Catharsis [Novel]

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

            With my fears now (mostly) conquered, I set about coming up with a mental shopping list of what I plan to get once I'm in the place.  My original goal when I came out here tonight was to pick up a blanket and pillow for Lazzy (Gotta keep those good intentions front and center on this trip, right?), so I make that the first item on my list.  I'm not sure a small chain drug store like this will have pillows and blankets, but I can always hope.

            And real dog food.  Maybe even some canned dog food with actual moist bits of kibble in it.  That could certainly be a nice treat, and might even help the little fella heal more quickly.  If I'm getting canned food, then I better get a can opener to go with it.  And those old cups I've been using for water should be replaced.  Bowls would certainly be a nice upgrade for us.  I add those to my list.

            Aside from food and sleep what else could my furry little companion need?  Play toys!  Definitely a ball or a chew toy or something that he can entertain himself with.  I'm sure they have to have some kind of ball there.  Maybe in the kids’ section if they don't have a pet area (Yes, because I'm sure drugstores on the edge of the city’s ghetto are just rife with well-stocked pet sections.).

            What else?  Food, bedding and fun for Lazarus should keep him covered pretty well.  At the very least it's a good start, and it's significantly better than where we were.

            As I think, I run my fingers through my hair distractedly only to realize that that small act is nearly impossible.  My long, brown hair has become a tangled mess.  I'd call it a rat's nest (Like my mother always would after I came in from playing outside as a little girl and hadn't worn anything in my hair to keep it safely tied back.  She'd grumble about shaving my head one day to make the whole chore easier, and I'd giggle and tell her, "No mama.  I love my hair."  Sigh.  I miss my mom.), but that would be both an insult to the hairy vermin and their lovely tangled homes.  I'll have to wash my hair multiple times and probably even boil it with conditioner before a brush will even consider running through it.

            Ok, shampoo, soap and a hairbrush for me; I add those to my running mental list, and then realize cleaning myself won't do much good unless I have a towel to dry myself off.  Of course after I'm dry, I'm not going to want to put these same clothes on after I've worn them for almost a straight week.  I add a change of clothes to my list, too. 

            Any food for me?  I consider trying some of my favorite candy bars to see if they're worth eating even if they might taste like a lump of stewed homework papers, but I abandon the idea.  I don't have much faith in food having any flavor right now, and trying to eat it will most likely just depress me more.  Speaking of depressing me, I think about what I have been eating lately (If you can call gulping the lifeblood of small creatures like they're furry Capri Sun juice bags "eating".) and realize oral hygiene has not been a strong suit of mine lately, either.  I don't even want to think about what horrible substances have crossed my mouth and teeth lately.

            "Toothbrush!" I blurt out loud.  "Oh my Geebus (My mother would whoop me silly if I even thought of taking the Lord's name in vain.  Still not a habit I feel ready to break.)!  I am definitely picking up a toothbrush,” I pause and the image of those piles of rat carcasses behind the warehouse rushes back into my brain. "And mouthwash.  Lots of mouthwash (Would drinking that hurt me right now?  Hmmm.  That might be an experiment worth checking out after what I've been putting my digestive system through these last few days.)."

            With my mental list finalized, I do my best to make myself presentable.  Running my hands over my frayed hair, I attempt to smooth it down as much as possible.  Even though the tangles force me to abandon the idea of combing it by hand, at least I can keep it from looking scary.  Right now I'll even settle for pitiful.

            There's not much I can do about my odor, so I'll just have to work to keep my distance from people (Actually, that's probably a good idea on a number of levels.).  Straightening my clothes as much as possible (I've never been what I would call "prissy" or "fashion conscious", but still the idea of going out in public - even to a place as horrifying as this one - looking as bad as I do would have mortified me just a week ago.  I guess being style-savvy is now at the bottom end of the things-I-care-about chart.), I try to aim for some level of "I'm not a hobo" rather than "presentable".  It's good to accept your limits.

            Standing up, I search myself for any presence of the hunger that's been haunting me.  It's there, but it's faint and easily ignored.

            "I can handle this," I tell myself as I cross the street.  "What could possibly go wrong?"  And the thought of how many different ways I could answer that question makes me laugh as my feet lightly cross the store's well-lit parking lot.