The Posy Diaries

Kennedy Morrison is an unapologetic 20-something year old in the throes of recovering from a recent breakup from Blake Henley. Blake lives thousands of miles away from her. Kennedy has chronic depression and anxiety and Blake has ADHD and depression. They're both chronically sad and lonely. Can Kennedy stop her consumption by her own worst enemy: herself? Is her relationship with Blake salvageable?

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Author's note

WARNING: This story contains strong language, graphic imagery, explicit sexual content, and possible drug use. Please read at your own discretion. You must be 18 years old or older to read this.
AA

1. I.

I.

 

 

 

 

There I was in the bedroom, aware of being in a place that was not mine at all. The place seemed familiar. It felt odd and uncomfortable. There was the sloping of pale sunlight streaming in. There were your curtains, diaphanous. There was your small Papillon curled up, like an Ouroboros, and your cat hiding, frightened. It was skittish under your pewter couch.

I found myself inspecting everything, feeling frantic. My feet were light on the cold wooden floor in your living room. I curled them on the checkered vinyl tiles in the kitchen. Curled them on the off-white herringbone tiles in the bathroom. I ran my fingers over everything too. I left vestiges of myself, like dead skin cells, and the whisper of a touch on every surface.

I trailed my fingers over the taupe walls of the bathroom. Skimmed them over the dandelion-yellow wallpaper in the kitchen. Tapped my nails on the Formica countertops and on your Indonesian coffee table. I smoothed over the black and orange patterned throw that your aunt had crocheted for you. I studied the rich cherry wood dining table. I lounged in the matching chairs with wine-colored cushions. Then I splashed my face with cool water from the glass bowl sink in your bathroom.

One morning, I opened your medicine cabinet, next to your unadorned mirror. I rummaged in the dark around 4:55 AM for the pill bottles lined on the topmost shelf. There were three shelves. On the bottom one, there were your Gillette razors. There were three, one used and had curled dark hairs sticking out from the blades, and a pair of used tweezers. Silver and also plain. The second shelf had a container of Q-tips, unopened. There was also a package of opened Band-Aids, Neosporin and some Motrin, both recently used.

There was the cream-colored dish with mineral black soap, perched on the countertop next to the sink. Your fingers had made indentations, left prints behind. They made crevices into the smooth shell of the soap. I touched everything, curious, and flicked the light on after feeling for it along the expanse of the wall. The fluorescent light turned on above me, humming in the small room. On the other side of the wall, you were sleeping, readjusting yourself in your boxers. You were grinding your teeth, smiling to yourself as you slept. You would punctuate the silence of your room with an occasional gentle snore.

I spotted your cat bumping her little wet pink nose against my calf. I cooed at her and spoke soft things. She was adorable. I had tried to coax her out of her many hiding spots in the space of your condo for the past three days now to no avail. You'd told me as we'd laid in bed after having sex, that she only came to people of her own volition.

 

 

 

 

 

"By people, I mean me," you'd said, "because she'd never socialized with any other human before meeting me".


That's why she was so timid.

I leaned down and stroked her soft head, rubbed in between her ears that twitched back and forth quickly. She closed her eyes halfway and meowed quietly. She purred vibrating her whole entire sleek lithely body against my leg in contentment. For about three-five minutes she walked around me, brushing herself against me, sidling up alongside my newly shaved legs, and slowly tracing her tail along my skin. It was an oddly entrancing and cathartic experience. I stood there stock-still and let her do her uniquely feline bonding thing.

“You're such a sweet little girl aren't you? Yes, you are. Oh, you're just a shy little one, aren't you? You're so sweet,” I gushed quietly. I repeated this like a mantra, some sort of truth to posit into myself. It wasn’t to soothe her. I figured if I kept saying it then it would become a reality. Your cat would be sweet and become an almost divine feline being to offer me comfort selflessly.


Or maybe I was just crazy. I don't know...


I extended my finger out to her wet nose once she stopped, peering up at me. She must have thought I was a strange little human with my long torso, thin arms, and legs, still shapely in their slimness. I had very little hips and my waist bled into them. My forehead was high, my cheekbones were sharp jutting points, and my nose was small but proud in its straight prominence, my lips tiny and puckered as if perpetually drawn in a line of shrewd and impassive skepticism. It felt as if I was the cat and the cat was me.

We kept gazing at each other, her eyes a glassy shade of haunting yellowish green, revealing my secrets within my dark browns. My eyes were the color of shit. My eyes were the color of caked mud. My eyes were the color of drizzled chocolate ganache or German chocolate cake. Maybe your cat was just hungry and desperate, and since I was the only person awake in the condo that could give her the sustenance she so aptly required, she begrudgingly approached me. This wasn't bonding. No, this bitch of a cat was looking to have an unspoken, non-negotiable and obviously one-sided contract confirmed. She wanted food. I would give it to her. It wasn't a silent plea. No, it was a demand. A give it to me now, bitch demand.

I thought about the can of tuna you'd opened yesterday as an experiment to familiarize her with me. I had been squatting on the floor in the kitchen. I held the can of tuna out to her timidly. She sauntered over to me, equally pensive and doubtful. What if I'd sprinkled arsenic or anthrax into the tuna and stirred it in? What if I was messed up and a sociopathic cat-hater? Could those toxins kill cats the same way they could off a human? Why was I thinking about that? Why was I debating that in my head?

Maybe I was really mad...

 

 

 

You gently encouraged me to give her some tuna.


“With my hands?” I asked incredulous, briefly wrinkling my nose. You looked at me in mild disbelief as if to say, “no, I want you to masticate it like mama birds do and vomit it into my cat's mouth.” I took a chunk of the tuna in my fingers and placed it gingerly on the ground. Mysteriously the lump of fish meat retained its solid chunky shape.

The room smelled fishy and the raw scent beckoned to your cat like she was a dog salivating over freshly sliced steak. It occurred to me that we were attempting something Pavlovian. The idea of an animal eating another animal somehow bothered me until I realized that we were animals that sometimes ate other animals. Consumed them. Turned them into casseroles. Sauteed them in wine and their own drippings. Baked them and roasted them over a spit. Had them with a side of mashed potatoes and asparagus. Fed them sloppily to our lovers. Self-consciously. Then we called that foreplay. Drizzled honey over their nipples and attempted to lap it up like a cat would. Okay...that was admittedly a weird and unnecessary comparison. But still...


You made everything become overtly sexual in my head.

Did I mention that I touched every single thing in your condo? I’m just not sure what happened or not.

In my hand, presently, was one of the pill bottles. This one was called Vyvanse. It was a medication prescribed for people diagnosed with ADHD and that's when I recalled that you'd said you'd been diagnosed as a kid (somewhere around 9 or 10 years old) with the condition.

I imagined you then, rudely interrupting your teacher, insisting that reading off of a map was the most farcical and useless skill one would ever have to know how to do. You would proudly exclaim that as a “Boy scout, five badges away from becoming an Eagle,” you already knew how to read from a map and furthermore you knew how to read from a compass thank you very much. Therefore you were already much farther ahead than your scout peers so you were, by extension, better than them and more efficient.

“You just need to know your directions. If you don't know your north from your south then you'll be one unhappy, lost and stupid camper,” you reasoned smugly.

“Well, what if you're stranded somewhere?” Your teacher would ask, openly challenging you and ignoring your blatant insult and dig at the hypothetical camper’s intelligence.

“The chances of that are exponentially lower than you would think,” you would say, looking for any excuse to inject your newly memorized Word of the Day: exponential into a sentence. The class would collectively gasp, a chorusing of chortles and delighted snickers among the shuddering breaths of genuine surprise and shock. (Oh, how dare this kid!)





They wouldn't care about being so garrulous like you, not as stupidly brash as you. You wouldn't do any assignments that required you to point to anything on a map as proof of this. You would say it was “totally unnecessary” when your adoptive mother would plead with you to “please, please, just finish the assignment. Earning a C grade is better than no grade at all.”

“Nope, not doing it,” would be your smart-ass response. You would then turn around to continue your attention on sorting through your newest pack of Magic the Gathering cards. You would busy yourself with doing anything else as long as it meant refusing to look her in the eyes. Your mother would be reminded that you didn't come from her womb at all, didn't rip her vagina apart during a 15-hour intense labor. No, she went through the arduous process of legally becoming your guardian and parent by signing lots of documents to state that. She waited for paperwork to be filed away and approved and she, most importantly, waited for your birth parents’ consent – your mother’s mostly.

I pictured you interacting with everything on your desk at school too—pink erasers, No. 2 pencils, brushing off pencil shavings, picking up a shaving to sniff at it, your nose and brow furrowed in mild disdain.

“They smell weird,” you'd proclaim to a slightly mortified female classmate sitting next to you.

“You're weird,” she would say matter-of-factually, her pigtails swinging around as she faced you and fearlessly clapped back.

Or maybe I was just really weird.

I spent the remainder of the morning until you woke up, researching the side effects and symptoms of Vyvanse. I tried to think about the method you would use to swallow pills. I thought of you padding barefoot into your kitchen sometime after dinner and turning on the sink. Water would rush out of the faucet. You’d place a relatively clean glass underneath the cold stream, standing there waiting for it to fill halfway patiently. You would shut it off, pop the pill in your mouth, take a swig of cold water from the glass, and swallow the jagged little pill. Then you’d curse your mother's genetics every single night until you'd have to consider whether you would call in an order for more pills or flush the remainders rattling inside of the clear orange bottle down the toilet.


 


 

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