Onto the Next Disaster
Onto the Next Disaster
Xoxo Nyx
… Three Months Later …
Well, I’ll tell you one thing: experience and age has done absolutely nothing to improve my horrible luck.
I know what you must be thinking. Why?
Why would you, retired veteran and practical shut in, Kinsley Nyx Knight, be diving behind a row of bushes in heels too tall and a jacket too small. Let alone one in front of a conglomerate that can get you black listed from every decent job in this city?
Nicky. That’s right. This is all my orphan brother Roman Nikolai Cross’ fault!
Long story, and one I can actually laugh at, unlike this! My current predicament of being donned a black pencil skirt, silk blouse, and a jacket vest thing with too many wrappy straps for me to know what to do with, out of a stripper’s closet for a working interview……
I suppose a normal person would have just run in the other direction. Wouldn’t have even left the house in the first place, but I’m not normal. Never have been, and here I am putting myself as much as my potential job at risk with my brother’s tarot reading coming to a new and horrible life.
As someone who grew up in Romania until age ten, I’m more than aware that a page of wands in any tarot reading, means stalker. All Romanians believe they are ‘cursed’ and know the expression, “It’s in the blood.”
Even orphans abandoned at a church in the middle of nowhere to be raised by nuns, like me.
I suppose a neuro-normal individual would likely think to call and reschedule a notary appointment rather than stare down a stalker pacing in front of doors they’re trying to get into.
Just like no sane person would consider racing through the high-end streets of the West side in cosplay, let alone a working interview.
Me, on the other hand, I’m more motivated rather than less to sit in a room and put the latest disaster of the catastrophe cat to a quick and abrupt end.
Beyond every other slight God laid against me, the newest is finding out that I’m an Aspie, a person with ASD Autism Spectrum Disorder, in the form of Asperger’s.
I suppose it wasn’t enough for the Creator to put me together backwards and make me the only blue-eyed honey blonde in a sea of dark haired, dark eyed, perfect skinned Transylvanian’s.
Regardless of our good Lord, never giving anyone more than they can handle, there are times I wish he were far less generous, if not confident in my capability to overcome.
Especially choosing the moment I get a medical discharge from the military to reveal that he wired me wrong on top of the rest.
The sight of ‘Jonathan’ only enhances my need to get to the person who will let me sign my divorce papers, and finally put my brother’s latest fate shenanigans to bed.
Fate, meaning soul mate in Gypsie culture
I guess it wasn’t enough that Nicky kept pulling the page of swords card from his tarot deck. He had to do the witchy thing, and give me a real life
stalker, rather than leave it as a figment of his imagination, along with one in a hundred of his tarot readings being correct.
Logically, I know Nicky is no more a real Witch than I am his cat familiar. The little toad may have a way of making things happen, but fortune-telling and naturally blonde looking hair are not among them, to my sick satisfaction.
A satisfaction I can’t have in the moment. Not when I’m trying to focus on how to get my midget self past my page of swords. AKA Jonathan.
In my mind, divorcing Nicky’s fiancé makes perfect sense. Alex married me when I got discharged for protective purposes. Just like I married Nicky going into the AF for legal ones.
Both strictly and one hundred percent platonic.
Anyway, the two have been madly in love since they met over my hospital bed, and if I let the little imp marry his soul mate so they can adopt a child, he’ll forget all about my ‘fate’ and take that stupid dating profile down!
The one I can’t find for the life of me, and that has had every wackadoo and their circus families bombarding me every time since I tattled to Alex about the dildo incident.
Of course, that determination, and skittering attempt has me spilling the best coffee I’ve ever tasted down my borrowed blouse, and diving into the lush, but bland garden bed in front of Gaines Financial to avoid being spotted.
The incomplete, as much as the unknown to an autistic person is a scary thing, but of course, with the most abysmal luck in the history of time, why wouldn’t the only notary within a twenty-minute walk to my working interview be the conglomerate that owns three quarters of the banks in Haven.
A building so tall and imposing with its hundred stories and darkly tinted glass that it might as well be the black tower of Sauron in the White City in my fantastical mind.
Still, like every other Aspie, once I get a plan in my head, there is just no deviating from it. Even if it means me slinking on my belly like a serpent from the corner I could have escaped from, to the front doors where my Page of Wands paces, waiting for my opening.
I whimper my internal turmoil, crouching in the corner closest to the thirty-foot glass door entry. The blind of the bush I’m cowering behind may be tall enough to hide me from people on the sidewalk, but not anyone in the lobby that’s looking through the one-way glass.
Wiggling in frustration similar to a pee dance, I have to be patient and wait for ‘Jonathan’ to be distracted.
While there are many good and beautiful things about Aspies, the hissy fit I’m about to have isn’t one of them.
Just because I will not deviate, doesn’t mean I’m in any way shape or form okay with that, and the trouble making bleach blonde on the other end of the phone line is going to hear all about it.
Even if Nicky has been working the graveyard shift, and just got to bed. “If you don’t take that post down right now, BFF is going to stand for balless former friend.” I yowl as quietly as I can from my still hidden place in the shrubbery.
“You’d never do that to my future husband,” the little imp dares to taunt back.
Even with every warning bell going off in my head, I’m stuck in my current position. Locked in place as the ways to barrel through the obstacle churn subconsciously with all the horrible ways that this could end.
It’s only when I stop talking. Cease to make translatable sounds, reverting to a grunting if not confused chimpanzee that Nicky checks in,“you okay?”
With the man, he had me ‘running into’ last Friday circling back to my position again, I’m too upset to recognize the genuine concern in the tone he’s taken.
Dr. Nikolai Cross, being the one to diagnose me, is able to pick up on the mini meltdowns that come with the condition.
Just like he’s aware that once a wall is hit in our minds, there’s no stopping until we charge through it. Whether that’s ill-advised scenarios or flat out tantrums, Aspies charge forward or completely shut down until they have a solution.
“What part of him showing up at my apartment is not ringing warning bells in your pea brain?!” I shrill with my cheeks flushing and puffing like a chipmunk who belongs in the natural greenery.
Warily eyeing the man in 1800s cosplay, complete with a floor length leather duster and vampire slaying weapons blocking my entry to the building………