I check my own social media page and there is the usual stuff from fans, mostly chicks, a bunch of them wearing the T-shirts that went on sale a few months ago that say “Get Vandalized” on them, the black fabric spread tight across their huge, probably fake, tits. There is nothing about the accident. Sooner or later, someone will start talking about it, or it will be leaked, and I don’t even want to know what I will have to deal with then.

I click back over to Tabitha’s page, and a strange noise interrupts my continued status stalkfest. I put the laptop down and follow the noise, right to the kitchen where the kitten is sitting exactly where I left him—what, an hour ago? Shit. I’m gonna fuckin’ kill Evie.

I kneel down and pet the tiny cat on the head and he leans into my hand. His silvery gray fur feels plush and soft, like a rabbit.

“Okay, little dude, let’s get your shit together.” I pick him up and hold him as I put his food dishes in the kitchen and his litter-box in the mudroom. I set him down in front of each of his things and let him sniff it all, hoping he’ll remember where it all is. The last thing I need is a blind kitten destroying my house. I watch him in strange fascination as he navigates around the kitchen, head slightly tilted, as if he’s memorizing every step, every smell. He makes his way back to me and rubs on my legs triumphantly. Hmm. Sterling seems to overcome his obstacles. Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned here.

I go back to my laptop and spend the rest of the night going through all of Tabitha’s posts and photos from the most recent to when she opened her social media account four years ago. My newfound obsession with learning about her is a welcome distraction from my usual nightly rituals of self-desecration. A little digging tells me that she quit her job a few weeks ago, and I can tell by her posts since the accident that she’s pulling away from her friends and family. A few people have posted on her page, asking where she has been, saying they miss her at work, telling her she should call. She doesn’t reply to any of these messages. This girl went from being obviously happy, goofy, and very much in love with life and her husband, to a hater of anything remotely happy. She thinks life betrayed her, but it’s actually just the work of some asshole who made a bad decision that in turn destroyed her life.

The ties that bind us each to one another may not always be visible, but they’re there like thin, transparent veins. I don’t know why, but this is one vein I don’t want to slit.

Vandal

Every morning for the past two weeks I’ve woken up with this vibrating cat either on my chest or curled at my side. Even though he can’t see, he’s watching me all the time. He follows me from room to room like a furry shadow and sits close to me, sometimes resting with his paw on my leg, or his head leaning against me. He craves closeness, and I let him have it, even though I don’t like to be touched. Somehow he’s crept over my walls.

Katie would have loved Sterling. Sometimes when he’s playing with a toy—yes, he plays, don’t ask me how—or does something unexpected, I catch myself laughing and I can almost hear her giggle echoing around me. I’ve never been one to think about the afterlife, but lately I wonder if maybe she’s watching over me.

This house is haunting me with memories of Katie, and I feel as if I’m going mad most of the time. A few days ago, Lukas suggested I get out of here for a while and go up to the small house I have on the lake that Gram talked me into buying two years ago, claiming we all needed a place to “get away sometimes”. At first, I’d told her she was fucking crazy. I’d never owned a house in my life—the thought of having two seemed insane to me, and a severe waste of money. I hardly even lived in any houses growing up, being bounced from foster home to foster home until I said “fuck it” when I was sixteen, and then lived on the streets or with friends who were much older than me. I went from sleeping on ratty couches to living in a shitty apartment to owning two houses. Not bad for a tatted-up white boy with long hair.

I call Lukas. “I’m gonna go to the lake for a month. So don’t freak the fuck out if you stop by my house down here and I’m not around, okay?” Leaning the phone against my shoulder, I fill the cat’s dish, which is empty again. How much does one cat eat?

“Try to get off the shit while you’re there,” he suggests. “I was thinking, why don’t you come back to the shop in about a month? The clients miss you, and I could use the help. I was gonna hire someone else, but I’d rather you were back here.”

“Lukas, I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” I say, watching the cat playing hockey with a ping pong ball.

He continues babbling. “Just hear me out, Van. Even if just for a few months and you go back to playing with A and E, I think it would be good if you were back in the shop for a while. You know, to get out of the house and be around people.”

“I don’t like people.”

“Van, I know … but you you’re an amazing tattooist. Don’t just sit around and rot because you’re not playing. You’re fuckin’ sick at both, so don’t give both up. You can’t be tattooing people wasted, though.”

“Lukas, I’m not fucking stupid. I know that. I’ve been doing this shit way longer than you have—”

“Man, calm the hell down. I had to say it, all right? It’s my name on the line here too. We’re partners. This shop is my life, and I can’t afford to let anything screw it up.”

I start to pace around the living room, annoyed that everyone thinks I am going to screw up his or her life, or band, or ink shop. Not that they’re wrong, but I’m sick to death of hearing it.

I know Lukas is right, though. I gotta do something. I’m just not ready yet. Jabbing tiny needles into people all day actually might make me feel better. Pretending it doesn’t hurt them but knowing it really is, and watching the tiny blood bubbles erupt from the flesh. Yeah, I could get into that again.

“I’ll call you,” I say after a few moments. “I think you’re right, though. I do miss it. Who the hell knows if Ash will let me back in the band? Lemme chill for a few weeks and get my head together, and then I’ll come back and see how it goes.”

“Sounds good, bro. Call if you need anything.”

I end the call, still thinking about going back to work at our tattoo shop.

I make another call, this time to Evie.

“Hello?” She answers on the second ring.

“It’s me.”

“Me, who?”

I roll my eyes because I know this bitch recognizes my voice and just likes to taunt me.

“Fucking me.”

“That’s an interesting way to announce yourself.”

“I need a favor. I’m going to the lake for a few weeks. I think I need to get out of the house and the memories there, like everyone keeps saying. It’s making me fucking crazy being here.”

“I think that’s a good idea, Vandal. A change of scenery is good.”

“I’m not going up ’til late Saturday afternoon. Can you maybe go up there Saturday morning and clean it, make sure nothing is lying around? You know, like any toys or any of her stuff …”

“Of course. I’ll bring some food up, too. If any of Katie’s things are there I’ll put them in a box in the basement. No worries.”

“I’m going to take my bike up, so could you maybe take the fucking cat up there for me?”

“You love the fucking cat, don’t you?” she teases.

“Yeah, I guess I fucking do. His carrier is in the hall closet. Maybe buy him stuff to keep at the lake? Like a litter box and food dish and all that stuff? So he has things in both places.” I wonder what else would keep him busy? “Get him one of those carpeted cat condo things, too. I don’t want him scratching the hell out of my furniture. I’ll give you some cash when I see you.” The kitten jumps on my lap and I pet him absently as he does happy paws on my leg. “He’ll be okay in a new place for a few weeks? And you’ll come drive him home when I’m ready to come back?” I ask her.

“Of course I will. And he’ll be okay; I’ll show him where his stuff is when I get there. Give him a day or two to adjust.” I gently disengage Sterling’s nails from my jeans. “I’m glad you kept him.” Her voice lifts in happiness.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Your evil plan worked. Thanks for everything, Evie. And tell Storm … tell Storm I’m sorry for the things I said to him. I was just fucked up. More than usual.”

“He knows that. He’s not mad. He just wants you to be okay. They all do.” She sneezes and then goes right back to talking. “They’re not punishing you; they’re just trying to get you to straighten out.”

“I’m trying, Evelyn,” I reply, half meaning it. I stand and place Sterling on the floor by his cat bed. “I’ll text you when I’m up there.”

***

There’s a yellow Post-it next to my laptop that catches my eye as I hang up. It’s screaming for my attention so badly that I wouldn’t be surprised if it grew legs and chased me around the house. I start a debate with myself. I could lie on the couch, drink, take some painkillers and watch horror movies all day in a daze with Sterling slumbering on my chest, or I can pick up that Post-it and follow what’s scribbled on it. I cross the room and pick up the small yellow note, staring at it for a few seconds before shoving it in my pocket and grabbing my car keys.

I’ve had many addictions throughout my life. They all have a voice, demanding to be heard, seducing me to give in to them. Once that starts, I am powerless to ignore it. I have to have it—I have to quiet the voices and quench the desire for whatever the evil of the day is.

Today it’s an address across town, and the voices lead me right out of the house to my midnight-blue Camaro. I listen to some of my favorite rock music while I drive, windows down, hair blowing. I haven’t felt this undead in a long time.