CHAPTER 5
GLOBE THISTLE BLUE
ARELLA
I was being watched.
I was becoming more and more aware of that fact every day.
There were two options, I either had a guardian angel or a stalker, because every time I went out with a new guy, a photo of him doing something incriminating would randomly pop up into my inbox, like one where he would have his tongue down another woman’s throat, or he would disappear from my life altogether, as if he never existed, without so much as a breakup message.
I didn’t mind the stalker though, as he only seemed to be protecting me from sleaze bags and not interfering in other aspects of my otherwise boring life.
Sometimes he sent me food, like last night after the horrible experience in the parking lot when I came home to find a bag from my favorite Chinese restaurant on my doormat with a note that said:
“You’ve been neglecting yourself.
G.”
Well, G, thanks for noticing.
Whoever this G was, he hadn’t left me any notes until last night, which meant something had triggered him, and I wondered if he was there when it happened.
I rolled onto my side and looked at the time, then my eyes ran over the handprint on my forearm. It was but a red stain last night as the blood had rushed to the spot, but because the hemoglobin had degraded during the night, it was now deep purple, and I shivered at the memory of his rough hands on me.
I sighed.
I hoped his balls still hurt.
Boy, I knew how to pick them.
I dragged my ass out of bed at five in the morning, even though I’d only slept for four hours, thinking I should have smoked more weed before calling it quits. Maybe that would have kept me sedated longer and I could have actually had a nice six hours of shuteye.
As I dragged my legs across the floor to the bathroom, I felt the wetness sliding down my thighs and groaned in frustration as I remembered my dream.
It was the same every night: I got on the plane to Chicago and met a scary tattooed guy again. I only called him that because I didn’t know his name. We would talk, or rather, I would talk, and he would listen. Then, the dream always ended with me pinned against the airplane’s bathroom sink and his massive body between my legs.
To add frustration to the mix, I always woke up in the middle of the night just before I could fall over the edge, wet and craving more or the rush his imaginary touch gave me.
Then, to make matters worse, when I would fall back asleep, I would dream of the guy in the Grim Reaper costume from that one Halloween party I attended, and while his dream wasn’t sexual in nature, it still aroused me.
I was obsessed with two unknown men. One with a mask and his words tattooed on my skin, and one with a face, whom I had clung to when I thought that stupid plane was going to fall out of the sky, whom I had dreamed about ever since I saw him nine years ago.
There weren’t any words to describe what it felt like to see him on that plane, because ever since I stepped foot in the United States, the guy I saw across from me at luggage pick-up had been a constant thought in my head. An itch I couldn’t scratch, he’d become a growing obsession ever since he had comforted me when I had been scared of turbulence.
Standing naked in front of the mirror, I rubbed my thighs together to try and release some of the frustrating pressure in my womb, and I brushed my teeth as my eyes fell on the vibrator on the counter.
I plugged it in last night, having drained the battery a few days before my twenty-four-hour shift.
Yes, still a virgin, and not a fun one, but not for lack of actively trying to get rid of it.
During high school, I had been the girl that everyone avoided due to my family, and in college I only cared about my classes. The only moment when I didn’t think about studies was when I’d danced with him.
I promised myself that I would start dating as soon as I got a job, and I did. In the last three years of my life, I dated countless men, but somehow, they all had unforgivable flaws. Flaws I wouldn’t have known about if I didn’t have a shadow to open my eyes.
Sometimes I wished I was one of those girls who could just go to a club and pick up a guy, fall into bed with him, let him take my virginity and then leave without any feelings of guilt or shame involved.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t one of those girls.
I fell into the other category, of the girls who dated to marry, of the ones who wanted their first time to be with a man they loved and who loved them.
The Grim Reaper and scary tattooed guy both had the potential to be a man I would have fallen in love with, but I left one of them behind to tend to my roommate and never saw him again, and the other disappeared after the plane landed without even saying goodbye.
Two chances, blown to pieces.
I unplugged the vibrator and got in the shower, allowing the water to engulf me as I turned the toy on. It was a wand, because I was afraid of putting anything inside me, including my own fingers.
I wondered how I would get over that when an actual penis would be involved. But then again, I would probably die a virgin cat lady.
Even scarier than my irrational fear of penetration was the fact that I couldn’t have an orgasm without imagining one of the mysterious men in my dreams, or sometimes even both of them. I would visualize their hands touching me, those tattooed fingers digging into my hair, their impressive bodies pinning me to the bed.
It almost felt like I missed my chance at love because I was too shy to ask for their numbers.
After coming with both of them in mind for the millionth time, I washed up and got out of the shower, then went into the kitchen and put the coffee on, leaning against the island as I waited, and closed my eyes, seeing scary tattooed guy’s face again.
He had black hair that was short on the sides and slightly longer on top, reminiscent of a crew cut, making me wonder if he had a military background. I remembered his thick, dark eyebrows, drawn together in a scowl, which had caused a few wrinkles to form between them. Light blue eyes, the color of globe thistles. A straight nose stained with a linear scar that hadn’t healed properly. Those full, slightly chapped light pink lips that I imagined everywhere on me. And that prominent jawline that I wanted to bite.
He was wearing black suit pants and a black polo T-shirt that day, complemented by a pair of black leather shoes. He wore no jewelry, not even a watch, because his tattoos were accessory enough, crawling up his neck, all the way to his chin.
I could still remember how his skin felt when I sank my nails into it.
Hot, soft… alive.
I could still remember the rasp in his thick, almost commanding voice as he told me to breathe, and most of all, I could still remember the laugh that escaped him when I told him the story of how I spilled red wine all over my white graduation dress, how clear and honest it was, almost as if he hadn’t laughed like that in years.
When the smell of coffee started filling the air, I snapped out of my trance and sighed, thinking that I would never see him again, anyway.
Maybe that was why I always chose the wrong men.
Maybe I was looking for the same thrill his presence had given me that day, and so I went out with men who reminded me of him in some way. Whether it was their hair, the color of their eyes, their height, or the abundance of tattoos, I had to try. I had to see if they could measure up to the stranger I met on an airplane three years ago, or at least if they would make an impact strong enough as the Grim Reaper did with a clumsy dance and a few words.
I brought my hands together and stared at the tattoos on my wrists, sighing, then poured myself a cup of coffee, added sweetener and cream, and went back to my bedroom, yawning.
After throwing the towel on the bed, I put on a pair of white cotton panties and a long white silk robe, tying it in a loose knot around my waist.
I didn’t like to wear anything at home. Most of the time, I only wore underwear in the house and only put something on when I went out on the balcony.
There was something liberating about being naked, or maybe I just liked the feeling that someone was watching me, and I wanted them to like what they saw.
My eyes fell on the half-full pack of cigarettes lying next to my gold cross necklace on the bedside table, and I sighed. I’d never smoked until six days ago, except for weed. I needed weed on desperate occasions. I’d also never taken off the necklace until last night, when one of my patients died.
Alana was a twelve-year-old child with severe cardiomyopathy.
We all knew she wouldn’t make it without a transplant, but we’d held onto hope until the last moment that we would get a heart, because she was a ray of hope, smiling through the agony her body was chained to until the last second, telling her mother that she would always watch over her and asking her not to cry. If anyone deserved to live in the rancid world, it was her.
What she didn’t deserve, though, were the cards life had dealt her.
Alana deserved to go to the movies with her friends, sneak out the window to meet her boyfriend, go to prom, graduate, and live a full and happy life. Everything that happened to her was so fucking unfair, and I refused to believe in a God who allowed children to die, especially under such harsh and painful conditions.
Until six days ago, I didn’t swear either.
But then Alana died, and that part of me I’d suppressed for nine years resurfaced. The ugly part, the desperate part, the aggressive part. Over the years, I learned to keep it in check, but last night… Last night she clawed at me so badly it hurt, and for a brief moment, when I confronted Justin, I allowed her to win.
I picked up the necklace, feeling the sting in my eyes as I opened the drawer and threw it inside. I didn’t want to see it for a while.
*
“Do you believe in God, Dr. Santino?” Alana’s mother asked me when she saw me clutching my necklace.
“I do, Mrs. Jenkins,” I replied, and she nodded, holding a wooden cross to her chest.
“Me too,” she tried to smile as we watched Alana sleep. “She used to go to church with me every Sunday while the other kids went to the playground,” she sniffled, wiping her tears, but they were quickly replaced. “But she never got to go with them. She never got to be a normal child.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat as I tried not to look directly at her at that moment, but when I turned to tell her that I prayed God would give her daughter back to her soon, Alana crashed.
Everything was a blur after that.
Cardiac arrest. No pulse. People running. No pulse. Alana’s mother fell to her knees on the threshold. No pulse. Crash cart. No fucking pulse. Push epi. Charge. Clear. No pulse.
Twenty minutes of resuscitating later, still no pulse.
“I’m calling it,” I said in a brittle voice, my heart in pieces as everyone stopped and stepped back. “Time of death, 10:52PM.”
I sighed and looked at Alana’s mother without wanting to, watching as she crawled to the bed, sobbing, and hugging her child’s body to her own.
I didn’t know what I could say to her.
That I was sorry?
That we did everything we could?
What the fuck could I say to comfort the single mother who had done everything for her daughter and whose efforts were still not enough?
So, I did what any doctor would do in my situation, I tried to give her the space she needed to say goodbye.
“Dr. Santino,” she whispered through her cries as I reached the door.
“Yes?” I replied with a voice as pained as hers, half turning my head towards the bed.
“God doesn’t exist,” she said as she dropped the wooden cross that she had been clutching with so much faith to the floor.
My tears fell in sync with the cross.
*
With wet eyes, the pack of cigarettes and phone in one hand and the cup of coffee in the other, I stepped out onto the balcony.
My sobs blended with the sounds of the sirens sounding in the distance, and I breathed in the early morning air as I sat down on the bench.
I lit a cigarette and wondered what else I could have done to save her.
Had I not done enough research? Should I have insisted more with the NHS for her?
Guilt.
So much guilt kept twisting my heart inside my chest.
As I sipped my coffee and smoked, silent tears streaming down my face, I watched the world moving on around me, uncaring, unaffected by the loss. I noticed the lights in the surrounding buildings turning on one by one as a new day broke. I saw the first runner, the first person walking their dog, the first car leaving the parking lot, and I thought of the many firsts Alana never got to experience and never will.
And I cried.
I cried for myself.
I cried because I couldn’t do more.
I cried for technological progress and its inability to help the sick. I cried for the broken, corrupt system. I cried for the loss of faith, for every child who had ever suffered, for every patient I’d lost in my three years as a doctor, and for the ones I would lose going forward.
I cried for the single mom who would never be able to hug her child again.
I cried ugly tears, fucking hell, for everything.
On my third cigarette, my phone lit up with a text, and initially ignored it, thinking it couldn’t be anything other than some sales agent at such an early hour, but then it buzzed again.
Blowing smoke into the air, I took it from the small coffee table and unlocked it, then read over the two texts.
Unknown number
:
Whatever happened, I’m sure you did
everything you could.
Unknown number:
I wish I could take the pain you feel upon me.
Me:
Who is this?
Unknown number:
A friend.
Me:
Care to be
more specific?
Unknown number
:
G.
My heart began to pound as I re-read the texts to make sure I wasn’t imagining things, then, with trembling fingers, I replied.
It immediately dawned on me.
G.
The one who sent me food every time I skipped a meal. The one who sent me the incriminating photos of the guys I was seeing. The one who had never, until now, even attempted to contact me.
I dropped my phone as I heard my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Suddenly aware of how exposed I was, I pulled the robe tighter around myself as if it would protect me and mindlessly chewed my lips as I frantically scanned my surroundings for any suspicious movements.
When I picked my phone back up from the rug, my eyes fell on the dark alley right in front of my balcony.
For a second, I felt it again. That crippling feeling that made every hair on my body stand on end, the cold shiver running down my spine as sweat covered my skin.
I was being watched.
I looked at every window across the street, but there was no one in sight who looked out of place.
Unknown number:
You don’t have to be afraid
of me.
Me:
You’ve been stalking me.
Unknown number:
I’ve been protecting you.
This man had stalked me for God knew how long. I should have been scared out of my mind, but as I re-read his last text for the fifth time, I realized that he was right. He had, indeed, protected me. A few years had passed since the first takeout box had been delivered to my door, so he had to have been watching me for at least that long, and if he wanted to hurt me, he surely would have done it by now.
And I also realized that what I was feeling wasn’t exactly fear, but excitement, so I saved his number and finally replied.
Me:
Why?
G:
Because you take care of everyone,
yet nobody takes care of you.
Me:
Are you watching
me now?
G:
Yes.
Me:
Can I see you?
G:
Not yet.
Me:
When?
G:
A little impatient, are we?
I was about to reply when another idea occurred to me.
Somehow, I wanted to thank the stranger — G or whatever his name was — for opening my eyes countless times, for sending me food and generally looking after my welfare.
It was a stupid idea, a reckless one which went against everything I believed in, but since he wouldn’t step out of the shadows and let me see him, I chose to execute the plan, because if that didn’t make him up his timeline, nothing would.
I stubbed out the cigarette and stood up, then leaned against the door frame and looked straight into the alley. It was still pretty dark outside, and most of the neighborhood was still fast asleep, the windows across the street empty of people.
Right there, obscured by the double doors, I straightened my back as goosebumps covered every inch of my skin and, after a deep breath and an audible gulp, I pulled at my silk robe until it fell off my breasts, exposing myself to the eyes of whoever was lurking in the shadows.
I don’t know how long I stood there, unmoving, waiting, watching… hoping?
What for was unknown to me, but since these texts were the first thrill I had in years, I wanted to make it last for as long as I could.
It made me feel alive, knowing that someone was so obsessed with me that they wanted to take my pain and make it their own, knowing that a stranger watched my every move as though it was their reason for living.
It was the boldest move I had ever made, but I believed that whoever this “G” was didn’t exactly care much about my looks. If he didn’t like it, he wouldn’t have followed me around for so long, right?
A sharp intake of breath filled my lungs as the cool wind blew over my nipples, hardening them, and yet… Nothing happened.
I sighed as I covered myself up and went back inside the apartment, where I knew he couldn’t see me anymore, all the while mumbling to myself about being so stupid.
After throwing myself on the couch, I shook my head and gave myself a mental scolding for my idiocy, plus a few mental slaps.
What the hell was I thinking? Exposing myself like that?
When I looked back at my phone, I found a new text.
G:
You shouldn’t have done that.
Me:
Take it as a thank
you for the takeout.
G:
What if some creep
would have seen you?
Me:
Some creep did see me.
G:
Touche, little angel.
I’ll see you soon.
My heart leapt in my chest, skipping a beat as I bit my nails, then I jumped from the couch and locked the door, closed all the windows, and drew the blinds. If he wanted in, something told me the locks wouldn’t keep him out, but I liked to lie to myself about being safe.
I spent the rest of the day researching statistics and reading through every article I could find about stalkers. I even called the police to inquire about procedures and safety measures, but that didn’t calm my nerves or my excitement.
Late that evening, I was craving burgers from my favorite burger place across town, and since I hadn’t really moved all day, having been curled up on the couch like a lazy duck, I decided the walk would do me good.
As I put on a white dress and a pair of comfortable sneakers, his texts came to mind, but I quickly dismissed the thought, took my purse off the hanger, and left the house.
If he was out there, he wouldn’t hurt me, not after all the trouble he went through to keep me away from other men, or maybe… keep those other men away from me?
As I walked, I could almost feel him walking behind me, but I never turned around to see if he was really there or if the knowledge of his existence made me feel things that weren’t real.
Maybe I didn’t want to know.
Maybe I wanted him to be obsessed with me.
I made a show of moving my hips just enough to make them sway seductively, definitely playing with fire.
Since he was playing with me, I could play with him right back. I wanted to drive him crazy until he could do nothing but make himself known or make himself scarce.
Either was fine with me.
I smiled to myself when I heard a throat clearing behind me.
“Finally making yourself kno…” I choked on my words when I turned around and found a man with a black ski mask on, pointing a gun at me.
You have got to be shitting me.
Was this some sort of weird kink I didn’t know about? Was this how G wanted our first encounter to go?
“Give me your bag,” he said quickly, obviously in a hurry.
I was now more than positive that this wasn’t G, and a hint of fear erupted inside me. I looked around for help, but I was on a secluded path of the park, typically a route for runners in the morning, surrounded by trees, at 11pm.
Why am I so stupid sometimes?
“Now! Give it to me,” he yelled, but I was too shocked to move, “Are you deaf, bitch?”
Something was seriously messed up with me, because every fiber of my being yelled at me to do something, to just give him the bag and hope he wouldn’t shoot me. I wasn’t typically the person who froze in the face of danger, but now, my body refused to move.
An unknown arm crept around my waist, and everything in me seemed to come back to life.
“You have until I count to ten to leave,” a thick, raspy voice spoke right next to my ear.