by Jayce, Aven
“My job, as you know, is in marketing and advertising. Writing articles and posting reviews on a company’s product is how I spend most of my days. I write for major shopping sites and blogs, and what I say isn’t bogus in any way. I look into the products I’m reviewing and test a lot of the items first hand. Businesses need people like me. Think about it, if you go online to make travel reservations and a rental car company has two below average write-ups and another one in the same area has rave reviews, which one are you going to chose?”
“What does that have to do with me?” I ask.
“Nothing, I guess. I was trying to explain my reaction. I’ve written both positive and negative reviews for authors after receiving free copies of their books and a small payment, kinda like Kirkus reviews, only not as high-end. My opinions are based on what I’ve experienced through reading. I’m not trying to sound harsh, if anything, it’s just the opposite; I’m numb to it and it doesn’t shock me that you write in that genre, but if you want, I can do a suburban white boy cheer and call out a ‘fuck yeah,’ to show my support.”
“Why do I feel like you’re over explaining all of this?”
“It’s personal. Think of it this way,” he looks around and then turns back to me. “The guy next door could be a writer in his spare time too.”
“Yes, fisherman stories.”
“No, the proper way to gut and prepare a good fish for consumption,” he grins. “Anyway, I think the Cherokee situation is making me sound cold right now, so don’t be too irritated if I come across as an ass. Just because I’m not surprised or taken aback doesn’t mean your side job isn’t fucking fantastic.” He places his forehead to mine. “What you do, no matter what it might be, is special. I’m just in a foul mood because recess is over.”
I feel the same, which seems ridiculous since there’s only a hundred feet between us, but as we kiss goodbye my emotions take control and I hold him in my arms until he has to back away.
“Sorry, Div. I need to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I watch during the ten seconds it takes him to walk to his place, waiting to hear his usual happy whistling, but the tune never comes.
Don’t you think it’s a bit early in this relationship to be taking overnight trips?
No.
I know you’ve been alone for a while, but tell your heart to slow down.
“It’s hard for me to say goodbye to someone I have feelings for, even for a night,” I whisper. “You never know if you’re ever going to see them again.”
To my right, as I walk inside, is a wall of photographs of my parents. Dan has a collection of books and I have my mom and dad. Floor to ceiling, left to right, small and large photographs of them together; at their wedding, on vacations, holding hands, kissing, a loving embrace, and one, just one of me. It’s from the day I was born. I’m in my mother’s arms and my father has his hand on her shoulder while he’s kissing my cheek. I’d like to say I look happy to be out of the womb, but I’m screaming my lungs out. My face is red and full of tears.
I never hung that photo. It’s on the coffee table in the middle of the room, placed between their two urns.
My inner voice tells me it’s morbid, but I assure myself that it’s more comforting to have a shrine than to put my parents away in a box. This is one of the reasons why I don’t allow people inside my home, and probably also why I spend most of my time upstairs. I’ve turned my living room into a memorial so I can visit with them each day as if they’re still a part of my life, and yet unless I’m making sheep noises, it’s hard to be in the room. I get that. I thought it would be reassuring, but the truth is it’s just a way I’m holding on to my past. And now, I’m full of anxiety whenever I try to take the photos down.
Well gee, that oughta tell you something. There’s a big difference between a couple of photographs on a wall and an entire room full of them, not to mention all the other shit in here.
My inner voice is right.
Violet.
I’m no longer giving her a name or speaking to her. I’ve decided she either needs to get on board with who I’ve become, or shut the hell up.
Shit, really?
But she’s right. I’ve gone overboard.
A pair of my mother’s shoes sits next to my front door and I have one of her coats in my entryway closet. Once a month I spritz a small amount of her favorite perfume on the fabric. I sniff it whenever I open the door and it’s like she’s standing next to me, waiting for me to hand her the coat so we can go out together. It’s calming in that I remember her wearing it in my pre-teen years, along with that scent when she would walk me to the bus stop.
Besides all that, the newspaper my father was reading on the day he died is next to his urn. I never read the daily paper myself, but I’ve saved that one through the years and re-read it over and over, looking for an answer, anything that would raise a red flag as to why he took such dire measures to escape this world on that Friday morning. Perhaps something reminded him of my mother, but after reading it so many times, I know every word of that newspaper by heart and there’s nothing in it. No triggers. Nada.
I sit on my couch in front of my parents’ ashes and lean back with my fingers interlaced in my lap. Inhale. Exhale. The room’s dark. I’ve painted it grey and always keep my front curtains closed so the photographs don’t fade in the sunlight.
“I met a guy,” I whisper.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Tears start to roll down my cheek and I wipe them with the back of my hand. I must be tired from the trip. It’s so unlike me to cry.
“He’s nice. Different from the other men I’ve mentioned years ago. I think he actually cares for me and he’s someone you’d definitely like. Polite. Catholic. He wanted to be a priest.” It’s been such a long time that I’ve spoken actual words to them.
I can picture my mother smiling and telling me to be careful, and coming from her that always meant to use a condom. It was our code. She said those words to me every time I went out with my friends and I feel bad that I never had a chance to tell her I was a virgin. I was a good girl until she died. She missed that entire part of my life, and during that difficult high school time, my father was too depressed to listen or notice. I loved him with all my heart, but he was lost in his own head.
So I’m telling them now, without the mehs and the bahs, which, by the way, I don’t want to say I fibbed about again, but...
I knew when I awoke from the dream about communicating through sheep sounds that it was a religious reference. Catholics have viewed sheep as a symbol of suffering and I’m sure everyone has seen an illustration of the Lord with a wounded lamb or sheep on his shoulder: representing a soul being carried to heaven.
That sheep, my meh-ing, it’s... you see I want to make sure... damn it, it’s about my dad. I hope he’s one of those souls who made it to heaven. Committing suicide is a sin. Thou shalt not kill includes oneself.
Yes, that’s what he did. My dad took his own life, and he left me behind to wonder whether or not he’s with my mom, or someplace else. That’s hard on a kid who just graduated from high school and is about to start college, and it hasn’t gotten much easier over the years, obviously.
I look at the photos and then the urns.
“I want to bring this guy, Dan, his name’s James Daniel Keller, here. To this place, but that means I need to change some things before I do.” I stare ahead at the dining area where I’ve placed many of my father’s hobbies. That’s what I call them now.
“Please don’t be angry with me if I clean up a little bit. Okay?”
Silence in a dark room with two urns is unsettling. Sometimes, when I wake in the middle of the night, I hear whispering in my living room. I know it’s just my mind playing tricks on me, but there’re also times when I’m about to fall asleep and a voice whispers my name in my ear. The experience gives me the creeps.
Fuck, it’s hard being alone. I moved here years ago and I still haven’t
made any close friends. I met the last guy I dated at a bar, and I stopped going to those places because I kept running into my students. It was all too awkward. But my parents were loners as well, so maybe I picked up that trait from them.
Both my mom and dad were from small families, neither had siblings, and their parents died when they were in their thirties. All except my grandfather, who passed away after my mother.
As a child, I can remember my parents singing to me, usually songs they made up as part of our evening routine. After dinner we’d read, or play games, or sing, and the television was never on when I was awake. They waited until I went to bed to watch it.
We also had a piano in the house that was my mom’s. When she played it, her long auburn hair that was always pulled back into a ponytail, would bop along to the music. She tapped the keys and would laugh at my playful frolicking as I spun around her like a ballerina.
I begin humming a tune I believe she made up especially for me, and then the words begin to drift quietly from my mouth.
For you, our beautiful daughter
We’ve opened our hearts and our home
You’ve brought joy and love to this family
And know that you’re never alone
One day you’ll remember us fondly
When you have a child of your own
You’ll give her the same love and kindness
And just LOOK!
How our family has grown.
She’d clap her hands while singing the word look and then spread her arms wide for the word grown. It probably sounds silly to most people but it has a lot of meaning to me, especially now, and I’ll always remember it.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, taking a photo of them visiting Niagara Falls off the wall. My eyes close as I hold it against my chest. That was a good wedding anniversary trip for them.
My mother said she knew after her second date with my father that they were going to marry, and then three months later, he proposed. Just like that, it was rushed, but it lasted. Insta-love happens to some people, but not many of those relationships endure. My parents were a rarity. It’s one of the few ways I differ from my mother... I have strong feelings for Dan and had a flash of him being the one, a quick flash, but I’m definitely not going to marry any guy until we’re together for some time. Unlike my parents’ three-month dating period, I’d have to wait at least four.
Funny.
I take their photo upstairs with a plan in mind; get a few boxes and each day take one item out of the room.
One item means your man, Dan, isn’t coming over for at least a year.
Well, I’ll try to remove a few items from the room each day so it’s not overwhelming, but the dining room’s a whole other story. I have no place to store those things.
Too bad you can’t fold them up. You may have to rent a storage unit like you did during college.
No. Those items aren’t leaving the house. Besides, I haven’t found any climate-controlled storage in this town.
Hoarder.
You know that’s not true.
I thought you weren’t responding to me anymore.
Well, it’s impossible for anyone to stop the thoughts in their head. Impossible! Besides, sometimes it’s too lonely not to talk to yourself.
Div?
Hmm?
I’m proud of you. And remember, that’s coming directly from you... so, when do you think we’ll get to see the meat stick again?
Oh my God, you make me... I make me so fucking crazy.
I know.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Dan’s truck is gone when I leave for work. It’s the first time since I started admiring him months ago that his vehicle isn’t parked outside his place in the early morning hours. My stomach turns when I notice, but convince myself he has an appointment to get the damage checked out. Nothing’s wrong. He’s fine.
And campus is quiet. Too quiet.
Hannah and Bridgette, along with half of my students, are absent from class. Everyone’s grieving. Hannah lost Luke as well as Margaret. Bridgette lost her freedom. Dan’s distraught about the Cherokee. I’m suffering from anxiety about shifting my furnishings and the entire campus is in mourning. It’s no big surprise when a storm rolls in and the sky turns grey. Seems fitting for such a downer of a day.
I stare out my office window at Margaret’s building. It twists and fluxes through the heavy drops of rain splattering the glass, and at times, the water running down makes the home economics haven look as if it’s melting.
“Divine?”
My door’s wide open and Richard’s voice behind me is no surprise. He asked if I’d be here today and that usually means he wants to talk.
“Come in,” I whisper.
“How are you? Your first class go okay today?”
I nod. “Just fine.”
He joins me at the window and sets his hand on the glass. “It’s a cold rain,” he says. “I just missed the downpour walking over here, but it’s gonna get me on my way out.”
“It smells refreshing. A hard rain like this one is all we need to wash away our past.”
“I can’t imagine anything being able to wipe out history. Are you referring to Margaret?”
“No,” I continue to whisper. “Is something important happening today?”
His voice changes to match my sullen mood. “I’m on my way to the President’s office. Some of the Trustees will be there as well.” He walks to my door and stands with his back to me.
“I thought...”
“Yes, so did I. Do you have any words I can pass along as we discuss the future of the department?” he asks.
I touch the glass in the same spot he had just placed his chubby hand and shake my head. It seems unfortunate that I can’t speak on my behalf at this meeting.
“Tell them I’m sorry about Margaret and that I’ll do everything I can to help the students get through this.”
“And? What about the department? Your program? Your position? Anything else?”
“What I said is enough.”
I hear a sigh and then his footsteps diminish down the hall.
Something’s wrong. Not with Richard, but in my life. I feel completely off balance. Maybe it’s because I removed a photo of my parents, or it could be Margaret’s death. No, I can’t sense what, or whom it’s about.
I call Dan, but he doesn’t answer, so I send a Facebook message and a text. After an hour, still nothing.
School ends, no word.
I walk to his place and knock, silence.
Night falls and his place remains dark.
Fuckin’ A, what’s going on?
I think about driving to his parents’ house, but can’t remember what street it’s on and I can’t find them online or in the phone book. There’s no news about Dan online either. Ergh!
The waiting game begins.
I hate this shit! Where is he! I consider calling the police, but decide to give it ‘til morning. Maybe he had a family emergency or something. Oh God, or maybe I’m obsessed with him and should give him some space. He could be at a party or helping his parents with the business. I often forget that people have lives and can’t always give me their undivided attention.
That’s it; he’s just busy.
After a late dinner my cell rings and my heart races. It’s him... no, a credit card company. Then a text sounds and I rush back over to my cell... weather alert... another storm’s on its way with strong winds and heavy rains that may produce flash flooding in our area.
It’s funny how its been only a couple of months since I realized I had an interest in him, and just under two weeks since we started dating, and in that short amount of time, it seems almost impossible to revert back to my old ways. And when I mention that, I’m referring to my daily online addictions.
I touch base with the Dick Sluts, but I’m starting to notice the site never seems to change. The same books, same authors, same discussions, and complaints are being tossed around.
Should I read this book?
Sixty people respond with the word yes.
What word in a book makes your cringe?
Cunt, pussy, bitch, labia, and anal.
Which book cover do you like, A or B?
I would actually be the one to post that. Yeah, I admit it.
Do cheating characters bother you?
What? Will my opinion on that subject change your feelings about it? Are we a herd of animals who can’t think on our own. Damn, I’m in a bad mood today.
Who’s your favorite book boyfriend?
Jake! Ronny! Tom!
I saw all of these posts the other day as well as a week ago. And it’s not the members, or the admins of the site who are at fault; it’s me. I’m bored... and I’m being a bitch.
And the porn, pfft. I’ve got a man who actually pays attention to me in and outside the bedroom now. Fucking him isn’t like the quickies from my past. I’m satisfied both physically and emotionally. He’s intimate and loving. Period. The porn was always a stand in for... who knows what the fuck for, but when I open the sites now it all looks so mechanical... and abusive.
There’s no love.
I close my laptop, then pace in my living room before choosing three photos to remove from my wall. After putting them in a box (which I told myself I’d never do) and placing it lovingly in my closet, I walk outside and meander down the dark street, checking for the Cherokee, or a light, or even a sound, then return home to read. I have to do something to pass the time and to stop my heart from racing.
Hayden’s trilogy started more or less normally; dark, nothing I couldn’t handle, but it’s growing increasingly deranged with each chapter. Zyn, the main character, is a serial character that’s also into necrophilia. In the first book, he isolated his victims for a few days before killing them, but now he enjoys having two or three women in the same room as he kills one off while the others are forced to watch. They beg and plead for their lives, but Zyn shows no emotion. He uses the hand of a corpse to jerk himself off and slices open a neck, placing his dick inside. It’s downright sickening and I’m unsure if I can finish it even though I’m on the final book, that is, until the unexpected occurs... a woman, a voyeur, watches him through his bedroom window. He acts as if he doesn’t notice, going about his business as she stares through the glass; unaware of the women he has locked in his basement.