Page 27 of Ghosted in Arkadia
“I didn’t see him,” I say simply, not wanting to go down to Holdings to point at a random man to stick with an extra charge he didn’t earn. “I don’t want to press charges, Captain.”
Captain’s eyebrow rises as he narrowly leans in, no doubt inspecting the skin of my neck. It looks just as dull as the rest. He turns to Killian. “Did you or anyone else get pictures of her injury?”
“No,” Killian says, and I see this isn’t the answer Captain is hoping for.
“I’m going to need to redact that part from the report,” Captain says, talking to himself this time. He looks up and notices the rest of the station, acutely aware of the situation, and addresses them all. “Remember due process, everyone.” He taps the top of my desk, making waves in the coffee I have yet to fully enjoy.
At least it had enough time to cool off.
The Heart Wants What the Trauma Trained
Iam happy to be home, yet it holds a sense of endless monotony. The moment I open the cabinet door and notice an empty shelf rather than a bottle of vodka, I fight to remember when I had drunk the last.
Yesterday.
There is a heavy, hazy feeling when I try to remember more of what I did after work. The answers linger inside my mind, just beyond my grasp. The harder I try, the further away they seem to swim from me. I let it go, allowing the sensation to fall into the back of my mind as I open the freezer to pick dinner. There are enough frozen meals in the fridge to get me through the next few days. The only problem is a lack of vodka.
I decide that isn’t a problem.
The hangover I experienced this morning was enough to make me utter my famous and frequent lie of “never again” and if that pain held fresh, I’d make it.
The box of chicken fettuccine catches my attention, and I pop it into the microwave. It only takes minutes to make the samemeal that once took my mom at least an hour to prepare. Or at least that was how long I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen during the weeknights when she made dinner.
Alfredo wasn’t one of dad’s favorites, so I only got it occasionally.
Usually, to get me to shut up.
A ding sounds, taking me from my memories as I stir the barely edible looking contents steaming from the disposable bowl. It vaguely tastes like my memories, but I add salt and pepper to enhance what little flavor I can find.
Rex and I share a look as he eats the same bites of kibble he had yesterday. Day in and day out, always the same. It’s not about flavor. It’s subsistence that matters.
“You want to pick out the next bag?” I ask, not knowing if there is any other way to bring some joy into the dog’s diet. “I’m not getting you treats. June has that covered, and don’t think I haven’t noticed the extra fluff.”
What almost looks like a smile stretches across Rex’s face. It lasts for as long as his attention can manage before he turns back to take lazy bites from his dinner. I don’t have the patience or desire to draw out the time I spend with my food, preferring to get it into my body and the kitchen cleaned for its next use.
There is enough cranberry juice left to pour into a glass of ice to take with me into my room. It’s acceptable. It serves its purpose. It doesn’t have to be great.
Wasn’t that what I thought about Alexander?
I lock myself in my room and turn on the television to make it feel like someone else is here with me while I get into comfortable clothes. It feels like I’m forgetting something.
I do a quick body check for any missed messages from Ghost before grabbing my phone and doing the same. The message log from when he sent me a picture of his dick is completely missing.I head to my photos next, wanting to make sure I still have the saved copy.
Except the first thumbnail isn’t a picture and has the arrow signal of a video. The thumbnail is mostly black, and it looks like a video might have started while my phone was in my purse. Might as well see if it caught anything fun.
I press play and notice movement in the dark shadows and then the camera turns and in the faint light I can make out my face. My head tilts to the side as I watch the screen, having no memory of it.
I am lying on my stomach in my bed, moving the phone away from me and pushing it into place with the tips of my fingers. My movements are uncoordinated, and I struggle to set it in a proper position. Consciousness leaves me. The camera focused on my outstretched hand.
I pause the video and notice there’s twenty more minutes.
“Fuck. No wonder I don’t remember anything,” I mumble, wondering how I got that out-of-control yesterday.
I slide the bar on the video a few minutes rather than sitting through a twenty-minute intervention directed by and starring me.
I fucking get it.
I press play again, needing to hurt myself. The soft glow of the screen casts an ethereal light on the back of my head, my face buried in the fluffy comforter.
