Bad Luck, Baby

4 - Bad Idea

I couldn't decide which possibility was more terrifying: that demons and magic were real, or that I had gone insane.

"You're insane," I told myself, pulling to the side of the road a few blocks from my dad's house. "You're delusional, and psychotic. It can happen to anyone. Tomorrow, you'll go to the urgent care, and get a brain scan, or something, and they'll give you some drugs, and you'll be fine."

That was something I could deal with; something, however frightening, that was in my control.

"It makes sense," I went on, continuing my little pep-talk. "You lose your job, find out your boyfriend was never your boyfriend to begin with, and get overwhelmed by traumatic memories. Of course you break a little and see sexy cat-men who tell you you're something special."

Well, okay, the cat-man had actually told me I'm not special, and that if he had any choice in the matter, he'd ditch me, too.

I caught my own eyes in the rearview mirror.

"Can't even be deluded properly, can you? Loser."

Resting my forehead on the steering wheel, I heaved a sigh.

Ro had certainly seemed real; but then I wouldn't be deluded if I didn't believe my delusions were real, right?

I was almost tempted to turn around and go back to my father's house, just to prove he didn't exist, except that then I'd lose the bet I'd made...

"With a delusion," I said, and laughed aloud. I was certainly acting the part.

My eyes came to rest on my father's ivy ring where it adorned my hand, and I wondered why I'd never gotten rid of it. Probably because it was pretty, and it looked good on me. My hands were among the few things I liked about myself.

I had long, thin fingers and I took care of my nails. At the moment they were painted a shiny shamrock green for spring, which I'd thought went well with the Ivy motif. I even had a thin vine of ivy tattooed on my right forearm. Obviously, I'd internalized the imagery as the last—and only—gift my father had given me. Of course it would come into play in my delusions.

"Heir to the Ivy Throne. Right." I shook my head at myself. "They're gonna love that in the psych ward, which is where you're going. Especially if you keep talking to yourself. Dumbass."

I ran my fingers through my hair and sighed. I was sweaty and exhausted, and I needed a place to crash. Unfortunately, like the social misfit I was, I had few friends, and none of them were very close. Certainly not close enough that I could ask them to take care of me in the middle of a mental health crisis, or whatever it was I was having.

There was only Jamie, and he'd been plenty. Obviously the feeling wasn't mutual.

I didn't love him—I had to admit that, now. I liked him a lot, though, and it hurt to know he hadn't taken our 'relationship' seriously. But the fact was, he was right: our arrangement was one of convenience, for both of us. For him, because I was 'there,' apparently; and why not, since I was willing? For me, it was because I preferred familiar, stable, and safe to new and exciting. I could hardly blame him for wanting something better.

"That's reality for you, bud," I told myself. "Time to face it."

Pulling onto the road, I drove slowly and carefully back across town, to the plain apartment building where Jamie and I shared a unit.

Parking in the resident lot, I sat for a moment longer, contemplating what I would say. A dozen different scenarios played out in my mind—from Jamie apologizing and begging my forgiveness, to Jamie laughing in my face (which seemed more likely, since that's sort of what he'd done already).