Authors Note -
'I'm so sorry for making you wait this long for another chapter; I won't go into the details, but my bf and I went through a rather rough patch in our relationship and I have unable to continue it. Thank you for your patience. On another note, I've decided to write this chapter in first-person, just to experiment. Let me know if you like it, or if I should go back to writing in third-person. Myself, I'm neutral.'
~Tobi
That's it. I am officially a closet case.
It's been three weeks now since the second Dream, and my mind keeps turning back to it, keeps playing that same movie over and over in my head. It would have been a helluva lot easier to forget if I had known the person in it. No, it had to be some totally random person. That kept my mind wandering back to it whenever I was cooking, foraging, bathing - basically, no matter what I was doing, I was thinking about it. Was I sure I didn't know him? Was he an old schoolmate? Some random guy who visited the island once, who I just happened to notice while out walking? Someone I'd seen on TV? No, I don't watch TV ...wow, that really doesn't help at all.
There I go again. My mind's racing now, still trying to figure this out. Trying to find the identity of someone who more than likely doesn't exist. I pull open the drawer to my nightstand and take out a bottle of Xanax - the anxiety medicine I've been taking since I was thirteen. Since I had my first Dream. Apparently, it's supposed to help slow my mind down, stop me from having a panic attack over every petty little problem that gets thrown my way. Sadly, it doesn't work that well. I place one pill on my tongue and swallow it without water. By now, I don't even need any. My throat just lets it slide down without a problem. I twist the cap back onto the bottle and leave it on the nightstand. you know, in case I need some more later - which I most likely will. Following the Xanax is some Prozac, which I started taking a little over a year after the Dream. I haven't taken any lately, which might explain why I'm not as hyper and peppy as usual. It should kick in soon, maybe an hour or so. It always takes about a week before I feel the full effect though, and for that I have to keep taking it. Sometimes I wonder if people think I'm just naturally ditzy and animated. Ah well.
I hide the bottles behind the lamp on my nightstand, hoping that no one sees them, that no one finds out I'm such a pill head, though it really should be obvious. Sometimes after I stop taking them for a while, I look back at how insanely hyper I was and can't figure out why people don't just avoid me.
After an hour or so I start to feel better. I stop thinking about the Dream and turn on the burner on my stove. It's raining, and I don't feel like going outside. I'll just stay inside and perfect my Shiitake à la Vin today - last time I splashed in too much wine and the whole thing tasted like Pinot Noir. Putting a skillet over the burner, I open the fridge and pull out some of the shitake mushrooms I had stored away. I place a few gently onto the skillet and they begin to sizzle, a decadent aroma starting to emanate from the stove. After a few minutes of stirring them around I pulled down the rest of the Pinot Noir from the wine rack, pulling out the cork and setting it aside.
I cut up some chives and green onions, throwing them into the skillet followed with a careful splash of wine, then shake it all up to mix the flavors. The scents begin to the melt together, and before I know it my eyes are closed and I'm halfway between sleep and consciousness. Someone knocks on the door and I jump violently, knocking the skillet off the stove. It hits the floors with a clang and sends hot food and wine flying everywhere, some of which gets on my coat. I utter a startled cry and leap back, hitting my head on the wine rack and cracking open a couple bottles. As wine starts pouring onto the counter I begin to feverishly pull out the broken bottles, wrapping them in dish towels and putting them in the sink.
"Hey Wonka, is everything alright in there?"
'Wonka.' That has to be Mark.
"Just peachy," I manage to shout through clenched teeth. The hot wine had seeped through my coat and sweater and was now burning my skin. I'm wiping down the counter as Mark lets himself in. He stops a few feet away from me and grins.
"Having some trouble?"
I don't even dignify his remark with an answer. Temporarily setting the wine-stained dish towel aside, I grab another towel and get down on my knees to wipe up some of the spilled ingredients.
Mark bends over, that grin still plastered across his face. "Hey, I wanted to ask you a favor." he says. I look up, but he's already moved over the sink and is grabbing a few paper towels. Instead of helping, though, he just stands there inspecting the wallpaper. My gaze rises up from the floor and for a moments is fixed on a less-then-decent area of his body. Okay, who am I kidding, I'm staring at his ass. Now that I think about it, I've always done this when I was around another man. I just didn't realize it... what the hell am I doing? I shake my head and focus on the floor. Mark is dating Chelsea. I rather doubt he'd appreciate me staring at him like that. He finally turns back around and looks down at me. "I was wondering if you'd mind fixing a romantic dinner for-"
My heart stops. I can feel my forehead breaking out in sweat.
"-me and Chels."
I'm an idiot. "Uh-um, yeah... sure..." I mutter before I realize what I'm saying. "Wait, I mea-"
Before I can finish he rushes out the door shouting, "Thanks man, I'll be over sometime tomorrow to tell you when."
I feel like bashing my head against the cabinet for being so hopeless, but instead I finish cleaning up and as I'm washing my hands, I can't seem to recall cooking a single successful dish in almost a month.
I'm in the process of removing my clothes to wash the mushroom-and-wine scent off them, and it hits me; I'm not what I thought I was. I start to realize that the sole reason I devoted myself to my cooking as much as I did, was because I needed something to keep my mind off... that. When I'm in the process of preparing a dish or honing my culinary skills, my mind is blank. Nothing gets in.
But whenever I'm laying in bed, alone (as I always have,) I have to squeeze my eyes shut and turn on some Mozart - to keep my mind off something that I don't even know about. I make up for the confusion with acting on impulse. Not giving myself time to think about anything.
And Natalie... she likes me. She really, really likes me. I can't keep putting her off like this without telling her. She probably thinks that I find her ugly and boring, but I don't. I just don't like the sexual tension that emanates from her, taunting and laughing at me, screaming, 'You don't feel it, do ya, queer? Nope nope ya don't ya don't ya don-'
What in the bloody hell was that - I think I just screamed. My ears are ringing and my throat is sore. I realize that my hands were clenching onto the counter and pull them away, bleeding and throbbing. I'm panting, my now bare chest heaving up and down rapidly. It was my father's voice, but I know he would never say that... Father loves me. Father loves me. Father loves me. Father wouldn't spend over a hundred thousand dollars to educate something he hated. Father loves me. Father loved me enough to keep an eye on me when I had friends over, to listen to my phone calls, to read my notes, to ask me questions.
I'm starting to think that, maybe, Father was a little obsessed.
Somehow, I start to feel better. I put on another set of clothes, planning on washing the dirty ones later, and walk out the door. As I step outside I immediately notice how cold its gotten. Just how long has it been since I've been outside? Nevertheless, I shrug it off and head towards the bridge to the jungle. I'm running low on ingredients anyway.
After a few minutes of half-searching half-attempting-to-clear-my-mind-but-failing I hear a rustling in the tree above me. I jump and look up, but can't see through the thick canopy. I start to squint and something jumps out, landing barely an inch away from me and nearly giving me a heart attack. Taking a few hurried steps back, I stumble over a rock and fall, which, to be frank, kind of pisses me off. Yet the Prozac keeps me from getting too angry and I stand up, dusting myself off.
I look up, getting ready to apologize for being so clumsy, then see that its Shea. I used to refer to him only as The Savage, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that thinking lower of him because of how he lives would be the same as people hating me because of my... choices.
"Sorry. No mean scare you. Snake close."
I look down at Shea's feet; he had landed on the back of some kind of green snake, which was still writhing around despite of its broken back. I had been so preoccupied with my thoughts that I hadn't noticed it a couple feet away from where I had been kneeling down. After staring at its twitching, convulsing form for a few more seconds I start to look up, but can't seem to raise my gaze above his chest. "You like Shea cl... cl..." he says, then rubs his head, as if he couldn't think of the word. "clo..."
"Clothes?"
"Yes! Clothes!" he says, looking rather proud of himself. "You like Shea clothes?"
'He thinks that I'm admiring his clothing...' I look up. "Yeah... yes, I do."
"Make them. Take long time. Make shoes and food out of snake, too. Shea show you how?" Without waiting for an answer, he pulls out a small knife and lops the snake's head off, then pulls the skin off like a glove. "Eat like this." He offers it to me, and I just shake my head.
"Umm... you aren't going to cook it?"
"No, no burn it."
I shrug, and give up. "Thank you for... for killing it for me. Is it, is it poisonous?"
"Yes, snake bite you, you get sick. Throw up. No eat. Then die."
I start to feel nauseous even thinking about it. "I'm, I'm sorry, I have to go-"
Shea suddenly grabs my wrist and holds it up, looking at it. His touch sends an electric wave through the upper half of my body and I shudder. Not out of fear, but of something else. Something I can't quite describe. "Your hands bleeding, Wonka." I had totally forgotten about that. Man, I'm really not all there today...
"W-Wonka?" 'Damn it, Mark! He doesn't even know my real name!'
Ignoring my question, he starts to pull me towards his hut, saying, "Hands bleeding, no good. Start turn red, then purple, then make scar. No good." I resist at first, but me being so small I doubt if he even feels me trying to break away. He pushes the hut door open and drags me inside, letting me go as the door shuts behind me. "Wait, Shea get salve. Sit down."
Obediently, I sit on one of the cushions and inspect my palms. Indeed, they are a bit discolored now, but somehow I could really care less. Shea sits next to me with a bowl that contains some kind of greenish-white paste, and begins to slather it on my palms. I cry out and clench my fists immediately, not expecting it to burn so. "No scream, wake Wada."
Too late. I can see Wada sitting up and groaning, rubbing his head. "Hands bleeding, I help," Shea says, and pries my fists open to continue applying the salve. His blunt strength is positively enormous for someone his size; at least compared to mine, anyway. For some reason I find his strength and forcefulness really... er, arousing. I mentally talk myself down, and try to control myself. I had clenched my eyes shut, and begin to open them as the pain fades. Wada is staring at me intensely, as if he was trying to decide something. I sense that Shea had stopped moving, and as I look at him I see that he is staring at Wada. "Wada?" he says, looking puzzled.
Wada continues to stare at me for a few more moments then asks Shea, "Shea, Wonka your mate?"
I literally choke on air. I pitch forward and start to cough violently, saliva getting caught in my throat and preventing me from breathing. Shea lets out a strangled cry and starts beating on my back, which only makes the entire situation worse. In more than one way. After I finally get over my fit, I let out a few ragged breaths and sit back up, breathing heavily. "I, uh... *pant, pant,* what do you... mean?"
Shea's face is bright red, and he's glaring at Wada. "Wada, no tell!" he says.
"Wh-what now? Huh? What is going on?"
Wada laughs, "Shea say you small, pretty, like woman,"
Wow, I look like a woman. That really makes me feel much better. I just now notice that Shea is wrapping my hands in some type on cloth, and that electric tingling feeling returns.
"Shea say you keep home clean, cook food, make good mate,"
Shea's face is emanating heat now, he is blushing so badly. I start to feel my own face heat up. "But I'm a... a..."
"I know, you man, you no have Shea babies. I say that silly, Shea say no, say you still good mate."
An image of myself being pregnant flashes through my mind and almost makes me faint. Indeed, I am feeling a bit light-headed. This is a lot to take in - The Savage wants me as a 'mate'? What?
Shea's biting his bottom lip nervously, looking around, trying to avoid my gaze. "Wonka," he says finally, "You be Shea mate?" I don't answer at first, just stare at him, my jaw dropped. "Shea good at hunting, good at finding food, Shea make lots of stuff, see, make this," he says, holding up a rather finely-crafted hunting spear. I'm in the middle of admiring it when he puts it down and continues. " - and Shea fast, make sure no snake bite you, and strong."
I just sit there, as the seconds tick by agonizingly slow. I'm not sure how long I'm there, but eventually I jump up and rush towards the door. "I'm sorry, I'll, I'll think about it." He doesn't follow me.
________________________
I'm in my boxers now, staring into my mirror. I run my hands down my sides, noticing the slight curve of my hips and how my legs taper down just so. My face doesn't have any sort of chiseled, or masculine look to it at all, and my bright pinkish-purple eyes have a sort of delicate beauty to them. Now that I really notice it, I could be mistaken for a woman at first glance.
Wada and Shea - they somehow knew about me before I did myself.
Natalie hasn't spoken to me in almost two weeks now, the longest ever since I've moved her.
Mark decided not to have me prepare dinner for Chelsea and himself, and has been avoiding me since. Did Shea blab?
How many people already know?
'Thank you again for reading, and I'd appreciate it if you'd let me know how this one (first person) compares to the last chapter (third person), because I'm not sure which one to write Chapter 3 in.
This chapter was whipped up in only two days after I lost the original copy, so I know its not near as good as the second one. Sorry.'
~Tobi
