Chapter 3 #2
My eyes narrow as she sniffs around, nudging the crisp corner of my comforter out of its spot. I inhale deeply, trying to fight off the anxiety that bubbles up inside me. I hate my things being messed up.
She looks at me over her shoulder and meows as she sits on top of the comforter.
My brow arches as she kneads the soft bedding before nestling herself into it.
“Comfortable?” I grit out.
I get a soft purr in response. Her fluffy head tilts as her huge green eyes blink at me. Then her head tilts the other way as we stare at each other.
A soft snort leaves my nose before I pull the shirt from my body, tossing it into the hamper.
Rubbing the hair at the back of my neck, I look at the cat again.
Regal. Poised. And for some reason, she reminds me of Queen Victoria.
Who said my obsessive knowledge of British history wasn’t going to pay off?
Even if it’s just to nickname some cat who won’t be staying here very long.
Yeah, I like this name for her, and I’ll call her Queenie for short.
But as regal as she looks, there’s something else there in her eyes...
Loneliness.
I blink, moving next to the bed, unsure if that’s really what I’m seeing.
As I stand there, she nudges her soft nose into my hand.
I jerk back like she’s bitten me.
My hand clenches into a fist, then unclenches again.
Dammit. It never changes. Autism means any touch or contact makes me recoil every single time, and I can’t help it.
It makes it impossible for me to give or receive what everyone seems to have so natural—relationships.
Personal relationships that go beyond a nod or a jerk of my chin.
And I know my autism prevents me from ever indulging in some fantasy that I could ever have a real family of my own—that I could ever be with someone who really understands me.
Because I could never give a partner or children what they need—love and affection.
Queenie looks like she’s going to touch me again.
“No, no, nuh-uh, you have to stay away from me. Please! I don’t like to be touched.”
But she nudges my hand again with a lonely meow.
And I want to reassure her…that she’s not alone anymore. I want to do something for her that I wish I could have for myself. Comfort.
She brushes up against my hand again.
Slowly and reluctantly, my hand traces over her head and down her back. I want to comfort her, to give this cat something to lean into, something soft and tender. Something I don’t even think I’m capable of. And yet here I am trying. Trying to do the impossible.
Her purrs fill the space, and I close my eyes.
One stroke. Then another.
I squeeze my eyes shut and wince as I feel her soft fur against my skin. But instead of feeling panic rush through me, I feel a sense of calm. Something I never feel.
I slowly creak open one eyelid and watch her rub herself against me again.
And I realize that I find it sort of…soothing.
I’m completely stunned. Because ever since I can remember, I hated being touched.
Queenie does it again, and she definitely looks happier now and gives deep and rumbly purrs.
And this time, I find myself thinking it’s a sort of…nice feeling that I’m helping her feel happier.
And I wonder about something. Giving affection when someone else needs it—is that what’s allowing my body to tolerate the cat’s touch?
I look down to see Queenie pushing the top of her head beneath my hand.
My hand stays there as she nudges me again, as if she does it enough times I’ll get the memo.
“Okay, don’t think you’re going to get on my good side by doing that,” I murmur.
But I find myself giving the smallest smile at the same time.
I perch on the edge of my bed as Queenie sits beside me, her movements careful as if she knows she needs to take things slow with me.
“Alright, you can stay longer than one night.”
Meowing at me once more, I take it that we’ve come to some agreement.
After a few more moments, I stand from the bed as she curls again into the comforter, nestling down and making herself at home.
Later that week, laughter and the smell of smoke fill the rec room after dinner. It’s loud. Too loud, but I don’t make a face, and I don’t let on.
I took Queenie to the vet yesterday to check for an identity microchip, but there was none. And although I left my contact details with the vet in case anyone reports a missing cat, there’ve been no calls so far.
Nikolai leans back in his chair as he examines his hand for the fifteenth time since Matvey dealt them. A few of the other men around the table, various ranks among them, all billow smoke and talk about this and that.
Nikolai hums, and my gaze drifts from the poker to the screen on the wall yet again, just like it has repeatedly since I sat in this chair forty-five minutes ago. I’ve paid just enough attention to the game not to clean out just yet—it’s close, but I frankly don’t give a shit.
No, my attention’s on the screen. On the soft instrumental music.
On the sound of the skates gliding against the ice.
On the way the figure skaters’ bodies arch and twist and spin.
It’s calming. Methodical. It makes sense.
And it’s the only thing that keeps me from a spiral I can’t afford to show right now.
I like watching figure skating after dinner. I often download some online videos and watch them on the big screen in the rec room. The other men don’t mind as it reminds them of life in Russia where figure skating is a popular national obsession.
Watching the skating calms me down and keeps the nonstop trains in my head from becoming a tangled wreck of anxiety. Each graceful glide has my eyes following. Each twirl soothes me just a little more.
“You’re turn, Viktor.”
I hum, peaking at my cards before I look at Nikolai and fold, turning my attention back to the screen once more. There was no way I was winning that hand anyway, so I don’t let his scrunched nose of disappointment that I’m not interested bother me.
Instead, I lean back into the chair just as the girl on the screen lands, her arms fanning out.
The room fades.
The men’s voices disappear.
And my body relaxes. Finally.
The tension inside me melts, and I can breathe. This peace is only going to last for a few minutes, but it’s precious minutes I’ll take.
After the skating ends, I stand, leaving the men to their own devices.
I go up to my room. Queenie is curled up on the chair next to the bed, soundly sleeping.
I run through my nightly routine like clockwork.
Teeth brushed. Face washed off. Black clothing tossed into the hamper.
New black clothing laid out. Everything orderly and in the right place.
I settle into the bed, tucking my arm behind my head.
And with a sigh of relief, I get comfortable.
As usual, the overstimulation from the day has me on edge.
Closing my eyes, I just breathe, listening to the silence of my room.
The soft puffs of breath from Queenie are soothing, and I relax into my mattress a little more.
I don’t know why, but something about this animal calms me and grounds me.
I don’t know if it’s the gentleness of her purrs or the softness of her fur, but it’s like she understands me—and understands what I need.
Minutes tick by before I pull out my phone, wanting something more. The video is grainy. It shakes a little before the camera directs onto a skater as she takes to the ice in a Tinkerbell outfit.
My eyes track her. The green dress she wears swishes and sways effortlessly around her. She’s so graceful. Whoever she is.
The video is at least a few years old at this point, and still no one in the comments has a name. She’s a mystery, and yet I can’t stop watching her in this video over and over again.
She commands the ice. Flawless in everything she does.
My eyes drift to the comments once more with some foolish hope someone knows who she is.
Whoever she is, I know she never went pro.
At least not from what I can tell after my relentless online searches.
No major competitions. No social media. She’s just someone whose extraordinary talent was never fully realized, and that guts me.
Queenie wakes with a lazy meow, stretching out her fluffy paws before settling down back to sleep. My eyes flicker back to the screen just as Tinkerbell—as I’ve come to call her—lands her triple axel perfectly. Who knew someone like me would learn figure skating terms?
The want to know who she is gnaws at me.
The need consumes me every time I watch this.
She’s a mystery. An enigma. And I can’t stop wanting to find out who she is.
The shots showing her face are far too grainy to see any real detail.
The blurry video looks like an amateur one, perhaps taken during a small competition, and the only clue is the murmured Russian voice at the end talking about one of the jumps—maybe he’s her coach.
Did she go on to better things? Does she still skate? Where is she now? The questions roll on and on in my head even as my eyes grow heavy.
Like every night before, the mystery of who this woman is plagues me even as sleep tugs me under.