Page 1 of Gaga for the Gargoyle
Chapter 1 – Evangeline
Fuck. I need to get laid.
I set my vibrator down. The toy did its job, getting me off. It’s one of those dildos with a thrusting feature and an extended piece that massages the clit.
I came, and it was good.
So why do I feel so empty? So…unsatisfied?
I need to be dicked. I need to be fucked so hard, my cunt is sore for days. I’ve never had good sex like that, especially with my ex-husband, who is the only man I’ve ever slept with.
My phone dings on the bedside table, reminding me it’s time to get ready for work. I amnotlooking forward to this shift. Last night, from the moment I clocked in at seven p.m., it was non-stop patients. I didn’t even sit down and eat until I got home at eight in themorning.
At least the night goes by fast when I’m busy. I don’t have to think about my life’s failures. I mean, sure, I have a decent job. I’m a night nurse in New York City making enough money to afford a cute one-bedroom apartment in NoLita.
But I’m not happy. I haven’t been for a while.
I’m a divorcée, and my ex-husband treated me like shit. He weaponized my height and weight. I’m five foot one and 250 pounds. He criticized what he considered my lack of dreams—I don’t want to be a doctor. I love being a nurse; I just want to care for people in need when they’re at their weakest. He made me believe I wasn’t worthy every damn day until something clicked, and I realizedhewas wrong, andhewas the one who wasn’t worthy ofme.
It’s been six months since our divorce was finalized, but our marriage had been dead for years before that. Working to build myself back up from his verbal abuse has been exhausting.
It’s also been rewarding because for the first time in my life, I’m getting to know myself. I’m discovering what I like and what I hate, without anyone telling me what Ishouldlike orshouldhate.
Now, I’m more than ready to move on. I’m ready to start dating again, but fuck, I’m terrified. Mostly because, how do I go about it? Do I go to a bar? That’s something Idid in my twenties, and I wasn’t even on the market then. Going to bars at age forty while single? I think I’d rather yeet myself into the ocean while on my period and make friends with hungry sharks. See, that’s another thing. Yeet? Are people my age allowed to say words like that? What if I go to a bar and blurt out slang that’s no longer ‘in’? Yeah, no bars. I’d feel too out of place.
I could hang out in the produce section of the grocery store. Maybe find me a date who can cook me dinner—and breakfast, if it’s a good enough date. I’m a horrible cook. I can make scrambled eggs and pancakes, a simple pasta dish or a kickass salad, burgers are easy enough, and chili is my specialty dish. Beyond that, I’m clueless.
Wait. No. Cooking dinner for someone is such an intimate thing to do. Staying the night and having them make breakfast the next morning screams second date, which potentially leads to a third date, then commitment, and I’m not looking to be tied down to another man.
I’m not looking for a soulmate.
As if those even exist.
God, I sound so bitter. I blame my ex for that. Maybe I should just download a dating app since I’m wanting more of a hookup right now.
I pick up my phone and groan. The apps and my shitty dating life will have to wait until tomorrow morning because I’m about to be late.
My shower is quick since I don’t wash my hair, which is something I do once every couple of days. I pick out a fresh pair of scrubs from my laundry basket—I hate putting away clothes. After pinning my thick, wavy brown hair into a tight bun at the top of my head, I give my adorable black cat Birdie—because her meow sounds more like a chirping bird—a kiss on the head and leave.
The hospital I work at is a few blocks away. Walking there should only take five minutes, but sometimes I get distracted by the buildings and stop to admire the stunning structures, especially the Basilica of St. Patrick’s Old Cathedral. I discovered the church a few weeks ago after taking a different route to work. I’m not religious at all, but there’s something about the building that’s...familiar. Comforting.
Sometimes, after a rough shift at work, and once the parish opens at 8:30 a.m., I’ll go inside and sit in the pews, closing my eyes and listening. The silence is heavy yet healing.
The gothic architecture is hauntingly beautiful. My eyes are always drawn to the highest point of the building...as ifsomething is up there, waiting for me. It doesn’t scare me. It’s intriguing, tempting almost.
The church is closed when I go into work, and if I wouldn’t get arrested for trespassing, I’d hop the fence and go find what’s silently calling to me.
Tonight, the church’s pull is nearly too strong to avoid. It’s...painful as I walk away. My stomach twists, and nausea washes over me. But I can’t stay tonight. I can’t linger and stare into the void like I do some evenings because I’m already late for my shift.
When I get to work, my coworkers are running around. The chaos has already started: gunshot victims, people with chest pain, people who were hit by falling debris from a building—literally my worst fear. Actually, my apartment catching fire is my worst fear because I will die trying to save my cat instead of myself.
Speaking of fires, halfway through my shift, we get a call about a massive blaze at a nearby high-rise. Dozens of patients are heading our way to be treated for smoke inhalation, burns, or injuries sustained while trying to escape in a panic.
I barely have time to breathe by the time my shift ends. The only thing I ate was a granola bar I keep in my scrubs pocket for nights like tonight, and I didn’t sit down once, unless sitting on the toilet to pee counts.
When I leave work, the sun is out. It’s summer, and the morning is warm. I bask in the golden rays and the slight breeze that smells like the bakery on my block. I consider stopping for an apple cinnamon muffin or a cream-filled donut, but I’m trying not to spend any unnecessary money. New York City is expensive and moving here drained me of my savings.
Once home, I make myself a bowl of cereal and sit on the couch watching the morning news, tuning out the details of the apartment fire. Most of the patients I treated tonight told me everything I needed to know: hearing the alarms, seeing the smoke filling the hallways, running down thirty floors of stairs to safety.
