Beast (5 page)

“So, you let her walk away thinking that you don’t care about her. And how does that make you feel?”

Apparently, this is the type of question you’re required to answer when you have the best shrink in Manhattan on standby.

How does that make me feel? I feel like a bag of shit. How about that, doctor?

Tonight is
not
an insomnia night. It’s a head-trip night. Tonight, my demons seem doped up on methamphetamines and fueled by my guilty conscience. They came out swinging, ready to torture the fuck out of me. I slept for a few minutes before bolting upright in bed, drenched in sweat, teeth clattering in terror.

Sometimes it feels like the visions in my mind are even more terrifying than what I actually experienced in that desert. Sometimes, I need help coping with it.

After going for a jog by the river did nothing to relieve my guilt over treating Jasmine like shit, I came back to my loft, sat on my couch and vidoeconferenced Dr. Andrews. I know that it’s nearly 4:00 in the morning but she says that she doesn’t mind, she’s just doing her job. But I can tell that she rolled out of bed to answer me; her sandy blond bob is a disheveled mess and her peach collared blouse is misbuttoned.

“Why do you think you reacted the way you did?” She adjusts her vintage tortoise shell glasses on the bridge of her nose.

Why did I react the way I did? Frankly, I was shocked to hear the things that Jasmine said to me. I would have never guessed that she spent all this time thinking about me. I was sure that I was just a silly mistake and that she’d already moved on. I was sure that she had a boyfriend, someone who was treating her right.

“Liam?” Dr. Andrews says, yanking me out of my reverie. “Why did you let her believe that you don’t care about her?” I just look at the screen and shrug as the doctor swallows back a yawn.

I have a hard time leveling with Dr. Andrews sometimes, especially when it involves discussing my disfigurement. It seems so shallow and superficial to admit just how much the scars on my skin are holding me back.

“How would it have felt to just be honest with Jasmine and tell her exactly how you feel?”

Is she really asking me that?
It would have felt fucking fantastic to tell Jasmine how I feel. If only it wasn’t scary as hell.

Am I really paying this woman $450 an hour to ask me these dumb questions?

When I don’t answer, Dr. Andrews tips up her frames and rubs her tired eyes with her fist. “Okay Liam. How about you think on those questions for the night and we talk about them in our next session?”

She’s trying to get off the call and I can’t blame her. Look at the time.

“Fine,” I say curtly.

She gives me a small smile. “And Liam? If you ever need to talk, just call me. No matter the time. Good night.”

I push a sigh. “Good night.”

“Hey, Jazz – you okay?” Nadia wears a concerned look on her face.

“Huh?” I shake my head slightly as her voice jostles me back to reality.

“Are you okay?” Nadia repeats each word slowly. Her short, black hair frames her smooth, chocolate brown face making her big, dark eyes pop.

I push a plastic smile to my lips. “Yeah. I’m great. Why’d you ask?”

The truth is my heart literally feels like it’s bleeding out into my chest. I shouldn’t be this worked up about Liam and his rejection, but it stings. I spent so long wanting no one but him and all I got in return was a world of hurt.

Ruthie’s eyebrows pinch together. “You’ve been pushing your food around your plate. I don’t think you’ve even taken a bite.” She sets her enormous hamburger down on her plate and wipes her mouth with a paper napkin.

I shrug my shoulders dramatically before burying my face in my hands. “I just – I just –”

The three of us had dipped out for an hour or so to have lunch at a hip, new hamburger joint a few blocks away from the office. Cartwright Moretti Stevenson can
and will
survive a lunch hour without us.

I want so badly to tell these girls about Liam and the way he hurt me. I want them to take my side and I want to hear them comfort me and tell me that he’s an asshole. But I’m so embarrassed. I feel so stupid. He fooled me once. He fooled me twice. And a little tiny piece of me is still aching for him in spite of it.

“Wait – are you still pissy about your love life?” Ruthie asks, a sympathetic look on her face.

“What’s wrong with her love life?” Nadia asks, her eyebrow cocked as she drags a thick, greasy French fry through the dollop of ketchup on her plate.

“She’s
lonely
,” Ruthie says knowingly, her tone dripping with pity.

“It’s not like that!” I protest. I feel so pathetic right now. “It’s just that – it would be nice to be dating someone right now.”

“No problem – I can introduce you to some really great guys,” Nadia volunteers excitedly. “I know a few you’d really like.”

“
Or
,” Ruthie says dramatically turning towards me, “you could come to Scarsdale with Michael and me tomorrow.”

Ugh – that again. The last thing I want is to be rubbing shoulders with stuck-up rich politicians all weekend.

“What’s in
Scarsdale
?” Nadia asks, her forehead creasing.

I laugh bitterly. “That’s what
I
said.”

Ruthie rolls her eyes at me then turns back to Nadia. “Political fundraiser,” she responds nonchalantly. “One of Michael’s colleagues is running for office.”

Nadia’s eyes light up. “Political fundraiser?” she says dreamily. “Remember that guy – Garrett? I met him when I went to Arkport with you guys for that rally.”

“Oh, yeah. Did he ever call you?” Ruthie asks, leaning forward on her elbows.

“Totally. We hung out a few weeks ago when he was in Manhattan on business.” She turns to me. “And by ‘hung out’, I mean ‘fucked’…All night.” She tosses her head back and laughs. Ruthie joins in.

“Y’see,” Ruthie says, slapping me playfully on the arm. “Nadia came to one of Michael’s events and she found the man of her dreams.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to call him the man of my dreams but I did sleep like a baby after the three orgasms he gave me that night.” She tosses me a wink, but then her face goes serious. “You really should go to the fundraiser. You might have some fun. At the very least, it’ll be a change of scenery.”

Well – I guess that’s one way to put it.

I can’t just sit around and continue to wallow away after Liam. I’ve already wasted two years fantasizing about him. It’s time for me to quit licking my wounds.

“Jaassssmiiiinnnneee,” Ruthie singsongs. “C’mon girlie. Come to Scarsdale with us this weekend.”

I push a sigh. Logically, I know that I can’t spend the rest of my days lamenting over what could have been with Liam and I can’t spend the rest of my nights reminiscing about the way it felt for that brief slice of time when I let myself believe that he could be mine. I have to move on with my life, whether or not I’m ready.

I bite the corner of my lip. “Okay, okay. I’ll come.”

Ruthie bounces up and down in her seat. “We’re gonna find you a man, my friend. You won’t regret it.”

It’s pure chaos.

I feel the ground shaking beneath my feet as frantic, screaming bodies race around me, attempting to flee the gunfire. But there’s too much dust. So much dust. I can’t see more than two feet ahead of me. My heart rattles my ribcage, beating so hard I swear it’s trying to break free. And I’m on the ground. I command my body to move. When that doesn’t work, I beg it. Please…move…just go. It doesn’t obey. I don’t want her to find me. Please don’t let her find me. My eye throbs. I’m sure it’s bleeding, my blood mixing with the tears running down my face. And then, I feel a presence approaching me. My internal organs seize up as panic clutches me from the inside. I blink through the blood and tears and dust. I see those tiny bare feet coming towards me.

I bolt upright in my bed and drag the back of my hand across my forehead to chase away the torrents of perspiration pouring out of my body. My t-shirt is soaked and my heart hammers in my chest.

You’d think that after four years, this dream wouldn’t have such an effect on me. But this hellish nightmare still has the power to tear me from one dimension clear through into the next.

I grab my phone off of the nightstand next to my bed and swipe across the screen. Only 12:47 a.m.

This is why I don’t bother with sleep. After fighting in this losing battle against my demons for so many years, my body has adapted. Now, I’m able to run on very little rest. I try not to fall deep enough to let sleep curl itself around my body and mind, because when it does, it strangles me, it beats me down and drags me within inches of insanity.

Fuck sleep. I don’t need it.

I swing my legs over the side of the mattress and bury my head in my calloused palms.
Yeah – fuck sleep
, I try to convince myself as I suppress a yawn. I stay like that for a moment as I try to recalibrate my brain.

I hate the weekend. That’s when I feel most alone. At least during the week, I can fill my time with mindless work to distract me from the emotions that fight so hard for my attention. I’m not a ‘people person’, not at all, but even when my head is down and I’m alone in my office, just hearing other bodies shuffling by in the distance keeps the monsters in my mind at bay.

I swipe to the contact list saved into my phone. I have less than a dozen numbers saved there.

My father is definitely the last person I want to talk to…Dr. Andrews proved useless the last time I called her in the middle of the night…I click on Jasmine’s name and her ten digits pop up on the screen. My finger hovers over the call button.

I want to press that damn button. Call her. Hear her voice.

I run my fingers along the rough, layered flesh of my scar and I instantly feel disgusted with myself.
I can’t call her. I can’t. I won’t
.

Every part of me craves her. Being near her is therapeutic, it reignites all the fire that the war managed to extinguish. Without her, I’m just a poor wretch who’s merely existing. I haven’t lived a day in the past four years…Except for the day she touched me.

I put my hands on her, my lips on her and she didn’t shrink back in sheer horror. Instead, she’d laced her arms around me and pulled me closer.

Why the fuck did she pull me closer?

I yank a drawer open and grab some sweatpants and a hoodie. I pull them on and pad over to the front door. I slip my feet into my weathered running shoes, securing the laces tightly. Then, I pull my hood up over my head and drop my keys into my pocket. I make sure the heavy metal door of my big, hollow loft closes behind me.

Then, my soles are beating the broken asphalt in the deserted industrial yard on the outskirts of Battery Park. I jog in the direction of the waterfront till I find my stride on the hidden path stretching alongside the Hudson River. The chilly air burns my lungs as I pick up speed. Before long, I feel the strain in my legs and numbness begins to creep into my toes. With nothing to keep my company but my own breath fogging up the air in front of me, I run and run and run, trying in vain to outrun the demons hot on my trail.