Captivated

CHAPTER ONE

The thought of killing myself was not a common occurrence. Perhaps it only appeared in my mind, during long car rides or late nights tossing and turning in bed, a select number of times – five at most. It wasn't that I wanted to die, necessarily. It's that I no longer wanted to live. I didn't want to deal with the internal pain that I endured on a daily basis. It all became too much for me and I couldn't handle it. Ending my life seemed like an easy way out. But a thought it remained, as I never acted upon it. Five times, at most. That was the extent to which I ever thought about it.

When I was a little girl my father used to tell me that if I wished upon enough shooting stars, perhaps I'd become one. I would laugh and say, "But I don't want to fall out of the sky!" He'd smile, brush the hair out of my eyes, and say, "perhaps falling isn't always a bad thing, Reign."

Reign. The name that my parents chose to label me with at birth. If I'm being completely honest with you, I used to hate my name. The kids in my class would tease me, chanting things like, "rain rain, go away, come back another day." I'd sulk in the corner, giving up reluctantly after trying to explain that I wasn't rain – I was Reign. But kids don't know the difference. I barely even knew the difference. And thus, I came to despise my own name. It left a bad taste in my mouth, a negative connotation attached to it. Every time that someone said my name, it reminded me of being teased by the other children.

I never understood why my parents chose to name me Reign. But unlike the times where I used to despise it, I eventually grew to love and appreciate my name. It's unique, has a nice ring to it. Although, everyone misspells it, constantly mistaking me for the weather.

When I asked my parents why they named me Reign, they told me that it had great meaning behind it. They said that I was a queen, and that anyone who made fun of me simply didn't understand that. But now I understand.

My alarm-clock sounds, waking me instantly. I've always been a light sleeper and it's something I despise. Every single sound – the drop of a penny, a whisper in the hallway – is enough to wake me. I reach over, moving my hand aimlessly as I struggle to turn it off. Once I hit the button, the room is filled with silence and I am plagued with only one question: what day is it?

This happens more often than you think: a brief, blissful moment where I am unsure of everything. Haven't you ever felt that way? Lost in the space-time continuum, only truly certain of what day it is once you can pinpoint it to some sort of event or appointment? Time is just a social construct, after all. Our perception of time is subjective. I realize, soon, that it is Sunday. And for me, Sunday is grocery-shopping day.

Due to the fact that it is not Monday, meaning that I do not have class, I try to stay in bed a bit longer, greedy for slumber that I've already overconsumed. But I'm not so fortunate. Once I'm awake, I'm awake, and my body refuses to let me sleep any longer. The sun is peeking out from behind my curtains which always helps. A dark room provides no motivation, only solace.

I throw the covers back, stand from my bed, and attempt to get on with my day. This consists of few things: making breakfast, showering, picking out an outfit. Usually my Sunday attire consists of track-pants and a t-shirt, something lazy and casual. But I need to go to the grocery store, so perhaps jeans and tank-top would be more perfectly suited.

I catch the bus into town and walk down the street to the super market. As I walk up and down the aisles pushing my cart, I search for food to fill my cupboards with this week. In my cart I throw in some spinach, vegetables, apples, pasta, bagels, and rice. Also, peanut butter, because you can never have too much peanut butter.

Everyone tells you that you're not supposed to grocery shop when you're hungry because you end up buying more than you really need due to the fact that you want to eat everything in sight. This is presumably why I always eat something beforehand. Saves me money that way.

Regardless of the fact that I know there will be nothing there, I check my phone anyways. And my deductions are correct! Still no texts from Colby, which doesn't surprise. Bother me, yes. Surprise me? No.

I feel a flash of anger. Part of me hopes that he's sitting at home, thinking about me – perhaps thinking about texting me. But the other half feels anger. He chose his friends over me. And usually that would be fine, except for the fact that he came here specifically to visit me. He can see his friends every damn day if he chooses to. I'm not as convenient to make plans with considering my university is an hour drive from his. The kid infuriates me at times. But I'm so in love with him that the good outweighs the bad. I'll forgive him in a few hours. And then perhaps by then he'll have texted me and everything will be okay again.

I met Colby two years ago. We started dating shortly after our first encounter that summer. Me, watching him longingly as he sat in that backyard, strumming on his guitar. I was fascinated by him – fascinated by everything he was, as though he was crafted to the utmost perfection. Our personalities align better than anything I've ever known, and with him is where I feel at home.

This could be for a number of reasons. For starters, I don't really have a place to call home. Not since my parent's divorce. Not since Paul moved in. Not since my mother died.

I make my way to the front cash, waiting in the short line for my turn. The cashier asks if I need any bags. I respond by holding up the two reusable ones I brought with me. She rings them through, tells me my total, and I swipe my visa.

My mind still swirls of the process, so structured and mundane. Scanning items, loading groceries into bags. I had to quit eventually because the hours were getting too much and I couldn't keep up with my schoolwork and auditions. Fortunately, I've never been one for buying into consumerism and collecting meaningless, materialistic things. Buy what you need, not what you want, my mother used to tell me. It's a rule I live by. And if I'm being honest, it saves me quite a bit of money. I put that towards my rent, and anything else is extra.

I grab my bags and head out, walking up the sidewalk and making my way back to the bus stop. It is just as I am about to cross the street when I hear whistling, a gentle voice calling for something – someone.

I turn around and survey my surroundings. That's when I see him. It's a man who is responsible for the whistling and light-calling. He seems lost, concerned. I notice that he's walking around aimlessly, holding a leash.

I make my way towards him. It's when I'm close that I register the words he is saying. Jesse. It's a name that he's calling for.

"Hi," I say as I approach him. "Did you lose your dog?"
He looks at me, subtly taken back by my confrontation. "I did," the man says. "I had him tied to the pole while I ran into the convenient store and when I came out, he had somehow got loose and escaped." The man is of larger build. He's not overweight by any means, just large, thick-boned I think they call it. He's quite tall as well. And bald. Not intimidating though. He's like a friendly giant.
"How long ago was this?" I ask.
"Maybe ten minutes or so?"
"He has to be around here somewhere," I say as I look around, scouting the area for any signs of him.
"He never usually wanders off," the man speaks and I hear the worry in his voice. "He always stays by my side."
"Maybe he heard a car and got frightened off."
"He's probably just wandering around looking for me," the man says.
"We'll find him, don't worry," I smile at him reassuringly. I know how it feels to lose a pet and I genuinely want to assist this man in reuniting with his dog.
He nods his head. "I'm going to get some dog treats from the car. Maybe he'll hear the bag and come running. He loves his treats." The man begins walking towards the navy blue van that's parked on the street.
I hitch my heavy bags over my shoulders and follow behind him. "I can call animal services if you want?" I suggest. "See if they picked up any loose dogs?"
"No," he says. "Not yet. We'll find him. He couldn't have gone too far." We're standing in front of his van now.
"I'll go up this street here and ask around. Perhaps someone saw him," I say.
"Truly, Miss, you don't need to do that,"
"No, I want to help," I smile again. "It's no problem at all."
He stares at me a moment, studying me. "Thank you," he says. "I'm Dane, by the way," he sticks out his hand.
"I'm Reign," I say as I shake his hand, then laugh as I realize. "Hey, that rhymes."
He chuckles lightheartedly. "Rain. Like the weather?"
"No," I hesitate. I should be used to this by now. It's what people ask me every single time. "Like the –"
I feel a hard thump on my head and then everything goes black.