This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, business establishments or events is entirely coincidental. Comments and feedback are highly appreciated, send to mozlover21@gmail.com.
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Electricity
Chapter 14.
Kat
When her baby brother was born, Kat experienced her first real surge of jealousy. A feeling so strong and sudden it almost knocked her off her little feet right then and there. A brand new baby meant a source of competition for the attention of her parents. She didn't want competition, she wanted to be the center of attention, always. Even before he was born, in her little four-year-old head, she dreamt up ways of how she could quietly get rid of him. Maybe if she fed him a piece of a carrot while nobody was looking, he'd choke and die, leaving the Kingdom back in its rightful hands: hers. Maybe if she took him out of his bassinet and left him somewhere far away, nobody would ever find him, and their/her parents would go back to focusing all their love and adoration on her instead of having to split it in two. She didn't like sharing, she wanted the whole damn cake. Yes, she would need to get rid of the pest somehow. Her little head had it all figured out. That was until the moment that she met him, and her plans changed.
He was born too early, his little body not ready for all the horror this world had to offer. As her mother slept heavily medicated in her hospital bed, and her father spoke to the doctors about what they should prepare for, she looked on at the tiny baby connected to a myriad of beeping machines and tubes far too large for his puny body, housed in a glass incubator. He was closer to death than he was to life at that moment, and she resented the fact that the choice had been taken out of her hands. She'd always been stubborn, and when she made her mind up about something there was nothing anybody could do to stop or deter her. This was supposed to be her decision, yet here he was, frail and barely hanging on to life. How could she hate him now? He was too weak. Not a real opponent she could fight against.
And he was her brother, so that day she made the choice for him: he was going to live. She sat by that incubator and stared at him for hours, much to the adoration of all the neonatal nurses who thought she was simply the sweetest little sister. Little did they know, she did this purely out of her own selfishness. If he died like this, her parents would grieve him for ages. She'd still get no attention. So she sat there looking at him and in her head she repeated one simple phrase: "You are not allowed to die, I won't let you." Like a magical mantra.
"You might have to say goodbye soon, Kat, your brother is not doing too well," her tearful mother had told her the next day when she awoke from her medicated sleep. And then Kat resented her for being weak and giving up on him so easily, which made her want to protect him even harder. If his own mother couldn't get it together, the little guy wouldn't stand a chance. She needed to step up. Forget everyone else, he had her, his sister, and she would do whatever was necessary to make sure he would be okay. It was them against the world from that moment on. An unbreakable bond was formed in the hospital that day.
"I'm not saying anything of the sort," she replied smartly, "he's not going to die." Her mother looked on curiously but said nothing. That night the nurses declared a miracle. Baby Alfie was stabilizing and growing stronger by the hour. Everyone cheered and hugged and cried, everyone expect Kat. She didn't need to celebrate because she already knew he was going to be okay. He would make it, because he had her in his corner now.
Kat took off her black leather Versace heels in the back of the cab and rubbed her her sore feet while stretching her manicured-to-perfection toes. Fashion week had been nonstop brutal work leaving her with sharp shooting pains going up both her legs from the teetering stilettos she had to wear while strutting down the Parisian runways in designer couture. This job was inhumane, she thought to herself, but she was also shocked at how good she was at something she didn't even enjoy doing. It was like having a gift you didn't want. The not eating, the schmoozing with rock stars, the cocaine binges and champagne filled afterparties--this was her playground, and she played the stereotypical runway model to perfection. But contrary to popular belief, nothing about this lifestyle was fulfilling in any type of way. She was deeply unhappy, and at the end of the day she had to face the facts: she was no Kate Moss. She'd never reach that level of fame, or work past her prime. The best she could hope for was to be be stuck doing catwalks until her early 30's, then be brutally replaced by some younger version of her while she withered away in the shadows, looking at old photos of herself and botoxing her face so that it was unrecognizable.
On the other hand, she had no real motivation to quit either. It was fun knowing all her high school girlfriends who were stuck at home with crying babies and fat husbands were jealous of her jet-setting lifestyle. And she had no other career that she was passionate about. It looked like nothing would change, until the day she found her baby brother bleeding out on his hotel bathroom floor. And then she discarded modeling like it was trash, and made her way to Pride's headquarters where, with no prior experience or writing samples, she got a part-time job as one of the staff writers. How? Kat had a way with people. She was interviewed by Earl Warren himself. His eyes darkened as he took in her resume.
"Why exactly do you think that you belong here?" he asked, partly confused and partly annoyed that she was wasting his time. She took her time to think of an adequate answer, she was in no rush. She held eye contact like a pro. There would be no nervous stammering of words here, no shaky and trembling voice. She was a self-assured woman, and Pride was the perfect place to execute her plan.
"Mr. Warren," she began and settled comfortably into her seat, "I know there's nothing on that piece of paper that might convince you I have any potential as a writer. And to be honest with you, I'm no Ronan Farrow. My writing's not particularly sophisticated or pretty to read," Warren arched an eyebrow as she seemed to be headed towards career suicide. "But I can write like the wind, I have no problem making contacts in the community and chasing after a story, and most of all I am driven to deliver important news that I know for a fact will change people's lives." He leaned his head to the side and carefully regarded her. She'd heard stories about the Professore, and how difficult he was. She knew if she'd break him, it would be easy peasy from there, she'd be in. He was still looking at her when she added, "If you give me a chance, you won't regret it."
That day she was hired. That day she began to slowly execute her plan of revenge. That day she wiggled her way into meeting a popular writer named Aubrey Miller who was going to be the perfect person to deliver her message. Nobody on this Earth would ever get away with hurting her bother and not paying for it. Not as long as she lived.
She remembered what happened during that cab ride in Paris. As the driver sang along to some Vanessa Paradis song playing on the radio, she heard the ringtone of her phone. She fished it out of her Gucci purse: it was Alfie.
"Kitty Kat, I'm in love," he cooed on the other end, thousands of miles away. She felt nervous being so far from him, unable to protect him. Love and Alfie did not go hand-in-hand, she'd learned that over the years with the long list of ex-boyfriends who had broken his heart. He loved easily and fully--a dreadful combination.
"In love? I've been gone for a week!"
"I know. What can I say, it came out of nowhere. But he's...amazing."
"How? Who? I need details," she screeched into the phone. The cab driver throwing glances at her in the rearview mirror.
"We've spent three days and nights together. Three absolutely magical, absolutely breathtaking days and nights," he sighed in the most exaggerated manner, "He's simply ideal in all ways. He's legitimately a real life Prince Charming."
"Woah, cowboy, slow your roll," she stated, faintly concerned. It was so typical of her brother to fall in head first into a relationship and give it a thousand percent while the other person contributed next to nothing. That was Alfie's problem, he was like a sweet angel walking the Earth. Too loving, too trusting, too everything. Thank God she existed on this Earth to protect him. He'd be lost without her.
"Who is he?"
"Well, that's the funny part...you might know him. He's kind of famous," he replied cheekily. Now it was her turn to sigh. Famous was not good, not good at all.
"An actor?"
"Nope."
"A musician?"
"Wrong again."
"An athlete?"
"Bingo!" Oh no, Kat thought to herself. That was far worse than the alternatives. An athlete would surely ruin Alfie's life.
"Basketball?"
"Try again?"
"Football?"
"Touchdown!" he replied laughing, and she could hear the pure glee in his voice. She wanted to be thrilled for him, but a small voice in the back of her head wouldn't let her. She needed to protect her brother, and everyone knew that athletes were certified trouble in the making. Suddenly, the horrible thought dawned on her.
"Not...not Andrew Thompson, right?" she asked, praying to God her brother wasn't this stupid. There was no way her lovely, beautiful, sweet, caring brother could possibly have crossed paths with the biggest bay side playboy in the world of sports. It just wasn't possible.
"Kat, he's everything. He's the real deal. If I could I'd birth children for him, that's how deep this goes," he gushed and she shook her head in complete distress.
"No, no, no. First of all, you sound manic. Second of all, don't make me sick. Third of all, Andrew freaking Thompson! Alfie, the man is a manwhore. He will eat you alive. You are not built for him. Trust me, I know his type," she warned, but her fears fell on deaf ears. She might as well have been talking to a wall.
"Sister, I'm grown, I can take care of myself. You'll see, you're going to loooove him. I can't wait for you two to meet. You're so going to hit it off." Kat sat in stunned silence. Then, just three short days after that fateful conversation she was back home, back from the French world of smelly cheese and baguettes for breakfast and shots of espresso for a midday pick-up. But her brother was no longer there. There was no sight of the happy-go-lucky creature she was so intimately acquainted with while growing up. In his place she found an entirely different human form: she found boy destroyed.
He walked around like a zombie, stopped eating altogether, and could barely form a sentence without bursting into tears. The culprit behind all the pain was Andrew Thompson, who had discarded him like a used up piece of trash and moved onto to the next thing without missing a beat.
"I just don't understand what I did wrong," he'd mumble out, "I thought we had something special. How could he think I was just a hookup? How could he throw away what we had for another guy?" he kept asking over and over again as she tried to invent new ways of telling him that it wasn't his fault and that Andrew Thompson simply wasn't relationship material. That he was a hot young athlete who had the world at his feet and he wasn't interested in anything long term or serious.
But that was the problem with Alfie, he loved so deeply that he just couldn't comprehend a world where the other person didn't feel the same. Then one day he called her just as she was getting off a plane, back from another modeling trip.
"I love you Kat," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. And suddenly at the pit of her stomach she could tell that something was horrendously wrong. She yelled for the taxi driver to rush through traffic then she ran into the house, ripping through each room and trying to find him.
"Alfie!" she cried hysterically. His bathroom door was closed, and she banged on it with all the force her lithe and underweight body could muster. No answer. "Open up!" she yelled out, hitting the door with her bony shoulder. It didn't budge, not even an inch. She ran back downstairs and grabbed a tiny screwdriver. One of her ex-boyfriends had taught her how to pick a lock--a skill which would come in handy now. Lifesaving even. She fiddled with the lock until it gave way, then busted in through the door.
He was on the floor, wearing a plush white bath robe which mingled with burgundy blood in an unholy union. He looked pale and lifeless.
"Just let me die," he whispered, but she wouldn't listen. Not when he was born, and not now. Not while she was still here to protect him. Never.
She took off her button up and tied it tightly around one wrist. Then took off her tank top, and tied it around the other. She grabbed her phone, dialed 911 and put it on speaker. Then she held onto his wrists and applied pressure.
"Look me in the eye," she said, and his light full of tears blue eyes met hers in all their pain. "You are not going to die. I won't let you," she said.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Hello, we're at 478 Forrester Drive. We need an ambulance right away," she said. The memory so vivid in her mind, even all this time later.
She sat in front of a computer screen now, at Pride's offices. It was late and everyone had already left. It was the perfect time to do what she needed to do. She texted Tom first in order to make sure he had things handled on his end. When she got the go ahead, she smiled. This was the moment she'd been waiting for. This is why she was here. It all added up to this.
"This is for you, Alfie," she said out loud, then clicked "Publish" making the article that would destroy Andrew Thompson's legacy go live on Pride's home page and all its social media. Tomorrow, everyone in America would awake to read about the real Andrew Thompson, and he would need to say goodbye to everything that ever mattered to him.