Irresistible Compulsions

||Ch. Five||

Dylan drives like an old lady.

What's supposed to be a five-minute drive is creeping into ten, and we're not even halfway there.

My stomach starts gurgling loudly, practically begging for food.

"Someone's keen." Dylan notices, clearly having heard my stomach's protests.

"Yeah, well, if you weren't doing twenty under the bloody speed limit, I'd be fed by now!" I snap, my hanger getting the better of me.

He laughs in response, his eyes focused on the road ahead of him.

"You forget I had my licence for what—seven weeks?—before prison. I'm easing back into it." He explains truthfully.

I let out a sigh in response, annoyed that I haven't eaten anything since early in the afternoon. I look over to the illuminated digital clock on the dash, it's just clicked over to 11:48pm.

Leaning forward, I fiddle with the dials on his ancient radio, which looks like it hasn't seen an upgrade since flip phones were all the rave. Twisting the knob on the right in attempt to tune into a radio station, music blares through the speakers on full volume causing us both to jump at the sudden noise.

"Shit sorry!" I yelp, frantically clicking the volume button until it's returned to a bearable level. I decide on number 28.

I've always been particular about what number I leave the volume on, it's something I've always disliked about myself.

For whatever reason, I've always hated the numbers six, one and four. On the other hand I'm particularly fond of the numbers eight, five and three. I'm not sure what caused it but its been this way ever since I can remember. Almost like my brain was wired wrong.

As a kid, the compulsions were worse. I'd sit at my desk in school—six or seven years old, maybe—and tap my fingers underneath, or press them into my thighs. The taps had to feel identical each time, done in just the right rhythm, the exact right number. Otherwise I'd start over again and it would just go in never ending loops.

I remember at one stage when I was still in elementary school, I'd even skip the number six as I counted while playing hide and seek.
In my head I'd go one, two, three, four, five, something, seven, eight and so forth.

Nursing has helped. A lot. I think it's the pressure—knowing people are relying on me to survive. It drowns out the noise in my head. That, and the fact that we're always so understaffed and run off our feet that I barely have time to stop and think, let alone give any attention to my strange compulsions. The chaos of it all keep me grounded in a strange, ironic way.

The loud boom of laughter from the over-the-top radio presenter snaps me out of my thoughts, pulling me back to reality.

"Alright everyone, next up we've got Lana Del Rey—adding a little sadness to your summertime!" he shouts, his co-host cackling at his cringe-worthy attempt to sound witty.

Lana's voice seeps through the speakers—melancholic and magnetic—floating through the car like a spell.

Kiss me hard before you go

Summertime sadness

I just wanted you to know

That baby, you the best

I hum along under my breath, unable to resist the pull of one of my favourite songs. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Dylan glancing over before returning his gaze to the road, a faint smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

My body shifts slightly, turning to face him as a spark of boldness rushes through me. It finally dawns on me what I'm wearing—and exactly what line is coming next.