Page 2 of Property of Chaos

Probably why I haven’t got proper sleep in months—because I need it.

Unlike the tumble down the porch steps that saw me in a knee brace for two and a half months. Didn’t need that. Got it anyway.

Call it my vibe.

I rinse and spit out the froth, stash my toothbrush in the floral ceramic cup on the edge of the sink, and then figure I may as well feed Murphy even if I don’t intend to bestow the same luxury on myself.

“Find anything last night?” I scoop his bowl off the floor and set it on the counter.

He leaps to the worktop without a second thought, much the same as how I swing my arm to knock his ass back where it belongs: on the ground.

Animals and food preparation should never mix. Ever.

“Take that as a no.” I reach into the fridge and pluck out his small container of chopped liver and horse meat.

Fucker knew what he was doing when he tricked me into pet ownership.

A cursory glance at the clock on the oven reassures me that I have enough time to indulge in a minor mental breakdown before work. My skin prickles as I set the overlord’s dish on the floor; the mere sight of the grain in the timber is enough to throw my subconscious back five hours to when I contemplated living the rest of my life in a coma.

I shake out the sensation and curse my quickening heart rate.Fuck this shit.The adrenal hangover is always the worst.I am safe. I am okay.

Fuck this life. I amnotokay. Butthat’swhat’s okay.

I am human. I am allowed to grieve. I am strong because I endure this shit.

Much better.

Fingers combing my black, shaggy shoulder-length cut, I move through to my bedroom and pick out a suitable outfit for the day. Long denim shorts, comfortable Vans, and a faded band T-shirt that won’t give me a panic attack if it gets dirty complete the look. I thread my emotional support hair tie onto my wrist and then pull my hair back into a low half-up half-down style with another.

Ten minutes later, I pause in my doorway, sporting a sharp-as-fuck winged eye, and glance around, running a mental inventory of the things I need.Got my water. Keys. Money. Will to live still loading. Set.Deep breath in, pep-talk ready to roll, I pop in a single earbud and step back to pull the door shut on my sanctuary in this evil world.

My heel catches on something small yet hard.

I stiffen, using my grasp on the door handle to save my balance and glance beneath my sneaker.What the fuck?Mail isn’t unusual. A parcel isn’t anything to incite panic in any normal person’s day.

What freaks me the fuck out is that it has my name on it.Myname. Not the fucking pseudonym I use for online purchases, but the assigned moniker I was given at birth by the devil spawn posing as my parents.Shit.

My heart lives in my fucking throat, pulse pounding so hard in my neck that I swear anyone passing by would think a goddamn gibbon lives in the house. Palm to my heated flesh, I rub the pulse point as I bend down and retrieve the padded mailer.

My hands shake as I turn it over to search for a return address. Some lawyer in Oklahoma.Not shady at all.

I’ve got a minute, at best, before I need to have feet on the pavement if I want to maintain any hope at hell of not being late to work. Which means one thing. The fucking mail has to come with me.

Mystery in hand, I turn toward the road and slide my oversized shades over my eyes.You’re a bad bitch. Nobody fucks with your peace. You’ve got this.

Only I don’t. And the people I cut out of my life over a decade ago continue to disturb the peace with their memory alone.

Fuck it.I tear the serrated strip from the back of the mailer and shove it into my fist as I balloon the edges of the packet.

A single document lives inside. Two pages at most. Folded in half and ominous in the care taken to ensure it got to me via a method other than snail mail. Pausing to let myself through the picket fence gate, I take a second to revel in the present, the sun on my skin, the breeze against my face. Mini-meditations. Don’t knock the benefits.

Work.Right.

Veering left, I nudge my crossbody bag around my waist to rest against my hip and puff the envelope again. The scent of warm dust mingles with freshly cut grass as I start the fifteen-minute walk toward town, ambient rock in one ear accented by the rustle of wind through the tall elm trees in the other.

I pay no mind to the distant growl of a tractor as it works the fields, pinching the unexpected papers between forefinger and thumb to slide them from their envelope. The growl grows in intensity—enough that I glance up as the papers pull free to notice that there’s no fucking tractor. It’s three motorbikes roaring toward me on the dirt road.

Fuck.There goes any hope of staying clean. Goddamn summer and dry-ass dirt clouding the air.

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