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.

Once again, for old time's sake

It's raining, and it's three in the morning, and I am awake alone in my dorm.  On some level you could say that some things never change.
But they have.
I'm happy.
I'm not writing men into bloody oblivion, I'm not crying myself to sleep after sneaking back across campus and down sets of stairs.
I just came from my boyfriend's room, my boyfriend of over two years.  He told me he loved me and he kissed me on the forehead and then I walked home through the rain.
I'm not the same girl anymore, longing to be out of the grey grey town.
Bring it, Meadville.

An open letter for S

Oh honey.  There are some days-some days.  I want to tell you what he's been saying about you.  I want to tell you what he said that made me tell him that it was inappropriate for me to continue talking to him.  I want to tell you that before he booked that room for you on valentine's day he was telling me that he wasn't happy.
I want to tell you because I've been there before, I've been that girl.  I wish I could save you from the hurt he is going to cause you someday.  Because I don't want him- I never have.  I am happily ensconced with the love of my life and I hope it stays that way until we are both old and grey and crotchety together.  I don't want him-but some other girl will-maybe already has.  I don't think I'm that special, I never have.  I refuse to believe that there are two men in the world who are as struck with me as my wonderful boyfriend and yours seem to be.  And mine is honest.  Which means yours has probably done this to every girl that has crossed his path- and honey he lives in a fraternity house.  Not all of them will have had the integrity or self respect to say no.
Sweetie, I'm saying that he cheated on you.  Not with me, but undoubtedly with someone.
I want to tell you all of these things, because from what I've heard you're a sweet girl.  But I cannot find a scenario that does not involve my own self destruction in this process.  Girls are notoriously vengeful towards the  bearers of bad news, and I just don't have the mental or emotional time right now.  I hope you find out soon-actually no.  I hope you never find out.  I hope you break up because of distance or growing apart or a stupid fight-because finding these things out hurts so much more then just having them end.  I promise you that.

Good luck, honey.  I hope you two work out- but in the meantime don't stop looking for prince charming.

The House on Lutz Street

Tonight the wind is creeping up the street and blowing in the eves.  Next to me, he twitches the corners of the blanket around my shoulders.  The old house has been abandoned for almost six months, though from the looks of the tattered throw in the corner we might not be the first to use it as a hideout.  The neighbors dog yips faintly from two miles down the road, other then this everything is still.
"I will always love you, Sarah."
"I love you too."
"Will you write often?"
"I'll write."
"It's only for a few months, then I'll be back for you.  Will you wait?"
"Mmmmmm.  Let's not talk anymore just now."
His kiss is warm and sweet; he kisses the way he talks, with a beautiful simplicity.  He holds me and slowly I let myself fall into his body, resting my cheek on his chest as he strokes my hair and kisses the top of my head.  Outside the first drops are falling, soon there will be a downpour.
"Darcy?"
"Sarah?"  I finger the buttons on his shirt, undoing just one at a time.  His hand closes over my fingers and we are embracing in the blasts of lighting.  We are the tempest, and the tempest is us.

Later, he closes his eyes and I let my hand trail across his naked stomach, pausing as he flinches and pulls it into his own.
"You're wonderful."  His breath is hot on my neck, his whisper sits heavily in the air pressing down on me.
"Darling."
"What?"
"Darling, Darcy, I can't.  I can't pretend that you're going to go away and in two, three, four months I'll still be here waiting.  I don't love you in that way.  When you leave tomorrow, this will end."
He is looking at me but his eyes are blank, translucent.  His face is frozen but I can see my words hitting his core.  He sways and his breath comes fast and shallow.
"Why Sarah?  I told you I will wait for you, I told you I'll be true.  Why?"
"I just need this, it seems right.  It's been fun, but darling I just don't think I can keep on.  You understand."
"No Sarah.  No.  You're wearing my old ring, my jacket.  You're not allowed to say no.  You're mine.  I bought this, when I gave you these things.  I have you now."
"Darcy, you're being ridiculous.  You can't possibly think I would be happy here, with this, forever."
But his eyes aren't responding anymore, they have taken on the dull sheen of the dead.
"You can't leave.  I'm not letting you leave."
His hands are on my arms and I am against the wall;  something cracks and there is wet on my face and it's blood.  My blood.
"Darcy stop.  STOP.  What are you doing?  Think about this.  DARCY."
A hand on my throat and I can't breath and he is not even looking at me, just staring at the wall beside my head.
After a few seconds he lets up, and I gasp.
"All right.  I'll stay.  I'm not going anywhere, I love you Darcy."
He turns to me and puts one hand lovingly on the side of my head, the other carreases my chin.
"No, you won't stay.  Not now."
CRACK.


***
"It's the old Lutz house!"  The boy is poking through the fence with a knobbly stick, the girl besides him looks warily at the fallen in timber frame.
"It's gross looking."
"It's haunted."  She rolls her eyes and he nods with authority.
"I overheard my mom talking about it once to the neighbors.  The dude who lived there snapped his girlfriends neck."
"No way."
"No, totally."
"I don't believe that."
"My mom doesn't lie, and that's not the worst part."
She glances at him sideways, anticipation and trepidation on her face.
"The guy, he jumped through this hole in the floor, and there was this big pipe sticking up.  It went straight through his stomach, SQEACH."
The boy makes a violent gesture with his hands, indicating carnage.  The girl shudders and looks back at the house.
"Is it still there?"
"The pipe?  Nope.  They had to cut it off cause it went through his stomach and his guts were stuck around it."
The house looms in front of them, she looks up at the crumbles of the chimney.  She looks up at it, curiously.
"How come?  Why did he do it?"  He shrugs, unconcerned.
"Who cares?  I dare you to touch the front step."
"No way.  There are probably ghosts in there who would get all angry.  YOU go do it."
"Nah, I gotta get home for dinner soon."
They boy throws his stick and it soars through a long ago broken window pane.  They wander off down the lane together, talking and making up better details for the old legend.
Twilight is creeping over the house as the wind picks up.  Rain moving in.

Christmas in the District

She is young, and he is too.  They're sitting on a park bench along side the river, and they're holding hands.  A bird hops close enough to eye her shoelace suspiciously, and she stares back with equal curiosity.  He turns away from her and spits words into the wind.  They snap across the thick autumn wind.
"You're not as young as you used to be, anyway."
His eyes are roving a group of coeds, squealing on a blanket nearby, fingers frantically texting on sleek bejeweled phones.
She does not reply, but looks down at her bare knees.  Blue veins pop out and up, distorting the milky skin.  Her hands fold themselves quickly on top of her legs, and she leans out to look at the rippling water.
"I'm not old yet;" it slips out of her mouth as a whisper but he is too intent on a bronze haired lass to notice her slight decent.

The next week it starts snowing.  Just little flurries of flakes drifting from the sky; enough to excite children who are playing with their nannies on the browning lawn.  They're back on their bench, his hands stuck into his jeans and her nose reddening in the frosty air.
"I don't know why the hell you dragged me out here today.  It's god damned near freezing."
"We used to come to the river all the time in winter, you remember watching the ice break the spring before last."
"Yeah well, maybe one of us has lost a little of their extra blubber."
He eyes her waist, which grows under his stare.  Her jacket puffs out and she looks away, trying to conceal her embarrassment.  There are no young ladies to hold his attention this time, and so he stands and waits for her to do the same.  Her reluctance makes him impatiently scuff his feet.
"You used to tell me I was pretty all the time."
"You were."

They don't come back for two months after that.  The holidays are approaching and the park is frequented by a sole chipmunk, foraging candy wrappers and breadcrumbs.  One day an old woman shuffles down the path and carefully lowers herself onto the cold bench.  Her eyes may have been blue once, but now they're clouded over and sit below sagging lids.  Lines map their way across her face and her neck and chin collapse into themselves in folds of flesh.  A rattling sigh escapes her thin lips,  a hand reaches up to brush itself across the white hair.
"I am ugly.  I am old."
She speaks to no one in particular, but the chipmunk stops it's scurrying momentarily to stare at the stranger.  She is still.

 Morning papers announce the tragedy: a woman, age 23, frozen to death last night by the Potomac.  Survived by her parents and a grieving fiance.  She was so young, so beautiful.

What Goes Around

Hey you,
with the horrible hair and the penciled on eyes.  Or maybe you're sixteen and have a kid slung across your hip; maybe again you're sixty five and you reach in an over sized purse to take out a carefully tabulated list of coupons.  I'm you're friendly sales associate, and I have something to tell you:
You're not witty.  Or cute.  Or vaguely amusing.  And I don't care about you as a person at all, when I look at you I see is big dollar signs.
Honestly.

Whats more, I don't care to clean up after you.  They don't pay me enough.  When you're snot nosed six year old daughter rips open a fresh lip gloss off the shelf and starts eating it, don't look at me and glib, "Kids!"  I don't find it amusing.  I see my paycheck, walking out the door on your daughters now shiny lips.

Sometimes I fantasize about destruction.  I would like to go to your house and spill cherry soda on the floor, rip the cloths out of your closet and dump them in a pile, do it all with a holier then thou attitude.  I believe in karma though, and retail karma is one of the best kinds.

Next week when you bring something back, that same glossy lipped girl now in tears about her favorite shirt that shrunk in the wash, I will hand it back and smile.
"I'm sorry.  This item can clearly not be returned."

Go ahead and threaten, but on the inside I'm dying in laughter.  My manager won't care, and neither will the company.  After all, all you are is money in the bank.
The only thing that can save you is kindness and decency, areas in which you are clearly lacking.

So the next time a girl like me looks at you and says "Is there anything I can do to help you?"  just smile and thank her.    Because someday, when she finishes her college degree, she is going to walk into your office, and she is going to be introduced as your new boss.  And then you had better look at her and smile and say "What can I do for you today?"