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...

Imbrue

Imbrue



To whom do I belong?

I am marked, in this pit, and who is responsible
Who shall be held accountable
The pit, was I the one who dug it
Did I move the earth away and make a place
For myself to fall
Did you push me, or did I merely lean back
Into it

I am marked — with your bite; your stain; your ink; your honey.
In the darkness of the moon
I see nothing, all I feel
Is the mark
Though it be hidden in the shadow of
This pit
Where I find myself

I am marked and down here I will stay
Marked possession
Marked for the end
Marked for the pit
I dug it, empty until my fall and
Now, I am marked
I belong to you.

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.

Lovely Moonraker And The Friday Eggs

Lovely Moonraker And The Friday Eggs

I wrote this last week, it's a secret thank you note. No doubt I'll have something hateful finished by Thursday, for it is the devil's day and this might just be the one that breaks me...










A single moment of kindness
I saw all of you
Your inner fool, you didn’t know
Not really
Wanting to tell it to me
The fact of
The thought for it
So simple and perfect
I’ll give you all
You want
Though, I would have
Either coin-side

Undo these fetters and
Set me free and then
We’ll see
My errant gifts
My tirelessness
I’m better than the truth
Though be I no sage
I’m all the fetid fun you’ll have
Now that you’ve
Opened me up
With this cupboard love.

Untitled [03.11.14]

You test me with malice ‘gainst the rough anchored ground
To surrender me to knees believing I am unbound
By the words that defile, by quick stabs to my chest
But it’s such turning change for I know you have messed,




What you’d thought was pure eat, steady hand touch my lung
Push the skin back to open. Let bee in, and be stung.
All your wars won’t be won and your tests I can’t pass
What was said shan’t be un’, not with my face through the glass.




And those keys you’d give me, though use gone: pointed loss
Doors I see up, down, far. Pined need cold; what the cost?
Money, gold, silver, blood. You’ll take pulse upon pound
‘Till you’ve sated the black want and I end, trapped; turned ‘round.




Drained but still to the hilt, longing stale. Envious.
Eyes so glassy, pushed, pressed you. Feel me now, insidious
Though that moon looms above, past is done, find this middle
I’ve come just to seek you, meet the source of cruel ripple.