Sick Like Me (Sick Like #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

AUGUST 2021

I hated going to the gym with my father, but when the notification made a loud ding! on my phone which revealed that he had transferred me the monthly fee of the gym membership price, the sinking reminder that I was his accountability and he believed he was mine taunted me.

I sighed as I flipped my phone over, hiding the flashing light at the top of my screen which was a taunt, a laugh right in my face. My body never ached much after working out, I never gave it as much effort as my father. But I still hated it.

The gym we went to was crowded and busy, and it often smelt of disinfectant which reminded me of hospitals—another place I hated.

But you’re more scared of people staring at you, my mind screamed at me, trying to self destruct the positivity I was trying to teach myself as of recent months. It wasn’t working very well and was a very slow process, but I felt like it had to have been a ‘fake it until you make it’ sort of situation. Or so that was what my father had promised me.

“Come on, you can be there to motivate me to go even if I had a shit day at work, and I can drag you along when you feel like saying no. You don’t even have to use anything you don’t want to, you can sit on a bike for the hour,” He had reasoned a month ago.

“Plus, it means we get you out of that God damned house. It’s unhealthy how you lock yourself away in your room, I’m concerned about you,” He continued.

My parents had officially divorced around 10 years ago—after being on and off ever since I was born, and they had ceased contact shortly after. My father had no clue what I did when I wasn’t with him. For all he knew, I could have been out and about all day long with my friends.

Not that I had many, that was a fact he knew of at least and so would be a terrible defence against his begging for me to get out of the house more.

But I hated how my father and his side of the family talked about me. They talked about me as if I was some depressed hermit who never left the house. Of course I did, on the are occasion I went to see family, and when I went to classes or for a drive with my mother.

Okay, maybe my father was right that I next to never left the house, but I was content. I was a home body and I hated crowds and being around people I didn’t know. He knew that. I wasn’t an extrovert like him and my mother. The two most out there people had birthed me, an abomination who never wanted to leave the warmth and comfort of her bed.

Because I barely saw my father, despite him living essentially at the bottom of my hill, I agreed to his incessant begging for me to be his new gym buddy, but only to shut him up. And a more secret reason I was unwilling to expose and kept to myself, that reason being so that I could get space away from my mother.

Still living with the woman who birthed me while I was of the age of 21 felt like a blessing and a curse all rolled into one. We were very much alike, yet very different at the same time. She saved me from having to spend money on bills, but instead she took the same money I was saving to cover her own bills which she passed off as being mine.

I decided to live in my childhood home so I could maybe save up money, so that I could maybe even move out and get a place of my own when my masters was complete. But my mother was stealing that dream from me, at over one thousand five hundred pounds every three months. A fact my father was less than impressed with, which almost made me wish I lived with him. At least I could go back to being a free loader then.

She demanded I pay her a large sum of my student load every term for ‘food and bills’ which we often disagreed on the price. Not to defend her, however, but she always bought me the foods I wanted and any bath products I added to my wish list for the ultimate serene bathing experience.

She wasn’t my only unrest in the household, though.

Her boyfriend of two months lived with us, and he was less than pleasant for the most part. He worked from home as some stupid call advisor for an insurance company, and he moaned about his job all day long. He said customers were mean and he claimed he was the only one on his team taking calls at the volume he was—claimed he was becoming a robot even as when he ended a call, he would rush to make his note in a rushed manner, then he would take the next call without giving himself space to breathe and catch up.

I was thankful for the days I could go into university and be far, far away from him. His voice had become a sound I hated, a sound I wished would fuck off in the worst way possible. I almost begged my mother to kick him out, but then I found him crying on the stairs after they had an argument and I couldn’t bring myself to be mean to him. I still regret not begging her to end things with him when they were going through their rough patch.

When my mother was around, his moaning was silenced and he sat there like some subservient puppy awaiting any commands she was to throw his way. He would do anything she asked, and it was nice to see and made me wish I had a man willing to do that for me too. But the man himself was a bit of soap scum I wished could be scrubbed away to be forgotten.

I hated it. I hated him, and I hated my life.

Even more, I hated how conflicted I was about everything I had ever known and had ever wanted.

Even though I assured my father and myself that I was just fine and content and happy with my life. But we both knew it was a lie. But when I was ready to come to him and express how I really felt, I knew he would be on my side until the very end.

My life was monotonous.

I woke up around 6 am, 8 am the latest should I not have university classes that day. I would get changed, go downstairs and make breakfast. I would watch videos on my phone until the time hit for me to leave, then I would walk down my hill to the bus stop where my journey of two buses would begin.

Classes started around 9 am, but some days we had afternoon classes and so I wouldn’t have to get to campus until 1 pm. Those days I would leave earlier than required just so I could sit in the café and eat a sandwich on my own, basking in the peace with my soft playing music through my earphone until my best friend intruded the short moment of solace I found.

Peyton Summers was the ray of sunshine I was never conflicted about, the happiness I allowed myself.

Classes were all the same. We sat there, downloading the PowerPoints to read along with our tutor’s presentation, only for the PowerPoints to be deleted in the coming days just to make more space on our laptops for more important matters. For me, that was my silly little games.

To make me feel even worse, a man who called himself my boyfriend was glued to my side every class. We texted every day, yet he still said no word to me once beside me. He didn’t even say ‘hello’, or ‘good morning’. He once even threw money my way when I planned a holiday for our friendship group and said ‘take the money you filthy animal’. Of course he was referencing some movie, but the words still pissed me off.

But he gave me attention. So I was in no mood to end it with him.

Only my class knew about the so called ‘relationship’. He was so unimportant I hadn’t even told my dad about him, a man who I told every little thing about.

On the days I had no classes, I would sit in bed for God knows how long before I would get up, go downstairs and eat whatever breakfast I deemed fit for the day. On those days, I would sometimes go all out and even make scrambled eggs on toast. Just for myself, of course. My mother’s pathetic excuse of a partner could fuck off and make his own breakfast, I wasn’t his slave.

Once food was consumed, I would go upstairs and then spend countless hours gaming with my best friend, or reading. That was the reason my father wanted me to start the gym with him. So I could stop spending my life gaming and instead do something with a bit more ‘substance’—his words, not mine. After the gym, he claimed I could game all I want afterwards then.

And I always had to remind him I was 21, not 11.

“You’ll always be my little girl,” He would defend himself.

Three days a week. Every week.

I was submitted to torture three days a week by my father. I would walk down my hill to his house with my 2 litre water bottle full of ice cold water, then he would pack us into his car to drive us to the sports centre where our gym was. The same sports centre I learnt to swim in when I was barely a toddler.

My father had a strict schedule with his gym workouts that he followed like a holy book of sorts. He printed off some step by step plan his personal trainer supplied him with. The papers were split down the middle, showing a day for arms workouts, and a day for legs workouts. There were two sheets as he was meant to workout four days a week, but he often gave up the weekend session to hang out with his newest girlfriend at that time—a fact I was beyond happy with.

I tortured myself by using a sit down elliptical machine which I never saved to memory the actual name of. I moved my arms and legs on it for at least half an hour on the days my father wanted a short workout, and on the full workout time days I would be moving for around an hour.

I always had my phone on the screen of the machine propped up, and I either watched movies and tv shows to pass the time and distract me, or I would blast my workout playlist which, dare I admit against my own will, was one with fast beats and questionable lyrics to keep my arms and legs moving in a brisk pace.

I finished my workout after 45 minutes, feeling rather nauseous from the lack of food I had eaten that day. I stepped off the machine and picked up my water bottle from the floor before spraying the machine and wiping it down with some blue paper towels. Once I was sure the machine was free of my sweat, I made my way down the small pathway between other machines to the weight area where I knew I would find my father.

Mr Barett was, to put it nicely, a mostly miserable man. He worked a job he hated, a place he had moved to recently after he had been given the ultimatum of leaving his previous job of 20 years on his own, or he would be fired for supposed misconduct.

He had recently discovered he was pressured to leave the company so someone younger with less experience but more degrees could take over his role.

“He was brought in to make the company look better on paper,” My uncle had claimed when the three of us met for coffee to gossip over his old workplace, the same place my uncle worked at but was considering leaving to take up a job in the North.

“You almost done?” I asked as I stood beside my father who seemed to be admiring himself in the mirror, curling the weight he held in his hand. It looked larger than usual, and I half suspected his new girlfriend was the reason he was trying to work double, as if he had convinced himself that was the fastest way for him to bulk muscle and look better quicker.

“I have two more sets to go,” My father replied, finishing the last rep before he placed the weight down. Without asking, he grabbed my water bottle and popped open the lid before he raised the mouthpiece to his lips. He tilted his head back slightly, and then took several long gulps of my water.

I frowned and grabbed my bottle back off him once he held it to me. “You left your water in the car, it isn’t my fault. You shouldn’t down my water. What if I was sick and you caught it from me?”

“But you’re not sick, sooo…” My father replied in a sassy tone I had suspected he was using to try to mimic me.

“Well maybe I am, and I’m asymptomatic. Don’t get mad at me if you get stomach cramps and the shits,” I warned, narrowing my eyes to appear intimidating. But I dropped the act quickly, smiling as I let out a small laugh at the visual image of my dad stuck on the toilet for a day, unable to move for fear of messing his house and having to clean it.

I rolled my eyes and held my water bottle in one hand, while the other came to rest on my hip which was jutted out slightly. Some women walked past the top of the stairs that stepped down into the weight area, and I felt as if their eyes were on me. I dropped my arm and moved my hand to cover my stomach, despite it not showing. I suddenly felt self conscious about the workout clothes I had chosen to wear.

I watched as my father pulled his phone from his shorts pocket. He typed away hurriedly, then he seemingly read something shortly after which elicit an eye roll from him. He then rushed to push his phone into his pocket once again.

“This woman is driving me insane,” My father stated as he picked the weight back up from the bench. He held it in his left arm and completed ten reps, then he transferred it to his right arm and did ten reps again. “As I said before, all women are crazy!”

“Well, you do have a penchant for crazy women,” I spoke as my eyes caught my father’s in the mirror in front of us. “Not to defend her or anything, since I don’t know who she is or what she has seemingly done to irk you. Not that it’s a hard task.”

My father stopped mid rep to turn to look at me, his face deadpanned. His eyes narrowed slightly but he soon smiled, unable to remain mad at me. I smiled back, choosing to take a sip of my water as I waited, bored. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

My father rolled his eyes and shook his head, then he turned back to the mirror to watch himself as he puffed out his cheeks and finished the rest of his reps. His arms look tired, his reps getting slower and slower the closer to the end of his set that he got.

Another set was done before he placed his weight down again. He pulled his phone from his pocket and typed back in a hurried response. But he seemed to noticed the lack of phone in my hand. “You’re not texting anyone. Is that man you’re talking to ignoring you again?”

“I, um… blocked him,” My heart sank at the mention of his being. I couldn’t even think of his name without feeling the familiar stinging behind my nose. My father never got to learn the knowledge of his name thankfully. If I heard my father mention his name I was sure I was going to cry.

My father kept his eyes down on his phone, but he quirked an eyebrow. It was dramatic enough for me to see, and it just made me feel worse. “I thought you really liked him?” He began, but then seemingly understood my reasoning. “But he kept, what did you call it, ‘ghosting you’?”

I nodded, then cleared my throat and forced a fake smile. “Yeah, but it’s for the better. He was always too busy with work and I’m too busy with…” I fell silent for a few seconds. “Well, it’s just for the better.” I reasoned, trying to sound as if I was convincing my father it was a good choice, but really it was myself I was trying to calm.

“As I always say, onto the next,” My father’s voice quirked.

I rolled my eyes but smiled slightly, deciding to push all thoughts of Dakota Vernon from my mind. My life was more peaceful without a man to flood my messages with his select tastes in the nights. He wanted my company in his bed, while I wanted his company for coffee. We would never have worked for that simple fact alone.

He was sick and twisted. But then again… maybe so was I, the dark pit at the back of my brain threatened.

The drive home was silent as I stared at my phone. His contact was unblocked momentarily and I stared to see if his activity status would change, if he would come online and send me a message begging to keep me in his life.

But nothing came. No active now status message, no typing now message, nothing. I locked my screen and put my phone back in my pocket before I climbed out my father’s car when he pulled up between cramped cars located outside my house.

“I’ll see you Wednesday, yeah?” My father more so stated than asked, to which I nodded and smiled in agreement anyway.

“Yeah, sure. See you Wednesday.” My voice got quieter as he reeled the passenger window up, then drove off, leaving me behind.

I looked up at the sky, the sunset casting a pale orange and pink hue over the growing clouds. It looked beautiful, and I had to stop myself from wondering if he was looking up at the sky seeing the same thing.

He knew I liked the sky when it cast pretty colours. Or maybe he didn’t know, maybe he chose to forget the small things about me. It wouldn’t have surprised me.

Once I was in the comfort of my home and I had locked the door, realising I was going to be alone for the night as my mother had a ‘date night’, the first thing I did was lock the bathroom door and climb into the bath, still in my workout clothing—a vest top and leggings. Both felt like the same material as bathers.

I was in a strange lethargic yet heartbroken mood, so I reached up and turned the shower on, closing my eyes and tilting my head back to allow the water to hit me. I basked in the feeling of the water on my skin. I needed to feel it, the cold water like piercing needles before the boiler kicked in and the water turned warm.

I brought my knees to my body and then turned my head to rest my cheek on my knee. I kept my eyes closed, the realisation that I was nothing to yet another man suffocating me. Sure, I began talking to him as a revenge against my boyfriend who could not care less about touching or talking to me, but I never expected I would start to like him.

I had emotionally cheated, and I felt no guilt for it. I sexted this man, and I submitted to his commands over texts without much complaint.

I hoped I would never hear from him again, and I hoped he would think about me every once in a while, wondering where I was, what I was doing, and who I was with. I wanted him to remember me as a woman he fumbled, the woman who matched his depraved needs perfectly.

And I was fucked up for that. I knew that.

But I wanted to consume him, just as much as his short presence in my life at the time had consumed me.