Page 19 of Running Feral

Then, when I see nothing but fancy-ass suits and air, I feel even more ridiculous.

I should sit down. Before I collapse, or my foot falls off, or something. I want to.

Except, the thoughts and images tugging at my chest won’t let me. I pace around the apartment one more time, drawing all the open blinds after looking at everything I can see. I worry that I catch a glimpse of him in the tree line a couple of times, but nothing comes of it.

Besides, I don’t think he would hide like that. If he knew where I was, he would just come for me. He has no reason to hide. There’s nothing here that he’s afraid of.

I check that each window is latched, along with the doors. I freeze for a minute when there’s another distant creak from the stairwell outside—the one I dragged myself up, disoriented and desperate, just a few hours ago—but it stops. When I head for the couch a second time, I feel the brief urge to check the windows again, but it’s so stupid I don’t let myself.

‘Collapse’ would be a polite way to describe how I get from standing up to slumped on Gunnar’s sofa. Once I’m ensconced in his deep, worn cushions, I realize I should have brought an ice pack or ACE bandage or something.

Oh, well. It’s too late now. I’m definitely not getting up anytime soon unless the building is on fire.

If Eamon does get in, I’ll be easy to find and we can get it over with quickly.

I sit here, too drained to think or move or be afraid of anything. But the longer I do, the more the sensation of dread seems to work its way into each one of my cells and make itself a home. I hate it. My mind is resigned to whatever is going to happen. I don’t see why my body can’t get on board.

But no. Instead, I continue to jump and tremor at every noise I hear like a frightened wild creature until my patience with myself is about to snap. I need something—anything—to soothe myself with. A distraction, at the very least. It’s getting later, so the low rumble of people from the bar below is kind of helping. But it’s also pushing the thought that he could be in there deeper and deeper into my brain.

What would have happened if I’d gone down with Gunnar like he’d suggested? When Eamon came in, which way would be the quickest to run out of the building from behind the bar? If I ran to the back, it would be faster, but with fewer people to potentially help me. In the front there are more people, but I can also picture each one of their faces as they looked between me and him, trying to decide who to believe.

The crazed one who still looks too young to even be in a bar, or the gangster who is always calm and collected and will inevitably be prepared with some rational explanation.

I’m his boyfriend. I’m fucked up on drugs. My homophobic parents kicked me out. He’s trying to help me get straight. You can’t believe the words I’m saying. The doctors said this would happen. I’m overdosing on psych meds. Just leave me with him. He knows how to keep me safe from myself when I’m like this. You can trust him. He’s the most trustworthy gangster there is, for some reason.

And on and on and on.

Gunnar would believe me, but get himself hurt in the process. Same with Sav. Kasia would believe me, but I think she hates me too much to do anything about it, probably. Plus, I think she has kids. No one should be getting orphaned because their mom tried to help save me from a situation I was never going to escape. No way.

The rest of the people down there are strangers. None of them would take my side. They’d grab me for him while I tried to duck down a hallway or find any exit, thinking they were being good Samaritans or some shit. Like always.

The images play out in my head on a loop. Each time, my body flushes with adrenaline like it’s really happening, keeping me tingly and tense. Poised for flight, even while I remain slumped—alone—on Gunnar’s couch.

I’m aware that this is wasted mental energy. I understand that it’s actively exhausting me to think about it for no reason, considering it’s never going to happen because I’m not fucking going down there. This is all pointless. But none of that means I’m able to pick up my brain and remove it from the carousel of hypotheticals that it’s created for me.

A little part of me is afraid that if I stop thinking about what might happen, I’ll start picturing what’s already happened, which seems infinitely worse. And not thinking about any of it is clearly not an option.

I need to do something. There’s a TV in the corner. The silence is officially fucking killing me, so I dig around for a remote and turn it on.

Gunnar has fewer subscriptions than my lola, apparently, but whatever. He has Peacock. Maybe he likes weird niche sports, along with his love of weird, fancy clothes and playing savior to damaged men who invite themselves into his home.

My eye is instantly drawn to the long row of mediocre horror films that it’s offering me, each with nearly identical dark posters. The repetitiveness of it is already soothing me. I scroll through them absently until I find an old one I’ve seen a million times:Candyman.

I hit play and crank the volume as loud as I can without it potentially being heard over the music downstairs. I’ve been jumping at every creak and groan in this old building for an hour and I need it to stop.

As soon as the ambient noise and worse—the deafening fucking silence of this empty apartment—is drowned out by the haunting music of the opening credits, I feel my muscles unclench one by one. Once I stopped moving, all the aches and pains of my body became more insistent than before. They’re pulsing and throbbing from my head to my toes, making it impossible to truly take my mind off why I’m here, but the sound of the movie is intense enough that I can let it pull my focus.

I’m still fizzing with a low-level, whole-body anxiety, but it’s manageable now. I fold myself and my attention into it before throwing all of that at the movie, and basically counting down the minutes until Gunnar might get home.

I’m tired. So fucking tired. But no matter how much more relaxed I am now than before, the idea of sleeping while I’m the only one here and anything could happen still doesn’t seem right.

Instead, I let myself space out as much as possible. My consciousness drifts, rolling from side to side like I’m riding a gentle wave, not moving frantically, but still too quickly to let any single thought get purchase.

WhenCandymanfinishes, I put onHalloween. Then I skip the early sequels, because the comedy to horror ratio is not in my favor there, and go to the requel. Then the requel sequel.

I’m not sure exactly how deep I am into the franchise when Gunnar finally comes home, but I’m numb enough to my surroundings that it doesn’t make me crawl through my skin to hear him open the door. Besides, it’s Gunnar, so he has to be unnecessarily considerate. He knocks gently before unlocking the door to his own apartment and then slips inside while calling my name.

I lean up from the couch to look at him, but that’s as far as I’ll move. I’ve been lying here for so long I’d be surprised if there wasn’t an imprint of me. I haven’t even gotten up to pee, but I also haven’t had anything to drink since the coffee Gunnar poured me fourteen hours ago, either. It’s fine. The less I consume, the less I have to move and wake up the beast that has its teeth in my ankle.

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