heart over brain

Part 5

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I find a small news article about a Maxwell O'Connor being sentenced for scamming money out of VisioTec's innovation budget. But there are no pictures. For all I know, he could have been cell mates with the real Maxwell and passed that story as his, when he had actually murdered three women and eaten their limbs.

Gross, brain, gross. Why do you always have to think in such extremes?

I bite my lip.

What do I do now? Even if I believed him, which I don't, he still broke out of prison. He still dragged me along on his escape. If I begged him to go on without me, would he let me stay? I know his face and the car he quite likely stole, a dirty red Chevrolet, Tahoe, maybe.

Wait, he stole the car. What about only financial crimes? That's already the first proof he lied, isn't it?

Why am I even wondering about this? There shouldn't be options in this kind of situation. I have my phone, I call the police, I tell them where he is. It's a no brainer.

Except, apparently my brain abandoned me again. I can't bring myself to dial. I can't press the green button. My finger isn't controlled by common sense, but by – God, I don't even know. Do I have Stockholm's? Already?

I cross my legs below me, utterly uncomfortable sitting like that on the closed toilet lid, but I need to think.

Think about what?

I call Elly. When I don't know what to do, I always call Elly.

It rings, once, twice.

"Yeah?" she picks up with a hoarse, sleepy voice. It isn't that early in the morning anymore, but the night must have been long. Typical for her.

"Hey," I say, then nothing. I don't know how to start explaining.

"Hannah?" Something rustles on Elly's side. "Are you there? Hello?"

"Yes, I can hear you. I just – I need a moment."

"What is it?" she says alarmed. "Is Elvis okay?"

Elvis, my cat, who is left alone in my flat. I completely forgot. I am a horrible cat-mother. "He – he is. But – can you maybe drop by later and feed him?"

"What? Where are you?"

"I don't know, actually." I look around the stall like it will miraculously come to me. I let my feet dangle down again, the left one fell asleep already.

"What?"

"Yeah."

"I am used to your nonsense, honey, but I had too much tequila last night, you really need to speak in full, comprehensible sentences today."

I don't think I can do that. "I got myself in a bit of a situation."

"Is the sink clogged again? You should move out of that apartment. It is old and –"

"No. No, it isn't that." Not to mention, I only called her twice to help me with that. All the other times I fixed it myself.

I rise, leave the stall, and walk up and down in front of it in the bathroom, trying to gather my courage to speak. "What would you do, if you got abducted by a really hot guy? Well, kind of abducted, and he happens to be a bit shady. I – I am only asking hypothetically."

"What?" Elly rustles again. "Are you writing some kind of fanfiction?"

I suck big time in writing anything, stories, essays, diary entries, she knows that. "Yes."

Elly groans. I can imagine her pinching her nose, regretting she sat down on the desk next to mine back in high school. I have only caused her troubles ever since. "I don't know," she says. "I guess I would try to get closer to the guy."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I mean, or not?"

"What?"

"Does his smile make you tingle in all the right places?"

Does his smile make me tingle? What a ridiculous question. He just has to exist next to me and my brain forgets how to work. If it didn't, I wouldn't be having this emergency phone call with my best friend, I would be talking to a police officer instead.

"Yes."

"See, that's your answer."

"You don't know what you are saying," I breathe. 

She doesn't, because I haven't properly explained myself. She probably thinks I got stuck with another normal bad boy, screaming red flag in my face, while I laugh at jokes that are not funny like an idiot, only to end up heartbroken the next morning. She thinks it's just my usual bad taste in men. She doesn't know this guy, Max or Mutilator or whatever, is the real bad deal. She doesn't know I could end up dead in a gutter by tonight.

I know. I know.

And despite that, my hormones manage to trick my brain into seeing a shimmer of hope that everything will turn out fine.

I am hopeless. I am suicidal, right? Or masochistic? I totally am.

"Okay, thanks," I say. "Take good care of Elvis for me."

Elly groans. "That beast hates me."

"He hates everyone." I love him. "And Elly?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you." Just in case.

I hang up and let the phone sink down. Then stand in front of the small mirror hanging over a dirty sink and stare at myself. I look even worse than I thought, deep shadows below my haunted eyes, hair tangled all over, no wonder Max was concerned about my wellbeing.

He wasn't, I tell myself. Whatever he schemes, he is not really concerned about me. He must have an ulterior motive. He is a liar and a criminal, and I shouldn't believe a word that comes out of his mouth. I shouldn't talk to him at all.

I splash water in my face, wipe the dark stains of mascara away as good as possible and brush my hair straight with my fingers. Then I step out of the bathroom.

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