Black Iris: Chapter Four
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CHAPTER FOUR
I thought fasting for 20 hours would be the hard part, but consuming an entire bottle of Tylenol gelcaps — and keeping them down — was damn near impossible. A cat’s mouth just isn’t designed for swallowing pills. The gels were labeled “rapid release,” and they were on sale, so I chose them over tablets. That proved to be a mistake as they’re much bigger, and the plastic casings caused them to get stuck in my throat. Still, with perseverance and dedication, I got it done.
As I wait for the darkness, it takes all of my concentration to keep away images of Gia and Brett. I could already fill an entire Pornhub channel with the scenarios I’ve imagined, but it’s actually the non-sexual ones that sting the most.
I picture the two of them riding in a gondola along the Kibble River. A sudden gust of wind causes Brett to lose his balance, and he accidentally clobbers Gia with the oar. She’s bleeding and near unconscious. He paddles them to shore and carries her all the way to the hospital, barefoot, wearing his old-timey 1920’s bathing singlet. The kind with stripes. She has a concussion and needs to spend the night there. He remains by her side, holding her hand the entire night.
Gia once stepped on broken glass while we were together. I also carried her to the hospital, only I didn’t wait with her. It was actually the first night we were together. We had such a great time fucking, making art, and investigating a murder, yet the part I think about most is abandoning her at the hospital.
That’s not true. I definitely think about the fucking more than that other stuff. The type of regret a cat feels is usually more of the “there’s going to be consequences for me” variety, as opposed to the “I feel shitty that I hurt you” kind. If you’re going to hang out with a cat, you should adjust your expectations accordingly.
These are not the thoughts I want to be having as I drift off into oblivion. I try picturing Kara instead. Or did I say Crindy? Let’s just go with Queenie. Wait, isn’t that the name of Walter’s dog in The Burbs? It’s probably the name of a lot of dogs, which means my mother will not approve of this relationship. She’s a little speciesist when it comes to domesticated canines, but I refuse to let my mother’s ignorance determine who I get romantically involved with. Honestly, I used to be speciesist, too, before I met Lincoln. Maybe over time, my mom will come around on the issue as I did. Not that it matters, since Queenie isn’t actually a dog.
Queenie has come to symbolize the tiny slice of hope that still remained even though my body and spirit were broken. She’s the freedom I would feel if I could just let go of Gia, the peace I could have if I got my shit together, took control of the wheel, and righted the ship before it hit the iceberg. The reality of my situation kept that hope buried deep, but when I wake up after this, I’ll get a brand-new start. Maybe then, those lost memories will return and I’ll be able to find Queenie.
For all I know, the woman doesn’t even exist. Maybe she was just a face I saw on TV or a billboard. When I try to picture her now, all I see is the Black Iris.
I suppose that’s not such a bad image to die to.
Darkness comes with my eyes still open, taking away the pain and regret. If only all of my deaths could have been this pleasant.