Page 53 - The Houseguest

was feeling was real, very real. It was a combination of fear, disgust, disbelief, nausea, and sheer shock. When she turned to walk away, I saw the scar across her left cheek. It was her.
Leaving the coffee shop, my routine now shattered, I called into the office and told them I’d be out for the afternoon. Leaving my car parked outside a running meter, I walked 18 blocks back to the condo. I had to walk. I needed the mindless repetition of my steps to suppress the impulses. What curveball was the universe throwing at me now? I walked through the door, loosened my tie and ignored the cognac. Under the cabinet in the kitchen was an unopened bottle of scotch...a remnant from my near insanity phase. But, how does one really know if they ever truly crossed the line into the realm of the “insane?” Who’s to say where that invisible line is drawn anyway?
Suddenly reminded of a quote from Hunter S. Thompson: “The Edge...There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over,” I realized that I had gone over, returned and was approaching the threshold of the edge once again.
I opened the scotch and drank straight from the bottle. Manners, routine, societal rules be damned -- something had happened. I had built my world back up piece-by-piece, slowly becoming stable enough to survive. I thought I’d righted my life’s ship on turbulent seas at least enough to sail to the other side, but now a storm was approaching that may prove impossible to weather. How was this possible? How could Rachel, the woman who had destroyed everything my life was, or had ever hoped to be, be put in the path of my journey again? What cruel
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The Houseguest by Linda Ellis www.LindaEllis.life