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He left us shortly after he was done, insisting on telling Ollie—or Olivier, as he called him—I was okay. I had no doubt he wouldn’t fail to mention the hole in my stomach or the trafficked woman I shared dinner with on the bed.
But I still warned him not to.
I placed a French fry between my teeth and crunched. Cat copied, her eyes still flicking from bear to bear.
“Which one is your favorite?”
I already knew. Her eyes always strayed back to the stuffed animal closest to my heart, which, ironically, wasn’t a bear but a shaggy kitten that looked like it had been electrocuted. He peeped behind roses that filled the gaps in my tattoo.
The kitten was my favorite, too. It was symbolic to me, as I also liked to hide behind the roses. Symbolic to Cat, not just because of her name but because I knew she loved kittens.
I hated the fucking bears, no lie.
Hated that Cat was innocent and naïve enough to think they brought comfort.
“I like the kitten, but what is he covered in?”
“Blood,” I replied, looking down at the angry little fucker with someone’s skin shredded under his nails as he chomped on the flowers.
“All of them,” meaning my collection of rough-neck stuffed bears and the odd other animal, “suffer with some kind of issue. The kitten has anger issues. We have one here that has depression,” I pointed to my ribs and the sad-looking bear who was etched in a pitiful walk with his hands on his head. His woe is me attitude caught perfectly in the artwork.
“This one…” My fingers moved to another bear with an empty bottle of Jack in his hand. “He’s an alcoholic.”
Her eyes, wide and full of understanding, flicked to mine, and she didn’t need to ask why I’d chosen these traits for the toy I’d etched on my body.
“I’m sorry if my disappearance contributed to your struggles.”
“Do not apologize to me. It isn’t your place. It wasn’t your fault.”
“But it did contribute?”
I turned to her, fully facing her, and said, “Yes. It made my struggles with alcohol and drugs a little harder.” I pointed to a bizarre little bunny with Xs for eyes who was scratching at his skin, nowhere near the needle in his other arm, buried in his fur. “This one is high…on heroin and looney toons.”
“What is a looney toon?”
“It’s a cartoon, to most people. If you spell it a little differently. It’s also slang for LSD, which is a powerful hallucinogen.”
“That’s what you were addicted to?”
“I was addicted to a lot of things. LSD, cocaine, heroin, cannabis. I wasn’t all that picky.” My skin itched, remembering my past. “It was a long time ago. I’m clean now.”
“That’s good.” She looked at me, allowing me to see her words, before taking a vegetable dipper, and it looked like she felt she needed permission to eat it.
I hated that.
“You can eat anything here. You don’t need to ask me.”
Her teeth crunched through the vegetables, and she pulled a face that made it obvious she wasn’t a fan of split peas.
Neither was I.
The right side of my cheek lifted in a half smile, the left stayed down like I was morbidly depressed.
“Not a fan?” I asked as she forced herself to swallow. I hated that it was something she’d had to do so many times in her life.
“It’s okay,” her mouth lied while her face continued to tell the truth.
“You don’t have to eat anything you don’t like. Put it down and try something else.”
