming in his veins. It had made me feel bizarrely jealous. What must it be like to not worry over every little thing?
It was a wake-up call though. It’d ended okay this time, but what about the next?
A neurotypical person might have been able to let it go. The logical part of their brain would reassure their emotional side that something like that was a once in a lifetime kind of event.
Unfortunately for me, that wasn’t how my brain worked. While I could both see and recognise the logic, it wasn’t enough for my emotional brain. A doctor had once explained to me that neurotypical brains usually had a rational part that was larger than their emotional one, meaning they were more likely to believe what their senses and reasoning were telling them.
For people with OCD, it was often flipped. The emotional side was dominant, meaning you’d question everything more than was healthy. It was called the doubting disease for a reason. So, you could drive past a little old lady knowing full well that your tyres hadn’t left the road. That you hadn’t mounted the path and run her foot over. But you couldn’t ever convince yourself that it was true.
You might have the intrusive thought as a neurotypical person. Everyone got them. The difference was, they could let it go.
It wasn’t that easy for me.
‘ You definitely hit her. You have to turn the car around to check. ’
Gritting my teeth, I glanced into the rearview mirror. Even this, I shouldn’t have been doing. Giving in to the compulsion would only make the need to do so again worse in the long run. But this was better than adding time to my journey by turning the car around. “No. She’s fine, I can see her walking along and chatting with her friend.”
I wasn’t sure if other people with OCD talked out loud to their thoughts sometimes, but fuck it. Out of all the coping mechanisms, it was one of the better ones.
I pushed on, ignoring the screaming thoughts that insisted I needed to turn around. Focusing on the drive, I tried to imagine the thoughts as balloons, floating past and away without me needing to do anything.
It helped. Not much, but enough that I was able to get home without driving back to where I had been.
Owning and driving a car in London was ridiculous. Parking was a nightmare, and don’t even get me started on the congestion charge. It was stupid to have a car when there were such amazing public transport links available.
But when you couldn’t bring yourself to use them, you didn’t have much choice. Paying a small fortune to avoid triggering my OCD was worth it. It was just one of the many adjustments I’d made in order to get through each day. Adjustments that had made my life…well, miserable if I was being honest.
Recently though, things had been looking up. Not because my mental health was improving, but because of him.
Nervous excitement bubbled in my stomach as I unlocked my front door and stepped inside. Would he be online this early? I should do a few more hours work first, but the temptation to log onto Creator was too great to ignore. That was the beauty of being your own boss—you set your hours. I might have to stay up until three a.m. getting work finished if I paused now for a bit, but it’d be worth it.
Chatting with Zeke was always worth it.
After carrying the shopping into the kitchen, I returned to check the front door. Once. Twice. Three times. Then I went racing back to the kitchen and started shoving the few bits I’d grabbed from Tesco into the fridge, freezer and cupboards. It was funny, some days I couldn’t face leaving the house, arranging instead for my shopping to be delivered. On other days, the idea of a stranger on my doorstep was enough to make me hyperventilate. On those days, running errands myself was preferable.
Say what you wanted about living with OCD, but it was never fucking boring.
My feet thumped on the stairs as I made my way to my bedroom with a bag of sweets in my hand. I made it to the top step before anything happened.
‘ You didn’t shut the freezer properly. ’
I gritted my teeth, trying to ignore the compulsion. After fighting with myself for a few seconds, I turned with a curse. It took less than a minute to check the freezer was shut—it was—then I was running back up the stairs again.
I was lucky that I could afford this place alone. I’d learned that having roommates wasn’t for me, especially when the roommates in question realised OCD didn’t mean liking my books organised in a satisfying way or being ultra clean.
The reality was so much more complicated.
I wasn’t an easy person to live with. I accepted that. No one liked being told they couldn’t leave windows wide open at night because I’d once heard that a bat might fly in and bite you, and you’d never know about it until you developed lockjaw and died of rabies. Or that I had to sit in a specific place in each room depending on where the door was.
That’s right, just call me Sheldon.
Nor did they understand why sometimes I could put things in the bin, while other times I’d stack the rubbish on the side. Or why some days I was fine with someone else touching my things, while on others it made me feel like my skin was peeling off.
I didn’t always understand it myself, so I didn’t expect others to.
That was the thing with OCD—some days were good, some days weren’t. Things that were easy one week would be impossible the next. It all depended on how good my general mental state was.
Naturally, I didn’t just have OCD. Life wasn’t that kind to me. I had what the doctor had called an “intriguing mix” of OCD, panic disorder, sensory processing disorder, and generalised anxiety disorder.
That’s right, folks, I’m a bundle of fun on any given day. I took mental health conditions and levelled that shit up to the max.
Hey, if I’m going to do something, I’m going to do it fully.
Dark humour and sarcasm was how I got through my life. If you didn’t laugh, you’d end up crying.
It wasn’t like every day was a bad one though. Thanks to the medication I was on and the therapy I’d had a long time ago, most days were good. The impact it had on my daily activities had been significantly reduced. Most people who met me wouldn’t know there was anything wrong.
Until they spent longer than a day or so with me. Then it’d become pretty fucking clear. It was why the vast majority of my interactions took place over the internet. I could be me, minus all the other baggage I carried.
For the most part, anyway.
Realistically, I needed more therapy, something specifically tailored for OCD. I’d had cognitive behavioural therapy on the NHS—all ten sessions I was entitled to—and it had helped a bit. The second and third times I was put through the programme again by my GP had helped a little bit more. But there was always a point where the usefulness just…stopped.
My GP had tried. He’d referred me for everything he could. The issue was that every time a service evaluated me, they said my needs were “too specialised for what they could offer.” But my needs weren’t drastic enough to qualify for the next level up of intervention. I wasn’t a danger to myself or others, so they weren’t interested either.
Whatever. It was what it was. Unless I suddenly won the lottery and could go private, nothing would change on that front.
Instead, I used the limited toolkit I had. I took my medication daily. I made concessions to my lifestyle to avoid triggers. I worked remotely from home. I lived alone. I didn’t have any friends. The little family I had lived hours away, our visits limited to once a year.
All in all, my life was safe. Contained. Predictable.
And so fucking lonely.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want friends. I’d had them in the past, but they’d gradually faded away. I couldn’t blame them. Who’d want to be friends with someone who always cancelled last minute? Who might need to leave somewhere because it was too noisy? Who would suddenly go radio silent because they just couldn’t fathom responding to one more message?
I didn’t blame them. I didn’t even blame me. The main thing that had come out of the therapy I’d had was that I understood that this wasn’t my fault.
Despite what my OCD might tell me.
As for a boyfriend? Forget it.
I’d dated in the past, but as with my friends, I was too much for anyone to put up with for long. I’d never forget the parting words my ex, Jason, had said to me before walking out of my life for good.
“ You’re just too much hard work, Sam. I want to live a normal life with a normal bloke. I hate waking up never knowing what kind of day you’re going to have. ”
I couldn’t hate him for it. How could I when I felt the exact same way? At least he got to walk away.
It wasn’t like I could walk away from my own brain.
I hadn’t bothered to date since him. What was the point? They all said they could cope with what I needed, but when the novelty wore off, they left. The most I’d managed to continue with was the most basic of friends-with-benefits situations. And I mean ‘friends’ very loosely. We rarely spoke outside of arranging sex.
It was okay. I’d learned to find pockets of happiness where I could. I hooked up occasionally, always controlling the environment to avoid all triggers. I loved my job, organising the lives of busy authors from the comfort of my own home. Reading their work in the early stages before creating beautiful covers and graphics gave me a satisfaction I’d yet to find in any other job. I enjoyed building Lego, with many complete and half-built sets covering the shelves in both my living room and my bedroom.
And, recently, I’d got really into this online game called Creator , where you worked with another online player to build and maintain a civilisation. Honestly, I didn’t know what had possessed me to even download it in the first place. It wasn’t like I knew anyone I could play it with.
Fortunately, there was a solution for that. Single players were paired up together, a chat box available so you could plan and discuss what your citizens might need to not die of typhoid or get eaten by wolves.
The game itself was fun, but nothing groundbreaking. Usually with this kind of game, I’d play it obsessively for a couple of weeks before my mind moved on to a new fixation.
That hadn’t happened yet. It had been six weeks of almost all of my free time being occupied by the same thing. It was the longest I’d fixated on anything this hard since I’d discovered Modern Family . To be honest, my longest fixations were usually TV shows. There was something about American sitcoms in particular that was comforting. They were funny and predictable, and, while they might dip into darker waters, they never stayed there long.
But a game? None of them had ever held my interest for this amount of time. The truth was, it was nothing to do with the game.
It was my partner. Zeke.
I knew very little about him. I didn’t know what he looked like, what he did for a living or even his age, but what I did know, we had in common. We both lived in London. Both stayed up way too late playing on Creator while the rest of the world slept. We shared a love of Jelly Babies and dark humour.
And we were both gay. It had come up in a discussion about Jonathan Bailey and how attractive he was. I kind of wished I didn’t know that about Zeke.
It was dangerous information. The kind of information that sent my imagination running wild with scenarios that would never happen.
No matter how much I might want them to.
It wasn’t a lot to know about a person, but it was enough for me. Enough for my mind to greedily latch on to the serotonin I got from seeing the little green dot next to his name.
Opening my laptop, I held my breath as the game loaded. The graphics flickered across the screen before our current civilisation appeared. It was the fourth one we’d created together. The first three had turned to shit because we’d been too busy chatting to remember to actually do anything with the game.
I hadn’t commented on this, and neither had Zeke. The first time it had happened, I’d been hit by a wave of disappointment, thinking that’d be it for our conversations. It had lasted less than a heartbeat as Zeke immediately invited me to another game.
The next two had gone the same way as the first, and this one was likely to as well, but I didn’t care. I was man enough to admit it wasn’t why I was there.
I was there to talk to Zeke. It was a blissful reprieve from the loneliness that usually surrounded me.
I clicked onto the chat box, and my lips immediately curled in a grin.
Zeke was online.
A message flashed up before I could type a greeting.
Zeke
There you are
Fluttering erupted in my stomach at the idea that he’d been waiting for me. I stamped it down, refusing to let my overactive imagination build this into something it wasn’t.
Zeke
Have you been off on some crazy mission again?
I snorted, my fingers flying over the keyboard. My job as a virtual assistant and graphic artist could see me doing anything from creating covers to posting social media content. Occasionally though, I’d be asked to carry out a more…unusual request. Normally this was for one of the many romance authors who made up my client list. Whenever they messaged asking if I had time to do something, I knew it could be anything from creating a teaser for their next book to hunting down an appropriate NSFW image for a new cover.
Sometimes though, these requests went beyond that. The last time it had been to produce a set of bango cards for a panel at an event.
Yes, that’s right. Not bingo, bango . Same concept as bingo, but instead of numbers, the audience had to listen out for random kink or sexual terms the authors might say during the panel. The author in question had reported back that it had been a roaring success with readers.
I’d talked about it with Zeke and, ever since then, he made a point to ask if I’d had any other unusual requests.
Sam
Not today, just food shopping sadly
Zeke
you got Jelly Babies though, right?
My gaze caught on the bright yellow bag sat next to my keyboard. An impulse struck me, and before I could overthink it, I navigated to the game app on my phone and opened it. Aiming my camera at the sweet packet, I snapped a photo and uploaded it to our chat.
Zeke
that’s a depressingly small packet of Jelly Babies
I opened it, popping one in my mouth with a grin before responding.
Sam
best Tesco had to offer. Fucking rip off too. Cost me almost three quid
it’s because the Jelly Babies formed a union. They know they are superior to all other sweets, so demanded to be sold at a premium price.
I will eat them all head first, just to remind them of their place
I see how it is, you act all nice and sunshiney, but deep down you’re at home, cannibalising poor, innocent jellies. What’d they ever do to you?
they emptied my bank account, that’s what they did
This was why I liked chatting with Zeke. Our conversations were easy. Effortless. Sometimes a little wacky.
It wasn’t something I’d experienced often before.
Zeke
I didn’t know we could send pics on here
My hand froze, Jelly Baby halfway to my mouth. Shit, was he going to ask to see a picture of me? Or send one of him?
I dropped the sweet back into the packet and ran a hand through my hair. It wasn’t that I thought I was unattractive, but I sure as shit wouldn’t be winning any beauty contests. What if Zeke saw what I looked like and didn’t want to speak to me ever again? What if I’d accidentally cut him up once and he remembered and decided to sue me? What if?—
Stop. I took some steadying breaths. These are not your real thoughts.
Picturing each one like a balloon, I let them go, watching them drift away through the air. When I felt calm, I opened my eyes to see several messages from Zeke.
Zeke
every time I learn something about technology, I feel like something new crops up
shit, am I showing off how old I am now?
Sam? You there?
yep, I’ve done it. I’ve scared you away with my ancient ways and piss poor technological skills
RIP Sam and Zeke’s friendship. Please don’t send flowers. Jelly Babies are preferred
Just like that, I was laughing again. Seeing Zeke’s spiral, even if it was only a jokey one, had pulled me right out of my own.
Shaking my head, I was still chuckling as I typed my reply.
Sam
Fuck me, you’re melodramatic. I disappeared for TWO MINUTES
Zeke
I’m not melodramatic, I’m needy
And old, apparently
Balls. Should’ve known it’d show itself eventually
My fingers twitched over the keyboard as I debated asking the next question. In all our conversations, the only pieces of personal information we’d shared were our chat names and that we lived in London.
Fuck it, it couldn’t hurt…right?
I typed the question quickly before my OCD could grab hold of that thought and point out all the ways it could potentially hurt.
Sam
how old is old? Are you sending these messages from your nursing home?
Zeke
cheeky shit
a gentleman never tells his age. But, if I were to tell you, I’d say I appear to be around thirty-five.
I rolled my eyes. “Appear to be.” Zeke had a funny way of expressing himself sometimes. Thirty-five was only a year older than me…
Doesn’t matter, Sam. Don’t go there.
Sam
a gentleman? is that what you’re claiming to be?
There was a long pause before Zeke’s response appeared.
Zeke
I’m the perfect gentleman
unless the situation calls for me to be something else
I sat back, fanning my suddenly hot cheeks. Was Zeke…flirting with me?
Pull it together, Sam. This was an online friendship, nothing more. Besides, I didn’t even know what this guy looked like. Knowing my luck, he was a balding man in his sixties who lived in his parents’ house. There was no reason for me to be imagining just what situations might call for ungentlemanly behaviour.
Or what said behaviour might look like.
Apparently I fanned myself for too long, Zeke misinterpreting my silence.
Zeke
fuck, was that inappropriate?
I’m sorry, I don’t have much of a filter
I smiled softly.
Sam
I like your lack of filter.
Zeke
phew
I haven’t scared you off then?
Scared me off? Jesus, if anyone should be scared it was Zeke. The speed at which my brain was forming an attachment to him was unnerving.
Sam
impossible