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.

Untitled

I’m parked outside your house and I can feel time passing normally. It slips through my fingers and I don’t hold onto it despite knowing that I can.

The street light above me flickers and I think of that song. Touch me, it’s so easy to leave me, all alone in the moonlight.

No, it wasn’t ‘a street light flickers’. It was ‘a street light gutters’. Different, I suppose.

And soon it will be morning.

Whatever. I hate that song anyways.

Your front porch light clicks on and I jump, but it’s only your cat activating the sensor. I see it slink off into the bushes. All your blinds are pulled up and the internal lights are on so your family doesn’t seem to notice the porch light. Lucky. Not that it would matter to me. Well, not really.

I crawl over the center console and exit through the passenger seat so that I can slip around the back of my car and into the thick hedge that guards your front yard.

I want to watch you in your element, sweetness. I want to see the way you are now — without me. I want to see how you are with him, sweetness — your husband.

~~~

It starts to rain and I feel the urge to stop it but I want to see you — because through the window, in the yellow glow of your kitchen light, I see you chopping onions and chicken and all I can hear is you saying how you hate to cook. All I hear is how it’s such a goddamned stereotype for women to be in the kitchen doing what men tell them to do. What men expect them to do.

And yet here you are. With your shiny engagement ring and your sparkling wedding ring and your hollow smile. You’re wearing a fucking apron. And sautéing. And forcing a smile. And doing all the things you swore you would never do.

Never. Ever. Do.

You’re a lying sack of shit, sweetness. You are the scum that I scraped off my toilet bowl last night.

You are the girl I lost hold of.

And you’re all that I can think about anymore.

~~~

Eventually the safety light turns off and I get a better view of you in the kitchen and him pouring a glass of fucking chardonnay. For himself. You cut roughly through a stubborn tomato and it spurts onto your dress above your apron. I watch you try to wipe it off but I see he’s angry. You failed to please him.

I see you eye the wine.

I know you want some and I know he probably disapproves of you drinking at all. If only he knew you and who you really were.

What you want is a shot of tequila. Or an old fashioned. Or some smooth whiskey over ice.

I know what you want sweetness.

He — your husband — knows nothing about you.

~~~

From the hedge I can’t hear you but I can see him exiting the kitchen and taking up a seat in the lounge. He turns on the NFL and I see you cringe as you realise you’re going to have to watch it all night. Your hand shakes. You look across at the bottle of wine and quickly turn back to the tomato-chopping that is your job.

I know you’re absolutely dying for a cigarette.

No. Better. A fucking cigar.

The stink of it. The heat of it. The weight of it in your hand.

A cigar and a whiskey. I know you sweetness.

I know what you want.

I continue to watch as you focus on your tomato and he turns the volume up on the television. The tension in your neck makes me angry and I want to bust in there and save you from your fate. But you made your choices.

I watch him laugh out loud at an advertisement on the box and I watch you shrink further down. And that’s when I decide to stop it.

I stop time.

~~~

Inside the house your husband is the first person I walk by and I mark him an idiot for not bothering to lock the front door behind him. His mouth is open and there’s a droplet of spit hanging between his lips and the palm of his out-held hand. I have a strong urge to take his hand and stuff it into his mouth and twist his legs back the wrong way until they buckle and break.

I stop myself. I know that things can’t be undone.

I focus on you.

You, sweetness. With your apron and your glossy hair and your shiny heels. Right now — you are everything that I know you not to be. You’re trying too hard to fit into his life. You are mushing yourself into a mold that isn’t worth it, a mold that will turn you out like a smooth, self-loathing chocolate bunny rabbit.

I touch your hair and it is softer and cleaner than I remember it to be. I kiss your neck, but it is as smooth as I remember it to be. You are rigid, frozen in time, and so am I, but in a different way. I hold you tight and I rut up into you and all I want is for you to be mine forever.

Is that too much to ask?

~~~

I start time again.

I am in the other room now, your bedroom, and neither of you notice. I listen to your back and forth as I silently rifle through your drawers of clothing.

“Carrots?” you ask.

He’s watching the game. “Hmm. Whatever.”

I hear you dissolve and I know he doesn’t see it.

I see it. I see it in how quiet you are in response.

~~~

I stop time.

I can’t rewind and I can’t fast-forward. I wait a little longer this time, glad that I don’t have to hear your forced words and his uninterested responses. I’m always surprised by how excruciatingly quiet it is when the world stops. Deafening — it presses in on me and sometimes I can barely stand it.

The majority of your knickers are sensible in a repeating trio of beige, black, and dark blue, but right at the back of the drawer my fingers find a pair of socks that aren’t soft enough. Your vibrator.

I wonder if he knows, at the same time realising that, of course, he doesn’t. I bet he can’t even make you come. Does he try?

A range of pills inhabit your mirrored medicine cupboard and I pocket a few just for my own amusement. For later, after I go home and pretend like I’m going to sleep.

Your makeup is a neat yet excessive collection of overly expensive brands that fill a deep drawer under the sink. I remember you wearing dark eye liner and smudged mascara and I remember, every Sunday morning, with the help of a coffee and then a cigarette, you’d pluck the stray hairs of your eyebrows and complain how women would never be set free from all the fucking expectations.

Still, every Sunday morning, you’d pluck away until you were down to the filter and the skin above your eyes was red and puffy.

We fought more than was necessary but you were always my best girl, sweetness. If only I could rewind.

But all I can do is stop.

~~~

Your house is nice but it’s not you at all. Plush carpet (carpet is dirty and I don’t vacuum), eggshell walls (yeah…I don’t scrub walls), and too many bedrooms for what is needed in my opinion (who needs this many room?! It’s only more space to clean).

You were never the domestic type.

That song is still playing in my head.

And soon it will be morning. Touch me, it’s so easy to leave me, all alone in the moonlight.

I don’t even think those lyrics are aright. Morning is a long way off, but for the moment I still have time stopped, so it doesn’t matter.

Back in the kitchen I’m tempted to lift up your dress to see how you’re keeping things for him. That’s too far though. Instead I take a glass from the cabinet, pour some wine and place it just next to your chopping board. I press my face into your neck and you smell just like the girl I know you are. I pull your hair and your head cocks back and I remember how much you liked that.

I take a step back and admire your long, curling locks that hang from your tilted head.

I start time again.

~~~

You start backward but immediately catch yourself and straighten your neck again. You drop the knife and he calls from the living room when he hears it clatter on the bench.

“Everything alright?”

You cough. “Yes baby. Just slipped. Sorry, get back to your game.”

He doesn’t respond and that’s when you notice the wine. From behind, I watch you hesitate. You continue to chop your tomato and I know you want the drink — you want to let go and give in and give up — and he laughs in the living room and I see you tense up again.

I’m breathing as quietly as I can, and there’s no reason for you to expect me to be behind you, but still, my nerves and the exhilaration of even being here in your house is making me thump hard with adrenaline. My heart beats in my chest. I worry you’ll hear it.

You don’t. You don’t even turn. You place the knife down almost silently and lift the glass to your lips. You drain it. I wonder if it’s sheer want or terror that makes you do it.

You put your glass back down and I can’t help myself. I stop time and refill it. And then I get close enough to brush my lips against your neck and I immediately regret it. I want you. Badly. I want to pick you up and take you out of this awful house and away from this man who doesn’t love you. I want to hold your warmth close to my own and go back to the days we had. The days where we would be high or drunk or just inebriated in one way or another. I want to fix you but I know I’m probably the one who needs fixing.

I stop myself. I know that things can’t be undone.

You’re halfway through the second glass when I stop time.

I take it from your hand and empty it into the sink. I wash it, dry it, place it back in the cupboard, and arrange you to chop the tomato — as if you had been chopping it the whole time.

I want to brush my finger across your lips and hold you close to me. Close enough that you could feel how much I still want you. It’s always been you, sweetness. Yours is the name I say when I get there.

Every time.

I can’t rewind and I can’t fast-forward. I know I shouldn’t have come here at all, but just like you, I find it hard to help myself.

I walk out of your front door and I don’t look back.

I make it to the end of your garden path and out onto the street. The moon is bright above me and I’m singing that fucking song in my head again. A streetlamp gutters. 

 I’m looking back at your house. I start time again. I don’t notice the black Leviathan and there is less than a second before it hits me. I am man against RangeRover, and I lose.

Christmas Eve



I died in the light of the morning. 
You died the next day.


Maya had bought the sweater with money from the last truck driver. It wasn’t for the warmth, though essentially that was good for keeping up appearances, but for the dirty great reindeer stitched to the front with the googly eyes and glittering antlers and stitched sequin nose.


She had always loved Christmas and even though last year hadn’t been ideal, Maya was determined to resurrect her longstanding habit of festive happiness. Or whatever.


She supposed she looked ridiculous in the sweater, but still, she'd bought a small, unsweetened coffee and set up camp at a grimy table in the corner. The girl behind the counter had been giving her the eye ever since. Jesus, Maya thought to herself, what was she gonna buy, a cow burger? Even that probably wouldn’t have satisfied the stupid slut who was still glaring Maya down like she was about to steal the cash register or just plain solicit right there in the diner.


After a while the girl behind the counter was distracted with one thing or another and Maya found herself free to get back to the hunt. More than a dozen truck drivers were milling around in the warm interior of the diner but one in particular had caught her eye. He was tall, lean, barely older than her, she guessed, and though clearly minding his own business over a cup of steaming soup, Maya could feel him buzzing with human need — he had already noticed her — she could hear the blood pumping through his veins.


Dark curly hair, rough fingers...her mind ran over their course surface and there was an echoing sound that boomed around her...a scraping so loud...


An unbuttoned flannel over a dirty grey shirt, hat on, its brim straight as an arrow but just as dirty as the shirt. A beard that sprouted in a thick carpet on his face. Maybe four days worth.


Maya could smell him on the air between them. Her hands were starting to shake from hunger.


***


She was tiny. And pretty.


He had seen her across the diner as soon as he came through the doors into the warmth. Out of the cold.


He had seen her, looked away immediately, and then found that he had memorised her in less than that moment. Jayden sighed. He was getting tired of failing to surprise himself.


Don’t think with your little brain, brother. That’s what Jimmy had always told him. Troy burned for Helen. Jimmy was probably the only voice of reason he’d ever hear.


Jayden had told his Mama that he would be good out here — where it was cold and isolated and the women were ‘strange’ and always ‘wanting to tempt him' -- and he was going to hold himself to that promise. The women that he’d encountered hadn’t really been like that, so he could never understand what his Mama was so afraid of. They were just women. Some were truck drivers, some were prostitutes, some were housewives who served him hot soup in cups at diners along the interstate.


This women, well, she was more girl than woman... She was tiny. And pretty.


***


Time passed for this man. Tall Beard. More boy than man, Maya thought to herself.


She watched him lift the cup of soup to his lips and time passed for him and his beard grew and she swore she could hear it growing. Time passed for this boy but it didn’t really seem to pass for Maya anymore. Sure, it had been a year, but she only knew that because Christmas was here again. She wondered if that made her like everyone else, with her hair and fingernails that continued to grow and her lack of surprise when night turned into day, over and over again.


She felt like the same Maya. She felt unchanged, as if her self was persistent and the world moved and grew around her in its own way. Perhaps it would have been different if Baby was still alive.


The only thing that was different was the fact that she wasn’t a little girl anymore. It wasn’t a blatant change that the people in the diner wouldn notice — the girl behind the counter, the tall boy with the beard — but it was definitely a change.


The bruises on her elbows and knees, and the dark circles under her eyes, these were more visible when she was hungry, and tonight she counted four days since she had last eaten. She needed more money. And she needed to eat.


The sweater had been frivolous, Maya could admit that to herself, but the improvement it had made on her mood was more than worth it in her opinion. The coffee tonight had been a dollar which left an even eleven dollars tucked into the back of her winter leggings.


Maya sipped her coffee and tried not to be envious of his plump, pumping arteries. Tall Beard. She could feel the heat of his blood coming off him in waves. The heat seemed to mimic her own want; her terrible, unforgivable need.


No big deal — just two consenting adults who needed what the other had.

Sure, Maya wanted it to be true, but she knew there was no way Tall Beard would consent to what she needed tonight. She was going to have to take it from him.


***


Jayden was tired but his heart seemed to be working harder than his body could manage, and a lot of his blood was funneling straight down to his...


Well. If he was being honest, that had probably started happening as soon as he’d seen her, really. Big dark eyes, with bags above her cheeks that were screaming lack of sleep, dirty bangs across her face, swimming inside a too- big Christmas sweater. There was something about her — like a car crash that you just ached to look at — this girl, with her big eyes; she was a magnet.


The soup was definitely not enough. Jayden bought an egg salad sandwich from behind the spit-guard for $4.50 (it was probably old and dry, but whatever) and wished he was anywhere but this truck stop diner in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere. In less than a day he’d be gone from this place, just like he was gone from every other place, but still.


He was already rock hard in his pants underneath the table when he looked up to see her face, not a foot from his own, as he finished opening the sandwich packaging. How had she come over without him noticing?


“Hi.” She smiled at him, but God, she looked pale enough and weak enough that she might just pass out.


Jayden smiled in reply. "Hi yourself." He motioned for her to sit down opposite him in the booth, which she did. She did not, however, accept the half of his egg sandwich that he offered her.


***


When you have no heart, it’s as if that heart belongs to everyone. And so, Maya’s heart was every man’s heart. But that was really only because men were easier.

There were women out here, in the cold, but it was as if most of them had no intention of exploring their wants or giving in to their urges. Men on the other hand were dripping with need and all Maya had to do was be there.


Just like Carl’s friend had told her.


It had been a night after the boys were all too drunk to remember that she was, in fact, a girl. An average kid, average height, average face, but there had been a glint in his eyes that made her think he was smarter than he let on and perhaps the alcohol only really opened his mouth and let out the words that had already been inside his mind.


“I’ve tested it out,” he had said.


Maya hadn’t understood.


“I’ve tried it, and it worked,” he continued. “Not like, stalker style, but just...you know, texting her on a Friday afternoon, or mid-morning Monday. Times when you know she needs attention. Just be there. Be there.”


Maya had only been half-listening at the time, with her mind on other things (though, she didn’t know then that she was pregnant), but now, these days, she found that it worked. And it worked pretty fucking well.


Just be there.


***


Perhaps it was just because it had been so long since he had been close to someone; touched someone, or felt something other than his own isolation.


Jayden found himself picturing her naked, this girl across from him at the table, looking up at him with big, wet eyes. He wondered what her nipples looked like; if she was shaved; what her skin would feel like underneath his fingers.


He took a long, calm breath and sipped his soup. It must have been Christmas Eve messing with him — making him think of home; making him wish he had a home of his own — a wife, child, dog. A lawn that needed mowing, a garden full of bright colourful flowers, a home cooked meal on the table every night, bacon and eggs in the morning.


All the things that he would never have.


No, he thought. Stop it. All he had to do was rest up, make it through this night, fucking Christmas Eve, and get his load upstate, on time, without incident. Then he’d be done. Home free, as other people said. Ready to chug on to the next job.


***


Maya found it oddly comforting that his truck cab felt more like a home than any other she’d been in. Normally they were littered with greasy crisp packets, empty soda cans, sticky used condoms, crumbs, and shards of broken glass.


But this was different. There was a sturdy blind that pulled down and covered the inside of the windshield blocking out most of the sunlight that had already started to finger it’s way through onto their legs.


The way she was now, Maya could feel everything, but when she touched her fingers to Tall Beard's chin and the sides of his face she was taken aback to find that it was total overload.


His thoughts came flooding in and there was no gate. The kid was an open book of feelings.
Mostly there were images of a small family home. Blurry, angry memories of a father. Tall Beard himself, picking coloured flowers against a brightening morning. There was a girl as well. Soft and curved and smiling, as if she herself, was the actual sun inside his memory. Big, pearly-white teeth; cherry red lips; bright blue eyes that sparkled. A girl — slipping away, fading away; moving her lips, but Maya heard no words.


She knew Tall Beard had lost himself to this girl. Maya knew that Tall Beard's heart had been rendered as useless as her own. She felt sorry for him. She had seen heartbreak before, she had felt it, but this was different somehow.


This was closer and louder.


***


Carl had scrambled on top of her in the motel bed, and, thinking he was on a bender, Maya had given up fighting him. It hurt less if she relaxed.


And then, just as she did, she had felt his teeth. By that point they were sharp and elongated. They opened up her neck and in response, her chest rose in an unintended arc towards him, pulling her upper body away but simultaneously giving him more space to straddle her and get at the hot blood that was running down her neck and into her hair on the sheets underneath her.


Carl. She had pawed at him but he was different. He was strong. Too strong for an addict. Too strong for the pathetic excuse for a human that she knew him to be. His skin was cold against her own and it was as if he was fevered, or pumped full of adrenaline, or something else...


He hadn’t fully drained her that night and then, eventually, she had turned. In the midst of her mindless convulsions Carl had dragged himself out behind the motel and died.


And then it was just Maya and Baby then. Maya. And Baby.

***


Jayden was nervous. His little brain was telling him what he wanted, but at the same time it was hard to think that this tiny pretty girl was anything other than dangerous.


She straddled him with the ease and grace of the experienced, and licked from his collar bone to the edge of his jaw. He was hard — a coiled spring — and he had the strong urge to toss her into the back, get on top, and hold her down while he had his way.


That was wrong though. Merely an urge. Not the way you act around other people. Jayden knew how to act appropriately and that was exactly what he intended to do.
As he let her move on top he noticed that she was lighter than he had anticipated.
She kissed his neck. She kissed his beard. She kissed his lips and then the lids of his eyes. Her pants were off (he hadn’t noticed her taking them off) and she pulled her knickers aside. Jayden could feel with his fingers how wet she was and it only made him realise that he was much closer to an edge he hadn’t noticed before. He wanted to buck up into her. He wanted to push her down and use her. He stopped himself.
This tiny, pretty girl slid herself onto him just as her razor sharp teeth pierced the warm skin of his neck.


Jayden clawed at her shirt trying to detach her from his neck but her hands were suddenly so strong that she had him pinned and he could feel nothing but the warm red blood that slicked out from his carotid.


***


Penetration.


Maya knew it had never been her word, but it was hers in that moment. She had penetrated him.


Her fangs had punctured his soft skin and it was as satisfying as anything she had ever felt. Even more than the first time. She sucked hard, desperate to get her fill, desperate not to waste a single drop. Tall Beard's blood flooded her system; overwhelmed her; set her cool, pale body afire.


The morning Carl had turned her, Maya had been in pain. It was Christmas Eve. Carl died out behind the motel but she woke the next day to a fresh hell that she didn't want any part of. And then she had become hungry. So hungry. Too hungry.
 
She had grown weak.


She had failed.


Failed Baby.


Baby had been her first meal. Tall Beard wouldn’t be her last.

The Maker of Bad Decisions

The Maker of Bad Decisions



    for Billy










Sylvia heard him dump his boots in the hall only just a moment before she could smell the cigarette.

“I need a snack!”

Her husband was drunk. Again.

Sylvia wiped her hands on her apron and attempted to ignore the banging and the cussing that always followed him home from the pub. It wasn’t every day, but it was most days. She had noticed that the closer it got to Christmas, the more days it had been.

“A twelve hour day!” he hollered from the living room, where Sylvia knew he was already slumped in his chair in front of the box.

He shouted at her when he wanted sympathy, love, and everything else, and she hated herself knowing she’d give all of it to him. Despite the shouting. And despite the fact that he was mean — a mean guy who happened to be her husband and the father of her only son.

Sylvia dumped a packet of salted peanuts into a small festive ceramic bowl and filled her lungs with air — trying to float above it. Her life. It, the air, tasted of tobacco. She walked quietly, out of habit, from the kitchen, careful not to disturb the unseen demons. It didn’t matter if they were real or not.

There he sat — Scott, her husband — in his chair and his dirty socks, plump and sweating and reeking of stale beer. He never failed to fill a room, but it was always in an insidious kind of way. As if he was a disease that spread out as soon as he was given the chance.

Sylvia carefully placed the bowl of nuts on the the small table next to his chair and tried to smile. “I thought you were going to pick up Scotty Jr from school today?”

Her husband picked his nose with a fat finger and scoffed at her. “Did you just hear me, woman?”

Sylvia stayed quiet, calm, holding his eyes with her own.

“A twelve-hour-fucking-day and you want me to put my boots back on and go and pick up your son from school, before I even have a fucking snack?!”

“He’s our son,” Sylvia noted, quietly.

Scott burst into a fit of laughter, his jelly-like stomach jiggly grossly, and stuff a handful of peanuts into his mouth.  “Our son?” he shouted. “You get pregnant and squeeze one out and now he’s our son?”

It took all that Sylvia had to resist the urge to bite her lip until it bled — until it hurt and she could dissolve into that pain as opposed to this pain. Her husband continued without prompt.

“A twelve-hour-day. Can he not catch the fucking bus?”

“His leg is broken.”

Sylvia’s husband — Scott — stuffed another handful of peanuts into his wide, greasy mouth, and called her a word that she could never, and will never, repeat.


~~~


Scott was tired. Macmillan had given him an earful over the whole Calthorpe fuck up from last week, and then, he’d copped a speeding ticket on the way back to the warehouse in the afternoon. The last thing he had need was back-chat from the woman.

All he wanted to do was relax in his chair and pretend like this day had never happened.

Scott put his boots back on an stomped (loudly) down the front stairs. The bitch was probably already crying herself hoarse in the bathroom anyway.

He turned the keys in the ignition, but if he was going anywhere, it wasn’t to Sylvia’s son’s school.

Scotty Jr’s school.

Oh no. He wasn't going there.

He knew of a place out behind the local department store that seemed to be open all the time and let pretty much anyone in. Scott parked his truck in the lot behind the store, and checked his cell phone. Two missed calls from Scotty Jr and a short text from Syl.

    Please don’t make him catch the bus. I know you’ve had a long day, but please.

Even her text messages had fucking punctuation. Scott needed another cigarette, so he got out and lit one.

It was cold out but the fresh air on his face was nice and for a moment Scott thought of Scotty Jr, who was probably…

Oh whatever…

The kid was grown; he could fend for himself.

“Hey buddy, I’m afraid you can’t smoke here.”

Scott looked up (well, up…a little bit) to see a midget sitting on the stairs that were bolted to the back of the store. Flanking the little guy, Scott counted five other midgets and no word of a lie, they were all dressed in matching red and green elf costumes, gold bells dangling from the tips of their pointed shoes and hats.

Scott couldn’t help himself — he burst into laughter. It was the laughter of a man who’d had a long day and a few too many beers.

The group of midgets were not impressed but Scott didn’t notice, he was still laughing and lighting another cigarette.

“Seriously though,” continued the first midget who was holding a half-eaten salad sandwich. “If you want to smoke there’s a designated area over there, away from the building, man.” The midget pointed beyond where Scott stood.

“If it’s okay with you, little man, I think I’ll stay right here and finish my Marlborough.”

A midget behind the first one stood up on his step, a similar salad sandwich in his hand. “I think Franklin made it pretty clear that we’re not okay with you smoking anywhere other than the designated area.”

Scott barked out another laugh and in the back of his mind, noticed that his eyes felt heavy and sleepy — perhaps he should have stayed home after all. Or gone to pick up Scotty Jr. Oh well, once he finished his cigarette he was going to get shit-faced at the bar and then maybe sleep in his car.

If only he could get these midgets off —

THWACK!

The blow to the right side of his face seemed to come out of nowhere, but Scott was verging on all-together drunk so it was only really a surprise to him. He didn’t see the second one coming either.

POW!

Scott stumbled back and felt himself unable to stay upright. His butt and lower back hit the ground, hard, and the world spun, as if reality was orbiting his head. On the edge of his vision he could see the midgets were surrounding him. Down on the ground now, where he was, he couldn’t help but think they seemed a lot bigger.

A lot more intimidating.

FWAP!

One of them slapped the back of his head, like you would a naughty child.

“Hey!” Scott was starting to get pissed off. “I’m just going over to the bar across the lot. I didn’t ask for trouble.”

“Mister,” said the first midget, the one who’d told him he couldn’t smoke, “if you came here…you came looking for trouble.”

Scott coughed and there was blood on his hand. He stood up. His cigarettes were strewn across the ground.

A midget with holly embroidered on his buttoned vest stepped forward. “This is our territory, you big oaf.”

Scott coughed again, and laughed again. “This ain’t the North Pole, sonny," he said. Then he laughed once more — at his own joke.

FFFFFSSSHHAK-BLOD!

One of the midgets had launched himself off the ground, tumbled in the air, and landed a punch right to his gut. Scott’s gut. Scott’s soft lower belly.

He crumpled, and even with his eyes closed, he felt the presence of the little guys all around him.

“We asked you nicely.” The voice was behind him.

“We were polite.” This voice was to his left.

The next was right in front of him. “Are you always such a dick, guy?”

Scott did his best to speak over the pain he was holding behind his hands. “If you’re done with this, Fun-Size, I think I’ll go over to the bar now.”

“Oh,” the fist midget laughed, “is that what you think?”

And all Scott knew was a dull THUNK! under his jaw and a strong urge to lean back off the proverbial cliff.

~~~


“Dude, you’re dad’s not coming.”

Scotty shuffled, trying to find a more comfortable position. His cast was itching like crazy today. “Mum said she’d ask him to pick me up today. He’s coming.”

“Dude, no he’s not.”

Scotty knew Gavin would be right in the end, and that there was no point in arguing. Still…

“Dude. Seriously. This is getting old.”

“What?”

Gavin swung his backpack up onto his shoulders. “This. This whole thing where you try to convince yourself that your dad isn’t an absolute cunt.”

Scotty stayed quiet. He hated that word. He also knew Gavin didn’t say that word unless he deemed it necessary; unless he was trying to make a clear point.

The point was made.

Gavin shrugged at Scotty’s silence. “I can give you a lift, dude. If you want?”

Scotty stared down the empty road behind their school and knew that he had never expected to see his father’s car. He had wanted to see it, but he had never really expected it. He sighed and turned awkwardly — he was still getting used to the crutches. “Okay man. I guess you were right. But can we stop and grab a burger?”

“Dude! It’s like you’re in my head sometimes.”

Scotty laughed but it was with half a heart. Maybe food would distract him.

The two boys started their journey to the student lot where Gavin’s second-hand Prius was parked. Scotty hobbled and Gavin walked (considerately slowly) and texted on his phone.

“Love messages to Liz?” Scotty asked.

Gavin paled. “Uh, actually, just letting my dad know I’ll be late.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Sorry. I mean, you can totally share him.”

Scotty laughed. “Thanks man. Your dad is the best. Hey! Remember that time he tried to teach us how to fly fish in the stream when we went camping.”

“Dude! That was such a fail. We are clearly not fishermen in any sense of the word.”

They both laughed. Scotty tripped forwards and almost lost his balance but Gavin was right there with a steady hand pulling him back up by his school shirt.

“I have no idea what made you think you could land that triple without ruining yourself in the first place.”

Scotty fell back into step with his friend. “I dunno man. I guess I just wanted to do something impressive for once.”

Gavin rolled his eyes. “Dude, all of your gymnastics shit is impressive. Trust me. Liz can’t shut the fuck up about how impressive you are.”

Scotty felt a dull blush come to his cheeks.

Gavin quickly changed the subject. “So, burgers and then I drop you home yeah?”

“Uhhh, burgers and then you drop me a street away from my house.”

Gavin made a dramatic sigh. “You still haven’t told your folks that I got my license?!”

Scotty pretended to be sorry. “Hey man, I’m an invalid right now. All I wanted was for them, I mean, for dad, to maybe give half a shit.”

“That’s manipulative, dude. And I fucking love it!”

They fell silent again and the gravel crunched beneath their feet and the ends of Scotty’s crutches.

Gavin eventually broke the silence. “Ok. Burgers and then I drop you a block from you house.”

“Thanks.”

“Can I say something?”

Scotty stopped and looked up. “Of course. But this seems serious.”

“Oh,” said Gavin, “this is deadly serious.” He paused for effect and brushed the hair out of his face. “I bet, right now, that your dad is getting beat up by a bunch of Christmas-clad midgets.”

“What?”

Gavin burst into laughter. “Yeah. Like they’re totally dressed in elf costumes and they’re just beating the shit out of your stupid dad. That’s what I think.”

Scotty laughed as well and wondered if there was any justice in this life. “Gav, you’re a freaking nutbag sometimes.”

Night Swim

You



Ning always sat on the edge for a little while, enjoying the mostly silent nights, and the feeling of release that she got just before she pushed forward and slipped into the water.

Each night was different — cool and blustery, warm and still, clear, cloudy, raining, hot, heavy with humidity, or so cold that her skin shrunk into goose pimples — but every night was special to Ning. She indulged in the changing nature of her time once the sun was gone each day, and she accepted whatever awaited her.

Tonight was very calm indeed and with her bare skin pressed into the rough cement edge of the pool and her legs dangling in the water, Ning was, as always, in her element.

The moon was high and the sky very clear, enough so that she could easily see a few dozen stars and further, out beyond her town, the dim yellow glow of the city. This was her favourite part, just before she slipped in — the thought of the water taking her, the knowledge that she shouldn’t be there (the pool was closed at night) — it was her secret after-hours playground.

And…

The thought of being caught, in the dark, naked, at the public pool. It was enough to make her blood boil with electricity. It was the feeling of being alive.

Something rustled in the bushes behind her but Ning only glanced back out of pure physical reaction. She was used to bats and birds and rodents sharing the night with her. She had stopped being scared a long time ago.

Inching forward on the cement, she lifted herself up and then dipped straight down.

She was submerged.

Underneath the water entirely for a moment, she bobbed up again, smoothed back her long hair and let her lungs open up and fill with air.

This was her night swim.



***



Me



I’ve been waiting.

I’m leaning against the thick palm tree just down from the public pool. I know I’ll hear you when you climb over the fence — it always rattles loudly in the quiet night — more than you seem to think it does. You throw your towel over first and then look both ways, as if you were about to cross the road. I’ve learnt that’s just habit though, because you know that no one will see you. You look but you don’t really look. It’s almost as if the act itself is muscle memory.

I wonder to myself how long you’ve been coming here. I've wondered this many times before. I feel sad that I don’t know the answer and that I also potentially missed out on many nights.

This is the hard part though — waiting. I like to wait by the palm but I feel seedy when I do it. There’s a bench further down with a lamp post directly above (bright enough for me to read by) but it’s too close to the school that owns the pool, and if I sit there I’m always afraid a passing police car will think I’m their quota for the night.

But they don’t know about you. They don’t see you.

They don't see the girl at the pool.

I’m anxious tonight. I got here early because I couldn’t stand to be at home. I had this feeling that you might be early as well, but I was wrong. It’s 11: 47 when I see you walking quietly up the path towards the pool fence and it’s so calm tonight in the street that I’m worried you’ll hear my watch ticking.

But you don’t — of course you don’t; it’s just a watch. I’m being paranoid.

You’re wearing that nice, bright blue dress with the zip down the front, and your hair is tied up in a bun. I wish I could tell you how much that colour suits you, and how I love it when I finally get to see you with your hair down. It’s usually tied up — I  guess you don’t like to walk with it out. Pity.

Today was a bad day. I feel it on my heels as I make my way along the fence on the other side of the street, keeping to the shadows, watching you get closer to the part of the fence that has a fire hydrant in front of it — you need to stand up on it to get high enough to pull yourself over the fence.

Today was a bad day. Mr Greenwald said my piece on the closure of the butter factory wasn’t inspired. Jesus. Does he know that no one cares about the fucking butter factory. I did the best I could and the piece was a failure because there was nothing to get — dusty floor, rusted broken down churners, cleared out cupboards and only one, grey-ish guy who was willing to say more than two words to me — the piece was hollow, but the photos turned out quite well. I considered making a small collection and approaching the The Alley. It's that tiny art gallery behind the bank. Maybe. I don’t know.

Today was a bad day. Mr Greenwald is an idiot. I’m quiet and I don’t argue with him so he gives me jobs that he is certain will flop. Still, the guy wouldn’t know a story if it blew his head off with a semi-automatic. Those who have no talent, manage.

Today was a bad day. You would touch my hand and your dark eyes would soften and you would tell me it was okay that I had a shitty day. You’d fix my Tuesday. I know you would. You’d tell me to work a little more on the photo collection and go for it. You’d tell me it was good enough. You’d tell me I was good enough.

I stop when I see you get to your spot and throw your towel over the fence onto the grassy grounds that surround the pool. You have it down to a fine art — stepping up on the hydrant, steadying yourself with both hands on the fence, you pull up, up and UP. Your hips are on the fence like a gymnast and you swing your legs up either side of you like a monkey. You stand, then, tall; a beautiful statue upon the vertical metal prongs.

You look down over the pool. This is your domain. And then, gracefully and without fear (it seems) you jump straight down. It’s a good seven feet to the ground but you land on bent knees and your hands touch the ground momentarily before you grab your towel and straighten up. You are a seasoned professional. You are a cat burglar in the night. You are a fucking ninja. You are perfect.

My camera is heavy around my neck. On one hand I regret bringing it, but on the other…

I’m tense. Taught with excitement and anticipation. If I don’t crumble to ash perhaps I’ll get some nice, clear photos of you. Ones that I can print up big, big, in my dark-room. I could frame them. Look at them all day. Your blue dress. Your hair. And, and, all of you…

allofyou. ALLOFYOU.

 You’re about to walk to the far side of the pool so I know this is my chance to move. You won’t hear me while you walk, as long as I’m quiet, and I can usually circle the pool fence and get all the way to the side that is lined with dense shrub before you even start taking out your hair.

I’m right (of course), and we both move, purely out of habit. You, across the grass to the diving blocks and the corner that you like best; me, around the edge of the fence to the place where I like to sit. We’ve done this a million times — not that you know.

I know it’s not a million but it feels good to say that.

I’m sat between two trimmed hedges in the moonlight. The safety lights are on you and on the pool, and I know you can’t see me.

But I can see you.

You.

I watch you. This is a good part, but it’s not my favourite.

This part.

You dump your towel on the ground at the edge of the pool and reach up to unzip your dress. I get hard as you slip it down I see that you’re not wearing a bra tonight. Your knickers are black and you take them off and toss them onto your discarded dress. Your caramel skin is darker in the moonlight than I imagine it is in the daylight, but your business center is neat and your breasts…

Your breasts.

They’re small and pert and oh my God I’m so fucking hard.

You reach up and take the pins and ties out of your hair. It falls down around you in dark waves and I get up on my knees. This is my favourite part.

You sit down on the edge of the pool and each time, I wonder what it feels like — that cold hard cement against the bare skin of your butt. I want to touch that skin. Oh god, I want to touch your bare skin. I want to touch any part of you. I want to touch all of you.

You lift yourself forward and the moonlight and the safety lights reflect off your caramel and I can see you breasts and the tight skin that leads down to your belly button, and the skin that leads down from that, and the small patch of hair just above your sweet spot.

You splash into the water and I am overcome. I’ve seen you do this for one thousand, one hundred, and twenty-eight days and it doesn’t get old. We're not up to a million yet. I push through the honey that is desire and keep my eyes on you. The best part is over but the other stuff is so good that I don’t care.

You float on your back and your small breasts breach the surface of the water. Your nipples pull up in the cool air and I can see them in the moonlight. The water laps over your skin and you breathe deeply to fill your lungs with air and keep your body afloat.

You do an upside down breast stroke for a while. You watch the sky. I don’t know what you see up there but I know that all I see is you.

Eventually you turn over and pick up a lazy sort of freestyle that takes you all the way to the hundred meter mark. When you get there I kneel up and look through the fence to where you float at the edge of the pool. I snap a few quick pictures. I get some good ones of your wet hair and the droplets of water that hang on the lower part of your stomach.

I love your night swim. I wonder if you get off on it (like I do). I wonder if your pussy is wet, or if you wish there was someone here with you. I wonder if you have a boyfriend. I wonder if he’s handsome. I wonder if he has a big dick. I wonder if he knows about your night swims.

You do a few more laps and I see the moonlight again on your wet skin and I’m literally about to explode in my pants.

My phone buzzes silently in the pocket of my pants and I check it.

It’s my brother. He’s drunk.

    dude! izzy is messy tonight. think I can coax her into sucking me for once?

I ignore the message and the fact that he can manage the word ‘coax’ when he’s inebriated — overachiever.

I should be polite, but as a matter of fact, I don’t give a fuck that my brother’s wife refuses to put his dick in her mouth — that’s his problem.

I come back to you. I focus on you. You’re almost at the other end of the pool and this is my other favourite part.

When you get to the edge you swoop up and the water pushes your hair out of your eyes. Your hands get purchase on the cement and your hoist yourself up.

I watch as your hips hit the cement and the smooth, wet cheeks of your butt reflect the moonlight. You bend forward and give me the best view — the back of your upper thighs, and the just the hint of your cunt.

You’re dripping water and I’m hard and you glide up out of the pool, as if by magic. You glisten in the moonlight. You are impossible.

I want to be near you. I want to smell you and touch you and hold you and eat you up until there’s nothing left.

I want you.

I want to be part of your night swim.

I want to be your night swim.

You pick up your towel and wrap it around you and with the rest of your clothes in one hand you head back to the fence. There’s a ladder propped in one corner and you find it easier to exit that way. I don’t know who put it there but it looks dusty and old and abandoned.

I circle back around the pool fence and I have a very strong urge to stroke a hand along my dick, but I don’t.

I’m watching you. I’m watching as you towel off and get back into your clothes. You’re still a little bit wet. I know because they stick to you as you get back over the fence. I watch you try to un-stick them.

I can see the line of your knickers through your blue dress. I can see how you smile to yourself.

I think I might follow you home tonight.

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.

 

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. 
 

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.

“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.” 
 

“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. 

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. 
 

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. 
 

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.” 

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.

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. 
 

“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...

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.

The Grass

It is wide and green — lush; utterly terrifying.

“Daddy!” I call, but he doesn’t hear me. He’s lifting Milly over the soft green grass and helping her to land easily down next to him. They’ve made it beyond the awful layer of bright emerald which I know is littered with prickles underneath that top layer of lies. They — all of those prickles and barbs — are hidden. They’re close to the ground, down where I cannot see, but I know they’re there. Those evil spikes, just waiting for the soft pad of my foot to press down into their trap.

“We don’t have time for this!” Daddy shouts from the other side.

If we don’t have time, why did you leave me behind?

“Come on, quickly now Merry!” he says, motioning me over the grass towards them, with Milly’s hand still in his.

My hand used to be in his. He used to lift me high, far up above the terrible grass and bring me down to a soft landing on the other side.

The Other Side…

I’m at an impasse. I want to crouch and urinate. I want to cry. My dirty hoody is pulled down tight around my face and my sneakers are still an inch from the line of green that keeps me from The Other Side.

“Merry.”  He’s serious now. He says my name like it isn’t a name. I shake my head in my hoody and I don’t budge.

“Merry! We’re going to be late.” Daddy is angry now, and all I want to do is get over this green mine-field and be safe right next to him and Milly. But they are down there — the traps. He doesn’t understand.

He lifted Milly.

He used to lift me.

***

“The bus will be here in five minutes Merry!” Daddy calls from the living room.

I know I’m late but my hair is doing that stupid curly thing that it does when it rains. The hem of my school skirt seems way too long and I have no intention of eating breakfast before I leave. I know I’ll be fine to make it to the bus before it leaves.

Just as I’m coming out into the living room, wondering why Daddy can’t drive me today, I see him on the couch with Milly curled into his side.

He sees me eyeing the two of them. “She’s sick. Don’t be late, okay?”

I nod, but I can feel bile at the back of my throat. I’m mad and I notice there’s no lunch bag on the kitchen table beyond them.

“Lunch?”

Daddy shrugs, “Don’t they have a caf at your school?”

The answer is yes but I don’t give it to him. Milly is falling asleep against Daddy and I am jealous, far more so that I ever thought I was capable of. I want to stay home. I don’t want to go to school. I don’t want to go to the caf. I want to stay with Daddy.

I watch as he holds a finger to his lips — silence.

My backpack pulling my shoulders down, I am met with that foe again — emerald green and stretching further than I could ever, possibly manage.

“Fuck.” I say the word but I don’t know what it means. I know it’s bad — Daddy said I should never, ever say it — but I feel like right now it is something I should say. There is no one around so no one hears me. I say it again. “Fuck.”

I don’t want to go to school but the bus is pulling up and the grass stands between us. “Fuck,” I say, again. It sounds momentous. And yet…

It doesn’t help me cross that awful green sea.

I’m wearing my lace-up school shoes which are seemingly impervious to the horrors that lie beneath the grass, and yet…

I cannot cross it.

The bus pulls away and I am stuck where I am, on the other side of the grass.

The Other Side.

***

I can feel the damp earth underneath the grass — it’s seeping moisture into the skin of my knees and lower legs where I am kneeling. The soft green blades are pressing criss-crossed patterns into my shins and the thick, splintering pole scratches against my inner thighs.

“Daddy?”

I don’t hear him respond, but I can feel my hands above my head and when I try to move them, the rusted chain scrapes against the ring — I look up and it’s a foot above my head, nailed into the wooden pole.

I’m hungry. Thirsty. There’s a pain from my lower back right down to my tailbone and then further.

There’s an ache in the pit of my stomach.

I look down again and my forehead catches on the rough wooden pole. I see a jagged triangle of blood on my dress between my thighs. It fills the space — it should be clean cotton, dotted with yellow flowers, but it’s not. It’s dirty brown-red and it smells.

It reeks.

I feel the need to call out for him again.

“Daddy?”

I hear movement above me as Daddy and Milly prepare for dinner. I want to cry. The blood is slick against my thighs and I know what this is, only because the other girls talk about it. I know what this is.

I'm quiet, because there’s almost no point in saying it out loud. “Daddy.”

I want to say — I need you Daddy.

I want to plead — Come help me Daddy.

I want to beg — Please save me Daddy.

A stab of pain underneath my belly button makes me spasm without warning and a sharp piece of wood from the pole embeds itself in my thigh. I groan. I am a wounded animal.

“Daddy?” and now it is no more than a whisper. I can smell onion and garlic and tomato and herbs.

This is when the sin starts.

I’d heard him say it before but I never knew quite what he meant.

But now —

He knows what it is.

And, with my knees still in the grass, I know what it is.

I’m on The Other Side.