By contrast—the Queen. Saw the old darling on TV. She looked a fright. Fright is not in my mother’s MO unless she’s instilling it in someone else. The world has spun off its axis if the Queen looks like something fished out of a drain and Shrinky like a Project Runway contestant. They’ve traded places. That boggles even my sick brain. Renders me sleepless. I toss and turn, mull things over, ponder possibilities.
Enough about the Queen. What about me?
Someone stole my journal.
Same day Shrinky pranced in to put the fear of God in me about rule breaking, my journal disappeared. Shrinky didn’t take it. I know I saw it in its usual spot after she left. I’d hustled to the day room to rattle Rosalie’s cage. No cray-cray Rosalie to be found. Schlepped back to my room, no fucking journal. Glad I reserved my spot here for a bit longer, mysteries on top of mysteries. Got my work cut out for me.
My previously MIA spouse (you remember him) showed up on my doorstep. As you’d imagine, he left our not-real-warm reunion much worse for the wear. After, I realized he reminded me of my brother. Or would if my brother had lived. Creative, smart, beautiful, just what baby brother would’ve been, as odd as that is to write (you’d expect no less than odd from the Heiress) considering I only knew bro as a toddler. Don’t know why, after all the years I’ve known my husband, I’m only now realizing I’d married the grown-up version of the Littlest Heir. Can’t decide if the notion gives me the incestuous creeps or fills me with joy. Nor am I quite sure why the doppelganger situation pissed me off.
The real kicker—Hubby says someone died, in addition to the near mortal injuries inflicted on the Queen by you-know-who. Swore he got intel from a reliable source.
Did I kill someone? I don’t think so. The Irishman didn’t accuse me either. My head’s an attic full of cobwebs. In due time I’m sure the whole nasty event will gallop back to me like a barn-soured horse. I’ll tell you first. Until then I’m better off here.
Nevertheless, my husband’s on-the-down-low info set me off. I reminded him quick. When it comes to me—love hurts.
The Invisible Heiress
The Heiress loves to hear what you have to say so she can ignore any and all good advice, but by all means have at it.
Comments
Scribbler
You’re a car crash I can’t look away from. Meant what I said in my last comment. You should write a book. Do you have an email? I’m a literary agent. Let’s talk.
Reply: Let’s not.
Norma B.
I’ve never read a blog before. Don’t know why I’m reading yours. Should I hate or feel for you? Forced to hold a dead baby? Trying to kill your own mother? Is that really your life? Whether it is or isn’t, something about you fills me with sadness. Maybe it’s your battered heart, the one you think you’ve toughened up enough to withstand any onslaught.
Reply: Morphine’s a fix for that.
Jack
I’m with you, Norma. The Heiress, for all her bravado, is a sorrowful girl. The public would love you, Heiress. I could get it all on film. Documentary style.
Reply: You and Norma should work for Hallmark. I’m gagging here.
Hannibal2
We’re kindred spirits—if you know what I mean. Love to compare notes. Mine are finger lickin’ good.
Reply: Tempting. But I’ll pass.
Chapter Sixteen
Isabel
“Think I’ve got permanent dents,” I said.
“Thought you got off with the handcuffs. We got off with cuffs.”
Sherman dropped the cuffs to the thick-carpeted, hotel room floor.
“Yeah, well, I don’t need scars. Christ. Can you unchain yourself from my collar?” I said. “You’re choking me, flapping your arm around.”
He unhooked. “We should never’ve left the club scene. We broke the rules, shared personal information, took the masks off. Now it might not be as fun or exciting.”
“Don’t be an idiot.” I rubbed my neck. “That club’s depressing anyway.”
“We’re too far in. It’s like real dating. You’ve got to quit calling me at all hours. It’s too risky.”
“If you’re complaining, I could find an available guy like that.” I snapped my fingers.
“At the club?”
“I’m out of the club scene for a while. Can’t pay the dues anymore.” The heat of humiliation spread across my face.
“Well, where else would you meet someone with the same, you know, tastes? You love a hard-on up your bum and you know it. Besides you can see me for free because we’re using hotels now. I’m paying. Remember?”
“You’re missing my point.”
“Which is?”
“How blank are you?”
I untangled myself from the slimy, sex-toy, leather-crap mess on the bed. I rolled over to my side. He followed. We spooned like we liked each other.
“I’m broke,” I said. “Why do you think I needed you to send a taxi today? My car’s gone. Repossessed.”
“How can that be? You must make a good living. You’re getting lots of clients.”
“Never mind. This is too much personal information. You said yourself—we’ve got nowhere to go but down in deep, stinky shit. Let’s call it good.”
“That’s drastic, isn’t it?”
“Is it? I can’t see you if I can’t get anywhere.”
He pushed himself against my back. I could feel him, still wet, getting hard. “You’re a naughty girl talking nonsense.”
“I’m serious. This isn’t a game.”
“What do you want from me? You know I’m married.”
“I don’t want to have to tell you what I need. I’m drowning. Isn’t that obvious?” His erection wilted. I squirmed out of his embrace to sit up.
“I guess.” He rearranged himself on the mangled sheets, the lube tube slid off the bedspread. “You’re a therapist. Don’t you all have weird issues for chrissake?”
“That line’d pull a bigger punch if you didn’t have a plug hanging out your ass.” I bolted out of bed. “By the way, you don’t have to stay married. No one’s forcing you.”
“Are you insane? Did you think I’d get divorced?”
“I don’t know what I thought.”
I felt hot shame spread up my chest and neck. Sometimes mortification didn’t settle with me. Checked the top of my head, my lashes. All hair systems still a go. Now I’d committed the gambler’s greatest sin—showed my hand. Where’d I drop my clothes? I felt exposed, raw. I picked the cat-o-nine off the floor.
“How about I rent you a car until you get things straightened out. For a week or two? I’ll pay for it.”
That struck me as hilarious. I cackled like a chicken. My shame dissipated to make room for disgust.
“You can do better than that, and you know it,” I said.
I’d stopped taking birth control months ago—hedged my bets. The possibilities made me bold as brass.
Sherman sat upright, appealed to the ceiling for inspiration.
“What? You expect me to buy you a car? You can’t be serious.”
The whip across his bare legs let him know just how serious I was. Didn’t hurt that I nicked his flaccid little Sherman too. His screams filled me with happiness. I kept the whip raised just in case he didn’t get it. When he quieted to the whimper stage, and I was satisfied he knew I meant business, I dropped my weapon, pulled on my skirt.
Sherman sniffed. “You know, you’re not a very good submissive.”
Chapter Seventeen
Preston
“Call for you, Preston,” Nurse Judy said. “In the phone room. Senator Fitzgerald?”
“Huh? Dad’s brother?”
Nurse shrugged. “Don’t have to take it.”
As if. I stomped to the tiny closet that passed for a room, snatched the phone off the small desk.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
“Good Christ, Brendan. I haven’t talked to Uncle Thomas since I was, like,
ten. He might be dead for all I know.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice.”
“Apparently, I do,” I said.
“You could hang up.”
“Could, but I gotta ask—what mouth breather would call someone who tried to kill them?”
“You didn’t try to kill me. That I know.”
“Gotta admit, one hell of a good imitation.”
“Preston, stop. You’re talking to the one person you can’t fool.”
“What do you want?”
“An explanation. Harrison and you clash like Titans. Always have. I get that, but good lord—cutting her throat? Jesus, Preston. I can’t wrap my head around it. If someone else died that night I don’t think you’ve got it in you to kill someone. Except your mother? You did that quick enough. What the fuck? I don’t know what to think.” Brendan’s voice raised an octave with every sentence. “Well, even if it’s true that someone died, it doesn’t mean they got murdered. I mean people do die without help, right?”
“It’s your story, dude. You’re talking to yourself.”
“But who? Who died? Why? Riding off the reservation is your thing, Preston, but slice and dice? Murder? I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Not your fucking problem. You should kiss my ring I didn’t slice, dice, or murder you.”
“Drop the bad-ass act. It’s me you’re bullshitting. We grew up together. None of this feels right.”
“All that sap sentiment for what? A fucking Boy Scout badge?”
The guard posted outside the door again, peeked in. I smiled, waved like a person with their faculties intact.
“I owe you,” Brendan said. “I hightailed it out. Left you alone to fend for yourself when you were at your worst.”
“Get real, Brendan. You couldn’t keep your own ass afloat, much less mine.”
“Nothing like you were, Preston. You can’t say different. It’s not the same shit or the same day. I want to help you.”
“Didn’t you get your payoff?”
“What?”
“My parents paid you off.”
“Yeah, got a million dollars and a nondisclosure agreement.”
“Get lost then, Superman. Lois Lane ain’t interested.”
“I sent it all back. Not taking their money or shutting up. You do need my help. No one else can do it. You won’t let them.”
“So you’re deaf and dumb.”
“Stop, Preston. Jesus. I can’t believe you killed someone. If you did, tell me. Was it an accident? Another man, a boyfriend, or something? Some low life druggie threaten you?”
“Pfft. You mean a lower life than you? You’re gonna take that tactic now? No matter, can’t breathe a word. On the advice of counsel—”
“Really? That’s still how you want to play it? How about this? The house on Nottingham Lane belongs to someone else now. Drove all the way up to it yesterday. Saw Allied trucks and the Stepfords moving in. Mommy, Daddy, two kids, and a stupid, yapping dog.”
I stood to attention so fast the phone dropped, moved quick to catch it. “Our house?”
“No. The other house.”
“Now you’re fucking pulling my chain. That place has been in my family since—”
“I know.”
“Aunt James lived there. Before, well, Mom worshipped her. She’d—”
“Never sell it.”
“What’s your game, Brendan? I don’t believe a word.”
“No game. Looks like someone’s living in our house too.”
“Times up, Preston.” Nurse Judy’s big head jutted through the door.
“You can’t be right.”
“Drove up there too. Got all the way up the lane, right near the fountain, thought about getting out, but someone was watching me out the window.”
“Who?”
“Beats me. Didn’t get a good look. Backed outta there fast.”
“Think my parents sold it too? Could they, since I’ve been committed? I don’t think I’m actually committed, though. What the fuck do I know? It can’t be true.”
“Might be true. No clue.”
“You’re no help. Zippo.”
“I’m gonna find out,” he said.
“Come on, Preston.” Nurse Judy propped the door open with her fat ass.
“Don’t take advantage.”
“Just a sec,” I said to Der Führer Judy. Then to Brendan, “Can you get in?”
“Is the extra key still where we kept it?”
“Under the gargoyle to the right of the front doors. My mother—she can’t know about Aunt James’s house. Could she? Maybe she changed her mind about Nottingham. My mother isn’t—she’s not the same since—maybe the old gal’s cutting me off, unloading historical shit.”
“Oh yeah, that sounds right. Have you been in a coma?”
“Okay, got me, but what does any of it have to do with the price of Prozac at the nut farm?”
“I don’t know. Maybe nothing. It just doesn’t pass the smell test.”
I reminded myself to breathe, my mouth filled with drool. Wished I could punch Brendan in the mouth to shut him up, keep him from messing with my head. I imagined my Irishman, my rescuer, calling from Christ knows where, squirming with Catholic guilt over his crazy-ass wife. The dumb mick thought I could be saved, tried to do it for as long as I could remember.
Brendan cut through the quiet. “I asked you before if you remembered what happened that night. You really don’t know, do you?”
I started to say something but felt like an invisible hand covered my mouth. Whatever truth wormed its way up for a split second vanished. I couldn’t retrieve it.
“Oh, I remember plenty. Like the box cutter in my hand.”
Chapter Eighteen
Preston’s Blog
Musings from the Dented Throne
Space Invaded
Hell might’ve frozen over my Dented Throne devotees. My Irishman rang me up. Fuck on a raft, right? His devotion to delivering roof-rattling news overrode what should’ve been his distaste for his batty wife. Rattle me he did with this flash—
Squatters invaded my dead auntie’s mansion.
BFD you say? Well, hear this—pre-Royal We—the Queen’s sister and only sibling reclined on her velvet settee, gulped a handful of pills then tied off a plastic hood at the neck. Her suicide about ruined the Queen who sought solace in the Jester’s arms, but she rallied when Grandfather gave the newly engaged couple Auntie’s empty castle. The Queen refused to cross that moat. Instead, she kitted out the shrine with all things Auntie, pulled up the drawbridge for good, refused to sell. Her beloved sister’s abode has never been open to tourists.
I never knew Auntie but the Queen’s devotion to her memory stirred me. I’ll admit the story felt like urban myth, as oft-repeated familial history often does. So why does my chest feel hollow when I think of how my mother’s heart must be truly broken to resort to a measure such as parting with Auntie’s house after all this time? I don’t believe she’d do anything of the sort—not in her right mind anyway. So her mind is obviously all kinds of wrong.
Thanks to me.
Irishman still pushes his murderous theories. Insists on investigating Auntie’s improbable real estate transaction and its possible relation to my current situation. I believe his disappointment will reign supreme. For reasons unknown to me, I feel a good puke coming on whenever I think of what my situation might really be, a splinter of something sinister works its way up my cauliflower brain.
Can’t believe he’d go out on the limb after I cleaned his clock last time he popped his head up like Punxsutawney Phil. Could his heart still beat true for the Heiress? We’ll see.
A bit of business—since my last post went viral faster than genital warts, I don’t have time to make smart-ass responses to most of your fucked-up comments. Okay, I have all the time in the world. Still no.
Stay tuned and strap in, Dented Throne devotees. We’re getting to the juicy stuff.
The In
visible Heiress
If what you’re saying tickles me, I’ll reply. If not, know I’m still feelin’ it but not showin’ it.
Comments
Love Rules
So exciting! Your Irishman loves you! I can feel it. You’re so lucky! I think a knight in shining armor is riding your way!
Reply: What’s your address? I’ll send you something you can use to slit your wrists! Seriously! Get a fucking grip!
4 Christ R Lord
Follow the Blessed Redeemer who will forgive u and show u the way. You must ask yourself—What would Jesus do?
Reply: Aim better.
Christa L.
You’re a sick freak. What kind of a psycho does the things you do and writes about it? You’re either a serial killer or a chronic liar.
Reply: I wondered why they kept me in a padded room. Thanks for clearing that up.
Jack
Almost dying has a way of reorganizing your priorities. The Queen might not want one more sad memory in her already bulging portfolio. Maybe participation in a documentary could help get to the bottom of everything. Besides, I could make you famous.
Reply: I could make you disappear.
Norma B.
Jack’s got a point. If it’s not fame you’re chasing, rehashing the whole mess might help, as would help from an objective party. Another thought—Irishman could be dead on, everything’s probably related. No such thing as coincidence.
Reply: Despite your disconcerting cliché you might have a point. Not about Jack the nag but the Irishman. At the risk of using another tired phrase—time will tell.
Chapter Nineteen
Isabel
The Invisible Heiress Page 5