Arabelle Vine, a 22 year old photographer in Seattle Washington, is happy with her current life. She has friends, a great family, and a job she loves. But Arabelle wants to be more than just content with her life. She wants excitement, and she wants...
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"June Vine! Stop it right now!" I yell at June as she fights against me.
I'm currently kneeling in my bathtub, in my sports bra and and old pair of shorts at 10:30 at night, attempting to give June a bath. Which I am not succeeding at.
What is it with cats and water?
"June, please stay still sweetheart." I attempt to lower my voice, but I have zero patience and I'm on my period. So June knocking over one of my pots was my breaking point.
I maneuver her into one arm, pressing her against my chest, as I pump her shampoo into my palm. I lather it into her fur, making sure to get all of the dirt off of her.
To be honest this bath has been much needed, but if you've ever given a cat a bath, than you know the struggle.
I turn on the detachable shower head, and run it through her fur, washing all of the suds off.
"Ow! Fuck!" I release June, looking down at my forearm to see a long, bleeding, scratch mark. "Fuck." I climb out of the bathtub, glancing down at June as she stands at the closed door, wanting to get out.
I run my arm under the sink, before cleaning it up with rubbing alcohol. As I'm cleaning it up, I rub my fingers over the other scars on my forearm. Scratching roughly at my forearm has always been a form of my anxiety growing up, causing small scars along the way. Though they are barely visible, they make me very insecure.
"You are getting on my last fucking nerve young lady." I scold, scooping June back up in my arms and sitting myself back into the tub.
I quickly finish up washing off the soap, wanting to get this over with as soon as possible. I place her on the small bath mat and unplug the drain. I grab a towel from the cabinet above my toilet, and wrap her up in it.
I softy rub her ears with the towel, walking out of my bathroom, kicking the door shut behind me. I place her down, watching her run away and disappear somewhere. She'll probably hide from me for the next 24 hours, but I'm not too concerned.
I rub the sore scratch on my arm, and walk over to my kitchen. I haven't eaten all day, accept for a cinnamon bun from the cafe down the street. The thought of food today makes me nauseous, and for some reason when I'm on my period I don't crave food. It always make my stomach hurt.
I move back and forth between my fridge and my pantry, but can't decide on anything. So I settle with making hot chocolate.
My phone rings from somewhere in my apartment, forcing me away from the kitchen. I walk towards the living room where I think I had it last. The ringing stops before it immediately starts back up again. I dig my hands into the sides of the couch, searching for my device.
"Where the hell is it?" I mutter under my breath.
Finally finding it deep in the side crevice of one of the chairs, I hit accept without looking at who's calling.
