Don't Tell Ellie

My eyes hurt when I open them, they’re dry and heavy. I know this feeling all too well, my head throbs and my body hurts and all I want is two Advil and a glass of ice-cold water. I groan as I roll out of bed and as soon as my feet are planted, something soft grazes my ankle.

Her voice is low but it’s like nails on a chalkboard. I stare down at her, tendrils of ragged black hair hang in my vision, but I know Lagertha doesn’t give a damn how terrible I look, she just wants breakfast.

“Alright furball,” I scoop her into my arms and nuzzle against her white fur, she smells like fabric softener and I wonder if she’s gotten into my dryer sheets again. Lagertha meows at me in protest—only snuggles on a full stomach, that’s her rule.

I loosen my hold on her and she springs out of my arms and slinks into the kitchen flickering her tail like a metronome.

Lagertha is purring while she’s eating, letting me know she’s pleased with her human servant. Years ago, if someone had asked me if I were a dog or cat person, the answer would have been instant—dogs. But, as I’ve gotten older I’ve realized that a dog needs more love and care than I have to offer. Cats are self-sufficient, they don’t care if you don’t come home as long as they have food and water. So, I’ve left behind my love for dogs and embraced my inevitable evolution into a lonely cat lady.

I leave Lagertha to finish her breakfast and head to the bathroom. I open my medicine cabinet and push aside half-finished pill bottles, Zoloft, Paxil, Celexa, and my latest prescription Lexapro which hasn’t yet been opened until I find the Advil. I pop three in my mouth and turn the faucet on to wash them down with a handful of water.

When I close the mirrored medicine cabinet I stare at myself. My makeup is smeared in black lines down my face like I’ve been crying, but I haven’t been, not that I can remember anyway. In fact, I can’t remember much from last night, but as any hungover person knows, fragments of cringe-worthy memories will surface throughout the day.

I find my cellphone on my nightstand next to the only photograph I’ve ever framed—Marlow. She’s looking off to the right of the camera, her expression is one of contentedness, and in her hands are two paper flowers. Both red, intricately folded and shaped to look like roses. This was her favorite hobby, she could make flowers out of anything, construction paper, gum wrappers, napkins, once she’d even made daisies out of rubber bands.

I sigh and turn my attention to my phone, one missed call, Jack—3 a.m. I send him a text, ”How much did I drink last night?”

My phone buzzes, he’s calling instead of texting me, I roll my eyes.

“Hello?”

“What the hell, Eleanore?” Jack is his normal pissy self.

“What?”

“Did you fuck him?”

“What are you talking about?” I’m trying to remember, but I only remember getting there, the shot, the beer, the...oh.

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“We aren’t together anymore, Jack,” he’s annoying me.

“Yeah! And we’re definitely not getting back together now!” He shouts.

We never were, I’m not sure where Jack comes up with this shit, “Okay.”

“Okay? That’s it?! You run off with my friend and don’t even apologize? You’re such a bitch. Don’t call me again.”

“You still owe me...” but he’s already hung up on me before I can say coke.

Contrary to what Jack thinks, I never cheated on him when we were together, I just couldn’t take his aloof, forever-seventeen mentality anymore. I wouldn’t date him again if he paid me. But, I do value his friendship, so I hope he’ll get over it by tomorrow.

I rub my temples at the memory of the suit wearer who I doused in a perfectly good Heineken. Anthony? No, dammit, what was his name? My brain isn’t cooperating with me, I need food. I call in delivery for a pepperoni pizza and sit at my round dining table with my laptop.

Facebook. A cesspool of bullshit artists and fake personas. I log in and click my profile, I haven’t updated in over a year and my profile picture is even older than that. It’s me, twenty-two, smiling with a pink margarita in my hand. My hair is short and bleached almost white, parted on the side and scooped behind my left ear exposing a heavily pierced earlobe. I rub my ear and feel the empty holes under my fingertip.

I frown at the image of myself, was I actually happy then? I can’t ever remember a time when my smiles were genuine, it was probably the alcohol. I click my mouse on the search bar and type Jackie Boy. Jack’s profile picture is of the two of us, I’m clinging to his back like a kid at Disneyland, my lips pressed to his cheek and his eyes squinted and tongue sticking out in a cheesy expression. I scroll down, he’s been tagged in pictures from last night. Jack draped over girls, girls in Jack’s lap, Jack kissing a girl. That’s the Jack I know—a hypocrite through and through. I click the ‘Like’ button, just so he knows that I know he’s full of shit and search through more of the pictures until I find him.

The suit wearer has an arm slung around Jack’s shoulder, but there’s no smile. It’s like he’s staring right out of the picture and into my soul, an uncomfortable feeling rushes through my body as if something has been unlocked in my mind, and the images of the night before flood my head. I’m not hungover, I barely even drank. He must have slipped me something. My nostrils flare as I hover my mouse over his face and a tag pops up, Benjamin Marston.

There’s a knock at my door, and the interruption of food delivery is welcome. But, when I open my door the woman standing on the other side is not holding a pizza, it’s a package wrapped in brown paper.

“Delivery for Ellie Brennan,” she beams.

“Uh,” I know she must not be used to this kind of reaction to her deliveries because the corners of her mouth are twitching and her smile is failing.

“Are you Ellie?” She asks and her voice is perkier than before.

“Yes, sorry, yes, I’m Ellie.”

She offers me the package and when I don’t move she pushes it into my chest, “Have a great day!” She turns and rushes down the hall.

I close the door and sit down, standing the package next to my laptop. There’s that voice in my head again, screaming at me, “Throw it away!” Lagertha leaps onto my table and paws at the brown paper, she meows in frustration and then nips at it, “Stop,” I say shooing her away, but it’s almost as if there’s catnip inside, she’s clawing at it and it’s turning into shredded brown ribbons.

“Lagertha!” I grab her gently and place her on my bed, “What’s gotten into you?”

When I turn back my stomach drops. I’m shaking my head as I stare at the contents beneath the ripped paper. A dozen paper flowers, all red, all roses.