The Maker of Bad Decisions
for Billy
Sylvia heard him dump his boots in the hall only just a moment before she could smell the cigarette.
“I need a snack!”
Her husband was drunk. Again.
Sylvia wiped her hands on her apron and attempted to ignore the banging and the cussing that always followed him home from the pub. It wasn’t every day, but it was most days. She had noticed that the closer it got to Christmas, the more days it had been.
“A twelve hour day!” he hollered from the living room, where Sylvia knew he was already slumped in his chair in front of the box.
He shouted at her when he wanted sympathy, love, and everything else, and she hated herself knowing she’d give all of it to him. Despite the shouting. And despite the fact that he was mean — a mean guy who happened to be her husband and the father of her only son.
Sylvia dumped a packet of salted peanuts into a small festive ceramic bowl and filled her lungs with air — trying to float above it. Her life. It, the air, tasted of tobacco. She walked quietly, out of habit, from the kitchen, careful not to disturb the unseen demons. It didn’t matter if they were real or not.
There he sat — Scott, her husband — in his chair and his dirty socks, plump and sweating and reeking of stale beer. He never failed to fill a room, but it was always in an insidious kind of way. As if he was a disease that spread out as soon as he was given the chance.
Sylvia carefully placed the bowl of nuts on the the small table next to his chair and tried to smile. “I thought you were going to pick up Scotty Jr from school today?”
Her husband picked his nose with a fat finger and scoffed at her. “Did you just hear me, woman?”
Sylvia stayed quiet, calm, holding his eyes with her own.
“A twelve-hour-fucking-day and you want me to put my boots back on and go and pick up your son from school, before I even have a fucking snack?!”
“He’s our son,” Sylvia noted, quietly.
Scott burst into a fit of laughter, his jelly-like stomach jiggly grossly, and stuff a handful of peanuts into his mouth. “Our son?” he shouted. “You get pregnant and squeeze one out and now he’s our son?”
It took all that Sylvia had to resist the urge to bite her lip until it bled — until it hurt and she could dissolve into that pain as opposed to this pain. Her husband continued without prompt.
“A twelve-hour-day. Can he not catch the fucking bus?”
“His leg is broken.”
Sylvia’s husband — Scott — stuffed another handful of peanuts into his wide, greasy mouth, and called her a word that she could never, and will never, repeat.
~~~
Scott was tired. Macmillan had given him an earful over the whole Calthorpe fuck up from last week, and then, he’d copped a speeding ticket on the way back to the warehouse in the afternoon. The last thing he had need was back-chat from the woman.
All he wanted to do was relax in his chair and pretend like this day had never happened.
Scott put his boots back on an stomped (loudly) down the front stairs. The bitch was probably already crying herself hoarse in the bathroom anyway.
He turned the keys in the ignition, but if he was going anywhere, it wasn’t to Sylvia’s son’s school.
Scotty Jr’s school.
Oh no. He wasn't going there.
He knew of a place out behind the local department store that seemed to be open all the time and let pretty much anyone in. Scott parked his truck in the lot behind the store, and checked his cell phone. Two missed calls from Scotty Jr and a short text from Syl.
Please don’t make him catch the bus. I know you’ve had a long day, but please.
Even her text messages had fucking punctuation. Scott needed another cigarette, so he got out and lit one.
It was cold out but the fresh air on his face was nice and for a moment Scott thought of Scotty Jr, who was probably…
Oh whatever…
The kid was grown; he could fend for himself.
“Hey buddy, I’m afraid you can’t smoke here.”
Scott looked up (well, up…a little bit) to see a midget sitting on the stairs that were bolted to the back of the store. Flanking the little guy, Scott counted five other midgets and no word of a lie, they were all dressed in matching red and green elf costumes, gold bells dangling from the tips of their pointed shoes and hats.
Scott couldn’t help himself — he burst into laughter. It was the laughter of a man who’d had a long day and a few too many beers.
The group of midgets were not impressed but Scott didn’t notice, he was still laughing and lighting another cigarette.
“Seriously though,” continued the first midget who was holding a half-eaten salad sandwich. “If you want to smoke there’s a designated area over there, away from the building, man.” The midget pointed beyond where Scott stood.
“If it’s okay with you, little man, I think I’ll stay right here and finish my Marlborough.”
A midget behind the first one stood up on his step, a similar salad sandwich in his hand. “I think Franklin made it pretty clear that we’re not okay with you smoking anywhere other than the designated area.”
Scott barked out another laugh and in the back of his mind, noticed that his eyes felt heavy and sleepy — perhaps he should have stayed home after all. Or gone to pick up Scotty Jr. Oh well, once he finished his cigarette he was going to get shit-faced at the bar and then maybe sleep in his car.
If only he could get these midgets off —
THWACK!
The blow to the right side of his face seemed to come out of nowhere, but Scott was verging on all-together drunk so it was only really a surprise to him. He didn’t see the second one coming either.
POW!
Scott stumbled back and felt himself unable to stay upright. His butt and lower back hit the ground, hard, and the world spun, as if reality was orbiting his head. On the edge of his vision he could see the midgets were surrounding him. Down on the ground now, where he was, he couldn’t help but think they seemed a lot bigger.
A lot more intimidating.
FWAP!
One of them slapped the back of his head, like you would a naughty child.
“Hey!” Scott was starting to get pissed off. “I’m just going over to the bar across the lot. I didn’t ask for trouble.”
“Mister,” said the first midget, the one who’d told him he couldn’t smoke, “if you came here…you came looking for trouble.”
Scott coughed and there was blood on his hand. He stood up. His cigarettes were strewn across the ground.
A midget with holly embroidered on his buttoned vest stepped forward. “This is our territory, you big oaf.”
Scott coughed again, and laughed again. “This ain’t the North Pole, sonny," he said. Then he laughed once more — at his own joke.
FFFFFSSSHHAK-BLOD!
One of the midgets had launched himself off the ground, tumbled in the air, and landed a punch right to his gut. Scott’s gut. Scott’s soft lower belly.
He crumpled, and even with his eyes closed, he felt the presence of the little guys all around him.
“We asked you nicely.” The voice was behind him.
“We were polite.” This voice was to his left.
The next was right in front of him. “Are you always such a dick, guy?”
Scott did his best to speak over the pain he was holding behind his hands. “If you’re done with this, Fun-Size, I think I’ll go over to the bar now.”
“Oh,” the fist midget laughed, “is that what you think?”
And all Scott knew was a dull THUNK! under his jaw and a strong urge to lean back off the proverbial cliff.
~~~
“Dude, you’re dad’s not coming.”
Scotty shuffled, trying to find a more comfortable position. His cast was itching like crazy today. “Mum said she’d ask him to pick me up today. He’s coming.”
“Dude, no he’s not.”
Scotty knew Gavin would be right in the end, and that there was no point in arguing. Still…
“Dude. Seriously. This is getting old.”
“What?”
Gavin swung his backpack up onto his shoulders. “This. This whole thing where you try to convince yourself that your dad isn’t an absolute cunt.”
Scotty stayed quiet. He hated that word. He also knew Gavin didn’t say that word unless he deemed it necessary; unless he was trying to make a clear point.
The point was made.
Gavin shrugged at Scotty’s silence. “I can give you a lift, dude. If you want?”
Scotty stared down the empty road behind their school and knew that he had never expected to see his father’s car. He had wanted to see it, but he had never really expected it. He sighed and turned awkwardly — he was still getting used to the crutches. “Okay man. I guess you were right. But can we stop and grab a burger?”
“Dude! It’s like you’re in my head sometimes.”
Scotty laughed but it was with half a heart. Maybe food would distract him.
The two boys started their journey to the student lot where Gavin’s second-hand Prius was parked. Scotty hobbled and Gavin walked (considerately slowly) and texted on his phone.
“Love messages to Liz?” Scotty asked.
Gavin paled. “Uh, actually, just letting my dad know I’ll be late.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah. Sorry. I mean, you can totally share him.”
Scotty laughed. “Thanks man. Your dad is the best. Hey! Remember that time he tried to teach us how to fly fish in the stream when we went camping.”
“Dude! That was such a fail. We are clearly not fishermen in any sense of the word.”
They both laughed. Scotty tripped forwards and almost lost his balance but Gavin was right there with a steady hand pulling him back up by his school shirt.
“I have no idea what made you think you could land that triple without ruining yourself in the first place.”
Scotty fell back into step with his friend. “I dunno man. I guess I just wanted to do something impressive for once.”
Gavin rolled his eyes. “Dude, all of your gymnastics shit is impressive. Trust me. Liz can’t shut the fuck up about how impressive you are.”
Scotty felt a dull blush come to his cheeks.
Gavin quickly changed the subject. “So, burgers and then I drop you home yeah?”
“Uhhh, burgers and then you drop me a street away from my house.”
Gavin made a dramatic sigh. “You still haven’t told your folks that I got my license?!”
Scotty pretended to be sorry. “Hey man, I’m an invalid right now. All I wanted was for them, I mean, for dad, to maybe give half a shit.”
“That’s manipulative, dude. And I fucking love it!”
They fell silent again and the gravel crunched beneath their feet and the ends of Scotty’s crutches.
Gavin eventually broke the silence. “Ok. Burgers and then I drop you a block from you house.”
“Thanks.”
“Can I say something?”
Scotty stopped and looked up. “Of course. But this seems serious.”
“Oh,” said Gavin, “this is deadly serious.” He paused for effect and brushed the hair out of his face. “I bet, right now, that your dad is getting beat up by a bunch of Christmas-clad midgets.”
“What?”
Gavin burst into laughter. “Yeah. Like they’re totally dressed in elf costumes and they’re just beating the shit out of your stupid dad. That’s what I think.”
Scotty laughed as well and wondered if there was any justice in this life. “Gav, you’re a freaking nutbag sometimes.”
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Friday, November 20, 2015
Night Swim
You
Ning always sat on the edge for a little while, enjoying the mostly silent nights, and the feeling of release that she got just before she pushed forward and slipped into the water.
Each night was different — cool and blustery, warm and still, clear, cloudy, raining, hot, heavy with humidity, or so cold that her skin shrunk into goose pimples — but every night was special to Ning. She indulged in the changing nature of her time once the sun was gone each day, and she accepted whatever awaited her.
Tonight was very calm indeed and with her bare skin pressed into the rough cement edge of the pool and her legs dangling in the water, Ning was, as always, in her element.
The moon was high and the sky very clear, enough so that she could easily see a few dozen stars and further, out beyond her town, the dim yellow glow of the city. This was her favourite part, just before she slipped in — the thought of the water taking her, the knowledge that she shouldn’t be there (the pool was closed at night) — it was her secret after-hours playground.
And…
The thought of being caught, in the dark, naked, at the public pool. It was enough to make her blood boil with electricity. It was the feeling of being alive.
Something rustled in the bushes behind her but Ning only glanced back out of pure physical reaction. She was used to bats and birds and rodents sharing the night with her. She had stopped being scared a long time ago.
Inching forward on the cement, she lifted herself up and then dipped straight down.
She was submerged.
Underneath the water entirely for a moment, she bobbed up again, smoothed back her long hair and let her lungs open up and fill with air.
This was her night swim.
***
Me
I’ve been waiting.
I’m leaning against the thick palm tree just down from the public pool. I know I’ll hear you when you climb over the fence — it always rattles loudly in the quiet night — more than you seem to think it does. You throw your towel over first and then look both ways, as if you were about to cross the road. I’ve learnt that’s just habit though, because you know that no one will see you. You look but you don’t really look. It’s almost as if the act itself is muscle memory.
I wonder to myself how long you’ve been coming here. I've wondered this many times before. I feel sad that I don’t know the answer and that I also potentially missed out on many nights.
This is the hard part though — waiting. I like to wait by the palm but I feel seedy when I do it. There’s a bench further down with a lamp post directly above (bright enough for me to read by) but it’s too close to the school that owns the pool, and if I sit there I’m always afraid a passing police car will think I’m their quota for the night.
But they don’t know about you. They don’t see you.
They don't see the girl at the pool.
I’m anxious tonight. I got here early because I couldn’t stand to be at home. I had this feeling that you might be early as well, but I was wrong. It’s 11: 47 when I see you walking quietly up the path towards the pool fence and it’s so calm tonight in the street that I’m worried you’ll hear my watch ticking.
But you don’t — of course you don’t; it’s just a watch. I’m being paranoid.
You’re wearing that nice, bright blue dress with the zip down the front, and your hair is tied up in a bun. I wish I could tell you how much that colour suits you, and how I love it when I finally get to see you with your hair down. It’s usually tied up — I guess you don’t like to walk with it out. Pity.
Today was a bad day. I feel it on my heels as I make my way along the fence on the other side of the street, keeping to the shadows, watching you get closer to the part of the fence that has a fire hydrant in front of it — you need to stand up on it to get high enough to pull yourself over the fence.
Today was a bad day. Mr Greenwald said my piece on the closure of the butter factory wasn’t inspired. Jesus. Does he know that no one cares about the fucking butter factory. I did the best I could and the piece was a failure because there was nothing to get — dusty floor, rusted broken down churners, cleared out cupboards and only one, grey-ish guy who was willing to say more than two words to me — the piece was hollow, but the photos turned out quite well. I considered making a small collection and approaching the The Alley. It's that tiny art gallery behind the bank. Maybe. I don’t know.
Today was a bad day. Mr Greenwald is an idiot. I’m quiet and I don’t argue with him so he gives me jobs that he is certain will flop. Still, the guy wouldn’t know a story if it blew his head off with a semi-automatic. Those who have no talent, manage.
Today was a bad day. You would touch my hand and your dark eyes would soften and you would tell me it was okay that I had a shitty day. You’d fix my Tuesday. I know you would. You’d tell me to work a little more on the photo collection and go for it. You’d tell me it was good enough. You’d tell me I was good enough.
I stop when I see you get to your spot and throw your towel over the fence onto the grassy grounds that surround the pool. You have it down to a fine art — stepping up on the hydrant, steadying yourself with both hands on the fence, you pull up, up and UP. Your hips are on the fence like a gymnast and you swing your legs up either side of you like a monkey. You stand, then, tall; a beautiful statue upon the vertical metal prongs.
You look down over the pool. This is your domain. And then, gracefully and without fear (it seems) you jump straight down. It’s a good seven feet to the ground but you land on bent knees and your hands touch the ground momentarily before you grab your towel and straighten up. You are a seasoned professional. You are a cat burglar in the night. You are a fucking ninja. You are perfect.
My camera is heavy around my neck. On one hand I regret bringing it, but on the other…
I’m tense. Taught with excitement and anticipation. If I don’t crumble to ash perhaps I’ll get some nice, clear photos of you. Ones that I can print up big, big, in my dark-room. I could frame them. Look at them all day. Your blue dress. Your hair. And, and, all of you…
allofyou. ALLOFYOU.
You’re about to walk to the far side of the pool so I know this is my chance to move. You won’t hear me while you walk, as long as I’m quiet, and I can usually circle the pool fence and get all the way to the side that is lined with dense shrub before you even start taking out your hair.
I’m right (of course), and we both move, purely out of habit. You, across the grass to the diving blocks and the corner that you like best; me, around the edge of the fence to the place where I like to sit. We’ve done this a million times — not that you know.
I know it’s not a million but it feels good to say that.
I’m sat between two trimmed hedges in the moonlight. The safety lights are on you and on the pool, and I know you can’t see me.
But I can see you.
You.
I watch you. This is a good part, but it’s not my favourite.
This part.
You dump your towel on the ground at the edge of the pool and reach up to unzip your dress. I get hard as you slip it down I see that you’re not wearing a bra tonight. Your knickers are black and you take them off and toss them onto your discarded dress. Your caramel skin is darker in the moonlight than I imagine it is in the daylight, but your business center is neat and your breasts…
Your breasts.
They’re small and pert and oh my God I’m so fucking hard.
You reach up and take the pins and ties out of your hair. It falls down around you in dark waves and I get up on my knees. This is my favourite part.
You sit down on the edge of the pool and each time, I wonder what it feels like — that cold hard cement against the bare skin of your butt. I want to touch that skin. Oh god, I want to touch your bare skin. I want to touch any part of you. I want to touch all of you.
You lift yourself forward and the moonlight and the safety lights reflect off your caramel and I can see you breasts and the tight skin that leads down to your belly button, and the skin that leads down from that, and the small patch of hair just above your sweet spot.
You splash into the water and I am overcome. I’ve seen you do this for one thousand, one hundred, and twenty-eight days and it doesn’t get old. We're not up to a million yet. I push through the honey that is desire and keep my eyes on you. The best part is over but the other stuff is so good that I don’t care.
You float on your back and your small breasts breach the surface of the water. Your nipples pull up in the cool air and I can see them in the moonlight. The water laps over your skin and you breathe deeply to fill your lungs with air and keep your body afloat.
You do an upside down breast stroke for a while. You watch the sky. I don’t know what you see up there but I know that all I see is you.
Eventually you turn over and pick up a lazy sort of freestyle that takes you all the way to the hundred meter mark. When you get there I kneel up and look through the fence to where you float at the edge of the pool. I snap a few quick pictures. I get some good ones of your wet hair and the droplets of water that hang on the lower part of your stomach.
I love your night swim. I wonder if you get off on it (like I do). I wonder if your pussy is wet, or if you wish there was someone here with you. I wonder if you have a boyfriend. I wonder if he’s handsome. I wonder if he has a big dick. I wonder if he knows about your night swims.
You do a few more laps and I see the moonlight again on your wet skin and I’m literally about to explode in my pants.
My phone buzzes silently in the pocket of my pants and I check it.
It’s my brother. He’s drunk.
dude! izzy is messy tonight. think I can coax her into sucking me for once?
I ignore the message and the fact that he can manage the word ‘coax’ when he’s inebriated — overachiever.
I should be polite, but as a matter of fact, I don’t give a fuck that my brother’s wife refuses to put his dick in her mouth — that’s his problem.
I come back to you. I focus on you. You’re almost at the other end of the pool and this is my other favourite part.
When you get to the edge you swoop up and the water pushes your hair out of your eyes. Your hands get purchase on the cement and your hoist yourself up.
I watch as your hips hit the cement and the smooth, wet cheeks of your butt reflect the moonlight. You bend forward and give me the best view — the back of your upper thighs, and the just the hint of your cunt.
You’re dripping water and I’m hard and you glide up out of the pool, as if by magic. You glisten in the moonlight. You are impossible.
I want to be near you. I want to smell you and touch you and hold you and eat you up until there’s nothing left.
I want you.
I want to be part of your night swim.
I want to be your night swim.
You pick up your towel and wrap it around you and with the rest of your clothes in one hand you head back to the fence. There’s a ladder propped in one corner and you find it easier to exit that way. I don’t know who put it there but it looks dusty and old and abandoned.
I circle back around the pool fence and I have a very strong urge to stroke a hand along my dick, but I don’t.
I’m watching you. I’m watching as you towel off and get back into your clothes. You’re still a little bit wet. I know because they stick to you as you get back over the fence. I watch you try to un-stick them.
I can see the line of your knickers through your blue dress. I can see how you smile to yourself.
I think I might follow you home tonight.
Ning always sat on the edge for a little while, enjoying the mostly silent nights, and the feeling of release that she got just before she pushed forward and slipped into the water.
Each night was different — cool and blustery, warm and still, clear, cloudy, raining, hot, heavy with humidity, or so cold that her skin shrunk into goose pimples — but every night was special to Ning. She indulged in the changing nature of her time once the sun was gone each day, and she accepted whatever awaited her.
Tonight was very calm indeed and with her bare skin pressed into the rough cement edge of the pool and her legs dangling in the water, Ning was, as always, in her element.
The moon was high and the sky very clear, enough so that she could easily see a few dozen stars and further, out beyond her town, the dim yellow glow of the city. This was her favourite part, just before she slipped in — the thought of the water taking her, the knowledge that she shouldn’t be there (the pool was closed at night) — it was her secret after-hours playground.
And…
The thought of being caught, in the dark, naked, at the public pool. It was enough to make her blood boil with electricity. It was the feeling of being alive.
Something rustled in the bushes behind her but Ning only glanced back out of pure physical reaction. She was used to bats and birds and rodents sharing the night with her. She had stopped being scared a long time ago.
Inching forward on the cement, she lifted herself up and then dipped straight down.
She was submerged.
Underneath the water entirely for a moment, she bobbed up again, smoothed back her long hair and let her lungs open up and fill with air.
This was her night swim.
***
Me
I’ve been waiting.
I’m leaning against the thick palm tree just down from the public pool. I know I’ll hear you when you climb over the fence — it always rattles loudly in the quiet night — more than you seem to think it does. You throw your towel over first and then look both ways, as if you were about to cross the road. I’ve learnt that’s just habit though, because you know that no one will see you. You look but you don’t really look. It’s almost as if the act itself is muscle memory.
I wonder to myself how long you’ve been coming here. I've wondered this many times before. I feel sad that I don’t know the answer and that I also potentially missed out on many nights.
This is the hard part though — waiting. I like to wait by the palm but I feel seedy when I do it. There’s a bench further down with a lamp post directly above (bright enough for me to read by) but it’s too close to the school that owns the pool, and if I sit there I’m always afraid a passing police car will think I’m their quota for the night.
But they don’t know about you. They don’t see you.
They don't see the girl at the pool.
I’m anxious tonight. I got here early because I couldn’t stand to be at home. I had this feeling that you might be early as well, but I was wrong. It’s 11: 47 when I see you walking quietly up the path towards the pool fence and it’s so calm tonight in the street that I’m worried you’ll hear my watch ticking.
But you don’t — of course you don’t; it’s just a watch. I’m being paranoid.
You’re wearing that nice, bright blue dress with the zip down the front, and your hair is tied up in a bun. I wish I could tell you how much that colour suits you, and how I love it when I finally get to see you with your hair down. It’s usually tied up — I guess you don’t like to walk with it out. Pity.
Today was a bad day. I feel it on my heels as I make my way along the fence on the other side of the street, keeping to the shadows, watching you get closer to the part of the fence that has a fire hydrant in front of it — you need to stand up on it to get high enough to pull yourself over the fence.
Today was a bad day. Mr Greenwald said my piece on the closure of the butter factory wasn’t inspired. Jesus. Does he know that no one cares about the fucking butter factory. I did the best I could and the piece was a failure because there was nothing to get — dusty floor, rusted broken down churners, cleared out cupboards and only one, grey-ish guy who was willing to say more than two words to me — the piece was hollow, but the photos turned out quite well. I considered making a small collection and approaching the The Alley. It's that tiny art gallery behind the bank. Maybe. I don’t know.
Today was a bad day. Mr Greenwald is an idiot. I’m quiet and I don’t argue with him so he gives me jobs that he is certain will flop. Still, the guy wouldn’t know a story if it blew his head off with a semi-automatic. Those who have no talent, manage.
Today was a bad day. You would touch my hand and your dark eyes would soften and you would tell me it was okay that I had a shitty day. You’d fix my Tuesday. I know you would. You’d tell me to work a little more on the photo collection and go for it. You’d tell me it was good enough. You’d tell me I was good enough.
I stop when I see you get to your spot and throw your towel over the fence onto the grassy grounds that surround the pool. You have it down to a fine art — stepping up on the hydrant, steadying yourself with both hands on the fence, you pull up, up and UP. Your hips are on the fence like a gymnast and you swing your legs up either side of you like a monkey. You stand, then, tall; a beautiful statue upon the vertical metal prongs.
You look down over the pool. This is your domain. And then, gracefully and without fear (it seems) you jump straight down. It’s a good seven feet to the ground but you land on bent knees and your hands touch the ground momentarily before you grab your towel and straighten up. You are a seasoned professional. You are a cat burglar in the night. You are a fucking ninja. You are perfect.
My camera is heavy around my neck. On one hand I regret bringing it, but on the other…
I’m tense. Taught with excitement and anticipation. If I don’t crumble to ash perhaps I’ll get some nice, clear photos of you. Ones that I can print up big, big, in my dark-room. I could frame them. Look at them all day. Your blue dress. Your hair. And, and, all of you…
allofyou. ALLOFYOU.
You’re about to walk to the far side of the pool so I know this is my chance to move. You won’t hear me while you walk, as long as I’m quiet, and I can usually circle the pool fence and get all the way to the side that is lined with dense shrub before you even start taking out your hair.
I’m right (of course), and we both move, purely out of habit. You, across the grass to the diving blocks and the corner that you like best; me, around the edge of the fence to the place where I like to sit. We’ve done this a million times — not that you know.
I know it’s not a million but it feels good to say that.
I’m sat between two trimmed hedges in the moonlight. The safety lights are on you and on the pool, and I know you can’t see me.
But I can see you.
You.
I watch you. This is a good part, but it’s not my favourite.
This part.
You dump your towel on the ground at the edge of the pool and reach up to unzip your dress. I get hard as you slip it down I see that you’re not wearing a bra tonight. Your knickers are black and you take them off and toss them onto your discarded dress. Your caramel skin is darker in the moonlight than I imagine it is in the daylight, but your business center is neat and your breasts…
Your breasts.
They’re small and pert and oh my God I’m so fucking hard.
You reach up and take the pins and ties out of your hair. It falls down around you in dark waves and I get up on my knees. This is my favourite part.
You sit down on the edge of the pool and each time, I wonder what it feels like — that cold hard cement against the bare skin of your butt. I want to touch that skin. Oh god, I want to touch your bare skin. I want to touch any part of you. I want to touch all of you.
You lift yourself forward and the moonlight and the safety lights reflect off your caramel and I can see you breasts and the tight skin that leads down to your belly button, and the skin that leads down from that, and the small patch of hair just above your sweet spot.
You splash into the water and I am overcome. I’ve seen you do this for one thousand, one hundred, and twenty-eight days and it doesn’t get old. We're not up to a million yet. I push through the honey that is desire and keep my eyes on you. The best part is over but the other stuff is so good that I don’t care.
You float on your back and your small breasts breach the surface of the water. Your nipples pull up in the cool air and I can see them in the moonlight. The water laps over your skin and you breathe deeply to fill your lungs with air and keep your body afloat.
You do an upside down breast stroke for a while. You watch the sky. I don’t know what you see up there but I know that all I see is you.
Eventually you turn over and pick up a lazy sort of freestyle that takes you all the way to the hundred meter mark. When you get there I kneel up and look through the fence to where you float at the edge of the pool. I snap a few quick pictures. I get some good ones of your wet hair and the droplets of water that hang on the lower part of your stomach.
I love your night swim. I wonder if you get off on it (like I do). I wonder if your pussy is wet, or if you wish there was someone here with you. I wonder if you have a boyfriend. I wonder if he’s handsome. I wonder if he has a big dick. I wonder if he knows about your night swims.
You do a few more laps and I see the moonlight again on your wet skin and I’m literally about to explode in my pants.
My phone buzzes silently in the pocket of my pants and I check it.
It’s my brother. He’s drunk.
dude! izzy is messy tonight. think I can coax her into sucking me for once?
I ignore the message and the fact that he can manage the word ‘coax’ when he’s inebriated — overachiever.
I should be polite, but as a matter of fact, I don’t give a fuck that my brother’s wife refuses to put his dick in her mouth — that’s his problem.
I come back to you. I focus on you. You’re almost at the other end of the pool and this is my other favourite part.
When you get to the edge you swoop up and the water pushes your hair out of your eyes. Your hands get purchase on the cement and your hoist yourself up.
I watch as your hips hit the cement and the smooth, wet cheeks of your butt reflect the moonlight. You bend forward and give me the best view — the back of your upper thighs, and the just the hint of your cunt.
You’re dripping water and I’m hard and you glide up out of the pool, as if by magic. You glisten in the moonlight. You are impossible.
I want to be near you. I want to smell you and touch you and hold you and eat you up until there’s nothing left.
I want you.
I want to be part of your night swim.
I want to be your night swim.
You pick up your towel and wrap it around you and with the rest of your clothes in one hand you head back to the fence. There’s a ladder propped in one corner and you find it easier to exit that way. I don’t know who put it there but it looks dusty and old and abandoned.
I circle back around the pool fence and I have a very strong urge to stroke a hand along my dick, but I don’t.
I’m watching you. I’m watching as you towel off and get back into your clothes. You’re still a little bit wet. I know because they stick to you as you get back over the fence. I watch you try to un-stick them.
I can see the line of your knickers through your blue dress. I can see how you smile to yourself.
I think I might follow you home tonight.
Monday, November 16, 2015
Self Preservation: Volume III -- Shrift
Self Preservation: Volume III — Shrift
Exodus 22:23-25
And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life,
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,
Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe...
She’d heard about Emerald Valley a few months ago. Only rumours really — of some isolated place out beyond the range of mountains that lay in a crescent around their little cluster of small towns. Max hadn’t given half a thought at the time, she’d laughed off the stories as if they were simply urban legends (which they kind of had been, back then). But now, after the night she’d had, Emerald Valley appeared like a glittering answer upon the horizon.
The early morning sun dazzled her eyes as she took in the formidable landscape; a dense sea of dark, green-gold pine trees that eased down into the valley, but also prevented one from seeing what, exactly, lay at the bottom.
As the cab dropped her off at the edge of a narrow road overgrown with trees and vines, Max was still having second thoughts. She hadn’t gone home in the end; hadn’t packed anything or prepared for what she might find. All she had was the dress that Charlotte had given her, which she still wore, and her bag of (mostly necessary) items — phone, tampons, etc. And the cash.
All five-thousand of it.
Max stared down the road and then turned to watch the cab pulling away from the tree-line. The sun was just starting to rise and she wished she had a sweater, but it was too late now — she was on the cusp of Emerald Valley. She knelt down and folded the money into a tight wad. Between her bra and the skin of her breast, Max felt confident that it wouldn’t be found unless things got really crazy.
Exodus 22:23-25
And if any mischief follow, then thou shalt give life for life,
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot,
Burning for burning, wound for wound, stripe for stripe...
She’d heard about Emerald Valley a few months ago. Only rumours really — of some isolated place out beyond the range of mountains that lay in a crescent around their little cluster of small towns. Max hadn’t given half a thought at the time, she’d laughed off the stories as if they were simply urban legends (which they kind of had been, back then). But now, after the night she’d had, Emerald Valley appeared like a glittering answer upon the horizon.
The early morning sun dazzled her eyes as she took in the formidable landscape; a dense sea of dark, green-gold pine trees that eased down into the valley, but also prevented one from seeing what, exactly, lay at the bottom.
As the cab dropped her off at the edge of a narrow road overgrown with trees and vines, Max was still having second thoughts. She hadn’t gone home in the end; hadn’t packed anything or prepared for what she might find. All she had was the dress that Charlotte had given her, which she still wore, and her bag of (mostly necessary) items — phone, tampons, etc. And the cash.
All five-thousand of it.
Max stared down the road and then turned to watch the cab pulling away from the tree-line. The sun was just starting to rise and she wished she had a sweater, but it was too late now — she was on the cusp of Emerald Valley. She knelt down and folded the money into a tight wad. Between her bra and the skin of her breast, Max felt confident that it wouldn’t be found unless things got really crazy.
She didn’t know what to expect — but ‘really crazy’ was definitely on the
list, considering the last twelve hours of her life.
In the cab she had been checking her arm constantly, where it had touched the electrified fence, but no mark had appeared, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she was sober, perhaps she would have assumed that the whole thing was a dream. But the cash was real, and the echo of fear in her stomach was pretty fucking hard to ignore.
It wasn’t clear what was down in Emerald Valley, but the rumours made it out to be some kind of farm. No electricity, no phones, no slimy capitalism fingers on the tablecloth. Max couldn’t help but think it was perhaps where she was supposed to go, where she was supposed to be — at least for the ‘right-now’.
The truth was, she felt hopeful. Perhaps ‘saved’ was something she might soon well be.
The pines were thick on either side of her and the path was crumbling and overgrown to a level of inconvenience. Max figured this was from disuse, but it also seemed to be a good ‘fence’ for Emerald Valley — something to keep people out; to keep the secret.
After half an hour of stumbling along the uneven path Max was ready to give up, but just as she felt the urge to turn back, a clearing appeared beyond the trees just in front of her. The sun was still rising, but the group of tables and people on the other side of the clearing was unmistakable.
Her nerves were as tight as a stretched rubber band as Max started across the field. It was out of place and neatly mowed so she guessed it must have belonged to the people who owned Emerald Valley. She was half way across, maybe 100 feet, when they started to notice her.
She felt a sudden urge to turn and run back the way she had come, but then she thought of being tied to that tree, running through the dark, being absolutely sure she was going to die. All of those things were her own fault — they’d come about due to her decisions. She was ready to change. She wanted to change. She needed to change. It was no longer an option to remain who she was.
In the cab she had been checking her arm constantly, where it had touched the electrified fence, but no mark had appeared, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she was sober, perhaps she would have assumed that the whole thing was a dream. But the cash was real, and the echo of fear in her stomach was pretty fucking hard to ignore.
It wasn’t clear what was down in Emerald Valley, but the rumours made it out to be some kind of farm. No electricity, no phones, no slimy capitalism fingers on the tablecloth. Max couldn’t help but think it was perhaps where she was supposed to go, where she was supposed to be — at least for the ‘right-now’.
The truth was, she felt hopeful. Perhaps ‘saved’ was something she might soon well be.
The pines were thick on either side of her and the path was crumbling and overgrown to a level of inconvenience. Max figured this was from disuse, but it also seemed to be a good ‘fence’ for Emerald Valley — something to keep people out; to keep the secret.
After half an hour of stumbling along the uneven path Max was ready to give up, but just as she felt the urge to turn back, a clearing appeared beyond the trees just in front of her. The sun was still rising, but the group of tables and people on the other side of the clearing was unmistakable.
Her nerves were as tight as a stretched rubber band as Max started across the field. It was out of place and neatly mowed so she guessed it must have belonged to the people who owned Emerald Valley. She was half way across, maybe 100 feet, when they started to notice her.
She felt a sudden urge to turn and run back the way she had come, but then she thought of being tied to that tree, running through the dark, being absolutely sure she was going to die. All of those things were her own fault — they’d come about due to her decisions. She was ready to change. She wanted to change. She needed to change. It was no longer an option to remain who she was.
As she got closer to the tables she could see clusters of people sitting and
staring at her. Some of them whispered, some pointed. She saw women pull
small children close to them, and men standing up from the tables, straight
and tall. Max was beyond nervous, but she knew she was here for a reason
and there was no turning back with all of their eyes on her.
As she made it to the tables, which sat just in front of another line of trees, one of the men who was standing started moving towards her. Max probably wouldn’t have noticed him, except that he was wearing a button-through shirt. It was blood-red. As he got closer she could see it was embroidered in thread with an array of black flowers down each arm from the shoulders and also onto his chest.
He didn’t get too close and his hands were in the pockets of his jeans, but his smile was pleasant and his voice was welcoming. “Well hello there, sweet girl.”
“Hi,” Max managed, despite her pumping heart.
“Not often we see a new face out here. Might I ask where you came from.”
Holding her bag tight against her thigh, Max bit her lip. “One of the towns on the other side of the mountains. I...I heard about this place — your place. I just...”
His smile didn’t falter. “You’re looking for something, yes?” Max nodded.
As she made it to the tables, which sat just in front of another line of trees, one of the men who was standing started moving towards her. Max probably wouldn’t have noticed him, except that he was wearing a button-through shirt. It was blood-red. As he got closer she could see it was embroidered in thread with an array of black flowers down each arm from the shoulders and also onto his chest.
He didn’t get too close and his hands were in the pockets of his jeans, but his smile was pleasant and his voice was welcoming. “Well hello there, sweet girl.”
“Hi,” Max managed, despite her pumping heart.
“Not often we see a new face out here. Might I ask where you came from.”
Holding her bag tight against her thigh, Max bit her lip. “One of the towns on the other side of the mountains. I...I heard about this place — your place. I just...”
His smile didn’t falter. “You’re looking for something, yes?” Max nodded.
“Hmmm.” His voice was soft. “There’s plenty to find out here.”
He was only a half a foot taller than her and thin; sinewy. His hair was combed back and his beard and mustache were neat and well-maintained. He was handsome; he was confident.
He beckoned her over and Max couldn’t help herself.
“I’m Michael,” he said, holding out his hand.
She took it. “Max. I’m sorry to just show up like this.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. You came this far — you deserve a chance. Not to mention we have far too much potato salad as it is,” he winked.
His hand was warm and strong. He was taller than he had first appeared, and his dark eyes sparkled, and despite the morning sun, Max felt like she was on the edge of dusk. She wanted for her hand to be in his forever.
The people of Emerald Valley were smiling at her now. They seemed to have relaxed when ‘Michael’ approved of her presence, and the closest table shuffled to make space for her. A bowl full of potato salad and a ham sandwich later, Max was listening to Michael tell stories of redemption and new life and the Lord’s inevitable vindication against the Devil. More people had gathered around their table and all of them were hanging on his every word.
“Not everyone wants to be like us — pure and God-fearing and true to The Word. That’s why we stay hidden down here.”
“True to The Word!” a woman at their table cried out.
“True to The Word,” Michael repeated with a nod. “They force us to hide from their lies and it makes me so sad.”
He was only a half a foot taller than her and thin; sinewy. His hair was combed back and his beard and mustache were neat and well-maintained. He was handsome; he was confident.
He beckoned her over and Max couldn’t help herself.
“I’m Michael,” he said, holding out his hand.
She took it. “Max. I’m sorry to just show up like this.”
“Nothing to be sorry for. You came this far — you deserve a chance. Not to mention we have far too much potato salad as it is,” he winked.
His hand was warm and strong. He was taller than he had first appeared, and his dark eyes sparkled, and despite the morning sun, Max felt like she was on the edge of dusk. She wanted for her hand to be in his forever.
The people of Emerald Valley were smiling at her now. They seemed to have relaxed when ‘Michael’ approved of her presence, and the closest table shuffled to make space for her. A bowl full of potato salad and a ham sandwich later, Max was listening to Michael tell stories of redemption and new life and the Lord’s inevitable vindication against the Devil. More people had gathered around their table and all of them were hanging on his every word.
“Not everyone wants to be like us — pure and God-fearing and true to The Word. That’s why we stay hidden down here.”
“True to The Word!” a woman at their table cried out.
“True to The Word,” Michael repeated with a nod. “They force us to hide from their lies and it makes me so sad.”
“Don’t be sad, Mr Michael,” called a young man from the crowd.
“Oh, but Christopher, I can’t help my sadness when I think about how many people we can’t reach, due to our isolation.”
The crowd agreed — in shouts and tears.
Michael held up his hands to silence them. “Today though, Max has arrived — and for that we should be so very thankful. Let us give thanks for Max!”
The crowd raised their hands to the sky and cried out. Some of the women clutched at their hearts and a few of the men fell to their knees.
Michael, who was sitting right next to Max, took her hand again in his own and it was warm and sturdy, and with her belly full of potato salad and bread and ham, she felt the urge to curl into him and stay there forever.
“We will show Max the way,” he said. “We will guide her towards the light and free her from the demons that bind her to this sinful earth. In turn, we will all learn from Max. Let us give thanks for Max!” he said again, and the crowd erupted into hoots and clapping and a flurry of hurried prayer.
***
When Max woke, it was to the sound of a rooster, but far off. Her face was against the cool ground. It was uncomfortable and she felt rocks against her cheek, her arm, and her hip. She made to sit up but immediately something felt wrong.
“Oh, but Christopher, I can’t help my sadness when I think about how many people we can’t reach, due to our isolation.”
The crowd agreed — in shouts and tears.
Michael held up his hands to silence them. “Today though, Max has arrived — and for that we should be so very thankful. Let us give thanks for Max!”
The crowd raised their hands to the sky and cried out. Some of the women clutched at their hearts and a few of the men fell to their knees.
Michael, who was sitting right next to Max, took her hand again in his own and it was warm and sturdy, and with her belly full of potato salad and bread and ham, she felt the urge to curl into him and stay there forever.
“We will show Max the way,” he said. “We will guide her towards the light and free her from the demons that bind her to this sinful earth. In turn, we will all learn from Max. Let us give thanks for Max!” he said again, and the crowd erupted into hoots and clapping and a flurry of hurried prayer.
***
When Max woke, it was to the sound of a rooster, but far off. Her face was against the cool ground. It was uncomfortable and she felt rocks against her cheek, her arm, and her hip. She made to sit up but immediately something felt wrong.
Her hands were tethered — no, chained — and her shoes had been
removed. She felt wet grass against her legs and the tips of her toes. She
could just see the first light of the sun; it was barely even broaching the dawn.
Max pulled herself closer to the loop of metal that was cemented into the ground next to her — the loop through which her chain was threaded. She pulled on it. It didn’t give. She hadn’t expected anything else.
A voice from behind her broke the silence. “You need to learn, Max.”
She turned around to see Michael in a dark green button-through. “Why am I chained up? And learn what, exactly?” she asked.
He didn’t answer her first question. “What you came here to learn.” “Enlighten me then, fuckhead.”
“You’re being rude, and there’s no need for that.”
Max couldn’t tell if she was dreaming or having an epiphany — both seemed equally unlikely.
Michael came towards her and knelt down close. “Whoso diggith a pit shall fall therin: and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him.”
Max tried to shrink away from him but the chains only gave her a little range. “I think I change my mind,” she said. “I think I want to go home now.”
He laughed quietly. “But then, sweet girl, how will you learn?”
Sweet girl. Max couldn’t but think that people were getting her all wrong of late.
Max pulled herself closer to the loop of metal that was cemented into the ground next to her — the loop through which her chain was threaded. She pulled on it. It didn’t give. She hadn’t expected anything else.
A voice from behind her broke the silence. “You need to learn, Max.”
She turned around to see Michael in a dark green button-through. “Why am I chained up? And learn what, exactly?” she asked.
He didn’t answer her first question. “What you came here to learn.” “Enlighten me then, fuckhead.”
“You’re being rude, and there’s no need for that.”
Max couldn’t tell if she was dreaming or having an epiphany — both seemed equally unlikely.
Michael came towards her and knelt down close. “Whoso diggith a pit shall fall therin: and he that rolleth a stone, it will return upon him.”
Max tried to shrink away from him but the chains only gave her a little range. “I think I change my mind,” she said. “I think I want to go home now.”
He laughed quietly. “But then, sweet girl, how will you learn?”
Sweet girl. Max couldn’t but think that people were getting her all wrong of late.
She looked around — they were in the middle of the field — even if she
could get free it was a long way to run to even get to the edge of the trees
she’d come out of yesterday.
He stood again and circled her, watching, as if she were prey (which at that point she pretty much was), and Max saw the large cross that was embroidered onto his shirt.
“You came here to confess to me, Max,” he said, watching her from the corner of his eye.
She heard him, but ignored the question, choosing instead to wonder if he’d disposed of her bag, and most importantly, her phone. She was guessing the cops probably had eyes on this place at least some of the time.
“Please pay attention Max. This is important. I’ll ask again — what is it that you came here to confess?”
The field lightened with the sun and Max could now see the tables where they’d sat yesterday and had potato salad. Those fuckers must have put something in her serve — the plan all along to bring her out here and chain her to the ground like an animal. Make her confess.
The crack and the sting as the switch made contact with her back was like fire on her skin.
Max pitched forward into the ground and it was too late — warm piss was on her thighs and soaking into the now dirty dress. The switch felt just like the electrified fence. The switch was the fence.
She looked up through the beginnings of tears and saw him holding it in front of him now. Proud. The motherfucker was proud of hitting. And from afar — the coward.
He stood again and circled her, watching, as if she were prey (which at that point she pretty much was), and Max saw the large cross that was embroidered onto his shirt.
“You came here to confess to me, Max,” he said, watching her from the corner of his eye.
She heard him, but ignored the question, choosing instead to wonder if he’d disposed of her bag, and most importantly, her phone. She was guessing the cops probably had eyes on this place at least some of the time.
“Please pay attention Max. This is important. I’ll ask again — what is it that you came here to confess?”
The field lightened with the sun and Max could now see the tables where they’d sat yesterday and had potato salad. Those fuckers must have put something in her serve — the plan all along to bring her out here and chain her to the ground like an animal. Make her confess.
The crack and the sting as the switch made contact with her back was like fire on her skin.
Max pitched forward into the ground and it was too late — warm piss was on her thighs and soaking into the now dirty dress. The switch felt just like the electrified fence. The switch was the fence.
She looked up through the beginnings of tears and saw him holding it in front of him now. Proud. The motherfucker was proud of hitting. And from afar — the coward.
Cunt, she thought in her mind, hoping God couldn’t hear her.
He ran the thin piece of tree wood through his fingers and he was absolutely calm. Nothing about this situation was new to him. “That was just one to get you started,” he smiled.
A few times in the past Max had wondered if her life was too slow, too boring, too much of a non-event. She had found excitement in casual sex and saying yes to things she shouldn’t have said yes to. This time — she’d really fucked up. This time was the second in as many days she had ended up tethered to something.
Her life was not boring enough.
Michael smoothed his hair back and continued walking around her in a circle, fingering the switch. “Now, are you ready to tell me what you came here to tell me?”
Max was torn — she had to say something, but the truth, or a lie? She watched him like a hawk and kept herself braced for the next swat which she figured would be inevitable. “I’m a whore. It got me into trouble last night. Actual, legitimate trouble.” She had surprised herself. Apparently it was going to be the truth.
Michael stopped still, pondered a moment, nodded his head, and continued on his circle around her again. “So...you are a filthy, sinful girl, without self control?”
She nodded, “I guess so.”
“The rod and reproof give wisdom: but a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame.”
He ran the thin piece of tree wood through his fingers and he was absolutely calm. Nothing about this situation was new to him. “That was just one to get you started,” he smiled.
A few times in the past Max had wondered if her life was too slow, too boring, too much of a non-event. She had found excitement in casual sex and saying yes to things she shouldn’t have said yes to. This time — she’d really fucked up. This time was the second in as many days she had ended up tethered to something.
Her life was not boring enough.
Michael smoothed his hair back and continued walking around her in a circle, fingering the switch. “Now, are you ready to tell me what you came here to tell me?”
Max was torn — she had to say something, but the truth, or a lie? She watched him like a hawk and kept herself braced for the next swat which she figured would be inevitable. “I’m a whore. It got me into trouble last night. Actual, legitimate trouble.” She had surprised herself. Apparently it was going to be the truth.
Michael stopped still, pondered a moment, nodded his head, and continued on his circle around her again. “So...you are a filthy, sinful girl, without self control?”
She nodded, “I guess so.”
“The rod and reproof give wisdom: but a child left to himself bringeth his mother to shame.”
Max didn’t want another, but she could feel it building and assumed that
was his intention. She tried her best to thwart it. “I understand though. Now
I understand. I was doing the wrong thing.”
He cocked his head and smiled down at her as the sun started to rise behind him. “You have begun to understand, sweet girl.”
“Don’t call me that!” she spat, before she could stop herself.
The second swat was harder, lower on her back and this time Max cried out. She crawled in the dirt, trying to get away from him but it was no use with the chains — he continued to circle her, slowly.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, maintaining his calm. “I just want to help you learn, and it’s stripe for stripe.”
Max couldn’t summon words — she was thinking about the third — she knew it was going to be worse.
Michael tutted as he circled her. The crickets chirped around them and she wiped her eyes with the back of one of her chained hands. She thought of Charlotte and Charlotte’s husband, and it seemed like a dream. They had been doing evil things, at least at the start, and here was Max, at the hands of a ‘Man of God’, and it was as if it was just the same thing.
She felt like her grip was slipping.
Michael circled her slowly, relentlessly. “He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.”
Max started crying. She was sorry for how she was, but coming to Emerald Valley was a mistake a hundred times worse than anything she’d done in the past.
He cocked his head and smiled down at her as the sun started to rise behind him. “You have begun to understand, sweet girl.”
“Don’t call me that!” she spat, before she could stop herself.
The second swat was harder, lower on her back and this time Max cried out. She crawled in the dirt, trying to get away from him but it was no use with the chains — he continued to circle her, slowly.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, maintaining his calm. “I just want to help you learn, and it’s stripe for stripe.”
Max couldn’t summon words — she was thinking about the third — she knew it was going to be worse.
Michael tutted as he circled her. The crickets chirped around them and she wiped her eyes with the back of one of her chained hands. She thought of Charlotte and Charlotte’s husband, and it seemed like a dream. They had been doing evil things, at least at the start, and here was Max, at the hands of a ‘Man of God’, and it was as if it was just the same thing.
She felt like her grip was slipping.
Michael circled her slowly, relentlessly. “He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.”
Max started crying. She was sorry for how she was, but coming to Emerald Valley was a mistake a hundred times worse than anything she’d done in the past.
And as if he read her mind, Michael said, “There’s something bad inside of
you Max, and we’re going to get it out, even if it takes a hundred with the
switch.”
She trembled and looked up at him, but he never got to the third.
The shot echoed across the field and Michael hit the ground before Max
even saw the blood that had sprayed out onto her dress. Charlotte’s dress.
Birds in the trees squawked and flew up into the air following the piercing noise, and Max looked around, but she couldn’t tell where the shot had come from. She scrambled towards Michael who was face down in the grass and bleeding out next to his hateful switch. Her chain wasn’t long enough to reach him and she started to panic.
She pulled on the chain. She kicked the cemented metal loop in the ground. She started to cry. She stunk of piss and sweat and dirt.
Then she noticed a figure coming across the field — straight for her.
“Fuck,” she said, to herself. She pulled harder on the chain and the figure got closer and closer. Her wrists had started to bleed but her adrenaline was keeping the pain at bay (not that she knew that). Eventually she gave up and curled into a ball, hiding her face and holding onto the metal loop in the ground.
“Hey.” It was a male voice — soft and not too close. Max didn’t look up.
“Hey, little lady? You okay?”
Max still couldn’t bring herself to look up, she only curled tighter in on herself, blocking out everything she possibly could.
She trembled and looked up at him, but he never got to the third.
The shot echoed across the field and Michael hit the ground before Max
even saw the blood that had sprayed out onto her dress. Charlotte’s dress.
Birds in the trees squawked and flew up into the air following the piercing noise, and Max looked around, but she couldn’t tell where the shot had come from. She scrambled towards Michael who was face down in the grass and bleeding out next to his hateful switch. Her chain wasn’t long enough to reach him and she started to panic.
She pulled on the chain. She kicked the cemented metal loop in the ground. She started to cry. She stunk of piss and sweat and dirt.
Then she noticed a figure coming across the field — straight for her.
“Fuck,” she said, to herself. She pulled harder on the chain and the figure got closer and closer. Her wrists had started to bleed but her adrenaline was keeping the pain at bay (not that she knew that). Eventually she gave up and curled into a ball, hiding her face and holding onto the metal loop in the ground.
“Hey.” It was a male voice — soft and not too close. Max didn’t look up.
“Hey, little lady? You okay?”
Max still couldn’t bring herself to look up, she only curled tighter in on herself, blocking out everything she possibly could.
“I’m sorry if I scared you just now,” the soft voice said. “Just...that guy...Michael...he’s done some pretty bad things to my wife. I just figured it was
time someone put him in his place.”
Max uncurled herself a little and looked up.
She saw that the voice belonged to an older guy, maybe sixty, sixty-five, and there were tears running down his cheeks.
“Okay if I come closer, little lady?” he asked, putting his rifle down onto the grass and eyeing the face-down Michael.
Max nodded.
The old guy tentatively approached the body, and after deciding that his shot had done the job, he turned back to Max. “This piece of trash got the key for your there chains?”
Max shrugged and wished there wasn’t a huge piss-stain on her pale blue dress.
The old guy rolled Michael over and started searching his pockets, quickly finding a large loop of keys and then carefully approaching Max.
She couldn’t help but pull back a little — the last few days had sucked her dry of faith in other people.
“I know you’re scared little lady, but I ain’t got nothin’ to do with this God-awful place. No pun intended, o’course,” he smiled.
Max noticed he hadn’t once looked at the stain on her dress, but he had glanced down at her bloody wrists...
Max uncurled herself a little and looked up.
She saw that the voice belonged to an older guy, maybe sixty, sixty-five, and there were tears running down his cheeks.
“Okay if I come closer, little lady?” he asked, putting his rifle down onto the grass and eyeing the face-down Michael.
Max nodded.
The old guy tentatively approached the body, and after deciding that his shot had done the job, he turned back to Max. “This piece of trash got the key for your there chains?”
Max shrugged and wished there wasn’t a huge piss-stain on her pale blue dress.
The old guy rolled Michael over and started searching his pockets, quickly finding a large loop of keys and then carefully approaching Max.
She couldn’t help but pull back a little — the last few days had sucked her dry of faith in other people.
“I know you’re scared little lady, but I ain’t got nothin’ to do with this God-awful place. No pun intended, o’course,” he smiled.
Max noticed he hadn’t once looked at the stain on her dress, but he had glanced down at her bloody wrists...
Everything she had left drained from her head and without meaning to,
Max felt herself falling backwards, as if there was nothing behind her.
When she woke again, she was in the arms of the old guy and he was carrying her across the field. The sun was bright and high above them and his arms were strong and tight around her. He smelled of soil and potatoes and aftershave.
Each step bumped her up against his chest and Max cried, her wet tears leaving dark marks on his clean white shirt.
***
Romans 5:8
But God commendeth his love towards us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.
When she woke again, she was in the arms of the old guy and he was carrying her across the field. The sun was bright and high above them and his arms were strong and tight around her. He smelled of soil and potatoes and aftershave.
Each step bumped her up against his chest and Max cried, her wet tears leaving dark marks on his clean white shirt.
***
Romans 5:8
But God commendeth his love towards us, in that, while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.
Wednesday, November 11, 2015
The Grass
It is wide and green — lush; utterly terrifying.
“Daddy!” I call, but he doesn’t hear me. He’s lifting Milly over the soft green grass and helping her to land easily down next to him. They’ve made it beyond the awful layer of bright emerald which I know is littered with prickles underneath that top layer of lies. They — all of those prickles and barbs — are hidden. They’re close to the ground, down where I cannot see, but I know they’re there. Those evil spikes, just waiting for the soft pad of my foot to press down into their trap.
“We don’t have time for this!” Daddy shouts from the other side.
If we don’t have time, why did you leave me behind?
“Come on, quickly now Merry!” he says, motioning me over the grass towards them, with Milly’s hand still in his.
My hand used to be in his. He used to lift me high, far up above the terrible grass and bring me down to a soft landing on the other side.
The Other Side…
I’m at an impasse. I want to crouch and urinate. I want to cry. My dirty hoody is pulled down tight around my face and my sneakers are still an inch from the line of green that keeps me from The Other Side.
“Merry.” He’s serious now. He says my name like it isn’t a name. I shake my head in my hoody and I don’t budge.
“Merry! We’re going to be late.” Daddy is angry now, and all I want to do is get over this green mine-field and be safe right next to him and Milly. But they are down there — the traps. He doesn’t understand.
He lifted Milly.
He used to lift me.
***
“The bus will be here in five minutes Merry!” Daddy calls from the living room.
I know I’m late but my hair is doing that stupid curly thing that it does when it rains. The hem of my school skirt seems way too long and I have no intention of eating breakfast before I leave. I know I’ll be fine to make it to the bus before it leaves.
Just as I’m coming out into the living room, wondering why Daddy can’t drive me today, I see him on the couch with Milly curled into his side.
He sees me eyeing the two of them. “She’s sick. Don’t be late, okay?”
I nod, but I can feel bile at the back of my throat. I’m mad and I notice there’s no lunch bag on the kitchen table beyond them.
“Lunch?”
Daddy shrugs, “Don’t they have a caf at your school?”
The answer is yes but I don’t give it to him. Milly is falling asleep against Daddy and I am jealous, far more so that I ever thought I was capable of. I want to stay home. I don’t want to go to school. I don’t want to go to the caf. I want to stay with Daddy.
I watch as he holds a finger to his lips — silence.
My backpack pulling my shoulders down, I am met with that foe again — emerald green and stretching further than I could ever, possibly manage.
“Fuck.” I say the word but I don’t know what it means. I know it’s bad — Daddy said I should never, ever say it — but I feel like right now it is something I should say. There is no one around so no one hears me. I say it again. “Fuck.”
I don’t want to go to school but the bus is pulling up and the grass stands between us. “Fuck,” I say, again. It sounds momentous. And yet…
It doesn’t help me cross that awful green sea.
I’m wearing my lace-up school shoes which are seemingly impervious to the horrors that lie beneath the grass, and yet…
I cannot cross it.
The bus pulls away and I am stuck where I am, on the other side of the grass.
The Other Side.
***
I can feel the damp earth underneath the grass — it’s seeping moisture into the skin of my knees and lower legs where I am kneeling. The soft green blades are pressing criss-crossed patterns into my shins and the thick, splintering pole scratches against my inner thighs.
“Daddy?”
I don’t hear him respond, but I can feel my hands above my head and when I try to move them, the rusted chain scrapes against the ring — I look up and it’s a foot above my head, nailed into the wooden pole.
I’m hungry. Thirsty. There’s a pain from my lower back right down to my tailbone and then further.
There’s an ache in the pit of my stomach.
I look down again and my forehead catches on the rough wooden pole. I see a jagged triangle of blood on my dress between my thighs. It fills the space — it should be clean cotton, dotted with yellow flowers, but it’s not. It’s dirty brown-red and it smells.
It reeks.
I feel the need to call out for him again.
“Daddy?”
I hear movement above me as Daddy and Milly prepare for dinner. I want to cry. The blood is slick against my thighs and I know what this is, only because the other girls talk about it. I know what this is.
I'm quiet, because there’s almost no point in saying it out loud. “Daddy.”
I want to say — I need you Daddy.
I want to plead — Come help me Daddy.
I want to beg — Please save me Daddy.
A stab of pain underneath my belly button makes me spasm without warning and a sharp piece of wood from the pole embeds itself in my thigh. I groan. I am a wounded animal.
“Daddy?” and now it is no more than a whisper. I can smell onion and garlic and tomato and herbs.
This is when the sin starts.
I’d heard him say it before but I never knew quite what he meant.
But now —
He knows what it is.
And, with my knees still in the grass, I know what it is.
I’m on The Other Side.
“Daddy!” I call, but he doesn’t hear me. He’s lifting Milly over the soft green grass and helping her to land easily down next to him. They’ve made it beyond the awful layer of bright emerald which I know is littered with prickles underneath that top layer of lies. They — all of those prickles and barbs — are hidden. They’re close to the ground, down where I cannot see, but I know they’re there. Those evil spikes, just waiting for the soft pad of my foot to press down into their trap.
“We don’t have time for this!” Daddy shouts from the other side.
If we don’t have time, why did you leave me behind?
“Come on, quickly now Merry!” he says, motioning me over the grass towards them, with Milly’s hand still in his.
My hand used to be in his. He used to lift me high, far up above the terrible grass and bring me down to a soft landing on the other side.
The Other Side…
I’m at an impasse. I want to crouch and urinate. I want to cry. My dirty hoody is pulled down tight around my face and my sneakers are still an inch from the line of green that keeps me from The Other Side.
“Merry.” He’s serious now. He says my name like it isn’t a name. I shake my head in my hoody and I don’t budge.
“Merry! We’re going to be late.” Daddy is angry now, and all I want to do is get over this green mine-field and be safe right next to him and Milly. But they are down there — the traps. He doesn’t understand.
He lifted Milly.
He used to lift me.
***
“The bus will be here in five minutes Merry!” Daddy calls from the living room.
I know I’m late but my hair is doing that stupid curly thing that it does when it rains. The hem of my school skirt seems way too long and I have no intention of eating breakfast before I leave. I know I’ll be fine to make it to the bus before it leaves.
Just as I’m coming out into the living room, wondering why Daddy can’t drive me today, I see him on the couch with Milly curled into his side.
He sees me eyeing the two of them. “She’s sick. Don’t be late, okay?”
I nod, but I can feel bile at the back of my throat. I’m mad and I notice there’s no lunch bag on the kitchen table beyond them.
“Lunch?”
Daddy shrugs, “Don’t they have a caf at your school?”
The answer is yes but I don’t give it to him. Milly is falling asleep against Daddy and I am jealous, far more so that I ever thought I was capable of. I want to stay home. I don’t want to go to school. I don’t want to go to the caf. I want to stay with Daddy.
I watch as he holds a finger to his lips — silence.
My backpack pulling my shoulders down, I am met with that foe again — emerald green and stretching further than I could ever, possibly manage.
“Fuck.” I say the word but I don’t know what it means. I know it’s bad — Daddy said I should never, ever say it — but I feel like right now it is something I should say. There is no one around so no one hears me. I say it again. “Fuck.”
I don’t want to go to school but the bus is pulling up and the grass stands between us. “Fuck,” I say, again. It sounds momentous. And yet…
It doesn’t help me cross that awful green sea.
I’m wearing my lace-up school shoes which are seemingly impervious to the horrors that lie beneath the grass, and yet…
I cannot cross it.
The bus pulls away and I am stuck where I am, on the other side of the grass.
The Other Side.
***
I can feel the damp earth underneath the grass — it’s seeping moisture into the skin of my knees and lower legs where I am kneeling. The soft green blades are pressing criss-crossed patterns into my shins and the thick, splintering pole scratches against my inner thighs.
“Daddy?”
I don’t hear him respond, but I can feel my hands above my head and when I try to move them, the rusted chain scrapes against the ring — I look up and it’s a foot above my head, nailed into the wooden pole.
I’m hungry. Thirsty. There’s a pain from my lower back right down to my tailbone and then further.
There’s an ache in the pit of my stomach.
I look down again and my forehead catches on the rough wooden pole. I see a jagged triangle of blood on my dress between my thighs. It fills the space — it should be clean cotton, dotted with yellow flowers, but it’s not. It’s dirty brown-red and it smells.
It reeks.
I feel the need to call out for him again.
“Daddy?”
I hear movement above me as Daddy and Milly prepare for dinner. I want to cry. The blood is slick against my thighs and I know what this is, only because the other girls talk about it. I know what this is.
I'm quiet, because there’s almost no point in saying it out loud. “Daddy.”
I want to say — I need you Daddy.
I want to plead — Come help me Daddy.
I want to beg — Please save me Daddy.
A stab of pain underneath my belly button makes me spasm without warning and a sharp piece of wood from the pole embeds itself in my thigh. I groan. I am a wounded animal.
“Daddy?” and now it is no more than a whisper. I can smell onion and garlic and tomato and herbs.
This is when the sin starts.
I’d heard him say it before but I never knew quite what he meant.
But now —
He knows what it is.
And, with my knees still in the grass, I know what it is.
I’m on The Other Side.
Thursday, September 10, 2015
Self Preservation: Volume II -- The Last Girl
Self Preservation: Volume II — The Last Girl
She’d screamed herself hoarse against the tree hours ago, and as the woman in the spotted yellow dress knelt beside her and whispered in her ear, Max wanted to say something, anything, but no words came out. She only heard her own wild heartbeat in her ears and that single line…
Best run now.
Max looked up and saw the man watching them from the porch, then she turned and ran into the thicket of trees and darkness behind the house.
***
More than twelve hours ago, Max had been waking up (sans clothes) in some guy’s bed. Though he was more of a boy than anything else. His housemate had joined in, and Max hadn’t exactly said no, despite her better judgement. Jesus, it had only been Tuesday night and the guy, the boy, had only barely hit on her as she poured him a pitcher of beer and handed over his change. A proposition here, a wink there, and it had turned out to be just one more time that she couldn’t help herself. Sure it had been fun — fun, scary, irresponsible, shameful — all of the above. How many times can you really wash it all away? How many times can you really wish it all away?
Max had dressed quickly and quietly, running her eyes one last time over the housemate and his impressive collection of tattoos before she slipped out the door and tried to remember where she was. Her phone was dead so she couldn’t check, but they hadn’t walked far from the bar last night, so she figured she must have still been downtown. Sure enough, a few minutes later she recognised some streets and the smell of fresh beans drew her to a tiny coffee shop brimming with early-morning cyclists on the corner of a quiet side street.
She ordered a tall latte and a bagel, but felt hot embarrassment when she realised she didn’t have enough money. The barista looked sympathetic as she cancelled the bagel and took a spare table amongst the lycra-clad hoards to wait for her coffee.
For a while Max drifted in a hazy daydream of the previous night. She was well aware of her weaknesses, of her shitty life decisions, of her D-rate job, and how much she liked her filthy existence. She was well aware of how awful all of that made her feel.
A soft voice eventually snapped her alert again.
“Is this seat free?”
Max looked up at a slim, dark haired woman in a beautifully tailored, deep purple pants suit. The slacks were long, almost completely covering her heels, and the jacket buttoned low on her chest, revealing just the right amount of skin. Max didn’t realise she hadn’t responded.
“Are you okay dear?” the woman asked, a worried look in her perfectly black-lined eyes.
Max fumbled for words, “Sorry. I’m…sorry, I just had a bit of a long night.”
The woman sat down and smiled, “Not to be rude, but I noticed your predicament at the register…I hope you don’t mind.” She slid a bagel wrapped in cling film across the table.
Max felt herself blush again, “Oh. Hm, thank you. That’s incredibly kind.”
“Don’t worry, it’s completely selfish,” the woman smiled broadly and rolled her eyes like a child, “every good deed is repaid in kind.”
The barista arrived with Max’s tall latte and a long black for the woman in purple. Once he left, Miss Purple put out a hand, “I’m Charlotte by the way.”
“Max. Thanks for the bagel.”
“You’re very welcome. Should we stay a while? Maybe wait until these overachievers have departed?” Miss Purple — Charlotte — gestured around at the cyclists.
Max could not stop her smile, “Sounds good.”
***
In the darkness she couldn’t see the fallen tree branches and broken logs that scratched her legs and tripped her up. Max ran without thinking, without a plan, without food in her belly except for the bagel — she just ran, for once.
Max didn’t run. She didn’t run for the train. She didn’t run for a cab. She didn’t run in high school for the track team. She didn’t run for the fire bell. She didn’t run for flight SF57 when it left her behind in Canada on a Sunday morning. Max didn’t run. But with her wrists trailing rope behind her, and her borrowed shoes soaking up wet mud between the trees, Max ran.
She ran until she couldn’t anymore and then she crouched and pressed her back up against a large tree, shielding herself from the light of the house. Her back and the inside of her arms were scratched up to shit from being tied to the tree, and the skin on her wrists was red-raw from the rope. Max tried to breath, tried to calm down, tried to listen for what was going on….
What was going on?
A rustle off to her left made her start. Max got on her haunches, ready to run again, but there was only quiet again. She waited; a loaded spring. There was a crack behind her, maybe to the left again, and then, another rustle to her right, but further away behind her. It was, perhaps, the moment she had been waiting for…
“My sweet girl, did you think you could hide from me?”
His voice echoed out clearly between the trees, and Max felt her blood turn cold in her veins.
“My sweet girl. You are my gift, and I love always love my gifts. Be a good girl and come back to where I can unwrap you.”
Max pushed off from the ground and sprinted through the darkness in a direction she hoped was away from the voice and away from the man it was coming from.
***
When the cyclists had dispersed, a lovely, quiet tent seemed to settle down on the coffee shop, and Charlotte crossed one leg over the other. “Max. God, I’m so glad for company today. Please don’t take me at face value — I come from no money. I married into money.”
Max looked down into her coffee, from which she’d removed the plastic lid, and gave a small smile. She felt an uncomfortable envy.
“Honestly,” Charlotte implored, “I’m a hood rat. My mother had twelve other children. None of us know who our father is.”
Max looked up, “You’re trying to relate to me? — You married a CEO of whatever, and you think you understand what my life is like?”, she said, feeling herself becoming angry and regretful and depressed.
“No, sweet girl, I am merely trying to graciously offer a hand to a girl who is seeing days that I have already seen myself. No condescension, no eye for eye, no payback. I was down there for a long time. I don’t want you to be.”
Max felt a truth being pulled from her; thin, and slippery, and draining.
***
“My sweet girl, where are you hiding?”
Max felt herself shivering against the cold earth and somehow wished she was back at that boy’s house, with his gorgeous housemate, and her poor life choices.
He was closer now, “Oh sweet girl…you know I’ll find you.”
***
Charlotte sipped her long black, “It’s funny, but you really do look like me, you know.”
Max silently agreed. Their long dark hair, their thin fingers, their big eyes. The likeness wasn’t exact but it was noticeable and clearly something that had intrigued Charlotte.
“Max, when I said I wanted to offer a hand, I had something more than the bagel in mind I’m afraid. Would you like to hear my proposal?”
“What kind of proposal?” Max asked, confused.
“Mm, I’m afraid it may seem a little…unsavoury, to be honest.”
Max shrugged a yes and sipped her coffee while Charlotte explained.
“You see, my husband — I love him very much, but we’ve been married for an awfully long time. We’ve not grown tired of each other but we have become a little bored. Sometimes he prefers something different, but still kind of the same. Do you understand what I’m implying?”
Max did, and though she wasn’t offended, she was still confused, “There are women who provide that kind of service, I’m sure you’re aware?”
Charlotte sat quite straight in her seat and kept her voice low, discreet. “Oh, sweet girl. I am, of course. But my husband doesn’t like a professional touch, and it’s not often I can find a girl so…similar to myself.”
Max considered a moment, trying to ignore the itch she felt — that same itch that had nagged at her last night.
“I can pay. One thousand now, one thousand afterwards. Cash.” Charlotte caught Max’s eye and they were locked for what felt like a long time.
Looking back, Max could say for sure that it wasn’t the money that had convinced her.
***
Sweet girl. They’d both said it too many times.
Max felt adrenaline coursing through her as she rounded another huge tree trunk, wishing she wasn’t wearing the light blue dress that Charlotte had given her to change into. At least she had flat shoes — a very thin silver lining. What a massive mistake this had been. Just because she couldn’t help herself. Just because she was an awful whore, and not even a real one. Just because she could never say no even when she knew it was wrong.
She stopped, listened, heard leaves crunching behind her and ran in the opposite direction.
Right into a fence.
An electrified fence.
The skin of her arm and knee made contact with the wires, and the shock and the surprise sent her hurtling backwards a few feet. She fell in a heap on the damp ground. Max was still a moment, sinking down, her arm tingling.
His voice lanced through the ringing in her ears.
“They never expect the fence. Not even when they see it. But don’t worry sweet girl, you did very well to get this far.. You should be proud.”
Max was spinning, trying to sit up — the world seemed to be turning without her. She looked up at his face that was lit only by the moon. He was handsome, very handsome, and smiling in a way that made the whole situation seem impossible. He cocked his head and considered her.
“She did well this time. You’re very close the real thing. Even the dress fits perfectly.” As he said it his eyes went wide and the upper half of his body jerked forward slightly. There was a rustling from behind him and Charlotte, who was now dressed in a slim black suit similar to the purple one from the morning, slid around into view.
As Max watched, Charlotte buried the long, thin, blood-soaked knife in her husband’s stomach as she held her other hand against his face. Tears ran down her cheeks. She withdrew it and buried it again, and then again, and then again. More blood slipped from his lips and he didn’t manage to say anything at all as it ran down his chin and onto his shirt.
He was bigger than her, and the willowy woman had trouble getting him onto the ground with any kind of decorum.
“I’m sorry I ever brought you here,” Charlotte said as she crouched next to her husband in the damp. “I’m glad you were the last girl. Please forgive me. Your money and your shoes are on the bench in the kitchen. I’d appreciate it if you could forgive me and wipe this evening from your memory.”
Max stood, shaky and unsure — I’m glad you were the last girl. With one last look at the suit-clad Charlotte, cradling her husband’s head in her lap, still holding the knife in one hand, Max stumbled back through the darkness towards the house.
The door was open and she found her things on the bench, just as Charlotte had said. She peeled off the mud soaked flats and slipped on her converse, pocketing the wedge of cash. It looked like more than two thousand. With unsteady hands she picked up her bag and checked the contents — phone (now charged to 100%), keys, wallet, tampons. Her clothes were nowhere to be seen.
Still in Charlotte’s pale blue dress, Max left through the front door of the property and walked quickly to the end of the gravel drive. Dim lights on the front of the house flickered behind her, but she didn’t look back as she called a cab. She was headed home, but that wasn’t her final destination. She had already decided where she should go from here.
***
To be continued...
She’d screamed herself hoarse against the tree hours ago, and as the woman in the spotted yellow dress knelt beside her and whispered in her ear, Max wanted to say something, anything, but no words came out. She only heard her own wild heartbeat in her ears and that single line…
Best run now.
Max looked up and saw the man watching them from the porch, then she turned and ran into the thicket of trees and darkness behind the house.
***
More than twelve hours ago, Max had been waking up (sans clothes) in some guy’s bed. Though he was more of a boy than anything else. His housemate had joined in, and Max hadn’t exactly said no, despite her better judgement. Jesus, it had only been Tuesday night and the guy, the boy, had only barely hit on her as she poured him a pitcher of beer and handed over his change. A proposition here, a wink there, and it had turned out to be just one more time that she couldn’t help herself. Sure it had been fun — fun, scary, irresponsible, shameful — all of the above. How many times can you really wash it all away? How many times can you really wish it all away?
Max had dressed quickly and quietly, running her eyes one last time over the housemate and his impressive collection of tattoos before she slipped out the door and tried to remember where she was. Her phone was dead so she couldn’t check, but they hadn’t walked far from the bar last night, so she figured she must have still been downtown. Sure enough, a few minutes later she recognised some streets and the smell of fresh beans drew her to a tiny coffee shop brimming with early-morning cyclists on the corner of a quiet side street.
She ordered a tall latte and a bagel, but felt hot embarrassment when she realised she didn’t have enough money. The barista looked sympathetic as she cancelled the bagel and took a spare table amongst the lycra-clad hoards to wait for her coffee.
For a while Max drifted in a hazy daydream of the previous night. She was well aware of her weaknesses, of her shitty life decisions, of her D-rate job, and how much she liked her filthy existence. She was well aware of how awful all of that made her feel.
A soft voice eventually snapped her alert again.
“Is this seat free?”
Max looked up at a slim, dark haired woman in a beautifully tailored, deep purple pants suit. The slacks were long, almost completely covering her heels, and the jacket buttoned low on her chest, revealing just the right amount of skin. Max didn’t realise she hadn’t responded.
“Are you okay dear?” the woman asked, a worried look in her perfectly black-lined eyes.
Max fumbled for words, “Sorry. I’m…sorry, I just had a bit of a long night.”
The woman sat down and smiled, “Not to be rude, but I noticed your predicament at the register…I hope you don’t mind.” She slid a bagel wrapped in cling film across the table.
Max felt herself blush again, “Oh. Hm, thank you. That’s incredibly kind.”
“Don’t worry, it’s completely selfish,” the woman smiled broadly and rolled her eyes like a child, “every good deed is repaid in kind.”
The barista arrived with Max’s tall latte and a long black for the woman in purple. Once he left, Miss Purple put out a hand, “I’m Charlotte by the way.”
“Max. Thanks for the bagel.”
“You’re very welcome. Should we stay a while? Maybe wait until these overachievers have departed?” Miss Purple — Charlotte — gestured around at the cyclists.
Max could not stop her smile, “Sounds good.”
***
In the darkness she couldn’t see the fallen tree branches and broken logs that scratched her legs and tripped her up. Max ran without thinking, without a plan, without food in her belly except for the bagel — she just ran, for once.
Max didn’t run. She didn’t run for the train. She didn’t run for a cab. She didn’t run in high school for the track team. She didn’t run for the fire bell. She didn’t run for flight SF57 when it left her behind in Canada on a Sunday morning. Max didn’t run. But with her wrists trailing rope behind her, and her borrowed shoes soaking up wet mud between the trees, Max ran.
She ran until she couldn’t anymore and then she crouched and pressed her back up against a large tree, shielding herself from the light of the house. Her back and the inside of her arms were scratched up to shit from being tied to the tree, and the skin on her wrists was red-raw from the rope. Max tried to breath, tried to calm down, tried to listen for what was going on….
What was going on?
A rustle off to her left made her start. Max got on her haunches, ready to run again, but there was only quiet again. She waited; a loaded spring. There was a crack behind her, maybe to the left again, and then, another rustle to her right, but further away behind her. It was, perhaps, the moment she had been waiting for…
“My sweet girl, did you think you could hide from me?”
His voice echoed out clearly between the trees, and Max felt her blood turn cold in her veins.
“My sweet girl. You are my gift, and I love always love my gifts. Be a good girl and come back to where I can unwrap you.”
Max pushed off from the ground and sprinted through the darkness in a direction she hoped was away from the voice and away from the man it was coming from.
***
When the cyclists had dispersed, a lovely, quiet tent seemed to settle down on the coffee shop, and Charlotte crossed one leg over the other. “Max. God, I’m so glad for company today. Please don’t take me at face value — I come from no money. I married into money.”
Max looked down into her coffee, from which she’d removed the plastic lid, and gave a small smile. She felt an uncomfortable envy.
“Honestly,” Charlotte implored, “I’m a hood rat. My mother had twelve other children. None of us know who our father is.”
Max looked up, “You’re trying to relate to me? — You married a CEO of whatever, and you think you understand what my life is like?”, she said, feeling herself becoming angry and regretful and depressed.
“No, sweet girl, I am merely trying to graciously offer a hand to a girl who is seeing days that I have already seen myself. No condescension, no eye for eye, no payback. I was down there for a long time. I don’t want you to be.”
Max felt a truth being pulled from her; thin, and slippery, and draining.
***
“My sweet girl, where are you hiding?”
Max felt herself shivering against the cold earth and somehow wished she was back at that boy’s house, with his gorgeous housemate, and her poor life choices.
He was closer now, “Oh sweet girl…you know I’ll find you.”
***
Charlotte sipped her long black, “It’s funny, but you really do look like me, you know.”
Max silently agreed. Their long dark hair, their thin fingers, their big eyes. The likeness wasn’t exact but it was noticeable and clearly something that had intrigued Charlotte.
“Max, when I said I wanted to offer a hand, I had something more than the bagel in mind I’m afraid. Would you like to hear my proposal?”
“What kind of proposal?” Max asked, confused.
“Mm, I’m afraid it may seem a little…unsavoury, to be honest.”
Max shrugged a yes and sipped her coffee while Charlotte explained.
“You see, my husband — I love him very much, but we’ve been married for an awfully long time. We’ve not grown tired of each other but we have become a little bored. Sometimes he prefers something different, but still kind of the same. Do you understand what I’m implying?”
Max did, and though she wasn’t offended, she was still confused, “There are women who provide that kind of service, I’m sure you’re aware?”
Charlotte sat quite straight in her seat and kept her voice low, discreet. “Oh, sweet girl. I am, of course. But my husband doesn’t like a professional touch, and it’s not often I can find a girl so…similar to myself.”
Max considered a moment, trying to ignore the itch she felt — that same itch that had nagged at her last night.
“I can pay. One thousand now, one thousand afterwards. Cash.” Charlotte caught Max’s eye and they were locked for what felt like a long time.
Looking back, Max could say for sure that it wasn’t the money that had convinced her.
***
Sweet girl. They’d both said it too many times.
Max felt adrenaline coursing through her as she rounded another huge tree trunk, wishing she wasn’t wearing the light blue dress that Charlotte had given her to change into. At least she had flat shoes — a very thin silver lining. What a massive mistake this had been. Just because she couldn’t help herself. Just because she was an awful whore, and not even a real one. Just because she could never say no even when she knew it was wrong.
She stopped, listened, heard leaves crunching behind her and ran in the opposite direction.
Right into a fence.
An electrified fence.
The skin of her arm and knee made contact with the wires, and the shock and the surprise sent her hurtling backwards a few feet. She fell in a heap on the damp ground. Max was still a moment, sinking down, her arm tingling.
His voice lanced through the ringing in her ears.
“They never expect the fence. Not even when they see it. But don’t worry sweet girl, you did very well to get this far.. You should be proud.”
Max was spinning, trying to sit up — the world seemed to be turning without her. She looked up at his face that was lit only by the moon. He was handsome, very handsome, and smiling in a way that made the whole situation seem impossible. He cocked his head and considered her.
“She did well this time. You’re very close the real thing. Even the dress fits perfectly.” As he said it his eyes went wide and the upper half of his body jerked forward slightly. There was a rustling from behind him and Charlotte, who was now dressed in a slim black suit similar to the purple one from the morning, slid around into view.
As Max watched, Charlotte buried the long, thin, blood-soaked knife in her husband’s stomach as she held her other hand against his face. Tears ran down her cheeks. She withdrew it and buried it again, and then again, and then again. More blood slipped from his lips and he didn’t manage to say anything at all as it ran down his chin and onto his shirt.
He was bigger than her, and the willowy woman had trouble getting him onto the ground with any kind of decorum.
“I’m sorry I ever brought you here,” Charlotte said as she crouched next to her husband in the damp. “I’m glad you were the last girl. Please forgive me. Your money and your shoes are on the bench in the kitchen. I’d appreciate it if you could forgive me and wipe this evening from your memory.”
Max stood, shaky and unsure — I’m glad you were the last girl. With one last look at the suit-clad Charlotte, cradling her husband’s head in her lap, still holding the knife in one hand, Max stumbled back through the darkness towards the house.
The door was open and she found her things on the bench, just as Charlotte had said. She peeled off the mud soaked flats and slipped on her converse, pocketing the wedge of cash. It looked like more than two thousand. With unsteady hands she picked up her bag and checked the contents — phone (now charged to 100%), keys, wallet, tampons. Her clothes were nowhere to be seen.
Still in Charlotte’s pale blue dress, Max left through the front door of the property and walked quickly to the end of the gravel drive. Dim lights on the front of the house flickered behind her, but she didn’t look back as she called a cab. She was headed home, but that wasn’t her final destination. She had already decided where she should go from here.
***
To be continued...
Thursday, September 3, 2015
Imbrue
Imbrue
To whom do I belong?
I am marked, in this pit, and who is responsible
Who shall be held accountable
The pit, was I the one who dug it
Did I move the earth away and make a place
For myself to fall
Did you push me, or did I merely lean back
Into it
I am marked — with your bite; your stain; your ink; your honey.
In the darkness of the moon
I see nothing, all I feel
Is the mark
Though it be hidden in the shadow of
This pit
Where I find myself
I am marked and down here I will stay
Marked possession
Marked for the end
Marked for the pit
I dug it, empty until my fall and
Now, I am marked
I belong to you.
To whom do I belong?
I am marked, in this pit, and who is responsible
Who shall be held accountable
The pit, was I the one who dug it
Did I move the earth away and make a place
For myself to fall
Did you push me, or did I merely lean back
Into it
I am marked — with your bite; your stain; your ink; your honey.
In the darkness of the moon
I see nothing, all I feel
Is the mark
Though it be hidden in the shadow of
This pit
Where I find myself
I am marked and down here I will stay
Marked possession
Marked for the end
Marked for the pit
I dug it, empty until my fall and
Now, I am marked
I belong to you.
Friday, August 7, 2015
Self Preservation
Self Preservation
You must think I'm crazy,
The way that I hold onto you,
....It's when you walk away, I go crazy
And now I'm wasting all my love on you...
- Art Of Sleeping, 'Crazy'
Charlotte sat in the living room, nervously tapping her feet on the floor. Dinner was on — the pork was roasting slowly in the oven, filling the house with warm delicious smells. She’d gone all out and done crispy potatoes, butter carrots, baked beets, and crackling. She knew he’d be impressed especially with the fern and gourde table setting, but would he really be happy with her? She tried so hard, still, sometimes all the things she did were not enough. Sometimes…
Charlotte crossed one leg over the other and checked herself. Hair neat and straight; dress pressed, and cardigan buttoned; heels shiny; neck watermarked with his favourite perfume. She glanced up at the clock on the living room wall — he’d be home in half an hour. Charlotte needed distraction. She needed to busy herself. After checking on the pork which was a pleasing golden brown, she made him a dry martini with two olives. She placed it in the freezer and continued to fret quietly in the kitchen until she heard the front door unlock and creak open. She hurried to meet him.
“Avery darling.” Charlotte took his bag and leant in to kiss his cheek.
Her husband hummed a happy Hello and pulled her body into his — he was in a good mood and she couldn’t help but smile secretly to herself.
“Smells good sweetheart,” he said as he let her go and went into the living room. She closed the front door and set his bag on the entry table.
“What is it?” he called.
“Roast pork hun. And vegetables.”
She came into the living room and he motioned her over, “Come here. Let me have my wife.”
Charlotte did as he asked and giggled when he pulled her down onto his lap and kissed her neck playfully.
“Mmm, you look nice tonight. Special occasion?”
“No,” she lied.
He held her close and she felt his fingers at the zip on the back of her dress.
Charlotte pulled away. “The table is made,” she protested, “and I need to get the pork out.”
Avery sighed, “Fine, but you’re all mine later.”
She scrambled off him and straightened herself while Avery rolled his eyes dramatically, “A guy tries to have a little fun,” he teased, crossing his arms, “and all he gets is rejection.”
A little fun. Charlotte felt a few small, bitter thoughts creating a bad taste at the back of her throat, but she smiled and bent down to peck him on the cheek before her face could betray her. She retreated to the kitchen, heart pounding. Please let it be good enough. Please let her be good enough.
She turned off the oven and opened the door to let the pork rest as she reclaimed Avery’s martini from the freezer and gathered the pieces of herself together again.
“Oh, you read my mind,” he beamed as she handed him the frosty glass and sat down on the edge of the opposite couch.
“Tell me about your day?”
He shrugged off the question, “It would only bore you my love. Need a hand with dinner?”
“No, no, you just relax.”
Back in the kitchen Charlotte carved the meat and dished out the vegetables. Everything had turned out very well and she was pleased, relieved even. Everything was done. Everything was ready for him.
“Avery!” she called, “dinner is served.”
They ate quietly, as they always did. Avery said that, to enjoy a meal, was to focus entirely on the food without distraction or haste. Charlotte supposed he was right but she always felt nervous around dinner time, fearful that he…
No. She shook the thought from her mind — she was confident tonight. The meal was good, if she did say so herself, and everything else would be good as well.
When he was done, Avery finally looked up and almost laughed, “Jesus Char, those potatoes were amazing. Duck fat?”
“Mmmhmm,” she nodded.
He pressed his lips together with a smacking sound and finished his drink.
Charlotte cleared away the plates and had already poured him another when she felt Avery behind her, warm, hands slipping around her waist.
She giggled, “Stop! I’ll spill.”
He laughed in kind and as she turned to hand him the glass, their eyes met.
“I’ve got something for you,” she said, as he touched a hand gently to her face.
Avery sipped the martini, but kept her pinned against the sink with his body, “A gift?”
She smiled, “For you.”
There was a glint in his eyes then, but as she saw them settle on the yellowing bruise that was high on her cheek he pulled away a little, “Is this about…” he hesitated, “Lately? Because you know I’m sorry. I get…”
She looked down but didn’t shake her head, “No. It’s okay.”
“It’s not though. I get…carried away.”
Charlotte could see him trying to remember how she’d got the bruise, and failing. He often forgot.
She never did.
Avery was retreating — putting space between them. It was cold space that she never liked. He was trying to undo things in his head that couldn’t be undone. Charlotte was on the verge of tears.
“Come,” she took his hand in hers, “Don’t you want to see your gift?”
He looked sheepish and bit his lip. Avery was almost like a child at times.
They slipped out through the back kitchen door and Charlotte kept hold of his hand until they were right in middle of the long back porch, looking out into the cool night. They had nine, beautiful, sprawling acres of uncleared land, teeming with birds and old gnarled trees — a veritable sanctuary.
Charlotte turned Avery to stand so he was looking out at the huge oak that sat in darkness behind the house. It was a kind of gateway between the manicured lawn and the unruly acreage. “Ready?” she asked.
He nodded silently.
She flicked the switch on the wall and the lights came on. They ran in an amber half-moon from the ends of the porch up to the oak. They took a few moments to brighten enough, but when Avery saw his gift, the smile on his face was enough for Charlotte. She could finally breathe — it was enough.
“Oh. Char,” he breathed.
She returned to him and took his drink to put it on the porch table, “All yours, baby. I tried hard this time. Do you like?”
He took her face in his hands then and whispered I’m sorry, before he kissed her mouth. He was coming back to her. The bruise on her cheek ached, but it was nothing now. Nothing, compared to the relief she felt; nothing compared to the devotion she felt. Conflicting and harmonious. To have him back and to know, at the same time, that there would always be another bruise.
But not tonight.
“Would you?” Avery asked.
Charlotte smiled, “Of course.”
The kitchen scissors were already pushed down into the front of her dress but Charlotte had that awful moment, like she always did, when she swallowed hard, and spread a hand out to touch her guilt. She quietly brushed it aside.
Her heels sunk into the damp earth of the lawn as she made her way over to the oak. It was tall and noble. It served them — as the stake to which they could tether their lamb.
She felt her hands shaking as she cut through the rope that was taught against the tree. And then she knelt, not caring that the grass was staining her dress under knees or that the cold air was goose-pimpling her skin.
“Best run now,” she whispered to the dark haired girl who had fallen forward onto the grass. The girl who didn’t deserve any of what she was about to suffer.
The girl who would be Charlotte for a night.
You must think I'm crazy,
The way that I hold onto you,
....It's when you walk away, I go crazy
And now I'm wasting all my love on you...
- Art Of Sleeping, 'Crazy'
Charlotte sat in the living room, nervously tapping her feet on the floor. Dinner was on — the pork was roasting slowly in the oven, filling the house with warm delicious smells. She’d gone all out and done crispy potatoes, butter carrots, baked beets, and crackling. She knew he’d be impressed especially with the fern and gourde table setting, but would he really be happy with her? She tried so hard, still, sometimes all the things she did were not enough. Sometimes…
Charlotte crossed one leg over the other and checked herself. Hair neat and straight; dress pressed, and cardigan buttoned; heels shiny; neck watermarked with his favourite perfume. She glanced up at the clock on the living room wall — he’d be home in half an hour. Charlotte needed distraction. She needed to busy herself. After checking on the pork which was a pleasing golden brown, she made him a dry martini with two olives. She placed it in the freezer and continued to fret quietly in the kitchen until she heard the front door unlock and creak open. She hurried to meet him.
“Avery darling.” Charlotte took his bag and leant in to kiss his cheek.
Her husband hummed a happy Hello and pulled her body into his — he was in a good mood and she couldn’t help but smile secretly to herself.
“Smells good sweetheart,” he said as he let her go and went into the living room. She closed the front door and set his bag on the entry table.
“What is it?” he called.
“Roast pork hun. And vegetables.”
She came into the living room and he motioned her over, “Come here. Let me have my wife.”
Charlotte did as he asked and giggled when he pulled her down onto his lap and kissed her neck playfully.
“Mmm, you look nice tonight. Special occasion?”
“No,” she lied.
He held her close and she felt his fingers at the zip on the back of her dress.
Charlotte pulled away. “The table is made,” she protested, “and I need to get the pork out.”
Avery sighed, “Fine, but you’re all mine later.”
She scrambled off him and straightened herself while Avery rolled his eyes dramatically, “A guy tries to have a little fun,” he teased, crossing his arms, “and all he gets is rejection.”
A little fun. Charlotte felt a few small, bitter thoughts creating a bad taste at the back of her throat, but she smiled and bent down to peck him on the cheek before her face could betray her. She retreated to the kitchen, heart pounding. Please let it be good enough. Please let her be good enough.
She turned off the oven and opened the door to let the pork rest as she reclaimed Avery’s martini from the freezer and gathered the pieces of herself together again.
“Oh, you read my mind,” he beamed as she handed him the frosty glass and sat down on the edge of the opposite couch.
“Tell me about your day?”
He shrugged off the question, “It would only bore you my love. Need a hand with dinner?”
“No, no, you just relax.”
Back in the kitchen Charlotte carved the meat and dished out the vegetables. Everything had turned out very well and she was pleased, relieved even. Everything was done. Everything was ready for him.
“Avery!” she called, “dinner is served.”
They ate quietly, as they always did. Avery said that, to enjoy a meal, was to focus entirely on the food without distraction or haste. Charlotte supposed he was right but she always felt nervous around dinner time, fearful that he…
No. She shook the thought from her mind — she was confident tonight. The meal was good, if she did say so herself, and everything else would be good as well.
When he was done, Avery finally looked up and almost laughed, “Jesus Char, those potatoes were amazing. Duck fat?”
“Mmmhmm,” she nodded.
He pressed his lips together with a smacking sound and finished his drink.
Charlotte cleared away the plates and had already poured him another when she felt Avery behind her, warm, hands slipping around her waist.
She giggled, “Stop! I’ll spill.”
He laughed in kind and as she turned to hand him the glass, their eyes met.
“I’ve got something for you,” she said, as he touched a hand gently to her face.
Avery sipped the martini, but kept her pinned against the sink with his body, “A gift?”
She smiled, “For you.”
There was a glint in his eyes then, but as she saw them settle on the yellowing bruise that was high on her cheek he pulled away a little, “Is this about…” he hesitated, “Lately? Because you know I’m sorry. I get…”
She looked down but didn’t shake her head, “No. It’s okay.”
“It’s not though. I get…carried away.”
Charlotte could see him trying to remember how she’d got the bruise, and failing. He often forgot.
She never did.
Avery was retreating — putting space between them. It was cold space that she never liked. He was trying to undo things in his head that couldn’t be undone. Charlotte was on the verge of tears.
“Come,” she took his hand in hers, “Don’t you want to see your gift?”
He looked sheepish and bit his lip. Avery was almost like a child at times.
They slipped out through the back kitchen door and Charlotte kept hold of his hand until they were right in middle of the long back porch, looking out into the cool night. They had nine, beautiful, sprawling acres of uncleared land, teeming with birds and old gnarled trees — a veritable sanctuary.
Charlotte turned Avery to stand so he was looking out at the huge oak that sat in darkness behind the house. It was a kind of gateway between the manicured lawn and the unruly acreage. “Ready?” she asked.
He nodded silently.
She flicked the switch on the wall and the lights came on. They ran in an amber half-moon from the ends of the porch up to the oak. They took a few moments to brighten enough, but when Avery saw his gift, the smile on his face was enough for Charlotte. She could finally breathe — it was enough.
“Oh. Char,” he breathed.
She returned to him and took his drink to put it on the porch table, “All yours, baby. I tried hard this time. Do you like?”
He took her face in his hands then and whispered I’m sorry, before he kissed her mouth. He was coming back to her. The bruise on her cheek ached, but it was nothing now. Nothing, compared to the relief she felt; nothing compared to the devotion she felt. Conflicting and harmonious. To have him back and to know, at the same time, that there would always be another bruise.
But not tonight.
“Would you?” Avery asked.
Charlotte smiled, “Of course.”
The kitchen scissors were already pushed down into the front of her dress but Charlotte had that awful moment, like she always did, when she swallowed hard, and spread a hand out to touch her guilt. She quietly brushed it aside.
Her heels sunk into the damp earth of the lawn as she made her way over to the oak. It was tall and noble. It served them — as the stake to which they could tether their lamb.
She felt her hands shaking as she cut through the rope that was taught against the tree. And then she knelt, not caring that the grass was staining her dress under knees or that the cold air was goose-pimpling her skin.
“Best run now,” she whispered to the dark haired girl who had fallen forward onto the grass. The girl who didn’t deserve any of what she was about to suffer.
The girl who would be Charlotte for a night.
Friday, July 17, 2015
Lymantria dispar
Lymantria dispar
“My baby Benny!”
“Ma, please don’t call me that,” Benny said as he attempted to simultaneously hold the phone between his ear and shoulder and sweep the front porch.
“But you’re my baby,” his mother protested.
“I know that Ma, I just mean…I’m a grown man. Can I perhaps stop being your baby now?”
His mother laughed heartily and then broke into a fit of coughing. When she was done she managed to say, “Of course not. Never!”
Benny rolled his eyes to himself. The goddamn rain had created a paste of mud that was layered thickly on the wooden slats of the porch. He didn’t have time for his mother’s protestations right now.
“Have you heard from Mia?’
“Ma!”
“I”m just asking, sweetheart. Maybe if you let her come back she —”
“Jesus,” he said, cutting her off. “She’s not coming back here. I won’t let her back here.”
“My baby Benny, she was the best thing that ever happened to you. She just made a mistake. Forgiveness is God’s way.”
Benny stopped sweeping and rubbed his eyes, “Ma. That may be God’s way, but it’s not mine. What’s done is done and I won’t discuss it anymore.”
“But…”
“No. Ma. She broke our vows and it’s done.” She broke my heart, and it’s done.
“Hm.”
“Hm what?”
“I’m just wondering what you will do now, my baby Benny.”
Benny shook his head to himself, “Ma, I’ll be fine. Trust me. Hey, I have to go. I love you, okay?”
“Okay. I love you too, my baby Benny.”
Benny ended the call before he said something he would regret. He finished sweeping the porch and went inside to pretend like there was something in the fridge for dinner. There was nothing in the fridge, and the whiskey bottle was empty. He stared at it. Nights like this, they — he and Mia — would order pizza and then forget it to cool on the kitchen counter while they had sex on the edge of the bed or up against the bathroom wall. Nights like this had been perfect. Late, lazy Sundays,where they’d stumble around half dressed, toss the pizza in the fridge and then fall onto the sheets like they were still newlyweds.
Nights like that had been perfect. Until they weren’t anymore.
Benny hung in the hall a moment before he grabbed his keys and wallet and left his house to linger without him, cold. Their house. Without her.
“Missa Benny!” called the tiny bespectacled girl behind the cash register, “you want shor’ soup and black bean?”
“Yes ma’am, and pork dumplings tonight please Leena.” Benny felt embarrassment at the fact she knew exactly what he would order. He also felt a mild ache when he had noticed, a few weeks back, that Leena had stopped asking where ‘Miss Mia’ was. He admired that she continued to serve him with a smile devoid of pity — something most people around him failed to accomplish.
“Be five minna, Missa Benny. We slow tonight.” She did a thumbs-up and stuck out her tongue. The girl was adorable.
Benny felt better already and took a seat in the corner to wait. He liked to watch the neighbourhood drift by outside the dirty glass windows. When his hand had strayed to his pocket more than three times he stood up abruptly and called back to the kitchen, “Leena! I’m just going to Alberto’s across the street, be back in a jiffy!”
He got an Okay, Missa Benny! from somewhere behind the stove vents and pushed out of the swing door. It was cold, coming on dark. Alberto’s was deserted.
“Benny D. Long time since I’ve seen you here kiddo,” said Alberto from behind his long marble counter.
Benny smiled, “Al. Good to see you. Guess it’s been a long time since I needed to be here.”
“Fair ‘nuff,” Alberto looked back down at his book and left him to peruse in silence.
Benny trailed his eyes over the racks of imported cured meats and tins of spices and packets of dried chilli. When he came to the liquor, he gingerly fingered a dusty bottle of Pendleton. He didn’t hang around to change his mind.
“That’s twenty-five, kiddo.”
“Shelf said thirty-five, Al.”
“No doubt it did, but I know a woman-shaped hole when I see it. Know it now, when I say it boy…ain’t no cure for that.”
Benny felt himself close to tears and slapped a fifty on the counter before he left without his change. Alberto was trying to be nice but it was no use. The night closed in tight around him as he stalked back across the street, to the warmth of Leena’s domain. It was time to get the food and go home.
Just as he was about to call out to Leena, his phone binged in his pocket.
hey
It was Mia. Fuck. He didn’t respond. He put the phone on the seat next to him and clenched both hands into fists. He wanted to scream. He wanted to set the ground at his feet on fire.
just thought you might feel like talking?
Benny felt his breath, unsteady and shaking in his chest. He didn’t feel like talking, not at all. He felt like yelling, cursing. He felt like hurting her. He stopped the spiral and brought calm to his heartbeat. He looked up to see Leena’s broad smile.
“Missa Benny, you all good to go.” She held the bag out to him and winked.
Benny gratefully took the bag and retreated to his car. Inside, his phone binged again. He turned it to vibrate and jammed it in his pocket. On the way home he could see nothing but the pale, naked hips of his wife on top of their neighbour, Marty Stills. Ex-wife.
The porch still looked pretty dirty but it was too dark by then to do anything about it. He dumped the Chinese takeout on the kitchen bench and poured a finger of the Pendleton. Benny looked around — everything was as it always had been. And everything was different. The kitchen was okay but the bedroom was an absolute no-fly zone. He could smell her in there. And in the upstairs shower, which sucked because the downstairs shower was cold as fuck and didn’t have heat lamps or a decent shower head. Not to mention, jerking off down there made him feel like a teenager. He’d been sleeping in the living room for two months. He couldn’t remember to eat breakfast. His back hurt. His beard was scrappy. And then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
baby, you know i still love you, right?
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. Benny calmly turned the phone on do-not-disturb and placed it face down next to his dinner. He sipped the Pendleton. It had cooled considerably — time to put the heat on. Taking his pork dumplings to the couch and turning on the tv and the AC, Benny felt marginally better but still found himself going around in the same circles as always. He wanted to ask Mia everything, but he didn’t want to know. He wanted her to say sorry, but he didn’t want to hear it again. He ached to look at her and touch her, but he couldn’t stand the sight of her and actual contact might drive him to do something awful.
Everything was shit.
He glanced over at his phone resting on the kitchen bench and that was when he saw it — a soft, grey and beige winged moth — it fluttered across right in front of him before darting up toward the living room lightbulb. Benny watched it smack into the bulb a few times and then he lost interest, there was a new episode of Law & Order on one of the channels.
Ah hour later, he was a third of the way through the bottle and had his feet tucked up underneath an old blanket on the couch when he heard a knock at the door. Benny hauled himself up and wondered who could possibly need him right now. He opened the door.
“Benny,” Marty said, giving a half smile.
“Marty.”
“I uhhh, I never got the chance to say sorry. I…”
“Forget it Marty. I get it. But sorry won’t really fix anything.”
Marty was about the same height as Benny, but a lot wider; bulkier. He probably had a better cock. A nicer cock. He probably knew more tricks. He probably made her…
“Benny, I…we never meant to hurt you. We just, we got carried away.”
Benny moved to close the door, “Clearly.”
“No, really,” Marty pressed his hand against the wood.
“What do you want, Marty? You want to come over here and make yourself feel better? Fine. Feel great. Because you fucked my wife. And now she’s not my wife anymore. Good job Marty.” He said it all very calmly, but Benny could feel the anger brewing in him. He needed to close the door and get another drink.
Marty took his hand away from the wood and retreated. As he did, a soft, grey and beige winged moth looped out from behind Benny’s arm and slipped through the door before he closed it. Benny found himself pressed flush to the gate at that point. In the kitchen he fumbled with his phone and hurriedly replied to Mia.
i don’t love you an inch anymore. don’t come for your shit, i'll send it. don’t msg me anymore. i’m done.
So many don’ts. Benny felt like an asshole. The tears finally came then. They were silent, slightly drunk tears. Hot, fat drops of why and why and why. He wanted to throw his phone out the window. He wanted to pretend he couldn’t feel his wedding ring up in the bedroom, making a circular dent in the side table with all it’s awful weight.
As the tears fell, he thought about Mia’s soft lips, her thin fingers, the way she did her make up for work — thick black eyes and long black lashes. He thought about the way it was always slightly smudged when she got home. He thought about her breasts, the left one always brimming out of her bra, and he thought about the smooth, pale cheeks of her butt — they were so smooth, so soft and touchable. Touched by Marty.
Everything was shit. Everything was ruined. Whisky and Chinese takeout wasn’t even close to a bandaid.
He wanted to get his phone and message her again. He wanted to say sorry for being angry. He wanted to invite her over. He wanted to fuck her, one last time. A moth landed on his knee, left a powdery imprint on his work pants and then flitted off toward the kitchen.
Benny didn’t move, he only blinked. Once, twice — he was aware that this night had happened at least a dozen times since he’d kicked her out. It certainly wasn’t the first night and it wouldn’t be the last. Don’t get it wrong, he knew this was a downward-spiral-kind-of-night, he was just a little too far past tired to really give it his all. Seeing Marty had been the nail; hammered home.
Benny couldn’t place it; was he not there enough? Did he not love her enough? Was he just not enough? After another glass he came to the conclusion that it didn’t matter, not really. His downward-spiral-kind-of-night had lost most of its momentum and his phone battery was dead. Probably good luck at that point.
He made up his couch-bed and turned the heat down a bit.
Putting the leftovers away he realised that tomorrow was the weekend; he could sleep in.
He didn’t sleep in. Benny was up at five and dressed by five-ten. It had turned him around to wake up on a weekend without her again, without her mouth pressing kisses….No. Don’t.
He made coffee and ate a crumpet with honey. The day would distract him.
And it did. He went out to work in the garden, it was easier out there, away from the house and in amongst the greenery and vegetables. Benny found himself humming thoughtfully and completely lost in busy work. It wasn’t until he heard Marty’s front gate squeak open that he noticed anything other than the chatter of the birds. He looked up and the two of them made eye contact for only a moment before it broke. Benny bit the inside of his cheek and dug down into the cool earth with his spade. Marty’s truck started in the drive and peeled out into the street with a rumble. Benny didn’t look up. He had that image in his head again. He only barely noticed the soft, grey and beige winged moth that flitted across in front of him and back towards the house.
Two hours of work later he was worn out and ready for lunch. Benny put the kettle on and finally plugged in his phone to charge, he hoped there weren’t any messages, but when there actually weren’t, all he felt was disappointment. She had done what he had asked and not responded. A moth landed delicately on the handle of his coffee cup. He shooed it away and stirred in the sugar and milk. His phone ringing on the bench startled him.
“Ma?”
“Baby Benny! Where have you been? I tried you last night but you didn’t answer.”
“My phone died, Ma. Everything okay?”
“Yes..”
He could feel her holding something back, “What is it Ma? Tell me.”
“Mia called me last night.”
“And? What did she say?”
“That you were…done,” his Ma deflated on that last word. “She said she wanted to say goodbye. And that she was sorry.”
“It’s true Ma. I don’t have anything left for her.”
Ma sniffed, “Baby Benny, women aren’t bad creatures. Even though God says so, girls are not awful. We make mistakes but we are just as real as you are, and just the same amount of human as you are.”
“Ma! I know that. I’m not a sexist fool.” He said it angrily, but his Ma had a way of putting things more clearly than she was aware of. Benny was only upset because Mia had come to a point where she couldn’t tell him of her unhappiness, she could only show him.
“Benny?”
“I’ve got to go Ma. I’m sorry. Mia won’t call again.” He hung up and dialled Mia with the phone stilled plugged in to the wall.
She answered, “Benny?”
“Hi.”
“Everything okay?”
“Please don’t call my Ma. She gets upset about this stuff. I know you guys are close but you’re verging on meddling, okay?”
“Okay.”
“This is done. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
He was desperate to ask her to come over. It was almost on his lips, “Mia...”
“Yes?” she asked.
“Goodbye.” He said it and hung up quickly. He didn’t want to let himself say anything more.
Benny kicked off his boots and abandoned them before he climbed the stairs. At the top he unzipped his jacket and draped it on the bannister. The day was still quite cold. It was only eight o’clock. The clock in the bedroom told him so. He could see it from where he stood outside the door. A moth danced by in front of his face and into the bedroom. Benny gave in.
On the edge of the bed he felt absolute comfort. He lifted his legs and slipped them under the covers. Despite her absence, he realised he had missed this place. He had yearned for it. And now, in his bed for the first time in a long time, Benny rolled over and enjoyed the feel of actual sheets and a decent pillow. Sleep took him quickly.
His growling stomach woke him — it was craving the lunch that he’d never cooked. He sat up, eyes still trying to focus, and saw that the clock said six-fifteen. PM? Jesus, he’d slept for a good ten hours. He got up and opened the closet door for some fresh clothes, only to have a swarm of at least twenty moths bloom out from the coat hangers and tie-racks.
What the fuck?
“Where are these goddamn moths coming from?” Benny asked himself out loud. He turned to watch them flutter off soundlessly out the bedroom door and towards the stairs. He padded to the bathroom, relieved himself, and washed his hands in the basin. As he shut the water off, a dozen grey and beige winged moths emerged from the drain grate and brushed past him, out of the bathroom and into the hall. Benny stumbled back, shocked, but coming up to the edge of annoyance.
It must be some kind of infestation. That made no sense — he’d only had the house fumigated a couple of months back. As he stood swaying between the bathroom and the top of the stairs, a new bloom of moths emerged from one of the heating vents and swirled a little before taking off downstairs, towards the kitchen. In his haze, Benny hurried to follow them. Where were they going?
When he got down there they’d disappeared and he was starting to doubt his sanity just a little bit. His phone was lying on the kitchen bench and he couldn’t help but check it.
benny, i still love you. i always will. i’m sorry it ended like this xx
He dug his fingers into his palms and struggled to keep in the tears that were so close again. He thought about how smooth and cool Mia’s skin always seemed to be under the tips of his fingers when he got home from work. How her eyes closed, so slowly, when he…
No. Don’t.
He hadn’t asked her all the questions that he’d wanted to ask. All the awful things that he never wanted to know but would still haunt him as long as he continued to not know. Like how many times? Like what did he do to you? And what did you do to him? And did you kiss him? And was he better? Mia hadn’t offered it up. Benny hadn’t asked.
He put his phone gently back on the bench and blinked his eyes over the image of Mia and Marty, just as another bloom of moths spiraled their way up out of the drain in the sink. Benny threw open the doors under the sink and grabbed the bug spray, immediately letting loose on the small swarm above his head. He had to step away from the suffocating mist and as he did so he realised it hadn’t really affected them at all. He tried again as they spread out to a thin layer and started landing on the ceiling but it was no use. They all just sat there, inverted above him, flicking their wings now and then. What did he do to you?
Benny opened the kitchen window in the hopes that maybe some of them would fly out. The cool night spilled in and he retreated to the living room with the leftover Chinese food and a scowl — he’d have to call the pest control guy in the morning, no way were these moths a good sign if he wanted to sell the house. He needed to fix the problem, and quickly.
The leftovers were good, but halfway through the cold black bean he heard Marty’s truck pulling into the drive next door. How many times?
Benny suddenly lost his appetite and went to flick on the television. It wouldn’t work. He pressed the button a few times and then went around to the power point for an inspection. He jumped back from the wall. Did you kiss him?
The entire back of his flat screen was covered in a layer of undulating wings. Was he better?
Benny retreated for the bug spray only to find every wall of his kitchen lost to the moths. He couldn’t see his phone and the messages from his Ma, Mia, Marty — it was under the light brown, powdery blanket of insects. He got the broom from the pantry and started swinging, smashing into the walls, knocking tins off the benches, and sending glasses shattering to the floor.
* * *
“Son, is this your house?”
Benny blinked, “Yes. Yes, sir.”
The cop wrote something in his notepad, “Okay. And the paramedic is telling me you’re not hurt. Are you feeling alright?”
“No. I’m…the moths…” he trailed off.
The cop nodded, “Okay. He’s also saying you told him that you set fire to the house. Is that correct?”
Benny was staring into the flames. There was a blanket around his shoulders.
“Son, can you tell me what happened tonight?”
Benny shook his head and watched the fire eat his house.
“My baby Benny!”
“Ma, please don’t call me that,” Benny said as he attempted to simultaneously hold the phone between his ear and shoulder and sweep the front porch.
“But you’re my baby,” his mother protested.
“I know that Ma, I just mean…I’m a grown man. Can I perhaps stop being your baby now?”
His mother laughed heartily and then broke into a fit of coughing. When she was done she managed to say, “Of course not. Never!”
Benny rolled his eyes to himself. The goddamn rain had created a paste of mud that was layered thickly on the wooden slats of the porch. He didn’t have time for his mother’s protestations right now.
“Have you heard from Mia?’
“Ma!”
“I”m just asking, sweetheart. Maybe if you let her come back she —”
“Jesus,” he said, cutting her off. “She’s not coming back here. I won’t let her back here.”
“My baby Benny, she was the best thing that ever happened to you. She just made a mistake. Forgiveness is God’s way.”
Benny stopped sweeping and rubbed his eyes, “Ma. That may be God’s way, but it’s not mine. What’s done is done and I won’t discuss it anymore.”
“But…”
“No. Ma. She broke our vows and it’s done.” She broke my heart, and it’s done.
“Hm.”
“Hm what?”
“I’m just wondering what you will do now, my baby Benny.”
Benny shook his head to himself, “Ma, I’ll be fine. Trust me. Hey, I have to go. I love you, okay?”
“Okay. I love you too, my baby Benny.”
Benny ended the call before he said something he would regret. He finished sweeping the porch and went inside to pretend like there was something in the fridge for dinner. There was nothing in the fridge, and the whiskey bottle was empty. He stared at it. Nights like this, they — he and Mia — would order pizza and then forget it to cool on the kitchen counter while they had sex on the edge of the bed or up against the bathroom wall. Nights like this had been perfect. Late, lazy Sundays,where they’d stumble around half dressed, toss the pizza in the fridge and then fall onto the sheets like they were still newlyweds.
Nights like that had been perfect. Until they weren’t anymore.
Benny hung in the hall a moment before he grabbed his keys and wallet and left his house to linger without him, cold. Their house. Without her.
“Missa Benny!” called the tiny bespectacled girl behind the cash register, “you want shor’ soup and black bean?”
“Yes ma’am, and pork dumplings tonight please Leena.” Benny felt embarrassment at the fact she knew exactly what he would order. He also felt a mild ache when he had noticed, a few weeks back, that Leena had stopped asking where ‘Miss Mia’ was. He admired that she continued to serve him with a smile devoid of pity — something most people around him failed to accomplish.
“Be five minna, Missa Benny. We slow tonight.” She did a thumbs-up and stuck out her tongue. The girl was adorable.
Benny felt better already and took a seat in the corner to wait. He liked to watch the neighbourhood drift by outside the dirty glass windows. When his hand had strayed to his pocket more than three times he stood up abruptly and called back to the kitchen, “Leena! I’m just going to Alberto’s across the street, be back in a jiffy!”
He got an Okay, Missa Benny! from somewhere behind the stove vents and pushed out of the swing door. It was cold, coming on dark. Alberto’s was deserted.
“Benny D. Long time since I’ve seen you here kiddo,” said Alberto from behind his long marble counter.
Benny smiled, “Al. Good to see you. Guess it’s been a long time since I needed to be here.”
“Fair ‘nuff,” Alberto looked back down at his book and left him to peruse in silence.
Benny trailed his eyes over the racks of imported cured meats and tins of spices and packets of dried chilli. When he came to the liquor, he gingerly fingered a dusty bottle of Pendleton. He didn’t hang around to change his mind.
“That’s twenty-five, kiddo.”
“Shelf said thirty-five, Al.”
“No doubt it did, but I know a woman-shaped hole when I see it. Know it now, when I say it boy…ain’t no cure for that.”
Benny felt himself close to tears and slapped a fifty on the counter before he left without his change. Alberto was trying to be nice but it was no use. The night closed in tight around him as he stalked back across the street, to the warmth of Leena’s domain. It was time to get the food and go home.
Just as he was about to call out to Leena, his phone binged in his pocket.
hey
It was Mia. Fuck. He didn’t respond. He put the phone on the seat next to him and clenched both hands into fists. He wanted to scream. He wanted to set the ground at his feet on fire.
just thought you might feel like talking?
Benny felt his breath, unsteady and shaking in his chest. He didn’t feel like talking, not at all. He felt like yelling, cursing. He felt like hurting her. He stopped the spiral and brought calm to his heartbeat. He looked up to see Leena’s broad smile.
“Missa Benny, you all good to go.” She held the bag out to him and winked.
Benny gratefully took the bag and retreated to his car. Inside, his phone binged again. He turned it to vibrate and jammed it in his pocket. On the way home he could see nothing but the pale, naked hips of his wife on top of their neighbour, Marty Stills. Ex-wife.
The porch still looked pretty dirty but it was too dark by then to do anything about it. He dumped the Chinese takeout on the kitchen bench and poured a finger of the Pendleton. Benny looked around — everything was as it always had been. And everything was different. The kitchen was okay but the bedroom was an absolute no-fly zone. He could smell her in there. And in the upstairs shower, which sucked because the downstairs shower was cold as fuck and didn’t have heat lamps or a decent shower head. Not to mention, jerking off down there made him feel like a teenager. He’d been sleeping in the living room for two months. He couldn’t remember to eat breakfast. His back hurt. His beard was scrappy. And then his phone buzzed in his pocket.
baby, you know i still love you, right?
Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. Benny calmly turned the phone on do-not-disturb and placed it face down next to his dinner. He sipped the Pendleton. It had cooled considerably — time to put the heat on. Taking his pork dumplings to the couch and turning on the tv and the AC, Benny felt marginally better but still found himself going around in the same circles as always. He wanted to ask Mia everything, but he didn’t want to know. He wanted her to say sorry, but he didn’t want to hear it again. He ached to look at her and touch her, but he couldn’t stand the sight of her and actual contact might drive him to do something awful.
Everything was shit.
He glanced over at his phone resting on the kitchen bench and that was when he saw it — a soft, grey and beige winged moth — it fluttered across right in front of him before darting up toward the living room lightbulb. Benny watched it smack into the bulb a few times and then he lost interest, there was a new episode of Law & Order on one of the channels.
Ah hour later, he was a third of the way through the bottle and had his feet tucked up underneath an old blanket on the couch when he heard a knock at the door. Benny hauled himself up and wondered who could possibly need him right now. He opened the door.
“Benny,” Marty said, giving a half smile.
“Marty.”
“I uhhh, I never got the chance to say sorry. I…”
“Forget it Marty. I get it. But sorry won’t really fix anything.”
Marty was about the same height as Benny, but a lot wider; bulkier. He probably had a better cock. A nicer cock. He probably knew more tricks. He probably made her…
“Benny, I…we never meant to hurt you. We just, we got carried away.”
Benny moved to close the door, “Clearly.”
“No, really,” Marty pressed his hand against the wood.
“What do you want, Marty? You want to come over here and make yourself feel better? Fine. Feel great. Because you fucked my wife. And now she’s not my wife anymore. Good job Marty.” He said it all very calmly, but Benny could feel the anger brewing in him. He needed to close the door and get another drink.
Marty took his hand away from the wood and retreated. As he did, a soft, grey and beige winged moth looped out from behind Benny’s arm and slipped through the door before he closed it. Benny found himself pressed flush to the gate at that point. In the kitchen he fumbled with his phone and hurriedly replied to Mia.
i don’t love you an inch anymore. don’t come for your shit, i'll send it. don’t msg me anymore. i’m done.
So many don’ts. Benny felt like an asshole. The tears finally came then. They were silent, slightly drunk tears. Hot, fat drops of why and why and why. He wanted to throw his phone out the window. He wanted to pretend he couldn’t feel his wedding ring up in the bedroom, making a circular dent in the side table with all it’s awful weight.
As the tears fell, he thought about Mia’s soft lips, her thin fingers, the way she did her make up for work — thick black eyes and long black lashes. He thought about the way it was always slightly smudged when she got home. He thought about her breasts, the left one always brimming out of her bra, and he thought about the smooth, pale cheeks of her butt — they were so smooth, so soft and touchable. Touched by Marty.
Everything was shit. Everything was ruined. Whisky and Chinese takeout wasn’t even close to a bandaid.
He wanted to get his phone and message her again. He wanted to say sorry for being angry. He wanted to invite her over. He wanted to fuck her, one last time. A moth landed on his knee, left a powdery imprint on his work pants and then flitted off toward the kitchen.
Benny didn’t move, he only blinked. Once, twice — he was aware that this night had happened at least a dozen times since he’d kicked her out. It certainly wasn’t the first night and it wouldn’t be the last. Don’t get it wrong, he knew this was a downward-spiral-kind-of-night, he was just a little too far past tired to really give it his all. Seeing Marty had been the nail; hammered home.
Benny couldn’t place it; was he not there enough? Did he not love her enough? Was he just not enough? After another glass he came to the conclusion that it didn’t matter, not really. His downward-spiral-kind-of-night had lost most of its momentum and his phone battery was dead. Probably good luck at that point.
He made up his couch-bed and turned the heat down a bit.
Putting the leftovers away he realised that tomorrow was the weekend; he could sleep in.
He didn’t sleep in. Benny was up at five and dressed by five-ten. It had turned him around to wake up on a weekend without her again, without her mouth pressing kisses….No. Don’t.
He made coffee and ate a crumpet with honey. The day would distract him.
And it did. He went out to work in the garden, it was easier out there, away from the house and in amongst the greenery and vegetables. Benny found himself humming thoughtfully and completely lost in busy work. It wasn’t until he heard Marty’s front gate squeak open that he noticed anything other than the chatter of the birds. He looked up and the two of them made eye contact for only a moment before it broke. Benny bit the inside of his cheek and dug down into the cool earth with his spade. Marty’s truck started in the drive and peeled out into the street with a rumble. Benny didn’t look up. He had that image in his head again. He only barely noticed the soft, grey and beige winged moth that flitted across in front of him and back towards the house.
Two hours of work later he was worn out and ready for lunch. Benny put the kettle on and finally plugged in his phone to charge, he hoped there weren’t any messages, but when there actually weren’t, all he felt was disappointment. She had done what he had asked and not responded. A moth landed delicately on the handle of his coffee cup. He shooed it away and stirred in the sugar and milk. His phone ringing on the bench startled him.
“Ma?”
“Baby Benny! Where have you been? I tried you last night but you didn’t answer.”
“My phone died, Ma. Everything okay?”
“Yes..”
He could feel her holding something back, “What is it Ma? Tell me.”
“Mia called me last night.”
“And? What did she say?”
“That you were…done,” his Ma deflated on that last word. “She said she wanted to say goodbye. And that she was sorry.”
“It’s true Ma. I don’t have anything left for her.”
Ma sniffed, “Baby Benny, women aren’t bad creatures. Even though God says so, girls are not awful. We make mistakes but we are just as real as you are, and just the same amount of human as you are.”
“Ma! I know that. I’m not a sexist fool.” He said it angrily, but his Ma had a way of putting things more clearly than she was aware of. Benny was only upset because Mia had come to a point where she couldn’t tell him of her unhappiness, she could only show him.
“Benny?”
“I’ve got to go Ma. I’m sorry. Mia won’t call again.” He hung up and dialled Mia with the phone stilled plugged in to the wall.
She answered, “Benny?”
“Hi.”
“Everything okay?”
“Please don’t call my Ma. She gets upset about this stuff. I know you guys are close but you’re verging on meddling, okay?”
“Okay.”
“This is done. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
He was desperate to ask her to come over. It was almost on his lips, “Mia...”
“Yes?” she asked.
“Goodbye.” He said it and hung up quickly. He didn’t want to let himself say anything more.
Benny kicked off his boots and abandoned them before he climbed the stairs. At the top he unzipped his jacket and draped it on the bannister. The day was still quite cold. It was only eight o’clock. The clock in the bedroom told him so. He could see it from where he stood outside the door. A moth danced by in front of his face and into the bedroom. Benny gave in.
On the edge of the bed he felt absolute comfort. He lifted his legs and slipped them under the covers. Despite her absence, he realised he had missed this place. He had yearned for it. And now, in his bed for the first time in a long time, Benny rolled over and enjoyed the feel of actual sheets and a decent pillow. Sleep took him quickly.
His growling stomach woke him — it was craving the lunch that he’d never cooked. He sat up, eyes still trying to focus, and saw that the clock said six-fifteen. PM? Jesus, he’d slept for a good ten hours. He got up and opened the closet door for some fresh clothes, only to have a swarm of at least twenty moths bloom out from the coat hangers and tie-racks.
What the fuck?
“Where are these goddamn moths coming from?” Benny asked himself out loud. He turned to watch them flutter off soundlessly out the bedroom door and towards the stairs. He padded to the bathroom, relieved himself, and washed his hands in the basin. As he shut the water off, a dozen grey and beige winged moths emerged from the drain grate and brushed past him, out of the bathroom and into the hall. Benny stumbled back, shocked, but coming up to the edge of annoyance.
It must be some kind of infestation. That made no sense — he’d only had the house fumigated a couple of months back. As he stood swaying between the bathroom and the top of the stairs, a new bloom of moths emerged from one of the heating vents and swirled a little before taking off downstairs, towards the kitchen. In his haze, Benny hurried to follow them. Where were they going?
When he got down there they’d disappeared and he was starting to doubt his sanity just a little bit. His phone was lying on the kitchen bench and he couldn’t help but check it.
benny, i still love you. i always will. i’m sorry it ended like this xx
He dug his fingers into his palms and struggled to keep in the tears that were so close again. He thought about how smooth and cool Mia’s skin always seemed to be under the tips of his fingers when he got home from work. How her eyes closed, so slowly, when he…
No. Don’t.
He hadn’t asked her all the questions that he’d wanted to ask. All the awful things that he never wanted to know but would still haunt him as long as he continued to not know. Like how many times? Like what did he do to you? And what did you do to him? And did you kiss him? And was he better? Mia hadn’t offered it up. Benny hadn’t asked.
He put his phone gently back on the bench and blinked his eyes over the image of Mia and Marty, just as another bloom of moths spiraled their way up out of the drain in the sink. Benny threw open the doors under the sink and grabbed the bug spray, immediately letting loose on the small swarm above his head. He had to step away from the suffocating mist and as he did so he realised it hadn’t really affected them at all. He tried again as they spread out to a thin layer and started landing on the ceiling but it was no use. They all just sat there, inverted above him, flicking their wings now and then. What did he do to you?
Benny opened the kitchen window in the hopes that maybe some of them would fly out. The cool night spilled in and he retreated to the living room with the leftover Chinese food and a scowl — he’d have to call the pest control guy in the morning, no way were these moths a good sign if he wanted to sell the house. He needed to fix the problem, and quickly.
The leftovers were good, but halfway through the cold black bean he heard Marty’s truck pulling into the drive next door. How many times?
Benny suddenly lost his appetite and went to flick on the television. It wouldn’t work. He pressed the button a few times and then went around to the power point for an inspection. He jumped back from the wall. Did you kiss him?
The entire back of his flat screen was covered in a layer of undulating wings. Was he better?
Benny retreated for the bug spray only to find every wall of his kitchen lost to the moths. He couldn’t see his phone and the messages from his Ma, Mia, Marty — it was under the light brown, powdery blanket of insects. He got the broom from the pantry and started swinging, smashing into the walls, knocking tins off the benches, and sending glasses shattering to the floor.
* * *
“Son, is this your house?”
Benny blinked, “Yes. Yes, sir.”
The cop wrote something in his notepad, “Okay. And the paramedic is telling me you’re not hurt. Are you feeling alright?”
“No. I’m…the moths…” he trailed off.
The cop nodded, “Okay. He’s also saying you told him that you set fire to the house. Is that correct?”
Benny was staring into the flames. There was a blanket around his shoulders.
“Son, can you tell me what happened tonight?”
Benny shook his head and watched the fire eat his house.
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