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The relief at being back in my own home was instant as soon as I unlocked the door to my flat. Sherman ran to greet me, meowing loudly as he waited to be picked up. He wasn’t used to me not being there, so my week-long absence had probably shaken him up. I immediately went into the kitchen to check his food and water situation, surprised to find they were both full.

“I’ve been checking on him,” Olivia explained as she set my bag on the kitchen table. “The poor little guy was starving when I checked on him the first day.”

“Thanks, ‘Liv,” I said, moving slowly into the other room with Sherman cradled in my arms like a baby, purring loudly. Even the simple task of carrying my ten-pound cat a few feet was enough to complete exhaust me, so I set him down on the couch and flopped down beside him.

“Do you need anything else before I go?” Olivia asked, hovering hesitantly by the door. I hadn’t exactly been pleasant during the drive from the hospital, and I could tell she was more anxious than usual to get away from me.

“No, I’m good,” I said, letting my head fall back against the couch as Sherman made his way into my lap. “Thanks for everything,” I added, turning my head and opening one eye to look at her. I wanted nothing more than to be alone again, the way I was used to, the way I craved to be, so I could wallow in what had happened with Orlando. I was ready to let myself sink into the depression that was sure to bring, and having Olivia there was the last thing that would let that happen.

I tried to give her a reassuring smile, but I know it came out as more of a wince.

“I’ll be in my office all day,” she said, shifting uncomfortably. “Ring me later if you need anything, okay?”

“Sure,” I said, half-heartedly raising my hand to wave her out the door. She gave me a quick smile and closed the door behind her.

I sighed and let my hands wander over Sherman’s silky fur, realizing how much I’d missed his comforting presence. He was one of my favourite things about my flat, and not having him around had taken a toll on me. I needed his unconditional love now more than ever, and he wasn’t going to disappoint me. He settled himself quite contentedly against my chest, rubbing his head along the underside of my chin, and his purring intensified. I sighed again.

Orlando’s face flashed before my eyes as I let them drift closed. He was all easy smiles and graceful charm at first, and I tried to force myself to concentrate on that, on his pure magnetism, but I couldn’t dwell on that for long. The change in him had been too obvious, too noticeable, for me to forget it easily. The tears that had threatened in the hospital began to pool in my eyes and I blinked rapidly to clear them. Crying about this was not going to fix anything, and I refused to give in to such a weakness again.

Instead, I opted to get angry. The more I thought about it, the more pissed off I became at how superficial he’d been, at the blatant disgust he’d shown for someone different than himself. My fists clenched in fury as I let that thought build and crash over me like a tidal wave. Who the hell did he think he was? Just because he was practically perfect didn’t mean the rest of the world was beneath him. Maybe his pretentious ex-girlfriend was exactly the type of person he needed, and my original instincts about him had been wrong. It would serve me right for fostering such a stupid, unrealistic crush on someone who was turning out to be barely worth my time.

I let the anger burn low in my belly for awhile, stroking Sherman ever more aggressively until he nipped me lightly and took off into my bedroom to escape further abuse. By the time I watched his tail disappear around the doorway, I was practically shaking with rage, and I had to get up and work it off somehow.

Figuring this feeling might be productive, I went into my office and switched on my computer. The only way I knew how to vent such frustration was by writing, and though I didn’t have an active project on the go right that second, I figured, fuck it, now was as good a time as any to start something new. I opened a fresh document and went to work.

My exhausted body ached and moaned in frustration as I forced my fingers to fly over the keyboard. I was nowhere near well enough yet to spend so much time in front of my computer, but I didn’t care. I sat there for hours, turning out pages and pages of what could only be described as stream-of-consciousness rage. I hated that type of writing, the kind that had no beginning, no end, no structure. It reminded me of all the time I’d spent in University, fighting to keep my eyes open as I poured over books like James Joyce’s Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, quite possibly the most detestable book I’d ever read, despite the raves from the literature buffs around me. To me, it was rambling and most of it was highly unnecessary, just like what I was currently spewing forth onto the page.

But I couldn’t help it. When I wrote this furiously, I wasn’t Peyton anymore, I wasn’t fat, I wasn’t hideous, I was brilliant and confident and unable to do any wrong. The feeling of power was unlike anything I felt in my day-to-day life, and I needed that now more than ever before, because the small hope I’d allowed myself to nurture where Orlando was concerned had been dashed all to hell. The way I felt right then, though, both he and my mother could gang up on me and I wouldn’t give a flying fuck. They couldn’t touch me when I wrote, they couldn’t hurt me, and that was the best protection I could ask for.

Unfortunately my body had other ideas, and after about an hour, I started to feel really sick again. My fingers cramped, my head burned, and my eyes started refusing to stay open. I quickly dashed out the last few sentences I’d had in my mind and pushed myself roughly away from my desk. My anger had cooled somewhat, but it still prickled around the edges, reminding me that it was there when I was rested enough to really appreciate it.

As I padded into the bedroom to collapse on my bed, I silently promised myself that I would revisit this, that I would deal with it, and then I’d let it go. Hideous or not, I still had feelings that I needed to explore and release, or else the anger would eat me alive. I had enough to be pissed off about in my life, I didn’t need Orlando Bloom’s bullshit on top of it. I only hoped that if he did decide to call me again I could refrain from ripping him a new asshole over something that he probably didn’t even realize he’d done.

I actually balked at that thought as I shifted on the bed to find a comfy spot. I was defending him again, giving him an out, an excuse for being an inconsiderate prick. He may have been startled by what he’d seen, but he handled it wrong, and nothing I could think or do would change that. His reaction was permanently burned into my mind, and I couldn’t just set it aside now.

Instead, I envisioned how the conversation would go the next time I did talk to him. Would I let him have it? Or would I just tell him to fuck off and bother someone else? The shock of pain that ripped through me at that idea surprised me and I had to catch my breath before I started crying for the billionth time that week. I felt a new disgust now, at myself, for wanting him in my life even though he thought I was disgusting, whether he knew it was me he’d passed judgment on or not.

Part of me hated him for making me feel this shitty about myself, and part of me hated him for planting himself so firmly in my head and my stupid, worthless heart without my permission, but the rest of me was trying to fight those parts, and was losing the very painful battle. I couldn’t want him now, and yet I did, almost as much as before, and that made the anger so much more powerful, because it was now two-fold.

I clamped my hands over my eyes to make my wild train of thoughts stop. I needed to rest, and the more I thought about this, the more worked up I got, and the further away from a rational decision I became. My head throbbed painfully, as though to remind me of my present condition, and I had to hold very still for a minute to avoid vomiting all over myself.

When the nausea had passed for the most part, I went back into the kitchen to get my pills out of my bag. They were antibiotics, and they knocked the hell out of me. I felt like I could sleep for days with just one pill, and I craved that sweet oblivion now.

I scooped Sherman up off the floor on my way back into the bedroom, closed the curtains that Olivia must have opened, and settled myself on the bed again, more gently this time. Sherman curled into my side as I willed my body to relax and my mind to shut the hell up. It didn’t take long before my breathing began to even out and I felt myself being pulled under. I gave myself over willingly to that sensation, and within minutes, I was out like a light.