The Other Girl

ity of Wonderland and drink the potion so she could go through the door, I have to decide whether to stay or move forward on my adventure.

I lift the toilet lid and empty the bottle into the basin. I flush and watch the water swirl and take the tiny white pills to the sewer where they belong.

It causes me physical pain to know what I have to do next. I wish love was easy, but nothing worth anything is ever easy, is it? It’s struggle, and pain, and defiance.

Yes… Defiance.

Those pills kept me from experiencing life, they were killing my soul.

I step to the sink and wash my hands, look at myself in the mirror. I take special care to cleanse the cuts on my palms, then I smile at my reflection. Be bold, be defiant, but also be kind to yourself. All those other fuckers shouldn’t be the ones to receive all my smiles.

Dylan Thomas wrote: Rage, rage against the dying of the light. The very essence of defiance.

I’ve read that poem many times over the years and, though the author was referring to physical death, there are a number of different ways to die. Spiritually. Emotionally. Our ability to love.

Just as a flower wilts from lack of nurture, so does love wither if you don’t fight to keep it alive.

Carter once told me he’d fight for me.

I have to keep fighting for us.

And sometimes, the things we do for love are dastardly. We have to become the base and vile creatures we fear in order to protect that love.

Through my car windshield, I watch Carter. He’s sitting in a retro-style diner booth with his friends, a group he’s befriended since starting BMA.

I’ve been watching him from a distance a lot lately.

I know Carter isn’t ignoring me to be cruel; it’s his way of trying to protect me. Ever since Sue’s death, things have become tense at the academy, and we have to be careful.

I reach over into the passenger seat and grab my phone. Snap a few pictures of him while he’s laughing, looking carefree. He’s so beautiful when he smiles. I want to print these images to add to his file—to show how far he’s come since he first entered my office.

To be safe, I destroyed the recordings. I can’t trust that the author of the texts won’t search my home or office while I’m not there, so everything that relates to Carter I keep with me at all times.

It was evidence.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I will the voice away. It’s nothing like that; it’s simply a precaution.

We haven’t spent much time together lately, not since last week. Or was it the week before? The days started to blur together after Carter left Devil’s Bluff that afternoon we made love.

After I received the text, there were words exchanged—

You had a fight.

A weary laugh springs free. “Carter and I don’t fight. He’s worried about us, just like me. He told me he needs me, and I can’t be there for him as long as people are trying to interfere.”

Ultimately, it was my choice to “take a break”. I want us to be completely rid of any danger before we’re together.

As he’s my sole priority, I stopped our sessions. I wrote up a report that states Carter is doing increasingly well at school, and has no need at this time for sessions to distract from his studies. I then took a two-week leave of absence from the academy. Which was difficult—it means even less time with Carter—but I have to put all my focus on making us safe. Carter wasn’t there when the choice was made, but I know he trusts me.

I can’t abandon him for too long, though. Deceitful little bitches have a way of manipulating men, and I intend to put a stop to Addison toying with his head.

The yearning to go to him lashes through me like a whip, the urge to sate our hunger demands action, but we have to be patient. My head pulses with a fresh ache, and I touch my forehead. The headaches have gotten worse.

That’s why this can’t wait any longer.

The messages have increased, the author of the texts demanding that we meet, that I pay for their silence. Otherwise, they’ll report the escaped mental patient to authorities.

I laughed when I read that one. Escaped mental patient. As if this is some noir film and I’m running around in a straitjacket. The lunacy of the accusation…and the irony.