Chapter Four, Narrator
There came a point in every woman’s life where she realized she had officially become her own worst enemy.
For me, that point was when I tried to roll over in bed and found myself stuck because I had, at some point during my three-day hibernation, swaddled myself in my quilt so tightly that I resembled a human sushi roll. Or a burrito.
A burrito made of death and despair. Not white girl seasoned chicken that lacked all heat, and had enough sour cream to kill a dozen lactose intolerant bitches.
Unfortunately for me, the Heather burrito was alive and, regrettably, still kicking. It didn’t rot away into nothingness like I wanted it to. Even if I had that one night a few days ago, where I’d woken up on the couch with an insatiable itch in my nose, and a headache that lasted almost two days.
I shifted awkwardly, my cocoon rustling as I attempted to figure out where the edge of the quilt had gone.
As I struggled, I could almost hear the voice of David Attenborough narrating my predicament.
Thanks to all the documentaries Giovanni De Stupid had been watching in the lounge, loud enough for me to hear.
I did my best Attenborough voice.
“And here we observe the rare and elusive Heather, a creature known for its reclusive tendencies and unparalleled ability to wallow in its own misery. This particular specimen appears to have nested in what can only be described as a catastrophic depression den.”
Finally, I managed to wriggle free, my feet hitting the floor with all the grace of a toddler taking their first steps.
My knees cracked, reminding me that three days in bed doesn’t do much for your joints.
Especially when you were twenty-six, so naturally your knees cracked when you even thought about walking or standing up.
I sat there on the edge of the mattress, clutching the quilt around me like some kind of makeshift armor, and stared at the door.
The idea of venturing beyond my room felt like preparing for battle.
Somewhere out there were Gio and Atlas, and I wasn’t sure I had the energy to deal with either of them.
But staying here wasn’t an option anymore.
I was starting to feel less like a person and more like an urban legend.
With a resigned sigh, I heaved myself up and shuffled toward the door, quilt still firmly wrapped around me.
I didn’t bother looking in the mirror as I passed it.
I didn’t need to see the dishevelled mess of neon blue hair and regret that was undoubtedly staring back.
Instead, I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, narrating my progress in my head as if I were in a nature documentary once again.
It was more fun to pretend to be a wild creature than a real loser.
“The Heather approaches the edge of its territory, cautiously testing the boundaries of its domain. Notice the sluggish movements and the avoidance of reflective surfaces—a clear indication of its fragile state.”
The hallway stretched ahead of me as I did my best to sneak.
The wooden floor creaked under my weight, each step amplified like a bitch rudely announcing my presence.
I kept the quilt wrapped tightly around me, its fabric trailing on the floor like a ridiculously oversized cape.
Maybe it would shield me from whatever was waiting out there.
Or maybe it just made me look like an eccentric ghost. Either way, I wasn’t letting it go.
I had already lost my sanity. I couldn’t give up my comfort blankie too.
I paused at the edge of the main room, peering around the corner like a fugitive scoping out the terrain.
The cabin was quiet, but I knew better than to trust that.
Gio and Atlas were likely lurking somewhere, waiting to pounce with concerned questions or, worse, sympathy.
I wasn’t ready for either. Sympathy was a minefield.
One wrong step, and I’d explode into a mess of tears and snot, and no one wanted to deal with that.
Eyes narrowed for danger, I shuffled forward, my quilt rustling softly as I moved. The room was the same warm wood and cozy vibes I’d left it in. But it felt far bigger than before. Almost like my mind had forgotten about the space beyond the bed.
There was a whole Earth out there. A flat one, if the moron podcast men were to be believed. A round one if I remembered I had brains nestled somewhere deep in the crevices of my pretty head.
My current Earth was not as empty as I would have liked it to be. There were loser boys inside of it, their stink permeating the air.
My gaze darted toward the couch, where Gio sat with his legs sprawled out like he owned the place.
His head was tilted back, eyes half-closed, but I knew better than to think he was actually asleep.
He never napped without me. He said he was too grown up for them.
In reality, it was probably because he was a man.
Men could never take a few minutes to just shut the fuck up and stay in one spot.
Atlas was in the kitchen, his back to me as he fiddled with something on the counter.
He moved with the kind of efficiency that suggested he was either making food or chopping up a corpse.
Maybe both. Either way, I wasn’t sticking around to find out.
Not when I knew he would mother me and make me ugly cry again.
They’d both felt extra caring since the headache incident. Like the fact we’d all woken up feeling like shit was a sign of the apocalypse, and instead of being normal about it they were smothering me.
I enjoyed being smothered, but only by a large hand or two when I was being fucked. But on days when I wanted to be normal, it only made it harder to pretend.
I clutched the quilt tighter and kept my head down, determined not to make eye contact as I whispered to myself.
“The Heather employs its natural camouflage, blending into its surroundings with the help of its quilt-like shell. Watch as it attempts to avoid detection by the dominant males of the group.” I shuffled toward the bathroom with all the stealth of a mildly agitated sloth.
Atlas was scared of sloths. I’d heard him tell Gio that. It made no sense to me, but I suppose everyone had to have a fear. Even hitmen and hackers who killed easier than I shook my ass for rich men or chocolate.
For a second, I had the oddest memory. Like a dream of aliens and chocolate. Something just on the edges of my subconscious but not enough for me to grab onto.
Halfway to my haven, Gio shifted on the couch, and my heart lurched and subconscious quieted down. He opened one eye and glanced in my direction, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “Look who decided to join the land of the living. It’s nice to see you’re still alive, amore mio.”
I ignored him. Ignoring him was usually the safest option, especially when I had no desire to find my pretty switchblade to give him another scar.
My grip on the quilt tightened as I sped up, my bare feet sliding slightly on the smooth wooden floor.
“The Heather senses danger and quickens its pace, seeking refuge in its designated safe space.” I huffed even quieter.
“Morning to you, too,” he called after me, his tone dripping with amusement.
I didn’t bother responding because the only response I could think of was to hiss at him. But I didn’t want to risk upsetting Malivore, who was napping by the fireplace, by making her think that her mortal enemy, a cat, was in our home.
Atlas glanced over his shoulder as I passed, but thankfully, he didn’t say anything. He just raised a pierced eyebrow, his expression unreadable. I’d take it as a win, seeing as he wasn’t racing to my side, eager to smother me with affection.
I loved his affection, but I didn’t want it until I was clean. It was hard to relax in a hug when you stunk like poor life choices and regret. Oh, and a bit of cherry cola that you’d spilled on yourself two days prior.
Finally, I reached the bathroom and slipped inside, shutting the door firmly behind me.
I leaned back against it, my heart racing like I’d just completed a marathon.
For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the worn tiles and the simple pink shower curtain someone had installed in my rotting days, and let out a slow breath.
Unfortunately, the slow breathing allowed my stink to hit my nose harder, and I had no choice but to shed my quilt and clothes, hurrying my ass into the shower.
It was instantly better in my head.
There was nothing quite like realizing you’d forgotten how to human properly until you stepped into a shower for the first time in days and immediately felt like you were reenacting a baptism.
Except instead of redemption, all you were washing off was self-pity and crumbs from your last attempt at emotional eating.
Blueberry muffin, sort of emotional eating. Homemade by a Russian dude with skeleton tatts and a penchant for stalking and sweet words.
As the water hit me, I couldn’t help but narrate the moment internally again, David Attenborough style clearly a new special interest of mine for the day.
“Observe the Heather in its unnatural habitat. The shower, an environment usually frequented by the species, now serves as a site of rare activity. It appears the subject has finally recognized the importance of hygiene, though it remains unclear whether this realization will become a habit.” I pressed my palms against the tiles and let out a long breath, already questioning every life choice that had led me to this particular shower scene.
I reached for the soap as I closed my eyes, hoping that if I couldn’t see the world, then it could not see me. Or the state I’d been in since finding out the truth about my best friend’s death.
More importantly, who had raped and murdered her purely because he thought she was me.
Turned out it wasn’t just a match to Gio. It was his… his…