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.
I foresee me living out my life as a walking, talking corpse. A zombie. Someone who used to have a heartbeat, but is now just going through the motions.
? ? ?
The phone is ringing when I unlock my door. My landline rings so seldom that I forget that I even have one most of the time. I give Dozer a quick scratch and head for the kitchen to grab it before it stops ringing. I can’t even imagine who might be calling me on it. Probably a telemarketer.
“Hello?”
The pause is so long that I’m getting ready to hang up when I hear the baritone voice that I’ll likely never forget.
“Hello, Kat.”
Chills break out on both arms and my skin feels both cool and hot at the same time.
“What do you want, Senator Sims?”
“You used to be such a pleasant girl,” he remarks.
“You’ll have to excuse me if I can’t find any pleasure in hearing your voice.”
He ignores that.
“I’ve got a proposition for you.”
“I’m not interested.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what you have to say. The answer is no.”
“Even if it could save your friend?”
There’s a hitch in my pulse. It feels like my heart almost stops for a second. “My friend?”
“Yes. Kiefer Rogan. He is your friend, isn’t he?”
Air freezes in my chest like wedges of thin ice. “And what does he need saving from?”
“Not what. Whom.”