An Apple A Day (Wattys2019)

Chapter 16 - Gift

Doc

I've seen this before. When I was His test subject and He was seducing me, enticing me into something much more like love than Stockholm's. Stockholm's is just empathy, love is a lot more difficult to create, manifesting it in someone requiring a lot more twists and turns especially when trust and companionship is as broken as it is for us.

What's more, I'm apprehensive about giving Miles the freedom of a lover so early. Love means allowances, it means the power balance shifts slightly more to him, allowing him to exist outside of this house and my own control. But it's necessary.

That doesn't mean he gets these allowances without work.

An initiation, like the one He made me complete to prove myself.

I grab my small pocket knife, the one I twist against my wrist and place it into my pocket. I love my scalpels, adore them as my favourite weapon of both pain and pleasure and occupation. But a knife is needed for this kind of job: I'm a realist. Not a delusional freak. Tying the laces on my sneakers I pass the open living room door on my way out.

"Where are you going?"

I turn and see Miles looking up at me from the couch. He's reading the economics textbook I told him to - I made a condition that I'd 'teach him how to love me' as he put it as long as he actually studies economics. I can't have a uneducated experiment and his sharp intellect is wasted by remaining a sedentary layabout. I wasn't allowed to spend an hour a day away from textbooks as His experiment. "Out," I state firmly, not waiting for his answer before I slam the door behind me.

I sit at the familiar seat of my van, feeling the leather wheel beneath my fingers I haven't in so long, not since I saved my experiment from his bitch of a mother and stupid fucking life that stupid ungrateful-

My hand pulls back the gearstick so hard it slams in on itself. My foot drives determinedly down to the floor shooting my van down the street, skidding around a corner to the main road. I hear the frightened drivers around my scream in shock at my actions they'd consider reckless but it's just so much fun.

"He...heheheeheh...". I begin to giggle and laugh to myself as I drive. Why?! Because it's fun! I'm having fun and I'm happy and I'm driving so fast HOLY SHIT IT'S SO FAST....

Clam down, Doc.

I skid to a stop at the lights, watching the traffic around me calm down as they escape my rampage. I hear the distant shouts of road-rage drivers as they scream at me in their fury. How amusing. I realise how fast I've actually been going and breathe in, slow and controlled, stopping at intervals to count the seconds. Inhale for 5, exhale for 7. Can't draw attention to myself, not today, my van is too conspicuous in a small suburban area. Someone might remember me.

I keep driving until I reach the neighbourhood I remember, relaxed and friendly. I used to stalk here but haven't in years so nobody will recognise me. I come to the stretch of road lined in evergreens where the sun seems to shine so bright, and notice the tiny newsagents with peeling red paint to my left. Driving into the crevasse adjacent the shop I turn into the secluded alleyway, parking up and climbing from my vehicle. I throw on my glasses and lab coat, adjusting my badge a little so my ID itself is visible but my name isn't. I tie my hair back and check myself in the mirror, ensuring I look somewhat plain; a warped version of myself, inferior and boring. The most un-memorable person one could visualise and forget in a second.

Climbing from my van, I remind myself I'm stalking, not hunting just to reiterate the point. They're two very different activities I used to conflate, my reckless teenaged self at a beginner's level not much more experienced than Miles. I remember Him training me for weeks to put a stop to my tendencies to act like a hunter around my targets when I was meant to simply survey and gather data.

Entering the shop I see my target fading between the back isles. I watch and I wait. Quickly I grab a bottle of Smirnoff from the freezer, trying to control my walking patterns. II feel like I've forgotten how to walk and have to keep my pace normal and inconspicuous as I approach the counter.

The young clerk smiles at me past his noticeable braces. "That's £8.50 sir,"

Sir. Sir. I shudder at the title to dissociate it from myself. Not a disgusting title for everyone, but for me the undeserving, of course it is. He tried to get me to call Him 'sir' which didn't work. Of course it didn't, because I'm not a fucking stewardess. "Thanks," I clatter some change on the counter I haven't even counted. "What time do you close?"

That was a casual question, right? I need to find out what time my target clocks off.

"Oh, ten,"

"And that's when this shift ends?" Okay, even I heard the awkwardness in my voice, the shifting more creepily to specific questions at the same pace as the tightening knot in my stomach.

"Oh, Yeah..." he looks at his own shoes, passing the bottle back to me and quickly retracting his hand when I grab it. "And I uh... I have a girlfriend?"

He thought I was...? He's so gross. I didn't even imply that! "Good for you," can't give him a reason to remember me. Be forgettable. I slide the bottle from the counter and hold it heavily by the neck. So, the current employees finish their shift at 10? Very well.

I climb into my van and set an alarm for 22:00, reclining my seat and nestling my legs on the counter. Drinking down a single straight shot - a superstitious form of wishing myself good luck - I close my eyes and try to sleep away the hours until I can collect Miles' initiation gift.