Summer in New York City was not pleasant at all. The whole city was almost all asphalt, the heat of the day permeating from the ground and in through your shoes. You wanted to melt into a puddle once you stepped foot onto it. All in all, the weather was unforgiving. It was July in the city.
I sat in my high-back chair in the living room, the air conditioner droning in the background as I typed up a report for Dr. Schmidt on my Macbook. I had my music player open in the background as I feverishly slammed my fingers into the keyboard, Metallica's Master of Puppets echoing off the walls in the room. I noticed I typed faster when I listened to metal. The same could be said about my driving, but I digress.
Each click of my fingers on the buttons of my keyboard was driving me wild. I think I was going nuts. The air conditioning couldn't keep up with the temperature outside and it was still a gross temperature inside my house. It was actually 83 degrees in my house, in fact. I was dressed in the shortest shorts I had, the denim material clinging to my skin. The crop top I was wearing was doing the same thing, morphing to the shape of my torso.
The report I was writing was all about Peter, of course. Why wouldn't it be? At the time I was writing this paper, I didn't realize what work I had really put in. Since coming to 1993 in April, I didn't feel like I learned a lot about Peter's personality, but boy was I wrong. It was 4:30 in the city that never sleeps and I had just typed up a 23 page report on Peter's psychological examination, the details I've written down in his folder now coming to life in this document that I was about to email to Dr. Schmidt. Unbeknownst to me, this document would be kept highly classified. I fiddled with my nose ring anxiously.
I readjusted myself in my seat, plucking the black, body-conforming fabric from my breasts and fanning myself. I took a sip of water that was sitting on the coffee table in front of me and got back to finishing up my paper. I typed up the email to Dr. Schmidt and I detailed the following:
Dr. Schmidt,
Here is my report on Peter. I hope this is enough. Peter is almost done completing the album "Bloody Kisses" with his bandmates. It is set to be released in August. I will update you further on what is going on.
Sincerely,
Rosemary Ivanov, CMHC
I read over my paper one more time, reading over the details of Peter's life. I learned about how Peter's sisters really helped mold him into the person he was. I learned of the girlfriend that Peter cut himself over. The part about him cutting got to me, as I understand what desperation he felt. I never told him about what had happened to me as a child, what unrelenting horrors I endured at the hand of a family friend. I have felt the same things Peter has felt. I didn't feel like it was necessary to tell him about what happened to me; not yet, not now. I'm here to help him and there is a reason I joined the field of psychology. I ran a finger through my hair and sighed deeply. The truth will come out in due time. I don't want what happened to me to overshadow what Peter is going through at the moment. The mission is still to save Peter. I still have time to save him.
I sent the email and let out a sigh of relief, glad that the report that I've been typing up over the past 5 days was finally complete. The sigh of relief was temporary, though. I could relax, but only for a little. I still have to take case notes on Peter. I mentally noted to myself that when Peter goes on tour I still have to take notes. I have to take notes all of the time. Anything that he does I record at the end of the day. I huffed in frustration. This is just like being in college, but what did I expect? That this would be like a vacation? No, I'm trying to save someone's life. "Move to the City" by Guns N' Roses came through the speakers on my computer. I laughed lightly to myself and printed off my report to put in Peter's file.
Like I said, Peter was busy in the studio completing the masterpiece Bloody Kisses. That album, besides October Rust, were my favorite albums released by Type O Negative. I even had those albums on vinyl. Countless hours have been spent on this record, and the only reason why I know that is because Peter has told me over my dinner multiple times. It's not that I didn't know that he had spent a lot of his time writing this record, but it was a first-hand account of what he was doing that I noted in my file folder of his.
I got up from my seat, sticking to the leather-like cloth of my high-back chair anymore. A suction cup kind of noise came from the chair as I rose up, stretching my aching legs from their skewed position in said chair. I looked at the back of my legs and noticed the red marks on my legs and rubbed them. I walked into the kitchen and picked up the steak that I had on the counter, still in its bag from when I pulled it out of the freezer. It was still kind of frozen because I didn't pull it out until late. Peter and I were going to have a dinner date inside, but then go out and about as the night went on.
I had a bit of time before Peter came over for our date night so I decided it was time for me to take a nap. I was asleep on the couch when I was awoken by a knock. I rubbed the haze from my eyes and looked at my watch. It was only 4:59PM. I got up from the couch, the heat from the day settling into the apartment and into myself. I sighed heavily, wishing whoever had rung the doorbell to go away.
Are you kidding me? I thought to myself as I pulled my shorts down out of my crotch and re-adjusted my crop top. I yawned to myself, wishing I could still sleep blissfully on the couch. My feet thumped as they hit the floor, my body making itself through the mudroom and to the doorway. I opened the door, not thinking, and I was awoken from my sleepy state, adrenaline coursing through my tiny veins.
"Are you Rosemary Ivanov?" A gentleman with slicked-back brown hair holding a briefcase asked me. He stood at my height, wearing casual clothing. He did not really stand out as someone suspicious until I replied back that I was indeed Rosemary Ivanonv.
"Good," he began, brandishing a pistol strapped to his waist, "We need to speak inside. Immediately."
I couldn't even yelp, let alone let out a whisper. I was in such a state of panic. My senses were heightened, mentally noting down every move this guy made.
"Yes." I gulped down in front of the stranger. He proceeded to push me aside, making his way into my residence. He looked around the entryway to my apartment, noticing the furnishings and making mental notes to himself.
"Ms. Ivanov, please, take a seat." He made a gesture to me as he sat down on the couch I was just napping on, his arm extended to the high-back chair I was sitting in for the past 5 hours as I typed a report about Peter. This fucker invited me to sit in my own house? Okay, I see how it is.
I glared at him. I couldn't help it. I was up for days writing this god-forsaken paper about how Peter was. I didn't want to let Peter know this gentleman had made his appearance in my house so I let him dominate the aura around me. I plopped myself down in my high-back chair angrily, crossing my arms over my bosom, nipples splayed plumply through my shirt.
"Can I help you? I was napping, sir. I am quite cranky as I've been writing a report for a few days now-"
I was interrupted rudely by this perfect stranger.
"Yes, you can help me." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a file. I cocked an eyebrow as he did this, skeptical of what he was trying to prove. I cocked my head at him in such a vehement way.
The unnamed gentleman opened the file, pictures splayed across the interior of it. Was this guy one of the dudes trying to stop me from saving Peter in my own way? From the way he answered after he initially responded, that was a yes. He spread out the pictures amongst the top of the coffee table and I was in shock as to how this gentleman got pictures of me. I picked up a stack of pictures and examined them. These were photographed just recently of Peter and I out on a date, walking down the street, Peter's hand resting on the small of my back. I flipped to the next photo. Same setting as the last with us out in the street, me on my tippy toes giving Peter a peck on the cheek. I blushed crimson when I noticed Peter's hand was on my butt. I slammed the pictures down on the table. I had seen enough. I glared at the gentleman sitting across from me, his gaze piercing through me.
"What business do you have taking pictures of me without my consent?" I spat at the stranger. "Who do you think you are?"
The guy had the audacity to smirk at me. He looked like a snake.
"Ms. Ivanov, I don't feel it is necessary to tell you my name. Just know that I am one of the many time-traveling agents the feds have placed in various segments of time." He put his hands up defensively, feigning mock hurt. "I am only doing my job."
"What business do you have with me?" I asked angrily, glaring down at the pictures of Peter and I, then back at him.
"Your business with Peter is my concern. What you're doing is an obstruction of history."
"Really?" I asked incredulously. "Because the last time I checked, this was my job. I was allowed to pick someone that was going through a mental health crisis and save them."
"Does saving Peter include this, Ms. Ivanov?" His gaze went to a picture of Peter and I that he lifted up from the coffee table, showing me. The picture was of the two of us in Duff's, a bar, sharing drinks and Peter gripping my thigh, my skirt hiked up just a tad too high for comfort, but the drinks were flowing and I didn't notice. "You're parading around with a now deceased man. Do you not think of the consequences of your actions?" The gentleman asked in a rude manner. "Do you not care about the state of your mission?"
I was starting to get upset now, the volume of my voice increasing with each passing second. I could hear my heart thrumming in my ears and I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my back. "You don't ever talk to me about 'caring' about my job." I got up, leaning across the coffee table, spit flying from my mouth as I pointed an accusatory finger at him. "Don't you EVER tell me that I'm doing my job wrong. Until you get an understanding about how every person is different, until you gain some empathy, don't talk to me." I angrily stomped over to my kitchen table where I had a copy of my report on the table. I picked it up and threw it at the guy. "You fucking read this and tell me that I'm not doing my job. I'm a constant figure in Peter's life and I'm giving him stability. I care about his well being. I'm intervening to save his life, because you know why?" I paused for an angry, dramatic effect. He didn't respond back. He just sat there, papers strewn on and around him, glaring at me. "Tick tock your time is fucking up, you dipstick. IT'S IN MY JOB DESCRIPTION. The way I go about doing my job is of no concern to you."
I must've sounded like I fell off my rocker. I was coming at this guy like a dog off of a leash. He was clearly not amused by the expression his face made; stone cold and unforgiving eyes pierced my soul. The gentleman got up from his place on my couch, the papers falling off of him and hitting the ground with gentle thuds.
"Ms. Ivanov, it seems like you have invested emotions and feelings into your relationship with Peter. This is unacceptable behavior." He looked at me, daggers being thrown at me with his eyes.
I threw my head back and laughed, a sick sound emanating from my throat. I didn't sound like myself. This heat must have been going to my head. My hands rested on my hips.
"Your behavior is the one that's unacceptable. You just marched your way on into my house," I waved my hands around in the direction of the living room, "Then, you tell me how to do my job, and you show me photos I never consented to! I suggest you get out of here." I seethed, angrily pointing to the door.
His piercing gaze towards me did not make me feel good at all. He quickly packed up his briefcase, the file with all of my pictures going inside in haphazard fashion. The agent talked as he hastily packed up his things.
"Just so you know," He paused to readjusted his shirt after packing everything up, "I'm not your enemy. No, I'm trying to warn you. You need to tread lightly, or else you will pay the price." He started to make his way towards the mudroom.
My eyes went wide at his last statement. Pay the price? What, that of my life? Is that the price? I looked at him bewildered.
"...Are you threatening me?"
He smirked.
"No, like I said, I'm just warning you."
"No," I shook my head, "That sounded like a threat to my life." The anger in me could not be quelled. He didn't respond to my statement, and that was enough of a response for me. The government had every plan of taking me out if I didn't obey the rules. I reached for a vase of flowers and that said vase of flowers went flying across the room with such ferocity. The explosion of glass startled me, but I didn't react physically. Neither did the agent that came into my house unexpectedly. He just looked at the wall, blinked his snake-like eyes and opened his mouth for the last time before making his exit.
"I hope I don't have to make another stop at your house. Good day, Ms. Ivanov." and with that, he was out the door.
As soon as I heard the door click shut, I locked the door and I fell to the floor, bursting into sobs. I cradled myself in my arms and rocked myself back and forth. When did life seem to get so complicated and heavy? I felt this weight on my chest and on my shoulders. Why was this getting out of hand so fast? The tears stung my already burning cheeks. They seared into my skin like a branding iron. I wiped them away hastily, but they wouldn't stop coming. I felt so alone in that moment, knowing the only one that could save me was, in fact, myself.