Retargeting Done Right

FAY

ORC ANXIETY: AN ISSUE TO WORRY ABOUT

The 3,567 attacks by the orc kind on the civil and defense populations over the past year have prompted many experts to investigate the matter. Several laws have been passed by the Ministry of Defense to contain one orc at a time at retail and recreational venues. Special allocations have been appointed, especially to them, at major and public events. War and its repercussions may have a detrimental impact on the orc community, according to psychologists, with PTSD to blame.

Kuma Springfly. "Orc Anxiety: an issue to worry about." Los Demones Chronicle, June 14, p.1.

Arsh, shit. "Fucking tray and fucking day!" And why not a "Fucking Fay..." while we're at it. Anyway, why am I surprised? It's been another seven glorious slipper and paper tissue days, and they keep coming. Gotta make it a habit.

Maybe Donna's right. Maybe I should go back to work, face my demons...

Dry skin crumples between my eyes, hinting at something I can't grasp.

I blink. I think I just grasped it. No. Not ready to walk into Deon.

I shake my hand that just got burnt from the scorching hot grill. Well, at least no one can say it's not cooked...

Sad black rocks—supposed to be blueberry muffins—stare at me from their carbonized molds. If they had life in them, they might think their day just turned to shit. Still, they wouldn't be able to beat mine.

Apparently, I signed up for ashitty daysubscription.

Cough, cough... Where is it?

Probing the counter, I... Ah, it's here. I grab the kitchen roll and tear off a piece, wiping my cheek. My eyes have been leaking since this morning, and I wish I knew where the tap was.

Next step: open the window. That is, if I find it. I would've already been breathing fresh air if Tyke had been here.

A burning sigh empties my lungs.

'We could be runaways,' he had said.

We could be runaways...

It looks like there's nothing left for dinner but my stupid smoked-up tears.

Talking about smoke, I finally manage to land on the window handle.

I open it and sit on the window frame. With my bare feet dangling in the gloom, my blues begin dripping all over my face, remorse macerating in my mind.

'We could be runaways.'. The more I think about this fantasy, the more it takes shape: Midnight, Tyke grabbing my hand as I hold Cerberios leash with the other. We rush down the stairs, creep out of my building and take off in his Cadillac.

But then reality hits—tied down by my roots, family, and the Wall.

Is this even living?

My phone chimes.

Wolfie

9:37 pm

Don't wait 4 me. It's another All-Nighter. There's a dickhead who wants a report by 2morrow mng

Donna's working late hours again...

I take a deep breath between snivels and look up at the sky. It's one of those black-as-pitch nights, with no stars or sounds aside from traffic two blocks away.

A bat comes swishing its crazy self near me.

How I envy it. The night is his; he doesn't have to worry about anything except eating bugs.

What it would be like to take off and leave this life behind.

Sometimes I think about doing it, the sky being my only limit.

To never come back, like a runaway.

A runaway...

Once again, my thumb floats above Tyke's message thread, a heartache tearing at my stance to talk to him

Just don't.

Don't be that girl.

I've got to divert my attention to something else.

And as always, I end up scrolling through social media, as if I might find an escape of some sort.

An ad soon catches my attention, and a realization dawns on me. Either a higher force is playing games, or... that's what I call retargeting done right.

MonsterSpeeddating.com.

Find your soulmate in a swipe.

Soulmate? What a bunch of crap.

Yet, here I am, an app downloaded later, typing in my name and date of birth, creating some profile.

Because why not?

Isn't it glow-up o'clock?

In all cases, I need a change; anything to pull me out of my glumness.

Anything to help me forget about an orc who not only punched a hole in my being but seemed to have taken my heart with him when I dismissed him from my life.

Hobbies: Destroying orcs feeli?—

No, I can't write that.

Hobbies:Flying, Mets, baseball, Feykila taster.

Kind: Peacemaker fairy.

This will have to do. I simply don't have the courage to start typing a dissertation about my life. Or should I say, a research paper on boneheads...

I laugh bitterly.

Goal:Meet someone who can make me feel good again.

A selfie later, the whole lot drenched in runny mascara, I'm the perfect candidate for a left swipe—the swipe of death, the swipe of the no-go.

And fuck, I don't care.

I hit submit, and slump against the window's sidewall. Burying my shamed head in my hands, there is now, at ten in the evening, nothing else I can do with myself.

I know I could be more creative, like obliterate my lonely self with feykila and chocolate, and then do a leap of faith from the window.The Faerish roulette, we call it, counting how many seconds before your drunk brain signals your wings to open...

I did that once.

Unfortunately, they opened before impact.

How far from the ground, though? That's the real question.

Ting!

Profile Activated.

What? That's it? According to Deon, the admission process is supposed to be longer.

Ah... It's a first-one-free thing. I'm allowed one swipe until my profile is approved and my subscription paid.

Okay...

Name: Vym.

Kind: Vampire.

Tempting, but those snobby rich immortals are said to be swimming with sharks and, well... blood.

Goal: Looking for the eternal one.

Ha ha. I can't.

And eternal fun...??

Mm-hmm.

He seems funny.

Good looking, too. Long, dark hair that he seems to keep in a half-ponytail style. Ruby eyes, a not-too-square jawline. Could do with some tanning, though...

Yeah, definitely good-looking.

This is said to be a site for serious love seekers, and maybe that's what I need.

I hover my thumb over the green tick-shaped tab, ready to swipe right. It stops an inch from the screen.

Trembling, my thumb is resisting for some reason, and I'm upset to find it going against my choice as if it had a conscience. I know what I'm doing!

I keep thinking of Tyke here, thinking of Tyke there, falling apart 86400 times a day, to know he's not...here––seconds my every sad day is made of. My mind just won't let him go.

A metallic clatter echoes among my street's tightly stacked buildings. Drifting my eyes down towards my street, I spot a black cat darting from the light of a lamppost and into the darkness. A dustbin the cat must have knocked over rolls across the road, with bits of litter spilling out. And I snicker. Even the universe is spitting it at my face. I'm trash. I showed it neat and clear with Tyke. I don't deserve him. End of story.

I shift my attention back to my phone, to this app and its odd-looking logo: it's a smile spreading across fangs with a perfect heart formed by tentacles emerging behind it.

Don't do this, Fay.

I am doing this. I need to start anew. Build something stable, healthy... try to sustain it for once.

The voice in my head keeps yelling at me, shouting I should close the app and handle things differently with Tyke. How am I supposed to do it any differently? Is it wrong to do my best to forget him?

Feel that void, Fay. You're only good at that. Eyes fucking blur one more time, sore, puffy, throbbing at each blink. I'm a crier, it's all there is to it, sobbing on my own pathetic self, so why not try to pull me out of this slobbering joke.

You can be together. It's still up to you.

No.

I've completely blown it with him. Tyke already sees all my flaws, and I can't even face it. It's just too much. He used to occupy my thoughts, but now it's unbearable. Ears perk up at every male voice, every footstep outside my door, every masculine chuckle in the street, sometimes a mirage of long black hair tormenting me... I feel hexed, my chest always heavy, suffocating, longing for those signs to be real. And they never are.

And my chest... It keeps constricting every time my brain tape-jams at 'Tyke.' Maybe it's guilt, maybe it's love, fuck, both... Whatever the case might be, I won't feed into any of them. I know what awaits when we get too involved; you get tossed into a hurricane of dependence and uncertainty, the fear of being abandoned climaxing. And even if I found the courage to make it work, as society stands, Tyke will be trapped in a dead-end alley with my fucked-up self.

I've got to shake things up, and maybe, yes, find someone to fill the dead space he left behind. Tyke feels like this limb that isn't there anymore, a phantom pain, the shadow of his presence still lingering, yet missing. I want him. But it's them, this city, they're the ones who don't love us together, not me!

I snort, mocking myself for the thoughts I just spawned. Blaming others for my own insecurities, I'd say my greatest strength to date. Tyke deserves better than a spineless, self-destructive, all-around jerk.

Shit, I hate myself. Anxiety's quick to invade, fingers tingling, reality between me and Tyke catching up as my grip on my phone begins to dew with sweat.

Too proud to ask for help, too proud to put the big girl's pants on, but wise enough to blow everything up! Breathing becomes hard. I'm freaking out. Ground... I've got to ground myself. I pick at a blue elastic band wrapped loosely around my wrist, slingshotting the rubber against a skin I sometimes don't feel like mine.

Sucking back my tears, repressing my shame, refusing to let my head drop, I clench my phone harder, and if I had Tyke's strength, surely would've broken it.

I'm giving us a second chance, here, a fresh start, an opportunity to move on. A transition is needed, plus I don't want any friends-with-benefits nonsense anymore. I'm done.

I shut my eyes, and taking a deep breath, swipe.

My phone falls on my lap, hands shaking as if I had run a marathon.

And as my gaze falls onto the cats wailing below, I wonder how much more pathetic I can be.

Ting.