Senses beyond senses, the crux and curse of humanity.
I rise up on my elbow, rub the sleep from my eyes, and immediately see that, while not here now, Hollis hasn’t left permanently. His suitcase still sits in a corner, and a mess of clothes are piled haphazardly atop a ratty armchair. There’s no note, not that I can see, so I assume he won’t be gone long. Probably stepped out to get us coffee, or maybe (hopefully) some real food, some decent food, something that my stomach won’t attempt to immediately discard.
I kind of want to be annoyed that he didn’t wake me to go with him, and that he didn’t leave a note (because, let’s face it, no note is just plain rude). But because I finally feel rested and refreshed, am happy that he didn’t. I sit up and stretch, yawn, work my shoulders and am relieved to find that all traces of nausea are gone. Maybe my sickness this morning wasn’t merely from lack of food. Maybe I still have a bit of the bug from the other day, the stomach flu that kept me down for most of the afternoon after Marla’s near-drowning, and that I thought had been cured by the broth that Ford—
Shit.
Ford.
I’m going to have to break up with him. The time has finally come. Now that I’m back with Hollis, it’s unavoidable. Because cheating on Nicholas was one thing, but fucking someone else behind Ford’s back makes me feel like a complete shit.
And I don’t want to feel like a complete shit.
I’ve felt that way for too long; it was the reason I came to Duluth at the beginning of June, to search out Hollis and try to find my happily ever after.
It’s what I fucking deserve.
And Ford…is not.
Though breaking up with him might not be as hard as I think, considering he arrived back in town from his shoot last night and we were supposed to spend it together. He’s probably pissed—
Oh.
Now I remember. Remember waking up last night to the buzz of incoming texts – was it two or three, maybe four? – and vaguely recall Hollis reaching over and confiscating my phone, shutting it off. Oddly enough, I haven’t even thought to check my phone at all today, something that wouldn’t have been all that unusual months ago. But this summer, after meeting Ford, my eyes have been practically glued to the screen all day, every day, waiting in eager anticipation of his sweet messages.
As I realize this, I get a sinking feeling in my gut that has nothing to do with nausea and everything to do with the fact that I won’t be receiving any of those sweet texts from Ford ever again. At least, not after today.
But it needs to be done.
Figuring I can use this time that Hollis is away to write an email to Ford (because Lord knows I’ll never be able to do the deed in person, I’m far too weak when it comes to him) I cast my gaze around the dingy room, trying to figure out what Hollis did with my phone last night. I don’t have to look very far; it’s on Hollis’s nightstand, sitting right next to his…laptop.
Hmmm.
Time slows to a stop, and the room’s silence softens to a distant hum.
It would only be a peek, a quick look to see what he’s writing. I mean, his first book was based on me, on my poor pathetic upbringing; all he did was change the names. But the stoner mother? The absentee father? The siblings who took, took, took? Even the shady landlord who accepted sex in lieu of a check…all characters in his novel.
And me, of course. Me, Becca Cabot renamed Emma Abbot, who rose above it all…until she didn’t. Hollis’s main character, Horace Knight, killed her two chapters before the book’s end. Granted, it wasn’t poor Horace’s fault, not really. He was half-demon, and society’s corruption got the best of him.
Hey, it happens.
I wasn’t offended.
But. But, but, but.
What is he writing about now?
Just a quick look, I tell myself, grabbing the laptop.
A tiny little peek, I promise, settling back into the cushions.
Only a few sentences, I swear, lifting the lid and turning it on.
The password for his laptop is the same one he uses for his desktop, and within seconds, I’m in. The Word document he was working on pops up immediately; he must not have closed it before shutting the system down.
I don’t even have to snoop to find what I’m looking for. It’s all right here, his next book, spread out on the screen in front of me. Which is unfortunate, because after reading just a few meager lines, I wish I’d never looked at the fucking thing.
I’m trembling.
I’m shaking.
My vision narrows, blackens around the edges. Narrows more.
But it doesn’t matter. Because I can still see the words.
I can still read the fucking words.
I can’t stop reading the mother-fucking-goddamn words.
She was fixated on him, the only man who could save her from herself, and her obsession grew like cancer, spread to her mind and infected her morals. She had lost her heart, lost what made her human, and sinking deeper into this state, she became the very thing she loathed.
My finger jerks as it skids across the touchpad, scrolling further down the document.
The hotel room was dank and dour, and it reflected her state of mind; anything above a pay-by-the-hour joint would fashion her worthless. She needed something that reflected her mottled soul, that matched the madness within.
The screen’s white glare flares pink before burning red, so red, blood red.
She was the angel that fell, the demon that rose.
Her self-interest bordered on lunacy.
I feel a sharp pinch in the palm of my hand, the one that’s not clawing at the keyboard, and realize I’ve dug my nails into my flesh. Forcing my fingers open, I flatten them against my thigh and continue to read.
It was a game, pure and simple. To Becca, winning meant everything. And losing? Well, that wasn’t an option. As she drew the blade across his wife’s neck…
Oh, and then. And then!
…diseased with need, plagued by regret.
But the final straw. The final fucking straw:
It was only a stuffed animal, but she cradled it to her breast as if it was the child she aborted, all the while mourning the children she could never have.
Well, that….that’s just shitty writing.
I slap the fucking thing shut.
In the absence of security, I became desperate.
In the deficit of love, I became cold.
In the presence of adoration, I became foolish.
And now, here with Hollis, as the muse for his next book…I’m an idiot.
That’s exactly what I am.
That’s exactly all I am.
And that’s all I’ve ever, ever been.
It’s like my eyes are wide open for the first time in years, for the first time ever, and I’m not seeing only what’s in front of me, but also what’s behind me, what’s ahead of me. The past and the future slam into the present, and I see, I finally see, that the now is all I have. This moment right here, and I’m free to take it and do with it whatever I please.
Regardless.
Regardless of the restrictions I falsely believed I was bound by.
Regardless of the trashy family I came from and the revolting things I had to do to survive.