Page 84 of Sugar Coated Secrets

“Please,” he pleads. “Don’t kill me, Ford.”

I chuckle. “What makes you think that?”

“I see it in your eyes.”

I kneel so we are at eye level. “What do you see?”

With a terrified expression, he says, “I see…it.”

I smile.

When I was a kid, I was obsessed with things. In my case, cars. The doctor said it could manifest into other things—like people—if I wasn’t careful. He claimed it marked the beginning of borderline personality disorder. Although it was never an issue, my close friends knew about my little problem. Trent. Chris.

Again, no one saw it as a problem. I saw a therapist. Psychologist. A psychiatrist until I was twelve. My parents hated the idea of my obsession with cars and how fast they could go. They called it a phase. I called it my life. I had friends, but there was no one I was crazy about. When I stopped seeing the doctor, he warned my parents and educated them on different types of obsessions and BPD. Honestly, I thought he was full of shit. I didn’t check the doors twice. I wasn’t a germaphobe. I wasn’t violent if I wasn’t provoked. Unhinged. Other issues manifested, though, like I didn’t fuck women on my bed. I had to do it elsewhere, but many guys do that. It's not uncommon.

The only issue I had was if you fucked with my driving or my car. It's comparable to taking away an iPad from a hyper focused autistic child. You’re met with an outburst of someone who’s driven to violence.

My father took my car keys after I received my first speeding ticket. I lost it. I kicked his ass. I wasn't proud of it, but he had touched something he shouldn't have. What I loved.

At fifteen, they prescribed medication for me, but I refused to take it. My father threatened me, so I did the same. Eye for an eye and all that. I would inform my mother of the numerous women in town with whom my father had intimate relationships if he were to tell her the things I did.

It was the first time he respected me, or maybe he feared me. He had nothing on me, but I had plenty on him. The scales weretipped. He wanted me to be like him, but I just wanted to race cars. But no one knew I had a secret obsession. A dark one. A secret person.

I made every effort to conceal it.

No one knew. Not my parents. Not my friends.

I wanted a girl who no one would approve of me having, and I knew what that meant. She would end up being the car keys my father tried to take away from me when I did something wrong. I did learn one thing the doctor said: I had to listen some of the time. What does an obsessive or person with BPD do? They do anything to make sure their obsession isn’t taken away. If someone tries, they are met with violence. Rage.

My coming back doesn’t make sense to some, but sometimes nothing does. If it did, doctors would have answers. Cures to diseases. Answers to questions no one can easily figure out.

Maybe I was too busy racing my cars and finally got bored, but now that I think about it, Now that I had a taste of what I was missing, I want more, and nothing will stand in my way of keeping her for myself.

26

DULCE

Iclose the register, then hand the older woman with curly red hair her change and slide the box of pastries toward them. “Thank you,” I say with a smile.

It’s ten in the morning, and it’s been nonstop. Closing for two days has customers pouring in like starving children. Not that I’m complaining.

“You look different,” Katie says, giving me a once-over.

I look down at the same uniform I wear every day of the week. “How’s that?”

Katie looks at me like she is studying a painting. “You have this fresh look on your face.”

“Nope.”

“Yep, I see it now,” she says, her eyes dancing. “You gave him some.”

I don’t have to ask to know she means Ford.

“Katie!”

“What?” she says, flushing bright red. “You look… you know.”

Mental note: never tell her that he showed up last night.

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