Chapter 3: Need Some Space?

I get a new number of course. Throw the old phone in the bay and buy a cheap pay-as-you-go flip phone until I can afford to pay for something nicer. First thing I do with it is call the number on the card I carry on me at all times, hoping to reach my handler.

It's not her who answers, but at least it's someone.

After I finish explaining the situation and get the equivalent of "Suck it up, Buttercup", I promptly vomit into the trash can under my desk at work.

My coworkers fumble to see if I'm alright, which is oddly considerate and sweet, but my shift manager fucks it up by insisting I go home.

Which leaves me here, sitting on a bench at a public park, contemplating my empty wallet, my empty life and my hopefully empty apartment.

My stomach growls, informing me that I haven't eaten anything in three days. There's a frozen pizza in the freezer that I was saving for a rainy day, calling my name. It's not raining, the sun's out and cheerful, but with my mood, it might as well be.

Still, I sit there for hours, thinking of nothing and everything, hoping to God that I wasn't interesting enough to warrant a second visit from The Wall Breaker.

Its late afternoon now, about the time those who work the night shift start waking up after dropping dead into their beds. Kids and families frolic in the park, food trolleys roam with their wares and I maintain my dead-eyed state as I stare down anyone who tries to sit on my bench.

After another ten minutes of miserably watching the happiness of others, my stomach kindly reminds me that it is currently eating me alive.

I think of the freezer-burned frisbee in the back of my fridge and decide I'll have to risk it.

Its broad daylight, I reason, the merc can't possibly have nothing else to do.

Still, paranoid doesn't do me justice, not with the way I eye my surroundings as I make my way home. I use the bus instead of the metro and I duck around the corner of my apartment building when I arrive, entering the dingy alley where the fire escape is. I drag myself carefully up the rusted metal, flecks of old red paint sticking to my hands and the knees of my jeans as I maneuver upwards towards the bedroom window of my fourth-floor apartment. Mrs. Schellie, my downstairs neighbor, sees me from her kitchen and I wave her off with an awkward smile.

Removing the screen and opening the widow to my bedroom is horrifyingly easy, which explains so much.

I am so nailing this thing shut after I eat and get my blood sugar up. Unless I move apartments. Which I can't do without approval from the PTB. Fuck.

"Hey!

I freeze, kneeling half way on the bed, with one foot twisted into the faded quilt blanket I'd found at the Salvation Army down the street, the other flat on the scratched wooden floor of my bedroom. My hands loosen on the strap of my work bag, casing it to fall softly onto my single-sized bed.

Anxiety and fear bubble in my throat.

But I do it.

I look up.

Waiving enthusiastically from the kitchen, the asshole of Christmas past flaps his oven mitt-covered hands at me. He'd had a straight line of sight through to my bedroom door from the far side of the apartment where he's standing, and had probably watched me crawl through the window like a LAMF.

It smells like burning grease, even with the breeze from the (still!) broken window in my living room.

He does some weird-wiggle move with is body, flailing his arms and sounding inordinately proud of himself. "I made pizza!"

From my angle I can see the oven light on. I can also see a pile of weaponry on my coffee table, the naked blade of a katana; stained red.

I swallow. Gag. Then run to the bathroom and vomit bile into the toilet.

"Eww."

I flinch and glance over to see him in the doorway, peering at me with scrunched, white reflective eyes and still wearing those ridiculous oven mitts.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Did you just immaculately conceive? Cuz I'm not paying child support without proof."

A gag is my only response as I shiver and sweat over the porcelain throne, hands clammy.

My oven timer sounds, the familiarity of it shocking.

Wade skips back to the kitchen and I take a moment to pull myself together, staring at my pale, wan face in the mirror over the bathroom sink.

"This isn't happening." I say to my reflection.

"Oh, it's happening!" Deadpool calls out from the other room, crushing my dreams with reality, "Peperoni time!"

I hear humming and rustling, cupboard doors opening and closing until a loud "Ah HA!" sounds. It's a good five minutes before I dare to leave the bathroom, and only because I hear suspicious moaning.

Deadpool is sitting on my ratty couch, mask pulled halfway up his face, scared cheeks bulging as he stuffs a pizza slice obscenely into his mouth.

I can't take it anymore. That's my last pizza, damn it.

I step past the bathroom boundary, flinging my head up aggressively, even as I feel the cold sweat on the back of my neck warm.

"Why are you harassing me?"

He chokes, coughing and banging his chest like an ape, before twisting towards me on the couch.

"Harassing you? I treat all my friends like this." He gestures at the last slice of pizza on my second-hand baking pan, right next to the sword that I am not thinking about.

My upper lip twitches. "Get. Out."

He ignores me, picking up the slice and stuffing his face like the disgusting animal he is, muttering through a gross mouthful of masticated food, "I did call, but someone never answers their ph~one!"

Cue pout.

I frown, refraining from gracing that ridiculous statement with a response.

He finishes his bite and slaps his pizza-greased, mitten-free hands together. "So! What's your deal?"

A breath escapes me, head pounding and hands shaking as I tuck a strand of blond hair out of my eyes. "Deal..?"

He flops a hand, the other reaching up to pull his mask down. "Yeah, your shindig, dark past, tragic back story?"

I cross my arms to keep them from trembling, fingers twisting the fabric of my shirt. I blink hard, clinking my tongue, gathering myself. "Nope. Not doing this."

Wilson, undeterred, kicks a booted foot up onto my much-loved couch cushions and swings the other as he gestures wildly. "Are you a mutant? No, too cliché. My long-lost sister? Bah, then there'd never be any smexy scenes. Ah! An accidental dimensional traveler, turned experiment, now working for our bourgeoisie oppressors!"

I flinch.

"YES! Called it!" He stands, grabbing random handgun off the table and stuffing it into a conveniently placed duffle by his feet.

I swallow then force scowl, feet braced to move as I prop my hip and lean back against the bathroom doorjamb. "Are you done?"

He shrugs. "Eh, kinda. Got any more food?"

My teeth grind. "No."

"Okeey~." He stuffs another item of questionable origins into the bag, pushing the empty baking pan so far off to the side that it almost teeters on table's edge. "I'll come back later."

My stomach clenches as another wave of light headedness hits me. "Please don't."

Deadpool pauses, staring blankly at the pile of weaponry still on the table. He hums. Then sweeps an arm brusquely over its surface, shoving everything into the bag without care.

He jiggles it.

I watch blankly.

Then he turns to me, clicking his heels together in an abrupt salute and lazily making is way towards my front door. He pulls it open with a creak, steps through, and closes it with a soft click.

After a moment, my head drops to my chest and I exhale shakily.

The door opens and I jump as Deadpool pops is head back in. "You seem like a nice experiment."

A pause.

"I like you." Wink.

Click.

Later, I stare into the depths of my empty, dust-covered kitchen cupboards, remembering my thin bank account as the smell of fatty pizza lingers in my nose. Lightheaded from lack of food, I slide, once again, to my kitchen floor.

It's a comes out as a whimper, but at least this time I'm able to control the hysterics until after the menace left.

"Asshole."