Crazy, Psychotically Yours one-shot

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I used to play in traffic.

Oh, please. I knew what you were thinking, really, but it wasn’t like that at all. I was perfectly sane. I wasn’t suicidal. It was just that caffeine didn’t quite have the same rush as that near death experience.

Think about it—those few heart-stopping moments before the car either stopped or you jumped out of its way. The light sparkling across the windshield. Gleaming over the shiny paint. Flickering across the hood of the car. You couldn’t think as it came toward you, everything blindly rushing through tunnel vision to that one, miniscule second where you might not make it.

And then it was over, adrenaline pumping through your veins in the most exhilarating rush. Apparently, this habit wasn’t normal. My parents, when they found out about it, sent me to a shrink named Bobby Sue. She reeked of cigarette smoke and Chanel and was convinced I was perfectly fine. Until, of course, the subject of Katharine came up.

It all came back to Katharine. It always comes back to Katharine.

It took me nearly two years to convince Bobby Sue that it really didn’t mean anything. That I was over it, that I’d accepted the past and who I was and moved on. Two years before my parents reluctantly accepted her assurances that I was the new and improved me, practically perfect in every way. Two years of lies and fake promises and sugar-coated declarations of self-worth.

Two years, and I still compare myself to Katharine. Still wonder how anyone could possibly live up to the image of perfection she seemed to instill in people. No one wanted to face up to the fact that that image was gone, washed away in a smudge of time and a blot of brilliant colors.

I remember those first few weeks after she disappeared. It didn’t change in the weeks and months when she stayed gone. And years later, her shadow still clouds everything I do, washed with comparisons to her and what she was.

I’ve grown since then. The five years since that last, painful visit with Bobby Sue and the whispered encouragement against my hair as she hugged me good-bye, patient-doctor relationship be damned, and professionalism with it.

Don’t let them convince you you’re not good enough or that you’re not worth it.

Ah, words to live by.

This morning, at breakfast, Mother asked me about chairing the Spring Cotillion, gushing about blue gowns and ghost orchids and chantilly lace.

I told her, quite resolutely, ‘no.’ And she didn’t even have the decency to leave it at that. She had to bring Katharine into it. Katharine, who did everything perfectly. Katharine, the golden child, the angel, and everything I was not.

"But, Katharine--"

"Katharine is dead, Mother," I snapped, cutting her off. “I don’t care what she would have done or how she would have done it. Stop throwing her in my face.”

Mother gasped, her quivering hands flying to cover her mouth. Was I the only one who could say this without cringing? The only one who accepted that she was dead, gone, and buried? Maybe they’d never physically put her body in the earth, but it didn’t change anything. It amazed me that they thought I was the one with issues.

"What is wrong with you?" she whispered.

Case in point. I shook my head and left, unwilling to pursue another meaningless argument for the better half of the morning. And anyway, she’d just try to convince me to see another boring shrink. One who wanted to talk about Katharine.

Bobby Sue told me I need to stop closing myself off from her, but it was so hard not to build that brick wall when everything else came between us. And she was gone anyway. Gone, but I could never get away from her.

Even with you, it all hinged on Katharine.

I guess that took us to now, to me and you and the reeking, soaked pile of clothes at your feet. I had that sort of adrenaline rush that I used to get from watching people’s faces when they realized they were a slamming of the brakes away from jail for involuntary manslaughter, reckless endangerment, and any other cocktail of misdemeanors or felonies that might have arisen had their reaction time been a fraction of a second slower. You had that same sort of alarmed surprise on your face, the one where you had suddenly realized this was a game, and you wouldn’t win it.

It was a shame you’d never read this, never know that finally you’d managed to truly break through the boredom. That for once, you were making me feel alive. Of course, that could have been an effect from the gasoline fumes as well. I’d heard they make you high.

“Comfortable, Zach?” I sounded concerned, but we both knew I didn’t really care.

You were currently tied to the chair, secured with knots you showed me during the few months you thought it might be exciting to own a boat. We worked on them, practiced, over and over again until I got them perfect. I’d bet that you were regretting it now.

You didn’t answer me right away, and I knew you well enough to realize you were still deciding how you should respond, whether this was just another scene in a different act and as usual, you’d somehow forgotten all your lines. I was a naughty girl to coerce you the way I did.

Years ago, before Katharine ruined everything, Daddy used to tell me I shouldn’t make promises I didn’t intend to keep. But then, Daddy wasn’t trying to get a six-foot-two, two-hundred pound male tied to a chair, so we could probably write that off to circumstance, don’t you think?

Finally, you managed to formulate an answer. I was surprised at how long it took you. You were a lawyer, love. I would have thought you would have been quicker on your feet. But either way, you were cautious, and I couldn’t fault you for that. “What are you doing, darling?” you asked. “I thought we were going to play a game.”

Even now, you couldn’t say my name. “Oh, we are, love. We’re playing it right now.”

Fifteen minutes ago you were angry, and said things I’m sure you didn’t mean. You stopped struggling against the ropes ten minutes ago. I knew, because I’d counted. I thought bargaining came next, because you seemed to have realized that charming me wasn’t going to work. But one should always have a margin of error, so I gave it another thirty seconds before I expected the begging to start.

“Darling, I don’t like this one.” And then you whispered something you seemed to think I’d find more fun. I wondered if you would have played those games with Katharine. I was sure she would have been as bored with them as I am. “Untie me and we can try it.”

I sauntered over to you like I was thinking about it. It served to make the realization that it wasn’t working that much more biting, sharp enough that I could taste the edge of your uncertainty like stainless steel. It had that same cold, smooth texture. That, mixed with the sudden flash of relief across your features, had the same silken feel as honey on my tongue. I liked the fact that I had time to savor it.

“I don’t think so, love.” I whispered it close to your ear and adored the way it made you shiver. Once upon a time, it would have been me that inspired that reaction. Now it was only because you didn’t know what I would do next.

I, too, was contemplating this. I hadn’t planned it nearly as well as I’d thought, I frowned, as I surveyed the lump of clothes at your feet. Didn’t fire need oxygen? Maybe I should spread them out. So I picked them up one-by-one, and decorated you like the Christmas Tree in the church foyer, hung with clothes for the needy.

Your clothes were much more expensive, and were more likely to see the inside of a garbage can when you were done with them than a donation bin. But then, you thought those efforts were just enablers, another Band-aid on the problem. Saintly Katharine would have crucified you. Me? I had more flair.

“Why are you doing this?”

Ah. That one I hadn’t answered, and I thought you probably deserved to know. Still, the question changed things.

“I can’t do this anymore, Zach.” I moved quickly away from you, so I could observe how each of my words cut another wound into that tanned flesh. You were beautiful, my darling fiancé, like only old money can be. If only you didn’t know it.

Of course, that was just a minor flaw compared to the glaring sin that brought us here. And wouldn’t you know, Katharine was at the heart of it. I was scheming for the day that her saintly image wasn’t hovering over my head like a pesky ghost. It might not even have mattered if you had just left her dead in her grave. But like my parents, and my friends, and everyone else around me, you just couldn’t, could you?

It was such a shame, you know. I really could have loved you.

And instead of taking me seriously, you groaned. “Not this again.”

Clearly it wasn’t “this” again. If that were the case, your clothes wouldn’t be soaked in gasoline. We would have screamed, fucked, screamed some more, and life would have returned to normal. If “normal” was a word that was ever used regarding my life. No, it wasn’t “this.” This would have left us in the same boring routine, doing the same boring things in our boring lives.

You got mad at me when I couldn’t remember things, whole spaces of my life lost to darkness. I wished I could tell you that I was sleeping when it happened, but we both knew that wasn’t it. I ignored your exasperated sigh. “No, not ‘this’ again.” I stared at you soberly. “And I’m not going to lie to you, love. It’s not me. It’s you.”

You blinked at me, and all I could think of was a stupid cow, chewing its cud. You had that same vacant look on your face. “What are you talking about?”

I suddenly lost my temper. “I am not and never will be able to live up to Katharine! I’m not perfect! Do you think I don’t notice the sidelong looks and the little jibes directed my way when I’ve done something Katharine wouldn’t? Do you think I don’t see the way you back away from me when someone mentions her? The reverent silence when someone brings up her hallowed name?” I hated how my breathing sounded, like an oxygen tank unhinged, and how hard it was to concentrate. “It’s over, Zach. All of it!”

And for the first time, I swore I saw fear in you eyes. You didn’t say anything, your mouth working like someone had forgotten to find the off switch, and I turned to find the metal can I’d come here with. You finally found your voice. “Darling, listen. We can talk about this—“

My smile was brilliant. “Funny, Bobby Sue said the same thing. It never helped.”

I poured another gallon of gasoline across your shoes just for good measure. The blood drained from your face.

“You know, a simple, ‘I don’t want to marry you’ would have done it. I never would have forced you into anything you didn’t want.”

I knew you were sincere. That, sadly, didn’t change anything. “But see, love, I never would have said that. My parents never would have let me break it off and it wouldn’t have fixed anything.”

“And this will?!”

Now you were starting to sound desperate. It was turning your voice an orangey-red, anger mixed with cowardice. I knew you wanted to back down, cajole me into acquiescing. That was the yellow hue hovering at the corners. The orange came from the center of angry red. If I let you go now, they’d throw me back in the hospital for sure.

I patted your shoulder reassuringly, then christened it, too, with gasoline. “It will for me.”

The fumes were making me dizzy. I pirouetted toward the counter, where I left the matches and the lighter. Which one do I want? Which is safer? That sweet smell was making me forget. A simple child’s game chose for me, and I picked the matches up off the counter.

It was the traffic game all over again. Your cerulean eyes widened with panic and I drank in the terror that filled them when you realized you were skating on the edge. The rush was incredible.

“Think about this, darling,” you said. “Did you take your medication this morning?

Of course I didn’t take my medicine this morning. It never helps. Nothing ever does. And why couldn’t I pull the match book open?

“Come on, honey, come back to me.” I glanced at you then. You were struggling again, but we both knew it wasn’t going to help. “Come on, darling, I know you’re in there somewhere.”

I felt a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness, but forced it away with a smile. “I’m right here, Zach, love.”

“Please, darling, untie me.” Now you were begging. I thought that would have started ages ago, but apparently you just realized that I was serious. “If that’s really you right now, let me go. I love you.”

I was still smiling. “I’m sorry, Zach. This is how it has to be.”

And just like that, the anger was back. “You’re a crazy bitch, Katharine!”

My jaw was starting to hurt from keeping the smile on my face. “I told you to call me, ‘Kate,’ love.”

And while you sputtered, I lit the match.

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This story has serious issues. Suggestions welcome.

-K