Comfort Character

The ceiling fan whirs, dust-laden blades circulating stale air. A soft clicking accompanies every rotation, sounding in time with the thump of Jane’s heart. As an amalgamation of cat hair and neglect drifts like dandelion fuzz across Trinity Bellwoods park, Jane blinks and the warmth of the sun, the screech of the streetcar disappear.

It’s just her and her linen sheets, the sliver of light peeking through her blackout curtains, the pillow that has remained unmoved for long enough to lose its fluff. And the ceiling fan.

Click, click, click. Click.

Jane doesn’t startle at the creak of hinges, at the soft footsteps padding into her bedroom.

“Still sleeping?” There is no trace of judgment in Ére’s voice as the mattress welcomes him without a single creaking spring.

“No,” Jane groans. It’s a wispy, feeble sound. A tumbleweed through a cacti-dotted desert. She licks her lips and tries again, “I’ve been awake for…”

Her thought fizzles out, incomplete. She doesn’t bother picking up the pieces.

Still, he waits. He makes himself comfortable atop the fluffy duvet and peers at Jane with thinly veiled concern. She feels the temptation to lash out poised upon her tongue, sees the apprehension painting her reflection within cat-like eyes. It’s not fair to him, she tells herself. He’s only trying to help.

Eyeing the digital clock on the nightstand, he suggests, “You should get up.”

Jane hates that word. Should. They always tell her there is a negative connotation lingering behind should, a shadow that suggests expectation and judgment. Isn’t referring to the meaning behind word choice as good or bad judgment in itself? Hypocrites.

The spite boils up Jane’s throat, all ferocity bursting like bubbles as defeat spills from her cracked lips. “What’s the use in that?”

“It’s a big day for you, isn’t it?” Ére only blinks slowly. His horns gleam where the sun squeezes into the room, and Jane traces the ridged pattern as it curls into a spiral. A heavy tail sways over his prone form, the swing just as hypnotizing.

She imagines that she’s following the white rabbit; down, down, down the hole and into Wonderland. Eyelids heavy, her weighted blanket presses her deeper into her bedding. It requires effort to mumble, “Not really.”

“It’ll be over before you know it!” Ére checks her shoulder with his horns, pushing Jane from the indent in her mattress.

Her limbs ache as she staggers to the bathroom, cursing her poor coordination with every uneven step. It’s no wonder she was never good at sports; always picked last for dodgeball in school.

They tell her physical activity will help. They tell her twenty minutes of daily exercise will jumpstart the ‘happy’ chemicals in her brain. Jane’s revulsion towards sweat and the inability to move with any sort of grace tell her otherwise.

Still, she must move to start her day, even if she believes it to be futile. Even if it’s well past what a normal, functional member of society would consider morning. If anything, it will get Ére off her back. He follows with the enthusiasm of a purebred cattle dog, clipping her heels while his tail thuds against the walls.

The brightness of the bathroom is quick to disorient Jane, and she nearly trips into Ére’s ready arms when she shields her eyes. The bland tile beneath her bare feet cools her toes, an almost numbing sensation occupying her attention as she adapts to the fluorescent glow from the partially illuminated light fixture. The second bulb has been dead for months.

Jane avoids the mirror for as long as possible. She feels like a specimen, as Ére watches her brush her teeth and run her fingers through tangled hair. She winces. When was the last time she had showered?

It isn’t until her index finger catches on a bump along the underside of her jaw that Jane faces the monster hiding in her reflection. Not unlike the unknown entity that would lurk under her childhood bed, she has never seen the beast head on. No, it tugs at the bruised skin beneath her dull eyes, slips beneath her flesh and cloaks itself in inflamed blemishes and peeling scabs.

A shapeshifter that Jane despises; that’s what stares back at her. She squeezes the new pimple, pesters it until what was previously unnoticeable is now a brilliant red. Blood blooms from broken skin. As she holds a torn piece of toilet paper to her scarred visage, she notes a cluster of grey hairs on the left side of her roots.

“You’re beautiful,” Ére offers, the gentle curve of his lips incongruent with his overall demonic physique.

His sincerity is lost on Jane, however. She believes he meant to speak in past tense. The monster in the mirror would agree.

Ére’s surveillance continues even as Jane falters, as her motivation dips and her soul yearns for the comfort of her bed. He sees it in the slump of her shoulders, in the slow, shuddering exhale that wheezes from her lungs. So, he pushes, “Don’t forget your pills.”

When she hesitates, he adds, “I’ll tell you a story if you take them.”

The two capsules and the single tablet tumble into Jane’s palm. One red, one white, and one blue. A Rocket Pop bandage plastered on by a pharmacist in lieu of the ice cream man. Perhaps those colors would have stopped her tears then, the jingle of the painted truck a Pavlovian remedy to any tantrum. Now, they only feed into her disillusionment.

“I want to try a new medication,” she had proposed last October.

The doctor, with his arrogant smile and his patterned socks, had refused. “It’s not a good idea,” he had said, “The change of the seasons is a risky time to switch things up.”

“I don’t think the pills are working,” she had tried again in March.

“Let’s test adding a stabilizer on top of your current dose,” the doctor had compromised.

“I want off this medication. I want to try something different. I’d like to revisit my diagnosis,” she had sobbed in May.

As flippant as ever, the doctor had shrugged. “I don’t think the medication is the issue. I’ll put in a referral for psychiatry. I will warn you, though; The waitlist is typically four to six months.”

And now those pills laid never-changing in her palm, a reminder that she doesn’t know her body as well as the doctor. The doctor, who has failed to inform her about side effects. The doctor, who has lied to her about intake processes. The doctor, who looks past her when she speaks to him.

But what does she know? She swallows the pills dry in hopes she chokes.

She doesn’t.

“Have I ever told you about the time Nyx stole one of Gaia’s roses?” Ére asks, a cheerful timbre to his voice. It’s a welcome sound over the hum of the coffee machine, Jane’s eyes falling with each droplet into the dark pool within her mug.

“As you know, Gaia cares a lot about her garden,” Ére didn’t wait for a response, instead launching into his story. He sits at the old dining room table, basking in the sun warming the large room like a greenhouse. If Jane didn’t know better, she would ask if he could photosynthesize.

Long claws tapping impatiently, he just misses the divots in the wood as he describes his cousin’s prized lawn. Jane finds it difficult to focus, her traitorous mind replaying the raucous game of Quarters that had gouged the surface. The ghost of better days haunts Jane whenever her fingers brushed over the worst patch.

“And there is this one spot–a trellis of blood-red roses–that she considers her pride and joy, okay?” Ére rambles on, and his story begins to interest Jane as she opens her laptop and pointedly avoids acknowledging the stream of incoming notifications. It’s easier to listen to how Nyx had lost a bet to a corrupt oracle, how he had charmed his way past the giant snake that guarded Gaia’s garden, how he had snipped the prettiest rose of all to meet the terms of his punishment.

Jane grimaces as bitter coffee floods her tongue. It’s saturated with milk, sweetened with sugar, and yet she still doesn’t like it. Part of her believes she does. She has memories of enjoying her morning coffee in the crisp September breeze, paper cup in hand as she navigates the busy Toronto streets on her way to work.

Chewing the inside of her cheek, she reminds herself that she tends to idealize the past.

“So, there’s Nyx with his pants around his ankles in the middle of the Underworld, and Gaia is screaming at him.” Ére can hardly contain his laughter, his unnaturally pale skin tinted pink around the apples of his cheeks. He slams his palm against the table, his tail swishing wildly as he reaches the apex of his tale. “She’s going on about how this is the last time he’ll disrespect her, how she’s going to string him up by his feet with her giant venus flytrap, and he–Ack!” He chokes on his own saliva, clears his throat, and continues, “Nyx looks at her with a straight face, holds up the rose and says, ‘My, someone’s awfully thorny today’!”

His mirth shakes his frame, his shaggy midnight blue hair bouncing with each chuckle. He looks so human like this, despite the horns and the tail and the sharp teeth and claws.

“Classic Nyx,” Jane manages to smirk, the tickle in her throat hinting at the roots of a giggle. It withers and dies as a notification pops up on her laptop screen. Jane looks past it, stares at the time stamp in disbelief. How was it already time to leave for her appointment? Where had the time gone?

In a panic, she inhales the rest of her coffee. It’s ice cold, freezing the blood in her veins and stuttering her heart. She coughs, tears springing to her eyes.

She tries to focus on her breathing, to focus on exhaling twice as long as each inhale. Her ribcage is squeezing her lungs, her chest compressing her heart. She names five items that she can see—her cat is sleeping on a nearby chair, the avocados on the counter are an unripe green, the dishcloth has been recently changed, the pepper grinder has been shifted slightly to the left, the orchid by the sink is dying.

Four things she can touch, three things she can hear, two things she can smell, and one thing she can taste.

The stale aftertaste of coffee. Did she ever like coffee?

It doesn’t help. She feels like her soul is being peeled away from her corporeal form, fibers of muscle tearing like stitches over a swollen, open wound. She wants to cry, but no longer remembers how.

“It’s almost time,” Ére interrupts the negative thoughts, wading through the tide tugging at her ankles to rescue her from the greedy undertow. “If you go put on your shoes, I’ll tell you how I fought Tartarus over the ownership of Cerberus.”

It works, and she stands from the dining room table with a roll of her neck. By the time Jane finally locks the door behind her, she has to speed-walk to make it to her appointment. She curses under her breath. By now, she should know better. By now, she should have improved at time management. By now, she should be able to understand her purpose, to strive towards an attainable goal in life.

“Should,” Jane clocks as she misses the step out of the house, staggering into the moist air of the Southern Ontario summer. Both Jane and the wilted plants decorating the subdivision pray for rain to break the humidity as she turns onto the main strip.

The street is busier than usual. Couples clad in summery patterns push strollers alongside their designer dogs. Teens bike up and down the sidewalk. Cars pause at stop signs, and Jane has the distinct impression that the drivers’ eyes follow her as she passes. A maze of mirrors in shop windows, park vehicles, and shadows, her reflection bounces across her eyes in various distortions. She wants to scream. She wants to rip off her skin and mar herself beyond recognition.

Instead, she looks to Ére. “What happened when you fought Tartarus?”

Her knight in midnight blue armor does not disappoint. “You see, who exactly owns Cerberus has been debated for eons. As the pooch guards the gates of the Underworld, and Tartarus is the Underworld, most assume that the dog should belong to them.”

“Right,” Jane follows. It’s too hot out, and she struggles to keep her breathing level as she trudges uphill.

“But technically,” Ére boasts, his horns held high in the blistering sunlight, “As the personification of darkness in relation to the Underworld, I think I should get some custody over Cerberus, too. He’s so cute. I promise you, his bark is way worse than his bite.”

Jane thinks she should smile, but can’t bring her lips to lift.

“I challenged Tartarus to a one-on-one duel. No magic, no weapons. Just fists.”

“And how did that go?”

“I lost,” Ére winces. “Pretty badly, actually. Eros had to spoon feed me newt-heart soup for three weeks.”

Jane snorts, turns a corner, and realizes that she’s almost to the hospital. Any mirth immediately dies at the thought, replaced with dread curdling the coffee in her stomach.

She checks the time on her phone, the satisfaction that she will not be late instantly dampened by an incoming text message. The name taunts her, bold and bordered with cute little emojis that set forth the gnats of guilt in her stomach lining.

Ére peers over her shoulder. “Are you going to answer that?”

“They don’t want to talk to me.” Jane dismisses the message, shoves her phone back into her shorts.

“But they wouldn’t message you if they didn’t want to talk to you,” Ére counters, his gaze on the blue sky. He’s told Jane that the Underworld hangs in eternal night. Sometimes, she envies his access to such a place. He warns her not to take the sun for granted.

Right now, Jane wishes the sun would evaporate her existence. “I’m not who they’re looking for.”

Phantom pain pulls at her lips, the mask threatening to smile through it all once more. She had been playing a part. She had been acting. No one really knew her, admired her, cared about her. They wouldn’t like her anymore if they knew what horrors lurked within.

“You’re too sad to hang out with.” It echoes in the recesses of her mind. She finds it funny how she struggles to remember anything but the words that hurt the most.

It isn’t until Jane reaches the front doors of the hospital, all glass and plastered with public health notices, that Ére makes one last effort. His footsteps lag behind hers, the tap of his boots coming to a complete halt, and Jane turns to see him watching her.

“Don’t you ever get lonely?” He asks, his violet eyes solemn.

“No.” Jane doesn’t want to think about it. “I’ve got you.”

“That’s great and all,” Ére takes a step closer, gestures to the towering building in front of her. “But… I can’t be everything for you.”

“Yes, you can,” she whimpers to herself, fear seizing her limbs and freezing her in place. A cloud eclipses the sun, eliminating the two shadows on the ground before her.

Érebus, personification of darkness itself and her highest leveled companion in mobile game Mythotome, smiles sadly. “You know I can’t.”

She hesitates, her heart lodged in her throat, her lungs spasming in her chest. Her blood feels hot, it’s so hot, and she thinks she’s going to be sick.

Then, there’s a breeze, the lightest gust of wind, and she is pushed. Propelled forward, Jane stumbles into the hospital as the automatic doors glide open. She swears she hears her name on the chilled central air that wraps her in a welcoming embrace.

Before the doors can close behind her, she turns in hopes of a fanged smile and a clawed hand lifted in a wave.

She is met with nothing but a partially vacant parking lot, a single shadow stretching from her feet.

Jane’s heart is breaking, shattering into a thousand razor-sharp pieces, but she doesn’t falter. She can’t, not after such a sacrifice. She marches on, eyes fixed to the taped arrows guiding the ill to their salvation, the lack of presence over her shoulder heavy, as if her guardian no longer shielded her from her private raincloud.

She makes it to the Mental Health Outpatient Clinic, each step harder than the last, and though tears cling to her lashes, she arrives at the reception desk.

Her brain is stalling, spinning out on the highway and threatening to combust. The waiting room is all dull colours and old abandoned toys, a failed attempt at distraction. She doesn’t want to be here. She wants to go home, but her ankles are shackled to the plastic covered chairs lining the walls and a voice in her head tells her to stay.

It’s not Ére, but a sound she’s known since day one.

“I’m looking for a…” Crisp dress shoes slap against the linoleum floor, papers rustling on a clipboard lifted up towards wire glasses. The man—the psychiatrist, Jane assumes–glances in her direction, “Jane Doe?”

Jane flinches at the attention, balls her hands into fists so tight all she can feel is the press of her fingernails and the overwhelming fear. She’s scared. She’s the most scared she’s ever been in her whole life, but she lifts her head, stands up, and corrects, “It’s Jane D’eau.”

This doctor has that same arrogant smile, similar novelty socks. Though, when he looks at her, he meets her gaze head on. “I see. Well, Ms. D’eau, please follow me.”