Page 1 of Property of Chaos

ONE

VANESSA

Maybe happiness isn’tfor me?The thought circles around and around in my mind, gaining credibility the more it echoes through my blurry reality. How many times have I said this would be it? I’ve done the work, and I won’t be back here again. And yet, here I fucking am, on my hands and knees in my kitchen at 2:15 in the fucking morning while I focus on slowing my erratic breaths.Fucking epic.

Fingertips pressed white against the cool floorboards, I focus on the timber’s texture beneath my sweaty pads. The pressure of the wood against the heel of my hands.One, two in. And three, four, five, six out.My back arches with each inhale, core relaxing on the exhale. Somehow, over the years of practicing mindfulness, I’ve managed to amalgamate the multiple theories into one strange mish-mash of self-driven therapy. Meditation and yoga blend as I engage the CBT, reiterating my mantras on whispered breath.

“You’re safe. You are present. You are healthy, and you are okay.”

I sigh.Fuck.Am I okay?

Okay is a fluid concept at this point.

Just get a goddamn glass of water, Ness.It was the whole fucking reason I got out of bed.

I draw a deep breath and snap my eyes open, absorbing the sorry state of my fucking life outlined in shaky clarity against the floor. Rocking back, I rest my ass on my heels and run my clammy palms over the cotton of my sleep shorts.Just got to get up.I eye the edge of the marble counter. It may as well be a slippery ledge on the other side of a goddamn icy canyon for how this jump feels.Do it!I holler the words in my mind and engage my leg muscles before my pitiful brain can reason me out of forward momentum.

One thing after the other. Small steps. It’s how I’ve got this far in life and kept from entirely losing my mind when the temptation felt all too real.

Pushing to stand on shaky legs, I set both hands on the counter's edge and eye the empty teal glass waiting its turn on the surface. I’m not thirsty. Fuck—if I drink now, I’m likely to need the bathroom before my alarm goes off, but it was the theory behind the task that—as much as I don’t want to admit it—worked.

I’m up. I’m taking steps to move forward through the fear.

The nightmare didn’t touch me.

Not this time.

I haven’t woken in the early hours—heart racing and mind scrambling to understand where I am and what time it is—for over a year. Only one thing has changed in my carefully curated routine lately: taking a job.

Giving myself a reason to leave the cottage.

The next step in masquerading as a human with a soul in polite society.

“Fuck it.” I take the glass to the fridge and press it against the water dispenser.

Icy relief trickles into the patterned stemware. I gulp it back like a woman fresh out of the desert.

It does little to encourage me to go back to bed.

Reading does even less to remind me how tired I am when I finally make it beneath the covers.

And dawn does nothing to appease my dread at another night spent chasing elusive rest as I cede defeat and shuffle into the small bathroom across the hall from my bedroom.

It was pure luck that landed me the spot at the cafe. Pure charity on Theresa’s behalf when she figured she had time to train me on the complicated coffee machine. Pure desperation on my end that I even considered walking inside to enquire when I saw the brightly colored sign tacked to her shop window.

Nothing changes unless we do.

And I’ve got a fuckload of change to go before I’m ready to break out of this chrysalis.

A light thud sounds at the window, startling me. I pause brushing my teeth and lean across the claw-foot tub to push the old sash window open, drawing a deep, calming breath as I do. Murphy stretches as though his furry ass didn’t just purposefully smash against the glass to announce his arrival and saunters inside.

“You’re on your own today, asshole.”

I soften as he caresses his feline body against my bare calves and then proceeds through to the kitchen with a crackly yip.

I never wanted a pet. I can’t take proper care of myself, let alone trust my emotionally unstable ass to remember to tend to the needs of a small animal. But it became obvious when I accepted the keys to the property a year ago that the super-chill cat came with the package.

Naturally, I called him Murphy after Murphy’s Law when it became apparent that the things I wanted least in life were the things I’d get the easiest.

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