Lily's Temptation Vol. 1

by Michaels, C. C.

  I squeeze his neck harder; the veins in my arm swell and pop. He arches his head back to accept my grip and my legs begin to tingle. I rub faster till a massive surge of pleasure shoots through me. Gigantic waves roll within me and crash, sending thousands of pounds of euphoria spilling over me.

  I gasp and writhe, arching my back up in violent throws and then slamming myself back on the bed. I’m putting my hand on the side on my face as I breathe out controlled breathes. I run my fingers through my hair as I lay back. I notice the sweat on my forehead and the wetness on my fingers is drying, so I get up and go to wash my hands. I rub soap into my hands, staring intensely at the bubbles forming. When I look at my reflection, I stop moving.

  I keep staring like I don’t know who I am seeing. And my breathing picks up till I feel my stomach fall. I swallow the feeling down but it strikes me in the gut like a baseball bat. I throw my hand at the counter to keep myself up and hold my stomach with the other hand. I feel my breath hit the back of my teeth as I stare at my reflection.

  There is a stranger in this mirror. Some ghost who wishes to torment me. A crazed idiot with no sense of things. She stares out of her side at me, copying me. She just fucked herself to the thought of a patient who beats people half to death. I don’t know this person. I am not her. I don’t do these kinds of things. And then my stomach tightens for a moment like the feeling I get when I miss a step on the stairs and fear falling in the darkness.

  But it loosens just as quickly and I close my eyes as the strain of it lifted out of me. I look back at the mirror. I see her there. I smile at her and we speak together, saying, “You fool, there is no right or wrong to this,” and we laugh a little. I fix my hair and go to the kitchen to make tea.

  I step out on my balcony, feeling a little better about myself, as the hot water soaks into the tea. The night flows out across the city, across the buildings and alleys and schools. Across the parked cars on the side of lined streets. All over the city, the night grants its calming face and it is beautiful to look up into the sky and see darkness.

  It is a sensation that soothes me. To see all that gorgeous blackness meander and sway with the light. The orange of the street lights is bursting out with the black and each pocket of light and dark is made stronger by their cohesion.

  I think about Jonathan back at the sink. In front of the mirror, I try to make it so I would feel bad for myself. I try to crush the emotions out to only allow just one mode of thought to govern. Jonathan may have been hurt by Maddox but I can’t say for certain, so I’ll do it like Ms. Margaret demanded. I’ll talk to Maddox.

  I haven’t had a release in such a long time. When I was holding myself up on the counter, my mind tried to find a way to make sense of it all. But I am not feeling any shame in my thoughts. After I thought about Maddox, I send him away. He is swept out of my apartment. It is because I thought about Maddox and I having sex together. It almost seems like there is a need to make myself attach grief to the thought. Some archaic notion that it is bad to pleasure yourself, combined with my suspicion that Maddox is a criminal capable of brutally beating Jonathan. The thoughts bore their way into my mind and manifest a pain in my stomach. It is a reaction from some arcane region in my mind responsible for the self-depreciative slings and arrows.

  The night rolls on. I drink my tea and begin to feel the exhaustion of all the thoughts. I am in ecstasy for a moment. Then self-loathing takes over, which eventually grows into something like a drowsy, semi-controlled realization. The undulating course of thoughts brings on heavy eyelids. My head sinks, bobbing like a buoy and I finally get up to find my bed.

  Sliding the glass door open and stepping back into my empty home, my feet drag on the carpet. The bed feels softer than ever now.

  I sling my head over a pillow, letting the weight of all the thoughts sink into it. My eyes can’t be kept open. I roll to one side, my ear bending on itself as I wiggle my head into the pillow. The smell of chemically synthesized lavender creeps into my nose. It has a scent both lovely and cloying but it can’t remove the thought that tomorrow will be the day I had promised Brian I would talk to Maddox. There will be no time to talk to him, so I’ll have to get even further behind on my work. I’ll have to neglect someone tomorrow. It will be a small sacrifice on their part. But yes, that’s what I’ll do.

  While I lie in perfect exhaustion, I hear a sound coming from the room above mine. As I was being lifted out of consciousness, this sound began. It brings me back for a moment. Some more inquisitive part of my brain feels the need to listen and identify the sound. It is a slow, rhythmic kind of thing. It moves like a summer’s day and I hear what could only be notes backing up a voice.

  Some gravelly voice croons and begs my ears to listen. It is a happy sounding voice; not simply joyous but brimming with pure excitement. The kind of voice that swings out with the same force reserved for celestial bodies. I picture the voice belonging to some well-respected musician, who when walking the streets, couldn’t be happier to embrace the throng of elated fans who worship at his feet.

  The instruments work in harmony, feeding into one another the influence and inspiration necessary for great, painful solos. The horns rise, piercing and brassy. The double bass and drums seem to lean on each other and snap their fingers at the piano that is lounging like a fat cat in the foreground as the whole thing moves together in a concise sway. And the voice sings out as if only to me through the floorboards and insulation and wiring. The muffled lyrics flow. “Ah, sweetheart, I ask no more than this/ A kiss to build a dream on,” and then my thoughts go out. The whole thing is a dream to me when I wake up and I am left wondering if I even really heard that song, or was my imagination wantonly playing against my reality. I hope this dream was a good omen; I hope the talk with Maddox will be as painless as a dream.

  Chapter 14

  As the sun is shining, I walk out of my apartment, ready for another day at the hospital; the wind sweeps through the corridor and brushes against my face in heaping gusts. Turning away, I see the stairs that lead upwards towards the room above my own. I remember the music from the night before. Curiosity guides me up the steps.

  The door stands before me, begging my knuckles to knock. There is no time for this. I have to leave. I’m supposed to be to work in an hour. My legs get a shaky feeling like a tingling sensation that warrants an action. I knock three times. The door opens and from behind it emerges a young woman with jet black hair who rubs her eyes as she says hello.

  The words slip out of my mouth and soon I am saying things, but I am locked in autopilot, not really sure what any of it means. I tell her I heard the music from last night. I tell her it was lovely. And then I compliment her tattoos and her pierced septum. The whole thing is like an assault with verbiage. She smiles, holding her hand to her eyes to block the sun. As she speaks to me, I notice how beautiful her voice is. She is asking me if the music was too loud. I tell her my name and that I live downstairs and it was fine. She continues talking with a voice that is this perfectly gorgeous balance of sweet and a bit raspy. I make more small talk, mentioning her good taste in music, and she tells me to stop by if I ever want to listen to more. She tells me her name is Bharati. Everything about her seems effortless and inimitable. Her presence is absolutely inviting; she stands in the doorway with her left arm against the threshold and her right on her hip and I feel like we can be friends, like despite just meeting her, I can tell her anything. Her smile is spreading over her teeth, giving me the impression that I have said something genuinely funny.

  I pause for a moment and feel an upwelling of words. I say, “I know we just met, but I was wondering…I mean, can I vent to you? It’s pretty silly to ask I know but I guess I ... well, I just have a lot stored up and need someone to blab to and since you’re here, I thought I’d talk to you.”

  She smiles and says, “Go ahead,” in her charming voice.

  “Well, I have this feeling... like everything is being controlled by someone else. I work
in a hospital where my decisions seem to lead me into realizations. Whether or not I attempt to control life, the outcome is the same. If I do things like everyone wants, I’m unhappy. If I listen to my own desires, it ends in a similar state but lately, this whole thing with work and life and expectations and their fruition is little more than a great big heaving let down.” I shake my head as I look down, feeling foolish for telling this lovely stranger my problems. The whirling gusts seem to miss this floor. The air is calmer as I speak to my neighbor.

  She laughs and tells me, “Some people believe that change never happens and others believe you never step in the same river twice. Do you feel like you really have no control over your life?”

  “Well, it’s like playing chess against my sister. I can manipulate the pieces in any number of ways but I always seem to lose.”

  She laughs as she looks up. “That’s a funny comparison.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It is similar but not the same. You can certainly manipulate chess pieces, but I think the likeness to life breaks down once you consider the innumerable variables in life. You feel like you’re forced into decisions, right?”

  I nod, saying yes as her eyes shine back at me.

  “The same could be said of a move on a chessboard only in your case the options, even under force, are greater than on a board. I guess I am trying to say there are many ways to go about it. You may choose to bend, if not break, rules in life, whereas in the game, your options are tied to the rules.”

  “Oh, I see. But you’re talking about the abstract identification of rules. I can’t simply whisk them away. I have to work within certain confines, certain truths.” I dip my chin to my chest in an apologetic stance. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound disrespectful but…”

  “Look, Lily, it’s all a matter of perspective. There are so few truths that I know, I can hardly say I am even thinking my own thoughts sometimes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t pretend to give you a real answer. I mean, what do any of us really know about life, anyway? But if I can help, I should say that most of the time people act with a myriad of interests working inside them. We get pulled in many directions in terms of our desires and morals and such, that trying to attach one solid meaning to any of it is futile. At least, that’s just the way I see it.”

  In a defeated tone, I say, “So, I guess there is no point. Just roll the dice. Life is just a crap shoot and all those sayings?”

  She smiled. “I can’t say, really. I try to ask questions and follow where they lead. Most of the time, they lead into an existential dead-end, but it’s still fun to ask. I think you should keep asking. Try not to think of any of it like a chess game, or look for an answer. Just ask and follow the question as long as you can.”

  After that, I look at my watch and make some comment about the time flying by quickly. I leave her door and walk down the steps with little time left to get to work, replaying the words in my head. With each replay, her words become more and more a part of my own philosophy.

  Even when I arrive at the hospital, the conversation sticks in my thoughts. I would feel jealous of her articulation, her poise of delivery, but there’s something about her little speech that is too admirable. It’s like everything she said I knew all along. I look at my watch, mark the time, and as I am half running to a patient’s room I take a moment to truly witness the lives in front of me.

  Chapter 15

  I am on my assigned floor at the hospital, dressed in my usual white lab coat and with Bharati’s words still tumbling around in my head. It is like throwing a brick into a dryer and setting it on high. Her thoughtful summations keep thrashing about, causing me to stop what I was doing and pinch the bridge of my nose.

  Every moment passes with a glacial pace because of that woman’s words. I want to give everyone the focus they deserve but it’s getting difficult to keep my attention on so many things at once. It’s almost as if the coffee I drink tastes bad, the lights buzz louder, and the patients sneeze and wheeze more. It is as if the whole world has caught some flu brought on by Bharati’s ideology.

  Eleanora notices my pen flicking against the clipboard and asks what’s bothering me. I didn’t realize I’d developed this tic and Eleanora is telling how I have more. How I bounce my leg and fold my arms and take hurried, shallow breathes and tap my fingers. She tells me to lay off the coffee as her voice prods its way into my ear.

  She asks about Maddox, but in a way that implies she knows I’m going to talk to him. I had assumed Ms. Margaret would spread her knowledge of my intent to speak with Maddox; however, I didn’t know that the issue would magnify so quickly. My stomach clenches, my hands shake a bit, and I can feel my thoughts getting backed up on themselves. I’m nervous; why am I so nervous?

  Mandel walks past and raises his head from some papers he is holding to nod at me. I wonder if he has heard about my future conference with Maddox. Would he be furious or has his brother told him and convinced Mandel to go along with it?

  I don’t suppose anyone would have told him. It wouldn’t be right, even for someone as outspoken as Ms. Margaret, to make any mention of it. That would be in bad taste. But maybe he does know and is flattered that I want to help. Maybe he’s interested as much as the rest of us. I drink my coffee, watching Mandel disappear around a corner, and cringe as the stale sludge chokes my palate.

  I ask Eleanora, “Does Mandel know about my meeting with Maddox?”

  She offers her thoughts. “It’s possible. Though if he did, would that stop you?”

  “I don’t think so. I want to talk to Maddox. I want to know what’s going on.”

  A pained expression crosses her face and I can tell she is choosing her words carefully. “Look, Lily...what happens if you find out something you don’t want to know?”

  The question landed on me and I tried to roll out from under it by saying something out of the lower shelf region of my brain, like, “I’ll take what I know to the police,” or, “It’s not my business anyway.” But the weight of the question still pinned me.

  Eleanora tells me, “However it goes, you will have a different view of Maddox when you walk out of that room.” Was she right? I know I have a loose grip on him now but what if I get an answer, or no answer or something worse? I hadn’t even planned out what to say because I was so busy trying to reconcile Maddox and my life that I neglected what to say altogether.

  With the entirety of the day before me, I should be able to manage something to say to him. I can’t just come out and ask. Such an upfront assault will force his defenses and I can’t very well trick him, either. The day may be long but it is also full of doing “rounds”, paperwork, and patients. My schedule doesn’t really lend itself to plotting brilliant and decisive phrases.

  It will have to come naturally, then. My conversation will have to arise out of a general concern or interest. As the day moves on, I find my mental state being ransacked by the seemingly inexhaustible pillagers of cohesion and optimism; those tawdry thieves of cognition who disguise themselves as long hours, paper work, and interactions with less than amiable patients.

  By midday, I am unable to open my eyes without pain shooting through my skull. I buy Ibuprofen from the little gift shop in the hospital lobby and shovel three or four in my mouth angrily as I stride off to a consult.

  Ammonia fills the hallways and bathrooms, thick enough to be worn like a second skin. Jack runs his pen down clipboards while standing under buzzing lights. I feel the chill of the air on the back of my arms as the large industrial air unit sucks in city air and passes it through timeworn filters.

  By evening, I have just enough time to eat a candy bar as I rush to a patient’s room. My feet are flattened out and beaten like dough, every step a punishment. My knees feel like knots on a tree. My wrist hadn’t felt this tight since I had to write out, ‘I will not speak out in class,’ one hundred times back in fifth grade when I saw a dog outside of class and shout
ed, “Hey, look, a dog.”

  But waiting at the end of all this is the promise that I will surely have nothing to say to Maddox. I’ll walk into his room and probably fall asleep on him. I can hardly think outside of medical jargon, outside of the few things I have committed to memory for diagnosis.

  Maybe I’ll just walk into his room and say something like, “Hey, Maddox. Why don’t we just talk like two adults, huh?” or “Let’s just cut through the niceties and you can explain to me why you tried to kill Mandel’s son, because I really like you and I really need to know--because I’m jeopardizing my entire freaking career on your irresistible smile and I’m probably going to get kicked out of my residency for fraternization because of this whole idiotic, disastrous mess that I can’t even believe I’ve gotten myself into.” Then he’ll say something like, “Oh, yeah, that was me,”’ or something like that.

  About the time Eleanora asks me how I’m feeling I snap at her and tell her my head feels like a beehive that just got hit with a rake. She laughs and her melodic giggling temporarily eases the frustratingly powerful headache that has staked a claim in every nook and cranny of my swollen brain. Then she asks, “Are you ready?” meaning am I ready to go see Maddox.