46 No pressure

46 Zombie blues
Date = 25 December
Place = San Francisco (Mel’s house) (Uncle John’s house)

POV - Melaena

“Mel!” Kiara’s voice cries through my dreams. Or rather nightmares. “Wake up.”

My eyes flutter open and a beam of light blinds me for a second or two. Why did she draw the curtains? Bitch. When I say the word bitch I mean it in the most affectionate way possible, I swear.

I groan and sit up slowly. The light from the mid-morning sun flows into the room. I wish the sun would get a pain up it’s happy ass.

“Merry Christmas!” she shouts, grabbing me around my neck. Then she lets go rather quickly.

“Phew,” she fumbles her nose into a twist. “You stink!” I lift my arm and take a whiff. There is a slight little odor. But I haven’t bathed for a day … maybe two … three … I can’t remember.

“I don’t smell anything.” She stares at me — a long judgy look.

“Well, you’re going to get out of this bed, take a shower, and get ready … we’re going in thirty.” She gets up and steps carefully between the pizza boxes, empty ice cream tubs, and scattered clothes on the floor.

“I’m still sick.” I have the flu. Influenza.

At least I’m pretty sure that’s what I have.

I’ve been holed up in my bedroom for the last two weeks. I even turned my phone on silent. Only getting out of bed to pee, vomit, or bring in the food I ordered. Which I stuff down just to barf it out again. The rest of the time I sleep with open eyes, crying and sobbing my way through the whole 8 seasons of Vampire Diaries … twice … and I’ve done Originals, Shadowhunters, and a few go-to tearjerker movies — like Titanic and The Notebook.

“I’m not going.” Hasn’t she been listening? I’m sick. She snorts and glares at me.

“Oh, yes you are. In exactly 30 minutes I’m sending a guy in here to carry your stinky ass out.” I’m not that sick to realize the flaw in her threat.

“What guy? They’re all gone … even Alejandro.” He was the one keeping me from total destruction, but a few days ago he upt and left without any explanation.

“Eh … Anton from the gate,” she says and I roll my eyes. That man is old … I don’t think he will be able to even pick me up.

I cringe, not physically ready to face the outside world. But it is Christmas day … and Uncle John invited us over for dinner.

“I might be contagious.” I try one last time.

She taps on her watch and not looking where she’s going she steps into some week-old leftover pizza. She inhales sharply and lifts her bare foot, rotting cheese and pepperoni sticking to it.

“Ewwwwww,” she groans with a sour face, “That’s just wrong.” The putrid pizza aroma stinks up the air.

“That’s why you should let things lie where they lie.” She just stares at me before she jumps out on one leg, taking the decaying slice of pizza with her.

“Mew,” a little kitten face appears from inside an empty McDonald’s container. Alejandro was right when he adopted the cat for me — all cocky-ass, hyperactive, and stupidly stubborn … with an attitude to match … just like a certain nobody we all know. They even share the same eye color.

“Yes, I agree, that girl needs to get laid,” I tell the kitten, “She’s all uptight and in my face.”

The cat jumps up onto my bed and starts clawing my pillow. I wish I could claw that stupid Chloe whore like that.

“Okay, so I may be heartbroken on top of this crazy flu bug,” I admit. “Sue me. But it’s his fault.” I see those photos in my mind. Doom (I just kept his shelter name) stops clawing and rubs his little ass on the pillow he just tortured. He stares at me with those predator green eyes and my heart busts open again. A lone tear runs down my cheek.

“All I need to do is . . . not see him again,” I sniff. Ever. Doom tilts his neck as if he understands every word I say. I sit up straight. That’s it.

“You know,” I say, “Take 2 Interactive has begged me to come to work for them full-time for a while now.” Doom doesn’t seem too impressed by this nugget of information.

“Maybe it’s time for us to move to New York,” I tap the kitten on his nose. He frowns then sneezes.

“It’s a great city.” Any city Damion-free sounds great right now.

“Mew.” The cat agrees. He’s such a good listener.

I reach for my phone and find a few messages. Mostly from my brothers — who, except for Ilkay, have been out of town. But they will all be at Uncle John’s today. I hold my breath as I scan through everything, but there’s no message from the Devil. Guess hell doesn’t have cable.

Damion fell off the earth — or so I’ve been told by Kiara. No one has heard from him in two weeks — he was last seen at the hospital that night. His phone is going straight to voicemail. He does read his messages though — the only sign that he’s at least out there somewhere. His parents are worried about him. Dean is worried about him. His team is worried about him. Even the press is worried about him.

He missed the season’s closing ceremony. Mark accepted all his trophies on his behalf.

“I’m not worried,” I say to Doom, who stops cleaning his face to give me an I-don’t-believe-you-and-I’m-a-cat look.

“I hope he gets blinded by pictures of Chloe’s hanging tits.” I try to sound more believable. Then I see the last message.

D Stalker: Merry Christmas my love (pink-heart emoji) Soon we’ll be together forever.

Will this guy never stop? I for sure don’t have any energy left to deal with the likes of him. But his words slightly bother me.

I get up and walk to the bathroom with stiff aching legs. Darn flu. I feel like something that dropped out from Doom’s ass. I should know. I’m the one cleaning his sandbox and it’s nasty.

My face in the mirror tells me that this bug hasn’t been good for my appearance. My hair is a dirty mess, tied up into a bird’s nest on the top of my head. My eyes are dull and underlined by dark circles. My skin is pale, almost see-through and the dirty shirt … his dirty shirt … is hanging even more like a sack on my body. I’ve lost a good six pounds and right now I look like the zombie I’m feeling — mindless and dead inside.

All because of this darn bug. The crappy virus stuck to me ever since I ran out of his house.

I call it the broken-heart flu.

I remove the sweaty T from my body and jump in the shower. The warm water tingles my skin. I shampoo, condition, and scrub every nook and cranny clean of dirt. I tie a towel around my body and stare into the mirror again. I still look like shit, but at least I feel fresh. Right now I’m going to start clean … a new life.

While slowly getting dressed, I need to sit down a few times before I’m done. Damn, I don’t even have the energy to put on a jean and a jersey. I really feel like crap. I throw some clean underwear, a tracksuit, and a dress in a bag.

I drag my sorry ass to the kitchen while Doom attacks my toes, hissing and playing. I fill his water bowl.

I scoop some cat food from a tin in the fridge, but the smell makes me gag so I try not to breathe while putting it on the floor for Doom. This broken-heart bug is definitely not for sissies.

“Merry Christmas, little sister,” Enrique grabs me from behind into a tight hug.

So my one long-lost brother is finally back. I almost burst into tears. What the hell is wrong with me? I wipe my arm over my face.

“Merry Christmas,” I sob, forcing him to turn me around and take notice of my broken appearance.

“Don’t you look like shit.” I can always count on my family for healthy compliments.

He pushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear with a huge frown between his Heterochromia eyes.

“Are you alright?” Not even remotely. But I nod.

Ilkay walks in.

“Merry X-mas everyone,” he shouts cheerfully. Glad he’s all stars and rainbows. And just because he managed to find out that Amy girl’s full name. She’s a teacher from a small town in Maryland. I hug him.

“Are you ready to go?” No. I just want to crawl into bed and sulk. But with the family I have that’s not an option. They’ll probably drag me away, mattress and all.

“Yes.” The boys help me and Kiara to load our stuff and all the presents in Ilkay’s truck.

“Sis, you don’t look so well.” He scans his doctor’s eyes over me, holding onto my arms as if he’s scared I might fall over. And he’s not entirely wrong, it feels as if I might faint any moment.

“I’ve got the flu,” I explain even though he’s a doctor and subsequently should know everything about the influenza virus. He furrows his brows while he helps me into the truck.

“Are you still on the pill?” Now I frown. Why would he ask me that?

“Yes, the same one all these years.” He looks at Kiara for confirmation. As if I might lie.

Kiara nods. “She is.” Without any further interrogation, he starts up his truck and gets us going.

Ilkay’s phone rings through his truck’s Bluetooth, interrupting the song on the radio we were listening to. Jackson’s name is displayed on the electronic screen on the dash and Ilkay taps the button on his steering wheel to answer it.

“Hey,” he says loudly. “Glad to see you haven’t lost my number.” Jackson and Axel went on some secret mission to New York. All I could get out of my tight-lipped friend was that they were looking for some pussy. Considering they didn’t travel right across the country looking for a cat, I just left it at that.

“Are you at Uncle John’s?” He sounds almost as chirpy as the doctor.

“Almost, you?”

“Just getting to the bridge.”

“You’re driving back?” Enrique asks surprised.

“Yeah … from Big Sky.” My brothers look at each other funny.

“You went skiing?” Ilkay this time.

“Nah, I went to commit murder,” he says flatly, “but turns out everything was just one fucked up huge misunderstanding.” I’m not following. But that’s nothing new. It’s like the guys have their own language — using minimalistic phrases to communicate far above your head, while leaving you unknowingly ignorant at best.

“Which is great ‘cause now I don’t have to dig a grave or kill a deer,” he says sternly. “It’s fucking difficult to dig a big enough hole for a deer and a corpse in frozen ground.” Not sure what a deer has to do with it. Each time Jackson says stuff like that, I’m pretty much just hoping it’s a joke.

“He’s alive?” Ilkay sounds both surprised and disappointed. I’m starting to wonder if all my brothers are undivulged lurking murderous psychopaths.

“For now. They are both in the car.”

“Both?” There’s a deep sigh on the other side of the line.

“Turns out there’s one more Grimm.” Again with the frickin strange look between them. “Long story.” I’m really confused.

“Point is,” Jackson continues, “Everyone is innocent.”

“Except Chloe,” Axel’s voice now drills into our truck. They must be on speaker too.

“Yeah, that bitch is guilty as shit,” Jackson snorts. “We’ll see you at the house. Cheers.”

It takes the radio a mere second to start up again after the call ends. Like magic.
‘I’m an angel with a shotgun
Fighting til’ the wars won
I don’t care if heaven won’t take me back
I’ll throw away my faith, babe, just to keep you safe
Don’t you know you’re everything I have?
(I’m an angel with a shotgun)
And I, want to live, not just survive, tonight
(Live, not just survive)’

I listen to the music without hearing it. The song reminds me of him. Hell, everything seems to remind me of him. At this moment I feel more like an angel that’s been shot WITH a shotgun. Right through the heart. I have no energy to fight and I’m barely surviving here.

‘And I’m gonna hide, hide, hide my wings tonight’
Memories flood through my mind with the words, each one a painful reminder that I miss him. Very much. But the weight of his betrayal is suffocating and heavy, as if my heart has been carved out leaving behind an unfillable void.

Innocent Jackson said. Damion must have spun a sop story not to get murdered. I saw the photos. I read the texts. Nothing innocent about any of it.

Tears flow freely, a river of sorrow down my cheeks. Then it dawns on me that he’s going to be there. My laughter bursts forth with a sad brilliance that fills the truck. He … is … going … to … be … there.

“You okay?” Enrique turns back to scrutinize me with worried eyes.

Eyes glistening with shed tears and unspoken sadness, I clutch my chest, fingers trembling, as if trying to keep my sudden racing heart from leaping out of my body.

“He’s going to be there.” I can’t stop grinning, even though my heart hammers against my rib cage. My panic escalates. I breathe in shallow gasps of air, my chest rising and falling rapidly as the fear threatens to suffocate me.

Enrique gawks at our brother in the driver’s seat. “I think that asshole broke her.”

I sob in short irregular breathes and wipe the tears and snot away with my sleeve.

“It’s the flu,” I say with a steady soggy voice.

“The flu is making you cry?” Ilkay looks at me through the rearview mirror with his big-brother expression, eyebrows pulled together. I bite my lip and nod.

The boys gape at each other and there’s that look again.

“What really happened between you and Damion while I was stuck in that freaking popsicle world where girls like to grow long body hair?” Enrique asks the million-dollar overly analyzed question. The one I’ve been dissecting in my mind over and over again hoping to find a different outcome.

I don’t want to talk about it, and he’s heard the story over the phone, but I guess it’s not the same as hearing it face to face.

“He cheated. With Chloe.” Enrique snorts.

“Chloe? Are you sure? Damion like hates that bitch.”

“There are messages!” I shout with a quivering voice. “And pictures!”

“What? Nude pics?” He laughs, but I don’t see the humor. He throws his phone onto my lap.

“I get like a zillion of them from girls … and boys … every fucking day — we all do. It’s a perk that comes with being famous.”

Anxiety grips me with a vice-like intensity as I scroll through his gallery with shaking hands. There must be hundreds of pictures of girls and boys in different stages of nakedness — only this week. My stomach churns with a nauseating mixture of disgust and apprehension.

I swallow back the burning puke that rises in my throat. This is plain sick. So it’s not only Chloe? He gets shots like that from horny humans across the world. Each jagged shard of my shattered heart cuts deeper with every beat … with every photo.

“She answered his phone while he was in the bathroom. And she was in his bed … in her underwear.” Enrique doesn’t say a word to this, but I can see that he’s thinking deeply. Yeah, chew on that.

“Anyway, I’ve decided to take a job in New York,” I break the news. Ilkay almost crashes the truck parking it while Enrique and Kiara both swear in shock.

“What?” I ask at their baffled expressions. “It seems like a nice city.” And it’s miles away from a certain cheating bastard. They don’t respond, but the air crackles with tension. Ilkay’s jaw tightens while Enrique’s eyes blaze with fiery indignation.

The earth seems to spin, a dizzying dance of lights and colors, as a nauseating feeling wraps its tendrils around my gut. My skin prickles with a clammy cold sweat while goosebumps spread over my body as I feel the now familiar burn in my tummy.

I slap my hand over my mouth, trying to hold it in, while I throw open the door. Just in time. Last night’s robot-bell-pepper-and-ham-pasta vomit lays cheerfully over the paved driveway of my uncle’s house. How very Christmassy?

The rancid turned sour taste mixes with that distinctive, smell-it-a-mile-off, odor and I puke again. Luckily, it momentarily distracts my brothers from the immediate conversation that threatens to get out of hand. But now I’m sitting with another problem.

“I need to pee,” I yell while running to the toilet under the stairs. Phew, made it. I sigh, there’s nothing that feels so good as urinating when you’re above maximum capacity.

Almost as good as sex.

Almost.

I splash some water on my face and walk out and into nobody else than the backstabbing baboon.

“Asshole!” His eyes look hurt and there’s a strange expression on his face. He looks tired with black rings under his eyes, stubble on his chin, and hair more messy than usual. There are cuts and bruises on his face. His knuckles are also covered with fresh wounds. Clearly he was in a fight.

Then I continue out of nervousness, “And you look like shit.” But also extremely fuckable. He gets a faint smile on his face.

“Well, Merry Christmas to you too, angel. And you don’t look much better.” I snort hard.

“Thanks to you. I caught a bug.” He moves closer, stretching out his hand to push my hair back, but I turn my head away.

“Mel, we need to …” Before he can finish his sentence I turn around and run to the toilet and heave out the last bites of pasta.

“How long have you been feeling like this?” he asks; worry notes in his voice.

“Since the night …” I can’t continue that sentence. “It’s the flu.” I get up and wash my hands.

“Come with me.” He takes my arm and leads me to the kitchen. He kicks a chair out and lowers me into it. “This helps for nausea if I have a hangover.” He pours some ginger ale into a glass and hands it to me.

“Are you okay?” He seems concerned enough but I’m still thoroughly pissed at him. And hurt. I have this urge to hurt him back.

“Don’t you dare care now all of a sudden!” I jump up.

“I fucking do care!” His eyes get hazy, and then he gives me that look, the hurtful look and it breaks my heart even more, if possible.

My head spins and my tummy complains as it twirls like a little hurricane, pushing up my esophagus. I swallow hard. Damn, this bug.

“You wanted to talk,” I say, “So talk.” I lick my lips.

I catch those green orbs observing me, ferocity and desire mingle in the depths of them. I become hot and bothered as the sexual tension mounts — the chemistry between us is undeniable.

And what’s worse, the virus seems to make me horny as shit. I have a permanent itch in my lower regions — and itch only he can scratch.

My eyes dart to his crotch. Maybe I can let him help me out — like a goodbye quickie. It is his fault that I’m sick after all, because he’s a lying cheating dick. Or maybe it’s his dick’s fault. Shit. What if it’s some kind of STD and not flu?

“I like where your head is at, but we need to talk first.” Dammit. He and his mind-reading senses.