2. Chapter Two
CHAPTER TWO
MAVEN
Noodles burn the roof of my mouth as I slurp them down, steam rising in puffs that tickle the lines of my cheek. I don’t slow down. Pain is the price of efficiency, and I need the calories before facing the bitter night waiting for me.
I bought the cup from a vendor tucked in one of the underground’s many alcoves—an elderly woman who didn’t try to make conversation, just handed me the Styrofoam container with a nod that acknowledged our mutual disinterest in pleasantries. Real recognizes real, or whatever.
I sigh as my boots echo against scuffed floors, the labyrinth of passages from the train already so familiar to me.
Despite only having lived here for a couple weeks, I’ve already memorized the fastest route from my office to my apartment.
It’s something I habitually do with every place I move to; maybe striving for utter solitude isn’t a life worth living…
and whoever said that would be right. None of this is worth living for.
But every time I try to put an end to it, something goes wrong and I wake up in a hospital with another mark on my record.
One more and I’ll be permanently imprisoned with white walls and unlabeled medications. No thanks.
A child scrunches their nose at me as I hack up a noodle I inhaled too quickly. I turn away and hasten my steps, willing a layer of fur to sprout before I exit the doors to the outside.
My phone vibrates just as I’m about to toss the now-empty noodle cup into a trash bin. The disruption feels intrusive. Who in their right mind would be calling me? No one calls me. Well, no one except the occasional scammer insisting I’ve fallen behind on student loans I never took out.
They’re always so fucking serious about it too. “This is your final warning before we contact the authorities, Miss Talmay.” Like I’m supposed to quake in fear at the thought of some imaginary debt collector siccing the cops on me.
I wonder if they take acting classes before they’re allowed to make these calls; if there’s some basement training facility where they practice sounding both threatening and official.
It probably works on plenty of people—people like my eighty-year-old neighbor in Boston who was convinced I was Amy Winehouse risen from the dead.
Or it might work on those who’d rather pay than deal with confrontation.
It might even work on me if I’d ever attended college long enough to accrue debt.
But I barely finished high school, scraping by with the minimum requirements.
Pretty sure they passed me just to be rid of me, sick of watching Crazy Mavey stare blankly through their lessons, never participating or caring.
The phone continues its persistent buzz as I approach a trash receptacle. With a sigh, I toss the container away and fish the blaring device from my pocket. The screen displays a name that makes my stomach knot: Dr. Voss.
Great. Just what I need to cap off my Friday—
Except…today is Thursday. Our weekly call isn’t scheduled until tomorrow.
I hesitate, chewing open my inner cheek as my finger hovers over the screen. Part of me wants to let it go to voicemail, to pretend I was in the shower or somewhere with no service. But I know better.
Doctor Helena Voss is not a woman who accepts excuses. In the two years she’s been my therapist, she’s never once bought my bullshit—which is why she’s lasted longer than any of the others.
After my third failed suicide attempt four months ago—pills this time, instead of the blade that left the jagged, raised scars on my wrists—she had all the legal grounds she needed to have me committed.
Instead, she proposed an arrangement: weekly torture sessions, without fail, or she would initiate institutionalization.
I agreed because the alternative was worse. Having spent time in a seventy-two hour hold once before, I know the constant noise, forced socialization, and patronizing staff are their own special kind of hell.
Now I’m tethered to Helena by a phone call each Friday afternoon. A leash just long enough to let me move cities but not enough to disappear completely.
I groan and answer on the fifth ring, a moment before the call would have ended.
“Hello?” My voice is flatter than fourth foster mother’s chest. Emily hated me for having bigger tits than she did, and I know that’s the reason she kicked me out. I couldn’t prove it, but it’s not hard to guess. Her husband stared at my chest far more than she or I liked.
“Maven.” Dr. Voss’ voice is crisp and professional. Never warm, never cold. Only clinical. “I’m glad I caught you.”
I resume walking, phone pressed to my ear. “We’re supposed to talk tomorrow.”
“That’s why I’m calling. I have an unexpected conference tomorrow and won’t be able to make our usual time. I wanted to get our session in today instead.”
Of course. Heaven forbid we skip a week. The world might end if Maven doesn’t describe her empty existence to a woman who gets paid to pretend it matters.
But there are two reasons I don’t immediately hang up. First, the conversation will distract me from the cold I’ll have to endure for the next several minutes. And second, I know what happens if I refuse.
The woman may be in a different country now, but she has connections everywhere and would have me committed within the hour. Couldn’t even make a run for it if I had the energy to.
“I’m on my way home,” I say, shoving open the heavy doors, wincing as icy wind slices my skin. “Can we make it quick?”
Papers shuffle on her end. “How’s Montréal treating you so far?”
“It’s fine,” I answer, intrigued by the thickness of my breath in the air.
“And the new job?”
“Boring. But it pays.” Does it pay enough to stay here?
If I’m going to suffer through existing, the least I could have done was pick somewhere with a decent temperature.
This weather should be illegal. My muscles tense as the cold seeps into each bone, and both shoulders hunch as if I could fold myself small enough to escape its reach.
“Have you made any connections yet? Colleagues, neighbors?”
I snort, the sound becoming tangible before floating away. “It’s barely been two weeks, Dr. Voss.”
“That’s not a no,” she points out.
“It’s not a yes either.”
I hurry down the sidewalk, boots crunching on salt and ice.
The stone buildings, creased with the rising moon’s shadows, have witnessed centuries of winters far worse than this one.
I’m mesmerized by the yellow glow seeping through their windows, each one framing little dioramas of lives I’ll never understand.
“Maven,” my keeper’s voice hardens, “avoidance does not motivate progress. You know this.” My eyes roll hard.
“Neither does forced small talk with strangers, Helena,” I counter, my steps quickening as heat creeps over my neck.
“Besides, it’s the same story every time.
People try to be friendly for a week or two, then they pick up on whatever fucked-up energy I give off and distance themselves.
Why bother?” She doesn’t comment on my use of her name—something she hates and has repeatedly asked me to stop doing.
“You need someone in your life. Connection is vital to mental health.”
“So is not freezing to death, which is what’s going to happen if I don’t get to my apartment soon. Can we wrap this up?”
There’s a pause. I picture her expression: the slight pinch between her blond brows, the way she presses her thin lips together when I’m being particularly difficult. Not angry, just calculating her next approach.
“How are you sleeping?” she finally asks.
I falter in my steps as every thought snaps to the dreams and the flowers that appear after them. I should tell her about them. A responsible person would mention the possible hallucinations, or at least the increasing sense that someone is watching me.
Instead, I say, “Fine. No issues.”
“And your mood?”
“Stellar. I’m thinking of joining a cheerleading squad.”
“Maven.”
I groan, squeezing the edges of my phone.
“What do you want me to say?” I snap, voice echoing.
A couple across the street glances in my direction, and I have the urge to flip them off for intruding on this magnificent conversation.
“That I’m still the same depressed piece of shit I was in Boston?
That nothing’s changed except the scenery and plummeting temperature?
Fine. You’re right. I’m still miserable.
Professionally diagnosed and certified. Can I go now? ”
I’ve reached my building—and my social limit. The entry door is a bitch to open, heavy wood with iron fixtures, probably original though the lock has been modernized.
Dr. Voss sighs, a rare crack in her professional veneer. “I’m not trying to antagonize you. I just need to know you’re maintaining our agreement.”
I dig for my keys with stiff, numb fingers. “I’m not dead yet, am I?”
“That’s a low bar, Maven.”
“Well, it’s the only one I care about clearing.” My neck cracks as I step inside my apartment and set my work bag down. “Look, I’m home now. I survived another day. Gold star for me.”
A pen clicks several times over the line. She’s frustrated with me. “Have you been taking your medication?”
I kick off my shoes before leaning against the wall—the thing probably hasn’t been washed since this place was built.
I almost find it in myself to care that I’m touching it.
“Yes, doctor. Every morning, right after brushing my teeth and before contemplating the meaningless void of existence.” I swear one of these days I’m going to block her number, toss my phone, and hitch a ride to the wilderness so she can’t find me.
There’s another pause, followed by a deep sigh. “We’ll continue this tomorrow at our usual time.” Is she fucking kidding me right now?
“I thought you had a conference.”
“I’ll make time.” Then why the fuck did she put me through this today? “Don’t be late.” Before I can respond, she hangs up. I toss the phone across the apartment, wincing when it bounces off the bed before careening into the floor. I cannot afford a new one.
My eyes trace the cracked ceiling as I sit in the blissful burning of my thighs. Last weekend, I discovered a door in the hallway that leads to the roof. Accessible only from this floor, supposedly for maintenance purposes, though there hasn’t been any maintenance since I’ve lived here.
I didn’t pay extra for roof access. The landlord forgot to mention it when showing me the apartment, which is interesting since my key unlocks the damn thing.
Maybe it’s the universe nudging me along, providing a convenient exit strategy. Here you go, Maven. Six stories up. No barriers or locked doors. Just one step and gravity does the rest.
So thoughtful.
The radiator hisses just as my phone chimes, jolting me from my stupor. My lips flatten when I reach the device and see Dr. Voss’ text confirming tomorrow’s appointment time.
The routine of existing drags me through its motions, and before long I’m leaning against the window because I may freeze to death if I don’t sit over the radiator—which is not an ideal way to go.
I’ve read that it’s painful but peaceful soon after.
That the body falls asleep before passing, and the only thing I’d have to deal with is prickling from going numb. Still sounds miserable.
My gaze catches on people hurrying below, heads bent against the heavy gusts, each racing toward some destination that matters to them.
What would it be like to have someone waiting for me?
To have reasons that pull me forward through each day?
To feel anchored in the world instead of constantly at risk of drifting away from it?
Glancing at the flowers once more, I release a heavy breath. I definitely should have told the doctor that I’m having comforting hallucinations and my grip on reality feels increasingly tenuous. She’d be right to lock me away. I’m a danger to society at worst, and a hindrance at best.
A floorboard creaks beneath my weight as I scurry to the bed, the sound echoing louder than my thoughts. For an instant, a prickling sensation slithers up my spine. The hair on my neck rises, forcing me to whirl around, eyes scanning the limitless shadows.
Nothing. Just my imagination working overtime from exhaustion. At least, that’s what I choose to believe. Manifest, more like.
But then a sense of calming warmth envelopes me, my eyes closing, willing my body to fall into its familiarity. Something brushes hair from my face, the touch gentle as a breeze.
I don’t even care if I’m going crazy…this feels too nice to let go.