Astrology 101

 Cocktail parties are just plain boring.  She thinks this to herself as she bats blue eyes and offers her simpering smile to tall strangers with gleaming watches and crisp bow-ties.  Boring, and they smell like the old woman perfume that wafts from Dolores Ebony as she fills her fourth cup of spiked punch and titters to her date that she isn't a day over forty.  Somewhere around the room her own date is awkwardly tripping over his shoes as he rushes to introduce himself to the high profile account executive who just arrived.  Sighing she stirs the maraschino cherries at the bottom of her cup and wonders if it would be impolite to pick them out by their long stems.

"You look bored."  A startled glance up reveals a pair of brown eyes standing in front of her, one brow arched in a knowing smirk.
"I'm sorry, excuse me- was I in your way?"  She's realizing that perhaps she's had a glass too much of the punch herself, because now the room seems too warm and she can feel a blush spread across her cheeks.
"Well if you were I'm glad- come on and smile, I'm only teasing."  Across the room the band swings into action again, and couples all around begin to make their way to the temporary black and white dance floor. The young man is still smiling at her.  "You have a date tonight?"  She looks around, half shrugging;
"He's around here, somewhere...."
"Well, how about a walk outside?"  He's suddenly shy and glances down before she replies.
"Sure, I mean I would love to get out of here for a few minutes, but I don't know where we would go..."
"Oh, don't worry.  I know a place."  The gleam is back in his eye and before she can think twice he is off weaving through the room and disappearing out the patio door.

The cool air is calming and she can feel the heat vanishing from her cheeks.  The back porch has a few party goers that all share the same tired look on their faces that she is sure was mirrored on her own minutes before.  He is standing against the porch railing and she moves to stand beside him;  he smells clean and faintly of musk.
"The stars are beautiful tonight."  He doesn't look at her when he speaks; she watches him watch the sky, fascinated.
"They're pretty, I've always loved imagining what they're really like." 
"I think they're powerful, there are whole worlds, civilizations out there that we have never discovered.  Out in space... I would love to see everything from out there sometime."
"You mean like the earth?"
"Sure, yeah the earth but everything else too-we have such a finite perception of the world.  We only know what we can see, touch-everything else is pure guesswork.  What are you standing on?"  He turns to look at her and his eyes are burning, she looks around for an answer, cheeks flaming to life again."
"The porch, I suppose."
"Yes but under that?"
"The ground."
"And what's under the ground?"
"The earth's core, I suppose.  Molten lava and all that."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, of course.  All the science says so."
"Yes, but how do you know it's there?"  She pauses, meeting his gaze, captivated and a little frightened by his passion. 
"I suppose I don't."
"Exactly."  Silence falls again, and when he breaks it his tone is softer and more reverant.
"Old stories from all over the world talk about giants roaming the earth.  Today we suppose this is just a per-historic exaggeration but how do we know it's not true?  What if there is a whole world beneath our feet, giants and all sorts of things we thought were just fairytale."  They're standing close now, and without even realizing it had happened she realizes his arm is around hers and they're staring skyward together.  Abruptly he turns and takes her hand,
"Wanna go on an adventure?"  For a moment she pauses, thinking about the poor bumbling fool inside by the punch bowl.
"Of course."

Her heels clutched in her arm she follows him around the vast expanse of lawn to the front of the house, ducking past lit windows and around neatly trimmed hedges.  At the front of the house he stops in beside the picture windows.  Through the half drawn blinds she can see the band and bits of people dancing and talking, but he isn't looking through through the glass.
"Ready?"
"For what?"  His brow is arched again and he simply points up; leaning her neck back she can see a roof three and a half stories above.
"How are we getting up there?"  He smirks and points at an old trellis winding it's way past the windows and up into the darkness.
"We climb."

The wood is old but sturdy, after the first ten feet she learned her lesson about looking down.  At the second story the trellis ends, but the roof flattens out above be the raised ceiling of sitting room. He looks at her, offering his hand to steady as she climbs over the lip of the roof to sit beside him.
"You want to stop here? I didn't even ask if you were afraid of heights."
"I've never had the chance to find out, but lets keep going."
"You sure?"  His are burning with passion again, but this time they burn into hers.  She nods and the grin spreads from his eyes to his lips as he jumps up and leads her away from the edge.  There is an old wrought iron fire ladder in the shadows; rung over rung, hand over hand they climb-her bare toes gripping the cold metal.  Finally his foot disappears above her and strong arms reach down to pull her up the last couple of rungs.  The air seems cooler up here, and the wind whips around them and without knowing how she got there she is bundled in beneath his arm.  Spreading his jacket before them, he stretches out and looks expectantly at her. Thirty seconds later she is in his arms and they both stare skyward, his fingers weaving themselves into her hair.
"This is perfect."  The words escape her in a sigh, and he brushes her lips with his fingertips.
"Shhh."
The night whispers around them and she closes her eyes, safe in the knowledge that nothing is for certain.

Losing, me (originally posted on March 1 2010 on K)

You're losing me. I tell you no but it's not true. Every day our conversations get a little blanker, every day we say less and less with more and more words.
I live mostly in remembrances.
When we first started talking, when we unwrapped the truths of each other layer by layer. It was more then a first kiss or a first night spent together, it was the first time you asked me a question and I asked one back; the first starry night and the first freezing cold walk.
I tried, once, to remember that night with you.
Too cold, let's not stay out long, ok? Just around the block? Ok I'll agree, but in that moment I have lost the magic and so stumble beside you trying only to keep up.
Everyone goes through this, I tell myself. Everyone comes to the end of the honeymoon and the beginning of reality. But it's more then that. I see you slipping father away day by day, living more and more in Virtual Reality. Some days I ask you questions, things I don't care, will never care about. But you seem excited when you answer them, as excited as you once were to have me in your life.
So then, there is a time limit I suppose. I'm sick of watching you slip away minute by minute, retreating father and farther into your cave of a room. There will be a time, soon I think, when I will say ENOUGH.
You will lose me then, but looking on perhaps we will both realize in years to come that you lost me ages ago.
 

Sleeping Fits (origionally posted on March 22 2012 on K)

You fell asleep again today. We were in the middle of a conversation, I was trying to be coy. You were there until all of a sudden you weren't. I want to know why.
Why?
Am I not smart, pretty, funny, interesting enough?
Because it must be me. It has to be me. I can't hold you for five minutes and yet tonight you played a game for three hours, three hours spent on something that's not real.
I want to yell at you and show you that I am real and I am here, at least for now; that I love you. But I choke and only the last part comes out. Then you tell me that you don't want to hear it anymore.
All we ever say is I love you and I miss you.
But this is my life I scream in my head. I am nothing but missing and loving you.
You have other things in your life, other voices to talk to and other worlds to explore. Even if they don't exists they must have something I don't.
I failed you.
I'm sorry.
I just want to know how I went wrong.
How?

Cheers, Darling.

-->

The beer was warm that night and she was gone in a flash of brilliantly red hair that set his heart on fire.   Home was too empty, so instead he threw a jacket over his arm and went searching for loneliness down at Hooligans.   The walk didn’t take nearly long enough, and he wasn’t drunk enough not to notice Andy and Jade watching him from the booth by the pool table; Jade, surreptitiously fingering her phone under the table.  Small town news, he supposed, traveled faster than even modern technology allowed.

“Heya, Ty.  Beer and fries?” 

“Just the beer, thanks Jack.”  His normal seat was surrounded by a second cousin with overly bleached hair and a grade school friend turned ex.  Catching the beer as it slid across the bar, he turned and moved to the other end of the bar where the only company was a stranger.  It wasn’t that unusual to have unknowns stop by the bar, it was a popular midway stop for truckers and the yearly migration of loggers, but it was usual for them to be female wearing grey business skirts and heels.  Ignoring her company he settled into his beer and his anger.  With every sip he drowned out the looks he was getting from across the room; when it was too much not to notice he set the empty back with a force that made Jack raise a brow before wordlessly refilling it. 

Turning his back on the bar and digging quarters from his pocket he grabbed a cue from the wall and headed for the green felt topped table.  Methodically he knocked ball after ball into the pockets, playing until his pockets were empty of change and then silently handing Jack a five and waiting as he counted out ten more games worth of quarters.  Three games and six more beers and the seven ball rocketed off the table and rolled past Jades handbag towards the bar.  Cursing he didn’t notice her until she was too close to look away.

“You favor the left and center, but every time you try to make a shot to the right your angle is off.”  She was too close and dressed to nice, but more importantly she was the only person in the bar who didn’t know better than to leave him the hell alone.  

“Your timing is off.  I came here alone, I mean to leave here the same way.”

“You’re drunk, Tyler Long, and you live too far away to get back alone.”

“And you’re a nosy bitch- I don’t know who you are or how you know me, but you should leave.”  He looked towards the bar, hoping to catch Jack’s attention, but the bartender-bouncer had slipped into the back room.

“You’re wallet, Tyler.  You left it at the bar after you bought your weight in quarters.”  She held up the worn leather and he quickly shoved it into his back pocket.  Looking closer he realize that she wasn’t unattractive, blue eyes danced under dark auburn curls.   “You’re drunk and you should go home.”

“Course I’m drunk, that’s why people come to Hooligan’s, to get wasted.  It’s nonea your business if I am.”

“Yes, but since I’m here as a concerned citizen, I’m making it my priority to get you home.”  She was making fun of him, he thought.  Teasing.  A crooked smile cracked his lips.

“You tryin’ to take me home?”  She sighed, annoyed.

“I’m not going to have sex with you.  I’m going to make sure you get home and then you’re going to let me stay on your couch or your floor, if you don’t have one.  My car’s got a bad sparkplug, I’m stuck here for the foreseeable future until I get it replaced.  Going to see the guy downtown on…Franklin street? Tomorrow.”

“Mike’s a good guy, he’ll get you what you need. Guess you can stay, if you need, but I hope you’re not planning on comin’ back in those.”  He cast a dubious eye at her three-inch stilettos.  She smiled, wryly. 

“I’ll manage.”

            The house was chilled, autumn was turning to winter and soon it would be wood-fire weather again.   Tyler switched on the lights, and as a courtesy to his guest, turned the heat up a few degrees.  Sticking his hand in his pockets, he turned to find her surveying the small living room. 

            “Live alone?”  He shrugged.

            “Since recently, yeah.”  His eyes strayed to the throw over the armchair, quilted lilac and salmon, clearly not his own decorating style.  “Well, Miss…”

            “Ms. King, actually.” 

            “No first name?” 

            “Not tonight.  Maybe tomorrow when you’ve sobered up.

            “You sure you don’t want to come upstairs?  The bed is much more comfortable than this old couch….”
            “Good night, Mr. Long.”  Grabbing the throw, she threw it decisively over the couch and pointedly sat.

Upstairs Tyler threw his keys and phone onto the bedside table, (Not “her” bedside table, he reminded himself) and plucked a long red hair off the pillow.  She couldn’t even keep her damn body to herself; in that moment he let himself feel the ache that the beer had only begun to dull.  Tomorrow, maybe he would find out the name of the pretty young woman who was staying on his couch.  Tomorrow, he would find out what she did and where she came from.  Tomorrow…

Somewhere, there was bacon sizzling.  His head was still swimming but there was light pouring through the open blinds.  What the hell?  Where was she?  She always closed the blinds on days that he went down to the bar…joked that as a future housewife she better get used to her place in domestic society.  Where…? 

Oh.  Memory flooded back, it wasn’t his fiery vivacious sweetheart downstairs, it was the mysterious woman who wore heels in the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania.  Dragging on sweatpants he hauled himself downstairs.  She was wearing the same clothing as last night, but her shirt was un-tucked and she had a spatula in her hand.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.”

“Hmpf.”  He filled a glass with water and leaned against the counter, watching. 

“I made enough for two.  I don’t normally do the whole making breakfast thing, but then I don’t normally sleep on strange men’s couches either.  I walked into town for eggs and bacon this morning.”  He wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to, that he liked his bacon crispy, that there were already eggs in the fridge, but instead when he opened his mouth he couldn’t help himself.

“Who are you?”  She sighed and wiped her hands on a towel before pulling a black bag across the counter. 

“Isabelle King, Special Agent.”   She pulled a black badge out of the bag and with a practiced flip revealed an ID showing her face, before quickly closing it and turning back to the bacon.  He stood there, staring at her as she casually slid the bacon out of the pan and cracked an egg into the grease.  Finally, he wordlessly crossed to the fridge and pulled out bread and butter and began making four slices of toast. 

Breakfast was silent; he concentrated on his plate, every now and then he felt her eyes on him and looked up, only to see her equally absorbed in her food.  Finally, she met his gaze.

“Ask me.” 

“What?” 

“Ask me about being a Special Agent, ask me what I’m doing here-ask me.”

“Is your sparkplug really shot?”  He laugh was nice, he thought, as it exploded around the kitchen. 

“What?”  He smiled too, it was contagious.

“It’s just…normally the first thing people say is ‘Do you have a gun’ or ‘But you’re a woman’ or ‘Can I know a secret….’ And you’re worried about my sparkplug?  Yes, it’s really and truly a goner.  Believe me I wouldn’t have ended up here if it wasn’t.”  

“So, why didn’t you tell me last night?”

“With the way you were looking at me?  I wanted to sleep on your couch, not keep one eye open all night fending off advances from the drunken stranger I met in a bar.”

“What makes you think…?”
            “Oh please.  A fairly attractive woman from out of town shows up at a bar, you already can’t keep your hands to yourself and then you learn that she’s also a government spy.  You really would have left me alone?”  He snorted and she smiled.  “I’m glad I met you, Tyler Long.  You’re a decent and honest.  You would make a horrible spy.”

“Don’t count me out so quickly, lady.  I can be as cold blooded as the next guy.” 

“Don’t be- it changes a person.” 

She was very pretty, he thought, especially now that her eyes were dancing and he hair had a way of escaping its tight restraints.

The garage was full but as promised Mike made time for the out –of-towner.  She had tried to insist on walking down, but Tyler argued that it was cold and he had to go into town to get milk anyway.  He waited in the hard plastic chairs, watching out of the corner of his eye as she flicked through the Outdoor Life and Motor Trend.  She seemed oddly at home here, and then he remembered the glock she had pulled out of her bag earlier when she was looking for her keys.  She really was something else. 

“Yup, she’s good to go.”  Mike tossed the keys and she caught them, smiling widely.

“Thanks, I really appreciate it.  I would have been here for days waiting for the company to send another car.”  Tyler had noticed that in public she didn’t refer to her line of work except through vague terms, but everyone seemed to accept that she must be a high level executive in some large corporation.   Mike smiled back.

“Well, I’m sure Ty here would have taken care of you.  He’s a good guy, you know.”  Tyler cleared his throat,
            “Yup, best be getting home I suppose, you’ll want to pack up before dark so you can hit the road.”  He ignored Mike’s pointed stare as he walked out of the garage and climbed into the truck he had parked across the street. 

She packed quickly and neatly; in the space of fifteen minutes the only trace that there had been another person in the house was a half eaten package of eggs and a bottle of orange juice in the fridge.  Tyler watched her, ignoring the pricking at the back of his throat.  At least for the last forty-eight hours he hadn’t been alone; the prospect of her leaving only made his new solitude seem harsher. 

“You can stay another night if you need.  It’s getting dark out there.”  The words were out of his mouth before he knew that he was thinking them; she flicked the zipper of her bag closed.

“I’m sorry, Tyler.  I have to go save the world and all that-“ she grinned but this time it didn’t meet her eyes. 

“Oh, right.”  They stood there staring at each other for a minute, and then she was walking across the room and her arms were on his shoulders and she was kissing him.  It was a good kiss, he thought later, not too soft and there was a moment right before their lips touched where he was looking right up into her startlingly blue eyes. When they separated, she had a sad little smile on her face.

“You’re a good man, Tyler Long.  I hope you remember that.”  He didn’t ask her to stay again; instead he slung her bag over his shoulder and held the front door for her.   

The car door slammed, and she gave a funny little half wave-nod, and then the dirt crunched under her tires and she was gone.

Inside he found a big black trash-bag and stood in the middle of the living room.  The salmon throw was the first thing into the bag, followed by the decorative pillows and the artistically arranged sticks in their vases.  He didn’t stop until the whole house was purged, and then he stood there panting with five bags of womanly comforts.  He thought briefly of dousing them with kerosene in the front yard, but instead he hauled them into the bed of his truck and covered them with a tarp bound for the goodwill in the morning.

Tonight, the beer tasted sweeter and the house was less empty than it had been in weeks of cohabitation. 

Thirty Seconds to Hell

The worst thing in the world is when you treat me like shit just so other people can see.
For their benefit, I know, you snap and push me down again and again and again.
I am worth more.
I am better off on my own, this I know, and yet even on my own you still have the power to punch the wind out of my stomach and make me run crying for the hills.
I am better than that.
I am know you care(d) about me, and I know you don't always show it, but I am so much better than that.
I am pretty and intelligent and I am worthy of being loved (keep repeating and it will come true.)
Maybe someday I'll really be swept away by someone who is kind and thinks I'm "a goddess" and won't sour towards me in the time that it takes my heart to grow.
Maybe someday.
Not today.

Revenge

The bar-stool is half an inch too high, balancing myself precariously my fingers search blindly through my clutch for what my ex-pastor referred to as my "tar deathsticks." The idea of my pastor seeing me here lifts the corners of my scarlet lips a little, the Eternal Struggle for my Soul is lost amid men with dirty beards and my too-tight faded jeans.
Across the bar, a man with dirty blond hair consults with his friend dressed in a tar splattered orange jumpsuit.  They send surreptitious glances my way; I begin a mental countdown.  Five...he snuffs his half-smoked cigarette out, four...he picks through his wallet for a crumpled bill, three...he downs the rest of his beer, two...he slides off the stool. 
One.
"Hey there, buy you a drink?"  Wait, count to ten Mississippis, then glance slowly up through smoky eyes.
"I'm good, thanks."
"Well shoot, what's a guy gotta do around here to show a lady a good time?"  Forcing a laugh I slide off the stool, knowing full well that when I do I'll be standing an inch too close and be forced to tilt my head back to look into his eyes. Cue the smolder.
"What's a girl gotta do to enjoy a beer in peace."  I've got him, his look of longing betrays him and all the swagger in the world won't save him now.  He moves a hair's breath closer and I let my chest heave a little, knowing that it won't escape his notice.
"Well I know a place with plenty of beer and no strange men to bother your."
"Oh?"  My fingers are closing around my clutch before the words are out of his mouth.
"Come back to my place."

The kitchen is shabby, filled with cheap plastic plates staked neatly in cupboards with no doors.  He sets a beer in front of me and swings the door closed with his hip, I survey my surroundings as I bring the bottle to my lips.
"You been in town long?"  He is eying me, hasn't taken his eyes off me since we walked through the front door.
"No, not really.  Just passing through."  He smiles, nods in what he must think is a comforting manner.
"Girls like you should watch yourself down at Jimmy's, it's a rough crowd."
"Girls like me?"  He is around the counter now, hands reaching to caress my body.
"Pretty little things with no one to watch out for them."  I step back, gripping my clutch in one hand and my beer in the other.
"I can watch out for myself."
He lunges, and pins me against the counter, Struggling my beer crashes to the floor and explodes in a rage of foam and green glass.
"Oh, come on don't fight it, you want this.  You can't walk into a bar dressed like that and not want this-"  His fingers scrabble at my chest, my hair- I lean back and dig my nails in.  I don't see his left arm until it's too late and my face is screaming in pain.
"ENOUGH."  I'm angry now- in three seconds the gun is out of my clutch and with a quiet pop the struggle is over. 

Red mixes with my beer's foam, through his back pocket I can see the led of a cell phone screen light up.
Buzz, buzz, buzz- the phone shows a picture of him and a beautiful brunette standing on a sandy beach embracing.
Buzz, buzz, buzz- I flip it open.

"Hi, it's me.  I'm sorry to tell you that you're right, he did take me home.  He won't be laying a hand on you again."

Snapping the phone shut, I am careful to tread on him on my way out the door.

Thurston Classic

I am so happy, I can't even express it in words.
Yes, at night it starts to hurt and I roll over and tuck a stuffed blue dog closer under my chin.  But right now I'm sore exhausted and happy.
Some part of me has re-awakened, I want to giggle and dance in the rain and write sappy wonderful love stories.
Today I'm not going to think or worry about tomorrow, today I am happy and still in love and remembering my once forgotten passion for life.
As one of my favorite literary characters once said, "Tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it-yet."

Hard Love

Tonight, the man with blond hair and blue eyes is unhappy.  He is staring at my folder instead of looking at me, and this is normal.  He doesn't like to look at me, not for any length of time.  Instead he finds constant reasons to shift around the contents of my file, glance at the guard behind the double pane of glass, or clean his glasses.  Surly, this can't be normal shrink behavior.  I've never been to a therapist before, though in the back of my mind something long ago learned reminds me that this is a psychiatrist, not a therapist.  Or maybe he's both?  Surely the county women's penitentiary doesn't have the budget for both.  They don't even have the budget for proper shoes.

He clears his throat, I wonder what he is getting out of these sessions-my sparse answers.  Is he learning to read my unstated thoughts?  He must be analyzing something, because he keeps coming back for more. 
"Anna.  Your friend, Megan, spoke to me yesterday."  Megan?  My friend?  I suppose.
"Yes?"  He clears his throat again, there must not be any phlegm left at the end of his sessions with me. 
"She said that about two weeks ago, she heard a fight.  You called her after, didn't you Anna?  Your neighbors heard a lot of shouting and banging.  They heard something hit the wall.  Do you want to talk about that Anna?"
For the first time, he has managed to surprise me.  I dig the bitten shards of my nails into my palms.  Emotion is pointless, life is now simply one breath to the next.  Breath.  In.  Out.  Reply.
"No.  No, I don't want to talk about it."  This was the wrong answer.  He seems at last to have struck on something that forces his eyes to my direct gaze.  I stare back, stubbornly denying emotion.
"Anna.  This is going to help you.  I want to help you.  Did you and John argue often?"  If I didn't know better, I would think he is genuinely concerned.  Damn shirk school must have taught him how to lie with his face. 
"No.  We didn't.  He was mad because I forgot to put dinner on.  He likes it ready when he gets home.  I was tired and I forgot and we fought." 
"Did John hit you, Anna?"  This seems to be the point he has been dancing around today, maybe even for the last two weeks.  He is staring into my eyes and seemingly without realizing it resting his body against the table. 
"No.  John would never hit me.  He loved me.  The neighbors must have heard when I threw the pasta pot at the wall.  John was a lot of things, but he was never abusive."  The shrink, what was his actual name?- deflates and leans back, eyes dancing back onto the file.
"All right, I think that's enough for today.  We can talk about it more next week, if you're ready."

After the guard takes me from the room, I run the inside of my right thumb along the faint scar on my left wrist.  A grease burn, has left the echo of my other life in a small depressed circle.

Aftermath

The girl in the orange jumpsuit stares back at me.  Across the table, she seems too frail to have a file as thick as the one sitting on my lap.  Her brunette hair is pulled back into the utilitarian pony tail of all the women here, she looks no more than sixteen though the paper in front of me lists her age as twenty two.  Only a year younger than I.  I shuffle the file, collecting myself and remembering that she wouldn't be in here without a good blood chilling reason.  I smile, and I know that though it doesn't reach my eyes I'm young and handsome enough to make most of the women want to talk to me.

"So Anna, this is our first meeting.  Would you mind telling me why you're in here?"  She blinks, the orange fabric stiffly resisting the shape of her body as she leans back into the metal chair.
"I killed him."  This takes my by surprise, I have to glance back down at the file to check my facts before I speak again.
"Who did you kill, Anna?"
"My fiance.  John.  I killed him with his car.  I stabbed him with the kitchen knife while I was making Spaghetti Carbonara." She looks at me, earnestly.
"Anna, it says here "attempted homicide.  You didn't kill anyone; your fiance-John, he's not dead."  She lets a sigh escape, long and low.
"To me, I killed him.  I am here, and he is out there.  I will be here forever and even if I'm not, I will never see him again.  To me, I killed him."
This job is still new to me, I'm not used to dealing with more than petulant teens and their parents.  These women are different, they are mostly my age and they are constantly full of surprises.  I find myself imagining another life, if I had met Anna under different circumstances.  In her booking photos, she has a spark in her eyes that has vanished in the subsequent six months.  In another world, I would have found her intriguing, pretty.  She is staring expectantly at me and I try to look as if I have not just slipped into my own thoughts. 

"Why did you want to hurt John?"  She gives a half shrug.  Her movements aren't defined, merely the suggestions of gestures.
"He hurt me.  Again and again.  It was time for me to hurt him."  This is something I have been trained to deal with, back to textbook scenarios.  Except that the textbooks don't tell you that sometimes, attempted murders look like they need someone to wrap them in a blanket and give them them a can of Campbell's tomato soup.  Mmm mmm good. 
"What did he do to you?  Did he physically hurt you?"  That slight movement that suggests a shake of the head
"No.  He loved me.  He loved me and then he let me love him.  He loved me, let me loved him, and then let me go."
"He broke off your engagement?" 
"No.  He tried but that was only because he was scared.  I was scared too.  We were scared together.  And then he told me I wasn't enough, I would never be enough.  But he wouldn't let anyone else love me either.  I was alone.  No love."
This is the most she has said at once and she is moving, actually moving, to brush a stray hair from her eye. 
"He told you that you weren't enough emotionally?  Sexually?"
"Everything.  I'll never be enough, never be good enough.  He loves, loved me.  I think.  And then he tells me that I need to believe that I'm beautiful.  I need to believe that I'm enough.  And then. And then the one time I did believe he slapped me.  He called me a whore and he hit me.  And I took the knife and I tried to kill him.  And it felt really good.  But then, I loved him.  I love him.  And now.  Now I've killed him.  And I love him still."

For a moment, her eyes are shining and I see a little bit of the passion that blazes in the photo on my lap.  It's hard for me not to be enthralled in her blue eyes.  She stands then, and when she moves with purpose it's graceful and beautiful to watch.
"Excuse me Doctor, I believe I've become too emotional to continue.  I'm sure I'll have plenty of time to get to know you, a lifetime if John has anything to do with it."
I catch what might be a wry smile, but it's gone too quickly to tell.  She moves to the door and the guard who has been waiting outside quickly escorts her down the hall, the shuffle of her paper slippers echoing off the cement corridor.
I run my fingers through my hair, spiraling my fingers around the damn cowlick in the back that never seems to lay flat.  She is something different, never in my life have I met a woman more distressing or intriguing.  I know I should call my supervisor and ask to be taken off her case, I clearly have feelings in conflict to my position as counselor.  Instead I fold her booking photo and tuck it into my jacket pocket.  I can't wait to see her again.

G

She had green eyes I think.  Or maybe I'm romanticizing blue, I haven't seen her in over a year and a half and I won't be seeing her again.  Never again.  Ever.  There is an eternity packed into that word; every time I try to think about it I fall into a hole in my mind and am halfway gone before I remind myself to breath.  Breath.  She can't, you still can.

The last time I saw her we were at the beach.  She had the bundle of incense and was using it to frighten away bad spirits, to the rest of us it was such a fun game but now I know-we know- to her it was real.  We stood there, eight girls, shouting our regrets to the ocean and the sand and the stiff New England air.  Other girls our age were in the woods, hiding their pot and their beer and trying to feel mature, we were holding on to youth with both hands.  I told her, told everyone, that I was going to tell the man that I loved the truth, I was going to tell him everything and pray to my lucky stars that his love would prevail.  I told them about my life and my love and I was so wrapped up in being young that I didn't even stop to wonder how she was doing, how everyone else was doing.

I wouldn't talk to her again.

I remember too when we were young, art class; I spent a week trying to accomplish what she managed in forty minutes.  I was so jealous.  She was cool and free spirited and perhaps popular, I was those things only by association.  I didn't know, didn't understand that she had demons too.  We all have demons to fight. 

They didn't find her for two days.

My dangerous moods started when I was twelve.  Food didn't matter, I had dreams about bridges and falling but I was too scared of pain to dream in reality.  Lunchtime meant throwing out whatever dried up bread my mother had managed to throw into my bag and disappearing into my mind. I was the only one in the world who felt this, had to be the only one who understood what it meant to just want everything to stop.  I wish I had stayed with the family that loved me in the place I had known.  Maybe I would have noticed that she and I shared isolation.  Maybe, together, we both would have been ok.

By the time the school noticed, it was too late and she was gone.

In AP English we slaved together over Shakespeare.  I only had eyes for the tousled haired boy in the back of the class, daydreaming about tennis courts and movie nights and buffalo chicken pizza.  If we spoke it was surrounded by everyone else.  We spent days together in mutual silence.  I was intimidated by her- jealous that she was brave enough to shave her head and then go platinum blond, jealous that she looked so good and was so damned talented.  We were friends, sure, and she was one of three people to pay their share on my eighteenth birthday when the others left me to front the bill.  For Christmas she gave me a tiny drawing in a frame, my name.  I have lost it.  I thought at the time there would be plenty more years and drawings and time for casual conversation.

I didn't know for two weeks.  We had known each other for fifteen years, and she was dead for two weeks before I knew.

I could have done oh so much more.  I could have talked.  I could have listened.  I could have noticed when she took our playacting more seriously than the rest, could have wondered if for her the demons we ran from were real.  I wonder if she knew that we shared that dark part of our soul, that deep question mark of life's worth.

They found her because she didn't call her dad for his birthday.

I love my father.  Sometimes I imagine if it was him getting that call from a far away city about his baby girl.  I imagine and I cry and I thank whatever God or Grace that I can for my fear of pain.  I love my baby sister and brother.  I hope that I am the first one of us to go because I don't think I can bear ever losing either of them, now or in fifty years.  I the man who stopped this part of me.  He told me to turn around and go home, he told me he loved me and that ocean water in mid January is far too cold.  He held me the night that my best friend called me and said, she's gone.  The night I grew up and realized that I am not immune, we are not immune.  She was so close and then she was gone.

But Gwen, I kept my promise from the beach that night.  I told him everything and what's more I haven't lied since and won't again.  If I had done that long before, maybe I would have had the time to notice that something was horribly wrong.  I miss you, I miss talking about Bjork and MOMA and how we were going to run away to Finland. I'm mad at you and mad at myself for ever thinking that there was no way out, mad and scared of losing another person that I love.  I know you don't believe in God or Heaven, and I don't really either- but some days I wish I did because the thought of being able to redeem myself to you someday is comforting.  I miss you every day, we all do- I hope wherever you are they have insane Scandinavian music and lots of colored pencils.