I know it’s not normal. This is my full-time obsession. It’s my way of replacing another obsession.
I’m willing to do anything to keep Amy safe. That means staying clear of her.
Eight days and counting . . .
I could’ve ripped his head off, I could’ve killed him. And Amy knows that. That look of terror on her face, like an angel died . . . I did that to her. Can’t undo that.
Everything surrounding me eventually rots away.
I’m not for her.
I’ll write it out a thousand times and chant it in my sleep. A romance with me would only end badly.
That means collecting unwanted stuff. Instead of jacking off to those ears, those little elbows, until the end of fucking time. Staying so busy, hungry, tired, and wrecked, I won’t have any energy left to think of all the dirty things I want do to Amy Earhart, and shake the creamer.
What would a monster NOT do?
‘I just need this, okay,’ I say to my mate.
I stare at the angry red line on my forearm, the fury I wrought there. Cut wasn’t deep, there was just too much spilt blood to see clear. I can hardly see the scar now that’s come to symbolise Amy underneath it all. I poke it with my finger, feel the sting, cover my moment of internal suffering in the external pain I’m supposed to feel.
‘Brilliant. I think there needs to be a twelve-step program for junk addicts. Collecting stuff with nothing in mind. Shepherd, hate to break this to you but you’re insane.’
Maybe I feel a connection to the unwanted.
When Max goes downstairs, and he’s out of earshot, Fab5 says, ‘Do you love her?’
I take in the words, my chest aching somewhere that isn’t due to the damn beating.
Yeah, I love Amy, she’s my hope or something. I know it’s love because only love could drive me this crazy. Only love could be this much of a mindfuck. It is love. Just my own twisted and badly choreographed version.
I’m not what Amy needs — not a hero, not a fucking doctor who fixes broken things. I’m damaged goods — still too scared to really love someone because hell, I don’t deserve that. Don’t deserve emeralds, butterfly kisses, sunshine, and every pretty scar, mark, and tears. Don’t deserve that whispered, ‘I love you.’ Want to deserve her. Want to be the man Amy needs. But she’s the fucking rainbow in the sky, while I’m the dark reckless storm. We’re not destiny. Never was.
‘Look Shep, here's some fatherly advice.’
I stare at Fab5 with a death glare. He hesitates, just for a second.
‘If it's meant to be, it'll be. Sure she might be pissed you came back to mess with her head some more, but either she'll want you, or she won't. If she won't, she ain't worth it, man, and if she does . . . Well, when you win her, you better show her the time of her fuckin' life, if you catch my drift.’
If it's meant to be, it'll be.
Sure sounds easy when my friend says it, but I know nothing about either one of us is easy.
‘I’m no shrink, and I don't know just what your problem is, but if you need some Valium or some shit you can come to me, okay?’ The look on his face is what I imagine a father would give his son. ‘Get your shit together, ‘kay?’
I have to get my shit together, like Fab5 said. Amy doesn’t need this. Amy doesn’t need one more fucking thing to worry about.
When evening comes, I sit on my balcony with a tumbler of whiskey, no more company than the cat. Cheshire just glares at me. I just informed the cat that I’ve got an obsession for the girl who lives in room 4.
Fuck.
Amy is a never.
There must’ve been a time . . . when I was good. Before gang life buried me under. A time I read comic books, hugged a teddy bear, enjoyed eating candy. There must’ve been a time . . . I wasn’t me.
I light my smoke and picture a fantasy that lives in the land of fucking Oz.
I can see me now, Amy’s Future, driving to her parents’ house. Red-faced, palms wet, with my hair styled flat and a shiny ring in my back pocket. A man who grew up with his loving mother. . .
First off, I’ll be a wholesome, fine upstanding young man. You couldn’t wish for better. With a good name, and a pure heart. I never left her in the woods, never left her heart broken.
Even so, I’m hardly worthy of her, I know that. Jesus, who would be? But I’ve solemnly vowed to God and every last saint in heaven that I’ll make Amy happy, or I’ll die at her feet trying.
I’ll be walking up the path soon, Amy’s Future, wiping my hands on the backside of my trousers, ready to say my bit. Maybe I’ll surprise her when she’s pegging out the washing, go down on the knee, do it properly. Blushing to the tops of my ears.
I’ll shake hands with her father and Christian will give me a pen, or a tie even. Amy’s mum is alive, and she pretends not to like me at first, but who could take against a young man so obviously in love?
I imagine Amy with our baby, watching the little world created. The baby is Amy’s, the same way Amy is mine. Carried the baby in her and gave it life. That he or she is mine makes it feel like Amy’s carried me in her. Feels like anything could happen with that kinda feeling. I could wake up tomorrow and be the man she deserves. I could be
