As badly as I have since I found out who he is.
Calvin Sims. Katie’s ex. The man who tried to burn her alive.
Every time I think of Katie, I think of him. And that happens almost as often as I breathe.
He doesn’t deserve to live. Lots of people don’t, I’m sure, but I’ve never really wanted to take a life. Not even when it was part of my job in Delta Five.
Until now.
But I want to take his. He stole everything from Katie and then he stole her from me. He stole our future. He stole any chance we might have. I can’t blame her for drawing the line. Unfortunately it’s a line I can do nothing about. So I’m angry. No, I’m furious. Livid. Irate. All the time. And it’s eating away at me like cancer, gnawing at my guts. Always gnawing.
I’ve been in front of a speed bag, a punching bag or a sparring partner three or four times a day since the morning after she left. I beat on them like I want to beat Sims. Only I can’t. Because my hands are tied. And no matter how many other people or objects I take out all my aggression on, it never makes me feel any better.
I just feel worse.
More trapped.
More hopeless.
Less alive.
Every day I wonder how much longer I can let this go. Not that I’m letting it go. I’m holding on to it. Tight. With a death grip that feels like it’s only killing me. Slowly. Day by day.
At least I tell myself that’s what it is. But deep down, I know that it’s really not what’s killing me. Grief is. I die a little bit more every day. Every day without Katie.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Katie
Days creep by. The week is punctuated only by the arrival of my belongings on Friday afternoon. Everything I left in New York, packed neatly into my bag, brought by messenger to my door. No note. No Rogan. No hope. Just a suitcase full of stuff that I couldn’t care less about.
I’ve never hated Friday more.
Slowly, the days turn into a week. One week into two. Two into three. And then a month has elapsed. I’m firmly back in my shell, hiding from everyone except Mona. It seems everyone is hiding from me as well. I’ve become a bit of a pariah, from what I can tell.
Two days after returning to Enchantment, the disastrous post-fight interview aired on Sports Central. I didn’t immediately know, of course, since I have ovaries and therefore do not live and breathe sports. It didn’t take too long for me to figure it out, though. The men who saw it asked the women they knew about it. Then the women talked among themselves over lunches and drinks and workplace water coolers. Eventually, word got out and the video made its way around the studio.
I wasn’t surprised by the strange looks that followed the circulation of the video. I’m the resident freak show, after all. I’d been living right here under their beautiful, flawless noses all this time, unbeknownst to them. But even so, that doesn’t mean I’m not hurt by them. Hurt and humiliated.
The Ew, what happened to her? and Gross! What’s wrong with her skin? looks were both hurtful and humiliating, but not nearly as much as the ones that showed pity. Those are the ones I have little tolerance for. They’re the ones that hurt the most. They say I’m the pathetic girl who fell for a guy way outside her league. They say I was a fool to ever think he could really be interested in me. A freak. A scarred, backward, freak who used to be somebody but then basically died in a fire. Only a few human parts remain and they fled the moment I left Rogan at the airport.
Rogan.
Even now, after a month, it hurts. I thought it would get easier, but it hasn’t. It seems that the gaping hole in my chest is ever-widening. I’ve had these recurring nightmares where I’m sucked into oblivion by the vacuum that exists within me. Only sometimes, it’s a dream rather than a nightmare. In a way, I’d welcome an end to this misery.
Victoria has kept her distance. She didn’t come out of that video looking like a very nice person. She did the smart thing and just hung her head like she was ashamed. Now she’s laying low until it blows over. As for me, I hope I never have to see her again. Despite the fact that this is a small studio and an even smaller town, I’ve gotten really good at avoiding. Life, people, the outside world, I avoid it all. I go to work, I come home. Sometimes I go to the store. Sometimes I take Dozer to the park. Other than that, I eat (sometimes), I sleep (sometimes) and I work. That’s it. Even Mona has become accustomed to eating in my “office” with me rather than venturing out to the diner.
All in all, it seems that Kathryn Rydale has died yet again. That’s twice now, twice that I’ve suffered the death of who I am in some way or another. Kat died in a fire, and only a tiny part of her was resurrected in Katie. And most of Katie died in New York after a mixed martial arts charity fight. She still lives in the same house and works at the same job, but all the pieces of her that were living are mostly dead now. I can’t even seem to find happiness in the few trivial things that I’d managed to enjoy as Katie. There’s just nothing left for me. Just . . . nothing.