Tuesday Blues

FAY

BILLIONS LOST IN NEW STOCK CRASH:

Thousands of aeriojets are grounded as Faerhan closes its borders. Countries associated with Darfaen and Centaurus have been black-listed due to Fidr's commercial and political agreements. Last night, President Fidr addressed the nation, promising to restore Faerhan to its former glory by making it self-sufficient, urging Faerhans to brace during the trial times. The majority supports the decision.

Eflira Cutsling. "Billions lost in new stock crash." New Orc Times, June 25.

"I

want you to know, bug, that every time I feel your skin on mine, there's something I can't explain. But this something... it's everything."

Tyke's sweet nothings still echo in my head as my tired eyes open.

I blink several times, and several times my blind hand searches for an orc's presence, and I curse when I find the bed empty. I could've sworn he was next to me not half a minute ago. My throat still tingles from his whispers brushing over it, and somehow it infuriates me. This Hypnos, goddess of sleep or whatever, is distorting minutes into hours like a fucking time machine! I thought I still had time with him—time to kiss him, time to keep him in my embrace, time to talk to him...

Time to say goodbye...

My creasing eyelids burn as I attempt to crack them open. Stray sunrays are piercing through the window, hot, intense, and eager to enucleate me. Seems like Tuesday's taking over Monday's spot as the worst day, trying to finish me off...

I squint at a garland of little square papers arranged against the window. A procession of Post-Its are stuck on it—a letter on each note.

"G.E.T. U.P."

Tyke, you're such a dork... My smile lasts for two seconds—two seconds before my rictus turns into the reversed blade of a scythe. He's gone, and I feel nervous in a way that can't be named.

Swaddled in sheets, I turn to my left until my face is completely buried in the pillow and sigh.

After watching white nothing being sliced by the fan's wooden blades whirling above my head for the past five min?—

My eyes swirl over my alarm clock as I ponder. From those square digital numbers, it hasn't been five but one, and not minutes but an hour...

I'm fazing out again.

So, after watching white nothing being sliced by the fan's wooden blades whirling above my head for about an hour, I let one of my toes peek out of my blankets.

Believe me, it's a significant milestone.

First, the left one, and I leave it there for a while, dangling into this short void. May I state that I'm still considering, very much weighing, the pros and cons of whether to face another day or not.

And then the right one. From the latter slipping down by itself, such a dead limb joining its twin, it seems I'm in for another fantastic day in the life of Fayshit.

Weakly, I push myself from the mat, my spine straightening for a split second before hunching from an empty stomach.

Nothing out of the ordinary, right?

It is for me. Symptoms of hopelessness are creeping all over my body again.

Dormant for months, these come in waves. They always awake from some sort of trigger, and then it's a battle to get rid of them. They gnaw at my self-esteem, lurk about my doubts, and skulk over them, nurturing until they take root and absorb me whole. I clamp my head and shut my eyes, a long groan pushing out of me. Oppressive like a cloud, a familiar, addictive, clingy thought is stirring up in me: Why I got to live and not my brother. And now envy pounds in my mind. To destroy myself with alcohol with people I don't know, only to get out of my head momentarily. It's all just a fake mental bandaid. I even noticed a pattern to it. I need to drink to get away from my monsters. So I drink. Too much. It works for an hour or two. Then it gets worse, but by the time I realize this, it's already too late; I've met new people. And that part ain't never enough. So I sleep with them, a feeling of belonging helping me cope, sometimes making me believe I won over this disease... It never lasts. I want no strings attached, nothing a separation could remind me of how I could lose the people I could've loved. By then, when I feel like a whore, all I can see in my head is Tyke and I cannot bear being myself anymore. But yet again, there is Tyke, and I can't show it, do nothing extreme about it because I want to keep him. I shrug at the thought, or is it from this coldness mornings are made of? In all cases, I hug myself, nails nicely tucked in my back. Come on, Fay, he's seen everything now... and he's still here. I'm stuck on my pink fluffy monster slippers, some purple horns sticking out of them, ogling me with intent. To put it mildly, I'm the adult who refuses to grow.

I exhale, kicking myself for how dramatic this blow just sounded.

With a shaky breath, I straighten my posture and square my shoulders. They say 'fake it till you make it.' Wishful thinking. They just slump back to where they were. How am I going to weed myself out of my shit?

A shower, Fay. Start with a shower.

And so, as I mentally force my body to keep going, my wings drag my naked self to the bathroom, my sluggish feet trailing behind. I push on the door and switch the light on. The smell of soap and Tyke's distinct rockrose scent still lingers in this damp, vaporous air, dew from a recent shower dripping down the tiles.

I have to find a way to quiet the shadows in me.

Like a robot, I turn the shower on and close my eyes to the sound of water. In my darkness, thoughts start to loom over me. It's like my body is turning into an anvil, and no matter how I carry myself, it gets heavier and heavier.

The rubber band I hit against my skin doesn't work. Let the pain disperse... Let it disperse.

When my eyes open again, my vision is blurry, just like everything I feel. My nails cut into my arms; it's all I need to feel for now. I just need to feel something else—a different sting, a different pain. But it doesn't work, so I force my nails into the flesh.

I let myself drop onto the tiles and stay there, a shower raining on my face, sending my weak tears down the drain. My eyes burn, and no matter how hard my palms press against them, the strain persists. Maybe I should see a therapist again.

But then there's Tyke... His kind despises anything that breathes weakness. He knows me as a happy, strong fairy. No, I won't see any therapist. I want him to think I am... happy.

There's a bottle nudging my bent knee, and I've been practically staring at its black shape for the past ten minutes. Then, I remember it's shampoo, and I need to clean myself.

With a towel wrapped around my head, and dressed in fluffy ivory pajamas, I flutter into the living room, feeling even more lonely at the sight of my roommate's missing shoes and handbag.

In the middle of flittering over the couch, something big hits me in the eyes.

Oh my gods...

Part of my face has gone unresponsive, suggesting a stroke from the fat underwear-like piece sitting proudly on the island's surface. It's there, on the marble, for the world to see. There's a note beside it, boldly written in Donna's beautiful cursive.

I'm traveling for work. Some big bearish client wants to get rid of all his stock. Need a face to face. Be back on Friday.

My brows knit. Bearish? What does bearish mean? Is it as in virile? Hot? Tall? Green? My similes make me simper. Must be some sort of trading slang, and I never understand half of it.

P.S. I think this big boy belongs to Tyke... found it yesterday behind the plant.

Thick and fast, shame goes flash-pasteurizing my blood so much that I don't even know my north and south anymore. Indeed, with its sharp studs, Tyke's leather chastity belt stands out nicely, cutting into my vision from every angle.

I keep staring at the object of my shame, counting how many days Donna will be gone, three, and no matter how many times I recount, the number doesn't change. And then I simply chuckle. I chuckle because there is this thing happening again. It's when your day starts okay, but you're still not sure about the process, and then, as expected, some shit finally goes down. It's called the Fuckening, and it's underway right now.

Three days...

I grab Tyke's aggressive belt and press it against me. I hold it fondly, the spikes imprinting on my arms and chest, clinging to it as if it were him. Ridiculous... And still, I keep it close to my heart, even as I open my bedroom door, halt to my drawer, and pull it open.

Its absence, the coldness it leaves on my skin as I place it near my collar resembles sorrow, and I'm worried this feeling will hang around for a while.

You're stupid, Fay.

As I glance at the objects, these hint at a bequest from Tyke. It's unhealthy to think that way, and yet, whenever I know he's involved in raids and other missions, the worst infects my mind.

My drawer closes, cutting off this thought—and it doesn't; not at all. It's an effing ghost, and I suspect it'll haunt me until Tyke returns.

I blow through pinched lips, scrutinizing the veins in the mahogany wood, thinking how ugly this piece of furniture is for the first time...

With my wings slurring on the ground behind my feet, my legs drag me back to the living room, feeling like I'm about to spend an eternity there.

Eyes glaze about the place. There's Forbidden Skin on the coffee table, a book I started to read, but now, I'm pretty sure it's going to put me in a reading slump.

I mentally cross out 'reading' on my to-do list, which accounted for that one line.

I glare at the television. It's all about presence, and sound is king. With a single flurry of wings, I leap toward the remote resting on the sofa and revolve to face the TV, pointing my black box to the screen... which stays black.

Another power outage it is. Fantastic. And that's why the TV era is coming to an end, folks.

Where's Donna's old computer? My patience has hit zero today, and the generator doesn't always turn on. So...

Ah! Here. I pick up the cellar-taped laptop, a multiple crash survivor taking the dust on the corridor buffet, and drop myself onto the glittering couch. Unlike our electricity provider, my smile is high wattage upon reading the seventy percent battery.

Social media or how to procrastinate like a pro, I'm merely going to check on people I don't like, just to make sure I still don't like them. One can never be too sure, right?

There's a cute cat video on the upper left corner of my screen.

I click on it and giggle because I think I accidentally fell into the cat zone. Perhaps I should equip myself.

I fly to the kitchen, grab an open bag of crisps, toss the blue crisp clip into the sink, and flap back to my initial position. Right, let's get on with it, or as I like to say, 'If you're going to be sad, may as well get fat.'

I pop a Sheetoes into my mouth, watching flabby cats recorded from under glass tables, the bag flat on my chest, a few orange crumbs mingling with the glitter-layered sofa. To the stage it's at, why bother? I'll give it a deep clean... later. Those people posting cat videos have no life. And yet, here I am, having lost the past hour watching cat video after cat video...

Bang, bang, bang!

My towel slumps down my face as I jump, the laptop crashing to the floor, bones aching from a violent rattle... crisps, damn it, are everywhere.

I clasp my face as I mentally scroll through all the relevant people who might visit at this time. My mother?! It can't be. She's like a hermit, only ventures out for garden center expeditions and my father? He's at work. In all cases, it can't be them. I receive those daily texts that go like this: "Your father wants you back at work. He tells me you've hit the absence record this month. He's upset about the whole story, but he wants to see you back. Promise me you will."

First, I huffed. I wanted to lay out all the reasons for my so-called absences—the hospital trip, which my father glossed over. In retrospect, he might not have understood... And then, to top it off, he suspended me! But I held my tongue. So far, my replies have been along the lines of: "No need to worry, Mom. Tell him I'm heading back in a few days. Just need to rest a little. I've been burning the candles at both ends lately; too many parties ??."

Shit, all I want is to burst into her arms and tell her, I need space, time, a fucking escape. Too much drama, too many meaning... too much. But I can't. My independence depends on how I convey my mental state. If I show even a hint of struggle, my parents will reel me back home like a fish on a line. They keep every part of my life in check, including my pill history like an ever-present bookmark on my life's shitty chapter. If they knew what's really going on, they'd take me back. Keep an eye on me until they deem me stable... and I won't let them take my freedom away because I need it... to get away.

I massage my temples, racking my brain, trying to make order. Erratic thoughts are tangling with one another again, and all I want is to focus on one: who's at the door.

I tap my cheeks and inhale deeply, forcing an attempt to recenter myself. I don't exactly have friends who could simply drop by unannounced. Who has time for that? It's a workday.

There is a certain amount of effort required in lifting oneself, and my body makes no amends to it. My weak abdominal muscles are making me huff, my cheeks ballooning, trying to contract my micro pellets for abdominals. Arsh, it's becoming crucial to hit the gym.

I walk to the door and stop inches from it. As for grasping the handle, my hand hesitates to even consider brushing it.

I don't need to see anyone. I don't wish to see anyone!

Bang, bang!

Shit. The Gen Z in me is shouting at my brain not to open the effing door. We all know how an unannounced knock sounds. It's creepy...

And for those asking if a knock should be announced? The answer is yes. It's called texting!

Don't open!

It's an urgent knock...

Don't. Open. The. Door.

I'm in front of this white slab separating me from whoever this may be.

As a matter of fact, I've been in front of it for a while now. And during this quiet time, I've been hoping beyond hope that the person standing behind it would have dropped the bone and left. But it looks like an insisting piece of... soul.

I take a deep breath and, before opening, stretch my Fayke smile.

"Hi," I say in pitch-perfect, girl-next-door style.

By the god of fuck...