Perfectly Flawed

by Nessa Morgan

  But still, it was a great holiday.

  Seventeen

  Something’s wrong—very wrong. I can tell as I lift my head from the pillow once I leave my safe haven, everything will be severely different. But how? Mommy always makes the troubles go away; she always kisses my forehead and whispers a lullaby to help me fall back asleep when I wake up from a scary dream. So if I seek her out on my own, she can make this eerie pain with no source go away, right?

  That’s what Mommy’s do.

  Clutching Mr. Snuffle Hiccups to my tiny frame, I pad across the room from the closet, a safe place I hide from the scary, loud sounds Mommy and Daddy make when they’re angry at each other—something I haven’t heard since Daddy left—to the hallway to scurry to Mommy’s side.

  I need Mommy.

  The light above the stairs is lit bright, something I find unusual. Daddy hated leaving the light on, he wouldn’t even let me sleep with a nightlight when I asked, begged, even cried for one because of the monster in the house. I guess I can thank him because the dark no longer scares me, but I still want to know why the light is on…

  Maybe Noah or Ivy left the light on.

  I push open the door to my parents’ room—or Mommy’s room now—shuffling inside but leaving the door open like I always do just in case Ivy or Noah get scared and need Mommy like I do.

  My hands reach up to the pale white comforter that covers the bed, tugging lightly until I can pull it back, trying not to drop Mr. Snuffle Hiccups—my lifeline. A chocolate hand falls to the side, dangling from the bed, something dark drips from the tips of her fingers to the white carpet beneath my feet. It smells like wet metal when I breathe, the scent thick and strong when I move closer to Mommy.

  “Mommy?” I whisper lightly, hoping she can hear me. That maybe the soft sound of my voice is enough to wake her. “Mommy?” My tiny hand grasps hers, pulling her lightly in attempts to wake her up.

  She doesn’t move.

  Something sticky coats my fingers, though. I pull my hand back and rub my hands together, feeling the warm liquid stick to my fingers but I don’t want it on my hands. Slowly, I rub my hands down my white nightgown, watching the liquid slide down the fabric in a streak of faded pink.

  I pull the blanket back, dropping Mr. Snuffle Hiccups when the sight of red overwhelms, the scent of wet metal flooding the air. It’s everywhere; on my Mommy’s skin, on her pajamas, dripping onto the carpet, my feet, and my Barbie nightgown—where is it all coming from? How can I stop it?

  Mommy isn’t safe.

  “Mommy!” I say louder, still hoping she’ll wake up. I tug on her hand but she doesn’t move, she doesn’t even make a sound.

  JoJo, what do you do when someone is in trouble? I hear Mommy’s voice in my head. She wanted me to be safe and to know what to do to remain safe. But what do I do?

  I call... memory-me replies, trying to pass Mommy’s test. Then it hits me.

  I grab the large, white cordless phone on the bedside table. I wipe my hands on my pink-and-white Barbie nightgown, streaking across Princess Barbie’s face, then dial 9-1-1 just like Mommy taught me.

  “911. What is your emergency?” a deep male voice on the other line asks.

  What do I tell him? I don’t know what happened to Mommy.

  “My Mommy won’t wake up,” I say quietly, feeling the tears spring and run down my face. I want to be strong for her, I need to be strong for her right now, but the tears won’t stop. Maybe I should make Ivy talk to them, she’s older than I am, she’d definitely know what to do, what to say, right now. “And she’s covered in red.”

  “Did you try to wake her up?” he asks.

  “I tried and she won’t wake up.” My hand reaches for my Mommy’s hand, clasping and pulling, seeing if she’s only playing with me. It would be a mean trick but I would hug her and crawl into bed because she’s Mommy and I love her.

  “What’s your name, honey?”

  “JoJo,” I tell him. “JoJo Lucas.”

  “Well, JoJo,” he starts, sounding so far away. “Is there anyone else in the house with you? Other than your mom?” the voice asks. “Can you tell me your address?”

  My address? I should know this. Mommy told me when I started school. She even wrote it inside my pink backpack. But I can’t remember it.

  “No, I don’t know it,” I squeak out, my tears flowing faster down my cheeks. I can’t help my mommy because they can’t get to us. I can’t remember my address to save Mommy.

  “Is there anyone else in the house with you, JoJo?” he asks.

  “My brother and sister,” I answer, my trembling legs carrying me away from the bed. Some part of me tells me it isn’t a good thing to be near, in fact, it’s really scary. “But they’re asleep in their rooms.”

  I start crying loudly, sobbing into the phone. The man on the line starts shushing me, telling me everything will be okay, all right, but I know that it won’t be. Because Mommy won’t wake up and I don’t think she ever will.

  I hear, “Josie?” behind me.

  It scares me and I almost drop the phone on the floor.

  I turn around, facing the voice. “Daddy?” I say, looking up at my Daddy as he stands in the doorway, staring down at me. Something glints in his hand, something silver and red. And he’s covered in red, not as much as Mommy, but enough for me to see. “Daddy, what’s in your hand?” I ask.

  “Josie, hang up the phone,” Daddy says, using his scary voice, the one that he uses on Mommy before he’s mean to her.

  “My Daddy’s here,” I say to the man on the other line.

  “I’m sending an officer, JoJo,” the man tells me. “Don’t hang up the—”

  A hand smacks the phone from my hands to the ground. “How many times have I told you not to play with the damned phone, Josie?” he yells loudly.

  “What’s wrong with Mommy?” my tiny voice squeaks out in a cry. I start moving backward, trying to get away from whatever he’s holding. It doesn’t look nice, it looks painful. I know it’ll hurt me.

  “Nothing is wrong with Mommy,” he snaps at me, spitting on me as his words leave his lips. “Do you want to see her?” he asks.

  “I want my mommy!” I cry. My tiny voice amplifies in the dark room as I start to cry harder.

  “Stop whining, you little brat.” His face contorts into something mean, something evil. Something I haven’t seen before. He’s not my Daddy anymore; he’s something else, something I don’t want to be around. His face splits into a wicked grin, bearing his teeth like a dog before it attacks. That happened to me once—and it’s still terrifying. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Josie?” His free hand reaches toward me.

  “What’s wrong with Mommy?” I cry, sobbing louder. I’m backed into a corner, cowering like the little girl that I am, while Daddy moves closer and closer.

  “My God, you were always such a little baby,” he grumbles, reaching for the phone on the floor and turning it off, glaring at me when he throws it against the wall, hard. I scream as it shatters and the pieces fly everywhere.

  His arm rises, the metal glinting in the minimal light that filters through the blinds into the room. I remember Mommy telling me the light came from the closest streetlamp on the street. With nothing left to do and no Mommy to help me, I scream as loud as I can, feeling the air burn my lungs as my voice leaves my throat. I scream, and I scream, waiting, waiting for…

  I shoot up in my bed, my hand clutching my locket, my breathing erratic, and surprisingly, I’m not screaming, because no one has rushed into my room to check on me.

  What the fuck was that? What was in my head?

  It was so… vivid.

  Holy shit.

  Taking a deep breath, trying to calm down, I drop from the bed and my knees hitting the carpeted floor. My legs are shaking too much to manage walking, so I crawl to the closet. I grab the green blanket from the top of the bin, dig my hand in the box on top and pull out my stuffed Mr. Snuffleupagus that I renamed Mr. Snuffl
e Hiccups when I was a kid because it was very hard to say Snuffleupagus at three years old. I tug the door closed behind me and fold myself into a ball, clutching the stuffed Sesame Street character my chest with one hand while the other holds the locket. I do this until I can fall asleep.

  I never do.

  Eighteen

  The month of December starts with me at the mall, trying to shop for a birthday present for Zephyr, but I’m still not sure what to buy for him. I continue to trek from store to store, scoping out random knickknacks, but nothing really screams Zephyr! to me. In the past, I’ve given him books about art and artists, baseball caps, even a little ceramic football. This year, I want to get him something awesome, something I haven’t thought of before, something that he’ll love and use, but I can’t find that special… thing. Luckily, I have a couple weeks until his birthday. I’m just planning early.

  Harley, Zephyr, and I have been planning to retrieve my file from my shrink’s office. We’ve decided to wait until after the holidays. I mean, I’m heading out of town, Harley’s going to be visiting family, and Zephyr can’t do it by himself, no matter what he says.

  So we plan to start our mission in January.

  In the meantime, I decide to Christmas shop.

  I drag Zephyr to the mall with me against his will. For Harley, I buy a Slipknot t-shirt I know she doesn’t already own. It’s large—it’ll swallow her—with all nine members’ faces on the front. I purchase a Hello Kitty wallet for Jamie because she loves Hello Kitty and, since she’s had her wallet for three months, I know she thinks she’s overdue for a new one. For Kennie, I buy her a bottle of bacon perfume—because they make that now—and a pink belt. For my aunt, along with bacon Chapstick, I buy her a new scarf from Fuego in her favorite color: purple. I even bough myself a Christmas present, The Gashlycrumb Tinies by Edward Gorey. While waiting for Zephyr to walk up, I read the entire thing twice.

  Halfway through the mall trip, Zephyr disappeared to do a bit of Christmas shopping of his own. When he walks up, carrying five different bags, I can’t help but wonder what’s hiding within them.

  “Want to stop by the food court?” Zephyr asks me. “Maybe grab a slice of pizza,” he offers, lacing his fingers with mine and tugging me closer to his side as we trail behind a young couple pushing a baby carriage.

  “I’m not really all that hungry,” I tell him, slightly wishing I had an apple. I’m not hungry for junk food, I should tell him. “Can we just head home,” I ask, trying for sweet and innocent before I continue with, “and possibly share what’s in the bags.” I lean closer to him, trying for a sneak peek at his.

  “Nice try.” He laughs and leads me through Sears to the escalator, leaving the second floor to the parking garage where his sister’s car is parked. “I can’t wait to get my own car,” he whines as he opens the door for me.

  “What would you get?” I wonder aloud as he slides into the driver’s seat, “some shiny sports car that goes zero to sixty in two seconds?”

  “I didn’t know I was going through a midlife crises.” He laughs and I shrug lightly. I don’t think I could handle a Zephyr with a sports car. “I was thinking something a little… different.”

  It wasn’t until a week later that I learned what different meant to him.

  To me, it translated to scared shitless.

  “On a surprisingly sunny day, still freezing, I was standing in the yard. Well, not standing, more like tripping over a frozen apple I neglected to trash when it fell from the tree in the center of the yard. I was on the way to the mailbox and, as luck would have it, falling on my ass. Obstacles don’t help the uncoordinated. While standing in the yard trying to brush off the back of my pants, an engine revving down the street caught my attention. It wasn’t that an engine was starting up, coming to life, it was that the sound came from the engine of a motorcycle. Who would be dumb enough to ride a motorcycle this time of year? I look toward the sound and watch as a—aha, I was right!—motorcycle zoomed right by my house.

  I could hear it turning around in the cul de sac and when it came back down the street, it stopped in front of my house. The helmet lifted and Zephyr shook out his hair as he grinned mischievously at me.

  I gawked at the sight in front of me.

  “Are you serious?” I nearly yell, walking down my driveway to check out his bike. Zephyr has a bike now. Yeah, that’s not going to sit well with me. “Why?” I ask with a forced laugh.

  “I’ve always wanted one,” Zephyr tells me, kicking the kickstand down before standing away from it, lovingly admiring it. He even drags his hand along the side of the glossy finish. “I finally got the endorsement last week and this is an early birthday from my parents.”

  “Molly and Antonios actually bought that for you?” I ask, believing his parents have both gone insane. Actually, from the sound of it, his parents have been replaced by aliens because there is no way, not even a cold day in hell, would his parents willingly let him get this two-wheeled death machine.

  “Why wouldn’t they?” He looks to the bike. “I’m the baby. They like to spoil me.”

  That’s true. But I thought they’d rather he stay alive, damn it!

  “I still can’t believe it,” I whisper, sliding my hand slowly across the smooth, glossy finish.

  “It’s a Kawasaki Ninja 1000,” he tells me, gushing. His eyes trail over it in a weird way, nearly perverted. Is it possible for a man to have an affair with a motorcycle? From the way he’s looking at it, I know I’m about to be replaced.

  “I thought only girls like things vibrating between their legs,” I comment, catching the narrowing of his eyes as he shoots me a glare. If he tells me, Don’t talk like that around my baby!, I may punch him in the balls.

  He leaves it alone.

  “Want to go for a ride with me?” Zephyr asks me, holding out a different helmet. This one is pink and un-Zephyr-like that I know he bought it for me.

  “Where did that come from?” I ask, puzzled, my finger pointing to the helmet thrust in my direction. He didn’t have it a moment ago…

  “That’s avoiding the question,” he singsongs, waggling his eyebrows.

  “How many times have you driven this thing?” I ask hesitantly. I didn’t plan on dying today.

  “Enough.” Now that is avoiding the question.

  “Code for three times,” I mumble, turning my attention to my boyfriend. He grins happily at me, the grin making me shudder. “Maybe?”

  “I drove it here from the lot,” he tries to convince me. As if that could persuade me to risk my life or place it within Mother Nature’s hands. Is he aware we live in Washington and it’s December? “I got this helmet just for you,” Zephyr singsongs while holding the helmet above my head.

  The only appealing thing about this is the fact I get to hold on to Zephyr. “Fine,” I mutter, grabbing the helmet and clamping it onto my head. “Where are you going to take me?” I ask.

  “That’s a surprise, my dear.”

  Goody, goody.

  He climbs onto the motorcycle and I climb on behind him. I’m shaking like a leaf, but it isn’t me. It feels awkward to straddle something big and vibrating.

  [Face palm.]

  Ignore the double meaning behind that.

  He cranks the engine, places his hand on my thigh and slides it forward to my knee, and squeezes. I wrap my arms around his body to keep from flying off the back during high speeds—and I know he’ll ignore the limits. As I guessed, he speeds down the neighborhood and I’m certain he can hear me squeak with every turn he makes. For some reason, I start counting in German, don’t know why, but I get to neunundfünfzig before he finally stops and parks.

  I was counting slowly. Better to maintain my breathing.

  “Where are we?” I ask as I struggle from the back of the motorcycle, falling on my ass when my legs fail to find the ground. Zephyr immediately starts laughing. I didn’t know injury was so funny to him. Still, I shoot him a glare, as you should normally do in the
situation.

  “At a park,” Zephyr answers, stopping his chuckles. He reaches his hands out for me to take, I do, and he pulls me up from the ground before taking off my helmet for me. Hey, at least I was safe when I fell.

  “In the middle of December?” I ask, dumbfounded. “We’ll freeze, Zephyr.”

  He smiles at me, turns, and grabs something. “I thought of that.” He drapes a flannel blanket over my shoulders, rubbing his hands up and down my arms. “You’ll be nice and toasty warm, now.”

  Sometimes he’s just so sweet to me.

  But where did he get the blanket?

  I think I’m dating a magician.

  Zephyr leads me by the hand toward a patch of dry grass beneath a large evergreen tree. It smells like winter, piney with a hint of rain. He sits down and tugs me to sit between his legs, wrapping his arms around my body to pull me closer and nuzzle my neck. Letting his lips find the spot just below my right ear.

  “I can’t wait until summer so we can do this on the beach in bathing suits,” he whispers into my ear.

  “When have you ever seen me in a swim suit?” I ask, rolling my eyes at the guy behind me. Is it too soon to tell him that he’ll never see me in a bikini?

  “Fair point.” He nods. I feel the movement against my cheek. “Naked, then?” he presses.

  “That’s pushing it, buddy,” I tell him, laughing.

  I lean my head back on to his shoulder, feeling his heartbeat in his chest against my back. The few remaining birds chirp in the trees above our heads. It really is a beautiful day despite the large, gray clouds rolling in.

  “It looks like rain,” Zephyr observes quietly. It even smells like rain. The scent of moist grass, soaked cement, and fallen leaves mixed together wafts through the air.

  “It does,” I reply, hearing the first drops subtly hit the leaves on the surrounding trees. Soon, we’ll be soaked to the bone, but in this one moment, this one brief moment when Zephyr and I connect, I don’t care. I just love the feel of his arms around me, pulling me closer, because he loves me.