He. You. She.
Three poems for free. I hope they're okay.
My Avocado
Sitting there in the fridge, smug
That would be fucking right
But I know he’s hiding the truth from me
The naughty shit
His skin — dark and rough and green
And yet he looks so perfect
Ready for a salad
Mine to take
Mine to eat
But my avocado
Hiding his foul brown-ness from me
Leading me on
Lying in my fridge
Lying to me
He’s nothing but a liar
Naughty little avocado
You’re naughty
You’re a naughty little shit
My Pen
Baby where did you go?
Three days
Three whole days since I lost you
My soul aches wondering where your plastic-self might be
Your spare ink cartridges lie still — no longer with purpose
Baby where did you go?
I still remember how you felt between my fingers and how you
Managed to speak for me
Even at the worst
Even at the best
Even in the middle
You were all of me when I was nothing
Ink running down to your tip
I could always coax out what you had
To spill
Baby where did you go?
It was easy
To work you, until you couldn’t help yourself
And then your hot, thick truth was all over my page
And you were mine
And I was yours
Baby, where did you go?
My Crazy
My crazy wakes up early and goes to bed late
My crazy knows that there isn’t enough time in the day
My crazy has a busy schedule and I am at the top of the list
My crazy has been watching me
My crazy has been paying attention
My crazy knows the drill, but
My crazy, she lacks imagination — for she looks just like me
My crazy talks like me
My crazy walks like me
My crazy smells like me
My crazy, well, she’s just like me
My crazy is me
My crazy is everything I want to be
My crazy is everything I’m not
My crazy is qualified
My crazy is tired, and
My crazy wants her life back
My crazy is going to win.
Showing posts with label I'm in deep. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I'm in deep. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
Monday, February 15, 2016
Little Miss Turtle
Happy Valentine's Day
It was a blind and broken time
And kindness was forbidden
I guess I tried to hitch a ride
From acid to religion
But every guiding light was gone
And every good direction
The book of love I read was wrong
It had a happy ending
Leonard Cohen
The Great Divide -- from Book of Longing
***
I can’t sleep.
And it’s been eight minutes since I last looked at the clock because I’m looking at it again now, and it says 11:13PM and the last time I looked, it said 11:05PM. So that’s eight minutes.
Eight, very long minutes.
There’s something dripping. I can’t hear it all the time but if I stop and wait long enough, and make sure to listen properly, I can hear it. Something dripping. Maybe I left a tap on upstairs. Or maybe it’s the fridge again. Anyways, it doesn’t matter what it is because I know I won’t fix it, I’ll just keep letting it drip, whatever it is.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I was never very good at fixing things, or solving problems, or finality. I was never very good at letting go I suppose.
I would always wake up before you, I couldn’t help it. Probably the shift work or perhaps the caffeine that I yearned for; the caffeine I still yearn for. You would sleep without moving and I would lie there next to you and worry that the sound of my heart beating would disturb you. Now I just wake up whenever it pleases my body. I toss and turn and make a mother-fucking ruckus. I would wake the dead if they slept next to me.
It used to be that I would wake up and it would be an inconvenience except that what does it matter now? Sometimes I wake up and I hum a tune and then catch myself before I realise it doesn’t matter. Not now.
It doesn’t matter now.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Maybe it’s the other clock — the one outside our room, sorry, my room — the one I can’t see. Maybe it’s the other clock just tick-ticking away and maybe nothing is leaking or dripping at all.
I used to wake up early and be as quiet as I possibly could in the shower and then turn the coffee machine on and get out the milk and rip open a packet of Splenda and I would do all of this on edge. But you would sleep and none of it would bother you or wake you. I’d peek back into our room — sorry, my room — and you’d be in the same spot, unmoved, unchanged, lost in Sleepy Town. Nothing could ever raise you. Not until you were ready, at least.
It’s too early for coffee right now. Or is it too late?
I made bacon and onion and pasta last night. It didn’t work out well. It was too wet and the crappy shrivelled beetroot leaves that I put in it made the pasta an unappetising pink colour. I ate a couple of spoonfuls and then left it to sit in the pot. It’s probably congealed by now, but I’m so lazy that I’ll dump it into a plastic container and pretend like I’m going to eat it for lunch tomorrow, at work. But I already know it’s shit and I already know I won’t eat it tomorrow. At work.
Work. That thing I have to do tomorrow.
I definitely won’t eat it.
You would have made something nice — something impressive — like pasta with a homemade sauce. Or chicken wings with slaw. Or salisbury steak. You would have let me cut the onion.
Baby, you would say, please be careful. Last time you almost sliced off your finger. Pay attention, okay? I would blush and when it was almost done you would let me taste it for seasoning and I would say, no it doesn’t need any salt, and you would smile and say, And then you would add a little more salt.
I can’t sleep and you would say it’s because I don’t exercise enough. I don’t expend enough energy to be tired at the end of the day and I know you’re right but you’re not here and so it doesn’t matter anymore.
I wake up early, long before you do, but you put everything into your day and I am a slow, underachieving turtle. You are loud and I am turned down so low that soon I might just disappear.
Little Miss Turtle.
11:22PM. Drip. Drip. Drip.
At work you would text me and ask how my day is going and I would lie and say it’s good. I'm killing it, I would say.
Does my pillow smell like you? Maybe it just smells like me and I can’t remember what I smell like so I attribute it to you; to your smell. It smells more manly than me, I think. You smell like trees. Trees and grass and forest air. You slept like dead-wood and I always woke before you did. You were the slumbering log and I was the…
What was I?
The turtle. Little Miss Turtle.
After dinner you would go for your run and I would watch you out the kitchen window as you disappeared down the path next to the road. Every night you would disappear and all I could think was that you weren’t going to come back. The irony in that, is that one day you didn’t. There was always going to be that day time that you didn’t come back. And that one day held true — you didn’t come back.
I have to work in three hours. I stare at the clock and know that I’m going to look unrested and strung out and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ll put on my work shirt and some makeup and hope that there aren’t any meetings scheduled today.
When you met me you decided that you hated my job and that in turn, I hated my job. Four ay-em? you baulked. No one starts work at four ay-em! Your body clock will be so off, baby.
You were right I suppose. Perhaps all of me is off. I can still hear it, but I’m not sure if it’s real — drip, drip drip.
For a long time your side of the bed was empty, but that got to be too much. Now I have books on the sheets amidst the dust, because I haven’t changed them for weeks. The sheets, that is. Maybe it’s more than weeks by now. Drip, drip, drip. Coffee and a grapefruit is not breakfast, baby.
I shaved my legs tonight like it was date night. Like it was Thursday or Friday and you were going to take me out. Like you used to do. You would give me attention and order me too many drinks and not enough carbohydrates so that I would be easy once we got home. So that I would let you have whatever you want. I knew how it worked and I never said anything but that was probably because I liked it that way. I liked it when I was yours — when I belonged to you.
Now, if I wanted to, I could sleep for days without worry. But I can’t. Now, I can’t sleep at all.
I can’t sleep.
I shaved my legs and they’re smooth now, but me in my bed by myself, what’s the point of smooth legs? You’re not going to take me out. No one is going to take me out. I’m in my bed and all I can think is that I-have-to-work-in-two-and-a-half-hours. It’s on a loop inside my head.
If I wanted to I could come home and get into bed straight away. I could change into my jimmies without doing anything — without cooking dinner or washing the dishes or saying even a single word. I don’t do that, but sometimes I think about doing it. Sometimes I really want to do it.
When I come home now I usually do a lap around the yard and pretend like I am committed to our garden — sorry, my garden. I fill the watering can and feed the parsley, the three rose pots, the succulent on the front table (it has a flower now, by the way), and the rosemary bush, which has grown into a tree in it’s own right. Then I come inside and I kick off my shoes and strip off my sweat-soaked work shirt and wonder how many hours it will be until I can sleep tonight. Drip, drip, drip.
Probably all of the hours to be fair.
I considered dinner on the way home in the car — an old burrito wrapped in tin foil in the fridge, a sandwich made with the bread from the box which I know is already stale, or pizza ordered in. You would hate all three options but you’re not here anymore. I’m a slow, slow turtle who doesn’t want to cook tonight.
Little Miss Turtle.
Last Valentine’s Day you bought me seven roses. They were variegated. Pink and red and peach. It was the first time you’d given me flowers and I didn't’t really know how to act. Today is February 13th and those roses are brown and grey and dried up, but they’re still in the vase that I put them in a year ago. I had to empty out the water because it started to stink, but once they were dry I put them back in and keep them on the dining table, where they sit.
I didn’t exercise today — I came home and poured a gin and drank it in two minutes and thought about texting you. I didn’t get any steps. Well, maybe twenty or so, but not enough to impress you even a tiny bit. I didn’t do all the things you used to tell me to do over and over again. I didn’t expend energy. I didn’t work hard without thinking about what it would get me. I didn’t ignore the externals. I didn’t feel thankful for all the things that I had. All I did, at the end of the day, was consider the ice in my glass and twist my hair into a ratty knot and I think about texting you.
11:22PM. That’s nine more minutes. I pour another gin and watch the dead roses on our, sorry my, dining table. I’m worried they might move or come back to life somehow. Perhaps if I stare at them long enough. Drip, drip, drip.
Sometimes (and you’d laugh at me) I drag my pillow and blanket out and set up a makeshift bed under the table downstairs. It feels like I’m camping — like I’m just out camping and that’s why you’re not here with me. I thought about texting you.
Hey little turtle. Did you get your steps today?
Once, in the morning, I dropped a glass in the kitchen and it smashed into a million pieces and I froze in panic at the cacophonous sound. But you didn’t wake up. You didn’t even hear it. I cleaned up the mess and you woke up at the time that you always woke up and you asked me if I was feeling positive and ready for the day.
Yes, I said. Yes, of course. A lie. Nothing but a lie. Drip, drip, drip.
11:29PM. Seven minutes. Seven minutes.
There’s a space — a point that hollows out in the center of my chest — you used to rest your fingers there after we were done having sex and it made me feel like perhaps gravity really could hold me down and stop me from floating away.
11:31PM. Two minutes.
I didn’t have dinner. I had another gin and I stayed quiet so that I could hear the drip, drip, drip.
I thought about texting you.
Valentine’s Day last year you told me that you loved me and you asked me if I wanted to marry you. I told you I wasn’t sure and that I would have to think about it.
I guess I fucked up. Little Miss Turtle messed up everything.
I thought about texting you tonight.
But you won’t get it. You won’t ever get another text from me.
The space where my necklace used to hang is empty. The space where you used to be is empty. I’m empty.
I’m fucking empty.
And I can’t sleep.
Feb 14th 2015
Man Dies in Chatinnya Lake
The details are still unclear, however the Westlow police station has confirmed that young local man, Bobby Callick, has been lost to the Chatinnya lake just below Chatinnya Bridge.
His car was found in the late hours of today, February 14th, floating downstream towards the spill, and the guardrail damage is consistent with that on his vehicle. There is no sign of foul play.
The county is confident that this incident is an accident despite the insistence by the victim’s finance that this was a suicide.
Mr Callick’s family will be holding a memorial at the Lutheran church in Westlow County due to crews being unable to retrieve the body from Chatinnya Lake. Our prayers are with them. There will be no formal burial.
It was a blind and broken time
And kindness was forbidden
I guess I tried to hitch a ride
From acid to religion
But every guiding light was gone
And every good direction
The book of love I read was wrong
It had a happy ending
Leonard Cohen
The Great Divide -- from Book of Longing
***
I can’t sleep.
And it’s been eight minutes since I last looked at the clock because I’m looking at it again now, and it says 11:13PM and the last time I looked, it said 11:05PM. So that’s eight minutes.
Eight, very long minutes.
There’s something dripping. I can’t hear it all the time but if I stop and wait long enough, and make sure to listen properly, I can hear it. Something dripping. Maybe I left a tap on upstairs. Or maybe it’s the fridge again. Anyways, it doesn’t matter what it is because I know I won’t fix it, I’ll just keep letting it drip, whatever it is.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I was never very good at fixing things, or solving problems, or finality. I was never very good at letting go I suppose.
I would always wake up before you, I couldn’t help it. Probably the shift work or perhaps the caffeine that I yearned for; the caffeine I still yearn for. You would sleep without moving and I would lie there next to you and worry that the sound of my heart beating would disturb you. Now I just wake up whenever it pleases my body. I toss and turn and make a mother-fucking ruckus. I would wake the dead if they slept next to me.
It used to be that I would wake up and it would be an inconvenience except that what does it matter now? Sometimes I wake up and I hum a tune and then catch myself before I realise it doesn’t matter. Not now.
It doesn’t matter now.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Maybe it’s the other clock — the one outside our room, sorry, my room — the one I can’t see. Maybe it’s the other clock just tick-ticking away and maybe nothing is leaking or dripping at all.
I used to wake up early and be as quiet as I possibly could in the shower and then turn the coffee machine on and get out the milk and rip open a packet of Splenda and I would do all of this on edge. But you would sleep and none of it would bother you or wake you. I’d peek back into our room — sorry, my room — and you’d be in the same spot, unmoved, unchanged, lost in Sleepy Town. Nothing could ever raise you. Not until you were ready, at least.
It’s too early for coffee right now. Or is it too late?
I made bacon and onion and pasta last night. It didn’t work out well. It was too wet and the crappy shrivelled beetroot leaves that I put in it made the pasta an unappetising pink colour. I ate a couple of spoonfuls and then left it to sit in the pot. It’s probably congealed by now, but I’m so lazy that I’ll dump it into a plastic container and pretend like I’m going to eat it for lunch tomorrow, at work. But I already know it’s shit and I already know I won’t eat it tomorrow. At work.
Work. That thing I have to do tomorrow.
I definitely won’t eat it.
You would have made something nice — something impressive — like pasta with a homemade sauce. Or chicken wings with slaw. Or salisbury steak. You would have let me cut the onion.
Baby, you would say, please be careful. Last time you almost sliced off your finger. Pay attention, okay? I would blush and when it was almost done you would let me taste it for seasoning and I would say, no it doesn’t need any salt, and you would smile and say, And then you would add a little more salt.
I can’t sleep and you would say it’s because I don’t exercise enough. I don’t expend enough energy to be tired at the end of the day and I know you’re right but you’re not here and so it doesn’t matter anymore.
I wake up early, long before you do, but you put everything into your day and I am a slow, underachieving turtle. You are loud and I am turned down so low that soon I might just disappear.
Little Miss Turtle.
11:22PM. Drip. Drip. Drip.
At work you would text me and ask how my day is going and I would lie and say it’s good. I'm killing it, I would say.
Does my pillow smell like you? Maybe it just smells like me and I can’t remember what I smell like so I attribute it to you; to your smell. It smells more manly than me, I think. You smell like trees. Trees and grass and forest air. You slept like dead-wood and I always woke before you did. You were the slumbering log and I was the…
What was I?
The turtle. Little Miss Turtle.
After dinner you would go for your run and I would watch you out the kitchen window as you disappeared down the path next to the road. Every night you would disappear and all I could think was that you weren’t going to come back. The irony in that, is that one day you didn’t. There was always going to be that day time that you didn’t come back. And that one day held true — you didn’t come back.
I have to work in three hours. I stare at the clock and know that I’m going to look unrested and strung out and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ll put on my work shirt and some makeup and hope that there aren’t any meetings scheduled today.
When you met me you decided that you hated my job and that in turn, I hated my job. Four ay-em? you baulked. No one starts work at four ay-em! Your body clock will be so off, baby.
You were right I suppose. Perhaps all of me is off. I can still hear it, but I’m not sure if it’s real — drip, drip drip.
For a long time your side of the bed was empty, but that got to be too much. Now I have books on the sheets amidst the dust, because I haven’t changed them for weeks. The sheets, that is. Maybe it’s more than weeks by now. Drip, drip, drip. Coffee and a grapefruit is not breakfast, baby.
I shaved my legs tonight like it was date night. Like it was Thursday or Friday and you were going to take me out. Like you used to do. You would give me attention and order me too many drinks and not enough carbohydrates so that I would be easy once we got home. So that I would let you have whatever you want. I knew how it worked and I never said anything but that was probably because I liked it that way. I liked it when I was yours — when I belonged to you.
Now, if I wanted to, I could sleep for days without worry. But I can’t. Now, I can’t sleep at all.
I can’t sleep.
I shaved my legs and they’re smooth now, but me in my bed by myself, what’s the point of smooth legs? You’re not going to take me out. No one is going to take me out. I’m in my bed and all I can think is that I-have-to-work-in-two-and-a-half-hours. It’s on a loop inside my head.
If I wanted to I could come home and get into bed straight away. I could change into my jimmies without doing anything — without cooking dinner or washing the dishes or saying even a single word. I don’t do that, but sometimes I think about doing it. Sometimes I really want to do it.
When I come home now I usually do a lap around the yard and pretend like I am committed to our garden — sorry, my garden. I fill the watering can and feed the parsley, the three rose pots, the succulent on the front table (it has a flower now, by the way), and the rosemary bush, which has grown into a tree in it’s own right. Then I come inside and I kick off my shoes and strip off my sweat-soaked work shirt and wonder how many hours it will be until I can sleep tonight. Drip, drip, drip.
Probably all of the hours to be fair.
I considered dinner on the way home in the car — an old burrito wrapped in tin foil in the fridge, a sandwich made with the bread from the box which I know is already stale, or pizza ordered in. You would hate all three options but you’re not here anymore. I’m a slow, slow turtle who doesn’t want to cook tonight.
Little Miss Turtle.
Last Valentine’s Day you bought me seven roses. They were variegated. Pink and red and peach. It was the first time you’d given me flowers and I didn't’t really know how to act. Today is February 13th and those roses are brown and grey and dried up, but they’re still in the vase that I put them in a year ago. I had to empty out the water because it started to stink, but once they were dry I put them back in and keep them on the dining table, where they sit.
I didn’t exercise today — I came home and poured a gin and drank it in two minutes and thought about texting you. I didn’t get any steps. Well, maybe twenty or so, but not enough to impress you even a tiny bit. I didn’t do all the things you used to tell me to do over and over again. I didn’t expend energy. I didn’t work hard without thinking about what it would get me. I didn’t ignore the externals. I didn’t feel thankful for all the things that I had. All I did, at the end of the day, was consider the ice in my glass and twist my hair into a ratty knot and I think about texting you.
11:22PM. That’s nine more minutes. I pour another gin and watch the dead roses on our, sorry my, dining table. I’m worried they might move or come back to life somehow. Perhaps if I stare at them long enough. Drip, drip, drip.
Sometimes (and you’d laugh at me) I drag my pillow and blanket out and set up a makeshift bed under the table downstairs. It feels like I’m camping — like I’m just out camping and that’s why you’re not here with me. I thought about texting you.
Hey little turtle. Did you get your steps today?
Once, in the morning, I dropped a glass in the kitchen and it smashed into a million pieces and I froze in panic at the cacophonous sound. But you didn’t wake up. You didn’t even hear it. I cleaned up the mess and you woke up at the time that you always woke up and you asked me if I was feeling positive and ready for the day.
Yes, I said. Yes, of course. A lie. Nothing but a lie. Drip, drip, drip.
11:29PM. Seven minutes. Seven minutes.
There’s a space — a point that hollows out in the center of my chest — you used to rest your fingers there after we were done having sex and it made me feel like perhaps gravity really could hold me down and stop me from floating away.
11:31PM. Two minutes.
I didn’t have dinner. I had another gin and I stayed quiet so that I could hear the drip, drip, drip.
I thought about texting you.
Valentine’s Day last year you told me that you loved me and you asked me if I wanted to marry you. I told you I wasn’t sure and that I would have to think about it.
I guess I fucked up. Little Miss Turtle messed up everything.
I thought about texting you tonight.
But you won’t get it. You won’t ever get another text from me.
The space where my necklace used to hang is empty. The space where you used to be is empty. I’m empty.
I’m fucking empty.
And I can’t sleep.
Feb 14th 2015
Man Dies in Chatinnya Lake
The details are still unclear, however the Westlow police station has confirmed that young local man, Bobby Callick, has been lost to the Chatinnya lake just below Chatinnya Bridge.
His car was found in the late hours of today, February 14th, floating downstream towards the spill, and the guardrail damage is consistent with that on his vehicle. There is no sign of foul play.
The county is confident that this incident is an accident despite the insistence by the victim’s finance that this was a suicide.
Mr Callick’s family will be holding a memorial at the Lutheran church in Westlow County due to crews being unable to retrieve the body from Chatinnya Lake. Our prayers are with them. There will be no formal burial.
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.
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...
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.
Monday, April 6, 2015
Slumbering Boy
I'm so afraid.
I've forgotten how to function; how to breathe.
My lips are red and dry, and as cracked as my will.
Statues would blink, turn their heads, speak words
That could never be
as we passed by. You and I; impossible
With frenzy in Elysium and then
In the early evening autumnal, auburn light, all this truth
makes me slaver.
My pupils blown with thirst
Who am I to enjoy such fresh hope?
Each night, lying next to your warm ghost.
I tremble,
Filled with cornflower-blue dreams
And maddening, hopeful needs.
Sunlight and snow; beautiful; unavoidable opposites
That draw nearer with each touch our lips don't make,
And with every embrace we never share.
If things start happening, don't worry, don't stew,
just go right along and you'll start happening too.
~ Dr Seuss
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