Miss You Mad: a psychological romance novel (11 page)

His only recourse was to stay on the site, regardless of what it contained. Just sitting in front of it with its black screen and countdown clock eased the pressure in his chest. He ended up spending the entire weekend watching her site, only getting up for a quick sandwich or the occasional pee. Thankfully, things returned to normal. Peace, at last, descended over his cluttered apartment. When it was time again for Hannah to work, he recorded the video with his smartphone, holding it up to the screen so he could watch her when she took a break.

Still, something didn't seem quite right about her routine. She painted at the appropriate times, adhering to the usual schedule of early morning and late afternoon. He studied her every movement, from the way she mixed her colours on her thick, glass palate, to the way she held the wide brushes at their handle tips. Occasionally, she moved the easel, either chasing the light, or fleeing from it. She even used her elbow once or twice to swipe across the painted canvas, adding what William supposed was texture. Everything was terribly ordinary. Regular. She'd done these things in one way or another over and over since he'd begun visiting the site. So what was wrong? Perhaps it was because those things looked so duplicated. Like he'd seen those exact motions from her before. Of course, it could all be familiar because he'd watched the clip nonstop since she'd last signed off.

He wanted to send her a text. Ask her if he could come over. He'd not told her about his mother's death, the oncoming rush of fear and near-paralysis. He'd simply been reborn when he first saw her and he never wanted to remember having been bogged down in murk. Maybe if she knew, she'd understand. She'd welcome him again. Maybe if he just sent three short words: I need you--she would soften. And yet, he knew she couldn't. Best he not do anything to jeopardize her own legal position what with the nasty legal order. It wouldn't be up for another three days. He didn't think he could wait that long--but he had to.

William hated going out. He hated stepping into the glaring light of civilization. Everything got so clear in that light, so revealed. It left him painfully aware of every nook and cranny of every bit of society. And if he could see them, surely they saw him. The shadows of his little apartment suited him fine. He could happily remain a hermit; nobody could pick out his every flaw that full, blazing light showed.

As much as he hated going out he hated going to the bank even more. Too many people in there, too many eyes. He always felt as if someone were judging him, that they could look into his face and just know he sold pornography over the Internet. Not that that was a big deal. Everyone has to make a living. And what he did to augment the meager writer's salary, wasn't necessarily who he was. Of course, Hannah understood that.

She'd said that sometimes sacrifices had to be made in order to do the things you love. She told him he had to be true to himself.

"Yes," he said aloud to the quiet room.
This above all; to thine ownself be true.
William was certain, as soon as he said it, that it echoed in the air. It swelled to a statement made by a dozen voices. It made him shudder.

But now he had to worry about the bank.

Glancing around his apartment, he searched for a jacket. Last he had seen it, it had been slung across the couch. But there was so much stuff, so many receipts and papers and left over Chinese food containers on the sofa, that he couldn't find it with just a glance. He had to rummage around before his fingers discovered the slick nylon material. He pulled it over his best tee-shirt, the one he'd bought two years ago at a Marilyn Manson concert and had slept in only one night--last night. Then, shoving on his old and comfortable Hush Puppies, he scanned the room.

"It's okay. I'll be right back." He grasped the door handle and took a deep breath. He hated the bank. But he had to go .Usually, he used an app to deposit his cheques and pay bills, but there were some things they wanted him to do in person. Certain things simply couldn't be done over the net. Things like signing papers and checking safety deposit boxes. Given time, however even those things could be done remote. And in the days when the outside just seemed to pressing for him to go out, he could manage it all from his sofa.

Perhaps she'd finish that painting today. Perhaps the faces would come out of the shadow of trees and he'd recognise himself in the canvas. Perhaps she thought of him as she painted. But he'd never know if he didn't leave.

He closed his eyes for a second and opened the door. The hall was littered with old papers and the occasional discarded apple core. The worn tiles that led to the elevator reeked of urine.

It took half an hour of his precious time to get to the bank. A painful, vulnerable 30 minutes of bumping into strangers, and having those strangers pull protectively away. The women grimaced in disgust when his arm touched theirs, and they crossed hands across the purses they clutched to their chests. It enraged him. A few months ago these same women would have fawned on him, brushed their tits against his shoulder and tried to catch his eye. He wanted to shout at them that he had a more beautiful woman who wanted him, a woman who begged for his touch. A woman far more extraordinary than any of the slick-haired, perfectly manicured dullards.

Ah, but the bank loomed. In a short time he could be back on his way to his own sanctuary. Within the hour he could log on to Heaven.

It wasn't exactly Wall Street busy; most people didn't have to actually visit a wicket nowadays. He stood in line waiting his turn, trying to pretend that the people in front of him didn't hold their breath and talk about the sudden stink. Did he smell? Could they be talking about him? He tried to remember when he had last showered and came up dry. Who in the world would record each and every bath they'd had? Certainly not him. He had other things on his mind. And what the hell business was it of these people? Did they have IQ's of 160? Surely not.

He hated the bank. So many people talking, laughing, pretending their money was the most important thing in the world. Banks hummed like a hard drive overheating. They sounded like every voice had breached his fog of medication. He had to think hard to remember if he had swallowed his medicine today, yesterday, last week even. Again, he came up dry. Voices entered his ears and bumped into themselves within the cavern of his brain.

"Susan had her baby yesterday." A petite blonde took her turn at a wicket. Her companion feigned interest. She gave William a hateful look.

Voices swirled within his mind. They leap-frogged over each other. He had to focus and concentrate hard to separate real voices from synaptic voices. Again, he thought of his medication.

Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio.

"Charles came through the operation."

"Did he recover well?"

I shall not look upon his like again.

A shake of the head, a nod, several very queer looks in his direction. One teller walked over to another. Their voices assaulted his already overloaded auditory senses. They looked at William and whispered behind their hands to each other.

"Have you transferred that money for Miss. Hastings to the Yarmouth branch?"

Another nod, another shake. People kept talking. He wanted to shout, he wanted it all to stop. One voice inside, or did it come from outside, his mind, screamed.

"Please everyone, stop shouting."

Silence descended.

By the time his turn came to stand before a teller, he had begun sweating. He hated the bank. He hated the way the teller flared her nostrils as she said, "Good afternoon."

William fiddled with the bank pen.

"The loans officer asked me to come in to sign some papers."

"Name?" The teller's mouth elongated. Her incisors grew.

His answer came out in a stammer. "William Stark. And I'd like to check my safety deposit box."

"Certainly, Mr. Stark. I believe your loan for computer equipment has been approved. If you'd like to wait, I'll see if he's free." She snarled at him, showed him her claws. Though it bothered William, it was nothing compared to what he knew kept visiting his apartment. He could deal with the teller.

William tapped his finger against the grey countertop. He wished she'd hurry. But she took her time as she smiled at customers. For one incredible moment, she transformed into a sloth and climbed over the counters with agonizing slowness, but he shook his head free of the image and she meandered on as she did before, a human woman with no seeming drive.

No one seemed to mind that she had transformed into a wild creature. She made small talk to other employees who sat at desks scribbling as if their jobs gave them such satisfaction that they could barely look away long enough to notice humanity entering the building.

Eventually he was ushered into a squat office nearly overtaken by white computer equipment. The loans officer, a small man with round glasses and whose name tag was pinned perfectly level across his lapel, bade him sit. William actually believed for one second that the gentleman would hiss at him. He tried to ignore the menacing look on his face.

"This is just the last formality, Mr. Stark. You mentioned that your business requires another server."

William nodded although he was petty sure the loans manager knew the money wasn't for equipment. He'd spent every last dime on his Hannah subscription even with the porn sales. He was digging into the dregs of his wallet to fund the only thing that kept him breathing. He'd buy a server and provide the receipt to this yuppie sure enough, but then he'd return the damn thing and get the money back, pay his credit card bill with it, and then he'd worry about next month after he got to see Hannah again face to face. Maybe he wouldn't need a subscription then.

The loan officer continued. "We'll need the serial number as soon as you purchase it."

William nodded again. He pressed his palm against his leg to keep it still. "You said on the phone that you needed me to sign for the money."

Instead of answering, the yuppie pulled forth a ream of forms. William lifted a chained pen from its holster on the desk and with a flourish, put his signature to a top sheet and a dozen carbon copies. Then it was over. Thankfully over. More quickly than he was ushered in, he was ushered out. He could almost hear the room groan in satisfaction. It flustered him so badly, he didn't think he could even bear checking his deposit box. He wanted out of the building. He wanted off the street and behind a passive machine.

But it was another half-hour walk home. It was way too long. The more he thought about his email as he strode through the revolving doors, the more certain he grew that a piece of mail waited in his electronic box. He imagined it pulsing like a beating heart as it waited to be opened and read and reread and pondered over. He nearly started to run down the street as he thought about it. His breath clawed at his ribcage. He had to get to his machine.

William struggled to get past crowds as they strolled along the sidewalk. Frantic because progress was slow, he stopped. There had to be a quicker way home. These outsiders couldn't possibly walk any slower. What the hell were they doing out in the middle of the afternoon; they should be at work, not conspiring to keep him from his computer. Their conversations came to him, crisp, clear, broken off like icicles from a slanted roof. He couldn't stand the invasive words that stabbed his mind with ruthless frequency. He needed off the street. He needed sanctuary. The words had to stop.

As if a prayer had screamed its way to heaven, his vision caught a sign across the street. He knew immediately what CAFE AU LAZE meant. It was a sign. Thank God, it was a sign. He'd stop in for an espresso while he scabbed their free wiifii It would do until he was calm enough to continue home.

Paying his five dollars to the counter clerk, William picked up his delicate espresso cup and settled into a booth. He pulled out his smartphone and tapped open his browser. He wasn't home, but he already felt the waves of sweat subside.

He took a deep breath. Much better. Typing quickly, he entered the login and password. The coffee would at least give him something to do while he waited, and he braved the edge of the cup and the surface of the liquid with a tiny bit of fleshy lip. Hot. Way too hot.

A painting on the far wall caught his eye. He thought immediately of Hannah.

She'd enjoy it, he quickly realised. Done in oil, it showed a close quarters forest scene where the sunlight cast shadows on tree trunks. And there in the shadows created by ridges of bark and dappled light, stared faces: young faces, old faces, faces in turmoil.

His breath came quicker.

He'd seen it before. He'd watched it come to being. At one time, he'd hoped his face would be there in the shadows like he was in the shadows, watching, waiting, hoping to be seen. It was hers. He knew it.

William jumped from his chair. He needed to see the plate beneath the canvas. He had to look at the signature in the oil. The clerk stepped in his way.

"What's the trouble?"

"That painting... Where did you get that painting?"

"Actually, the artist paints live on the net. One of our regulars found the site and recommended it. He bought the painting and donated it to the cafe. Nice, isn't it?"

William couldn't speak.

"I can give you the URL if you'd like to check it out. It'll cost, but it's worth every penny."