Overly Obsession

Evelyn's POV

The comforting clamor of peak-time foot traffic welcomed me brazenly as I skulked up the subway steps, sunglasses perched precariously on my nose and a lukewarm macchiato clutched in hand. I breathed in deeply, relishing the open air for a few sweet moments before a wave of self-imposed nausea washed over me; the sickly smell of candied nuts wafting by from a nearby vendor's cart.

Grimacing, I quickly escaped the gathering underground and began stumbling down the busy New York Street, tepidly sipping my coffee as my stomach churned in protest. I wish I could say that it was due to some particularly nasty out-of-season stomach bug, but the two bottles of red wine and several embarrassing text messages sent from my phone last night would beg to differ.

Snow was due, so anyone with any common sense was decked out in gloves, scarves and those weird winter coats that make you look like miniature puff pastries. However, due to my less than pristine disposition...

I was not one of these people.

I'd at least had the decency to grab a long coat before leaving for work this morning, but as I dragged my poor frozen feet in a pair of ill-chosen black heels, I couldn't help but mentally kick myself as to why I thought drinking on a Wednesday was a good idea.

After somehow surviving the day through a combined effort of hiding in the bathroom and taking secret naps on the office sofa, I was finally ploughing my way home through the big apple back to the warm haven that was my bed. This was the worst hangover I'd had in years, and my body was making sure to punish me to its fullest capacity as a result.

The crowd walked by without even a glance towards my disheveled appearance, a mixture of middle-aged businesspeople charging alongside gaggles of loud young twenty somethings; no doubt off to spend the evening in some bar and repeat the same mistakes that I'd made only twelve hours prior. Moving from the English coast to a massive place like Manhattan was a bit of a shock to the system on any given day, but it never felt more prevalent than during that chilly walk home after work.

A couple of blocks away from sanctuary my pocket began to rhythmically vibrate, and with a quiet groan of dismay I shifted the coffee to my other hand in order to access the little outdated box. After an embarrassingly long fight with my coat pocket, I finally managed to retrieve the flip-phone.

"Hello?" I answered once open, before a particularly unattractive yawn escaped my mouth.

"Well, you sound delightful," The annoyingly sober voice of my sister teased on the other end of the line, my weak attempt at covering my mouth with the coffee cup doing nothing to protect my fragile dignity from the general public.

"I'm never drinking again," I groaned pitifully, side stepping a pair of older Turkish men feverishly arguing in the middle of the pavement.

She scoffed, "A blatant lie."

"No, Sophia. I'm serious this time. I haven't been this bad since school. I was honestly going to projectile vomit on Terry at one point," I explained, the mere image of my colleague's open-mouthed donut chomp enough to induce a strong gag reflex even hours later, "Never has a strawberry donut looked so vile."

"You're getting no sympathy from me. Should've thought of this before you decided that drinking on a weekday with Ava was a good idea."

"It's Eurovision," I argued, rather illegally glancing down both sides of the road before throwing the law to the wind and hurriedly jaywalking across, "You can't not drink with Eurovision, it's the best part."

"Babe, Ava isn't even European."

Hopping up onto the raised pavement and back to relative safety, I scoffed loudly at her response, "And? Neither are the Australians. But they got in, didn't they? They even won it in 2023."

"You're a nerd," She sang mockingly.

Rolling my eyes, I stumbled on my reply as I accidentally bumped into someone whilst maneuvering by a newspaper dispenser, "Oh, sorry. Anyway, enough about my mistakes. What do you want? I'm almost home."

"What I can't call my big sister? Out of love?"

I scoffed sarcastically, "No, obviously that's really weird."

"Okay fine, I need snacks. My ankles have now decided that they'd rather resemble tennis balls than actual human limbs, and I've officially had my fourteenth pee today," She explained, obviously feeling the full effects of pregnancy and reaping whatever benefits she could.

"What? We don't have enough snacks at home?" I questioned, finishing my Macchiato way too early for my liking before throwing it into a nearby recycling bin, "Thank you! Keep our city clean!"

"Nope, so can you get me some Boritos? I ran out about an hour ago."

My eyes widened in disbelief as I came to a stop in order to process what she was asking for, "Wait, seriously? I bought you like five massive bags the other day."

"Yeah, well I'm eating for two."

"Five family bags of Boritos in twenty-four hours is a pretty big stretch for even two people, Sophia," I scolded.

"Not if one of them is hormonal," She argued.

I scoffed lightly, "I think we've found your new craving, Babe."

"Yeah, so indulge me. Please. I can't study properly when all I can thinking about is how the Pythagorean theorem would look great covered in guac."

"We have carrots in the fridge, dip them."

I could picture the exact face of disgust that was being made at my recommendation, "Ew, gag. No. Bortios only. I demand it."

Closing my eyes, I sneered at the thought of having to double back to the store, "Ugh, do I have to? I just want to come straight home and nap. Can't you last till tomorrow?"

"Pretty please?" She begged, "It's not for me, it's for the baby..."

She owes me big time...

Groaning, I grabbed my sunglasses that I hadn't noticed had been moved to my unkempt head and folded them neatly into my handbag. Sighing loudly in distain, I swallowed my pain and begrudgingly turned back to the corner store that I'd passed a few blocks back-- the promise of picking up some sort of carb to soak up the alcohol in my system enough to make me cave, "Fine, but you owe me. What flavour?"

Squealing, she adjusted the receiver in excitement, "Okay, definitely the BBQ ones and... the cheesy ones. Oh, and if they have the Jalapeno ones bring them as well!"

Rolling my eyes, I glanced down at my watch, "Anything else?"

Half five already, Jesus.

"Nah, that should be alright..." She trailed off, before suddenly exclaiming, "Oh, wait! Bring some Nagnum ice cream as well. I finished it this morning."

"The whole tub?"

"Say nothing or I will cry," She threatened, a small chuckle of disbelief escaping my lips as I shook my head.

"Fine. I'll be home in thirty," I sighed, knowing not to even bother arguing in fear of the famous Moore' wrath, "Love you, Munchkin."

"I'll love you more when I have something to dip in my guac," She coaxed before hanging up. Chuckling tiredly, I snapped my phone shut and stuffed it back into my pocket. Leave it to the sixteen-year-old to cheer me up.

Doubling back towards the 8-Eleven that I'd passed only a few minutes earlier a particularly sharp chill ran up the exposed nape of my neck. My shoulder length hair had been haphazardly done up with a crocodile-clip this morning, but from the few quick glances I'd caught in passing window reflections it was obviously a losing battle. One strong gust of wind would be enough to render the clip fully redundant.

Growing impatient I promptly pulled into the opening of a nearby alleyway, well-aware of the wrath I'd endure from the general public if I was to stop right in the middle of foot traffic. Pausing in the mouth as to not accidentally whack passers-by in the face, I began to wrestle the unbrushed nightmare that was my hair.

Thanking myself for packing a detangler in the pouch that was usually reserved for bar hopping, I rifled through the half-opened pack of gum and travel sized deodorant. A moment later I was able to pull out my brush and promptly placed the bag between my legs-using my now free hands to work through the tangles and better pile my hair into the clip. Ugh, I need a shower.

Once secure, I tucked any stray baby hairs behind my ears and sighed loudly whilst unceremoniously chucking the detangler back into my half-opened bag.

Mid-zip, a sudden and distant cry of pain caused me to freeze in surprise.

Paused, I listened out for any other noise as I slowly turned my head to investigate the alley. I scanned the skips and littered damp ground for what the source could have been, but everything was still and inconspicuous. It sounded masculine and suspiciously dangerous. Was someone being mugged?

The blur of a stray cat suddenly darting from behind a skip and knocking over a couple of bin bags caused me to jump to action and stumble backwards into the relative safety of the street, the foot traffic that was earlier so abundant having now trickled down to a whisper as people finished the last of their commutes.

Taking a deep breath through my mouth and chalking it up to nothing but a misheard cat fight, I shook my head and corrected my course. Even if it was a mugging, I shouldn't get involved. My therapist would kill me. Plus I was hungover to Hell.

With one last suspicious glare, I turned away from the alley with the full intent of obtaining Sophia's Boritos, going home and spending the next forty-five minutes feeling sorry for myself underneath a hot showerhead. However, all that changed when a well-dressed man in a long woollen coat was suddenly thrown into view a good thirty feet away from behind a particularly large skip. My head snapped back to attention as he landed painfully on the ground with a grunt, his shaggy brown hair obstructing his face and his coat billowing out from beneath him.

Having lived in New York for some time, I'm ashamed to admit that my brain instantly assumed one of two things. He was either high as a kite on whatever drug was popular that day, or he was being mugged.

Gotta love NYC...

Rather foolishly judging a book by its cover, I scanned his well-dressed figure and hesitantly ruled out the crackhead theory. In my experience, they tended not to wear pressed suits when on a heavy public spice episode.

Assuming then that there was in fact a mugging taking place, before I could blink my hand instinctively went for my gun. However only a second later I was promptly reminded that in the hungover chaos that was this morning, I'd accidentally brought the wrong bag with me to work. My trusty firearm that I always kept on hand, was currently chilling in my brown Mulberry that had been unceremoniously chucked on the bedroom floor last night-- very much not in hand.

Hesitating, I heard the man groan pitifully as he turned over onto his back. He had a light beard, strong nose and pale skin, but without my glasses I struggled to pinpoint any prominent features. He moved stiffly and slowly as he recovered from the fall, oblivious to my gawking in the alley entrance. I assumed his attacker was obstructed from view by the skip.

I debated for a moment to help him, and I'm not proud to admit that I took one lingering look at the stranger before, with an embarrassingly familiar amount of ease, I made the spilt-second decision to turn and leave him to fend for himself.

I had an ugly past when it came to violence and had done countless things that I wasn't proud of. I was extremely desensitized to it and had an incredibly warped view of how the world worked in that regard. I knew because so many people had told me so. It was a large part of why I was going to therapy, and it had taken a lot to reach where I was today.

But as he cried out in pain as the next blow was inevitably landed only a few seconds later; I hesitated with my decision.

Since moving to New York and reconnecting with Sophia, I'd been actively trying to better myself. For my sake and others. The old me would have minded my own business and left him regardless of my mental state.

And I really didn't want to be the old me.

I was a good few feet away from the entrance at this point. My back was turned. Nobody was around. Nobody had seen me, not even him. I could easily walk away at this point if I wanted to.

So why did I stop walking?

Arguing with myself to just selfishly leave it, I grimaced heavily in disdain as another particularly loud cry rang out. Wrapping my fingers into tight fists, I ran through all the options and how likely it was that this would end with me getting into a physical altercation. Was there a way I could do this without resorting to violence?

Calling the police was always an option, but I doubt it would've help. I'd never really held them in a high regard, and they'd done nothing but prove me right so far. In fact, they'd gotten so incompetent recently that the chances of them reaching the man in time were zero to none, and even in the aftermath little would be done to apprehend the mugger.

But maybe that's why I had to help him.

Groaning in disdain I reluctantly bit the bullet and turned back for the alley, fishing out my phone and holding it out ready as if arming myself to do the unthinkable, "Son-of-a-bitch."

"Hey, whoever's there-I'm calling the police! There's a patrol car on every corner in this neighbourhood so you're f***ed!" I shouted into the alley, holding out my phone as proof with 911 typed out and ready to call. Hoping that he'd call my bluff about the abundance of police presence, I waited for a few seconds to no response.

Scanning the alley in suspicion, I cautiously made my way up to the man who seemed to be recovering from a blow to the stomach. Keeping and eye out for the attacker but finding the alley empty, I glanced towards his crumbled figure and deducted that he must've ran off, "Hey, you good?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," He coughed out after a moment, groaning as he took a moment to catch his breath.

Keeping one eye on him and another on our surroundings, the sound of a glass bottle smashing in the distance grabbed my attention, "You sure?"

"No, but I'll live," he admitted, eyes shut and face twisted in pain as he slowly turned onto his side to get up from the grimy New York pavement, "Thanks."

His face didn't seem too visibly beaten from what I could see. His curly hair that looked just a tad too long to be considered styled blocking me from making eye contact with the stranger. Flipping over onto his knees, he took a moment to process a particularly sharp twinge of pain before hobbling to a stand-his grey suit and long brown coat heavily creased.

Turning to fully acknowledge him after tentatively confirming that the attacker had been scared off, I flipped the phone shut and stuffed it into my trouser pocket in order to help him, "You get a good look at who did this? I can walk you to the police station..."

Now that he was closer, I was able to distinctly make out his facial features but even then, the first word that jumped to mind was hairy. He had a thick head of hair with a heavy stubble to match a set of strong dark eyebrows. He struck me as the type that would have to shave daily as by five o'clock a shadow would already be sneaking back in.

I'd pin him to be in his early thirties at an initial glance, dark under eyes pitting him older than his years with a strong nose and high cheek bones which suited his long face. Although not my usual type, I'd say he was one haircut away from being and attractive guy.

He shook his head, holding his hand out in protest as he cautiously stood to an impressive full height, reluctantly meeting my gaze for the first time since our interaction, "No, it's okay. I-"

The moment his grey eyes locked with mine the words died in his throat.

He looked like a deer caught in headlights. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, a strange mixture of shock and somehow dread setting in before he was abruptly flung back by his own body without warning, doubling over in agony as he held onto his side and cried out in pain. Jumping in surprise at the sudden action, I watched concerned as he crumpled into himself as if he'd been stabbed in the gut. Shit, is he alright?

"You alright, mate?"

My words seemed to jolt the man even further, his whole body violently shaking as he threw his head back and contorted his body in ways I'd never thought possible without breaking several bones. My eyes widened almost comically as I took several steps backwards whilst he flung his body all over the place, as if he was trying to hold himself back from doing something by physically yanking himself away from me. The movements were so erratic and random that an uncomfortable feeling grew in my gut, and I began to think that this was a bit too performative. I never did see the mugger...

Oh God, maybe I made too quick of a call on the crackhead theory.

"Mate..." He repeated, his eyes looking somehow considerably darker as he stared at me through his dishevelled hair. Alarm bells began ringing as I clocked how tall this guy was even whilst slouched, and if I didn't play my cards right; he could potentially do some serious damage.

Why the f*ck did I have to come back for this guy?