by Brock, V. L.
“Oh, Samantha,” the corners of his mouth twist into an arrogant smirk. “It’s New York, one of the fashion capitals of the world.”
Alarm bells ring in my head; my eyes amplify in grave disapproval. “No, no way, Hayden.” I am offended by his notion, even if it is meant as a loving gesture.
“I want to buy things for you, beautiful. Please, after my behavior, after what you have put up with from me, let me treat you.”
HAYDEN
I’m on Geary Blvd. The sidewalk is bustling, the sun shining. The children are strolling, holding their mother’s hand tightly, while they clutch at their Popsicle with the other. Lovers amble through the crowded walkway with arms hanging as a demonstration of love and fondness over shoulders and around waists.
I turn to gaze down at Samantha and grasp at her hand, but she is not at my side. I scan the crowd and call out her name. But there is no answer.
Removing my sunglasses, I search franticly for her, scared that something may happen, putting herself into danger. I call out her name again. But there’s still no answer, just merry laughter from the public that surrounds me.
I scan the opposite side of the street.
A lorry pulls away from the sidewalk, revealing two lovers in a tight embrace. His hands wandering greedily down her body, between her thighs and she sinks into his touch. I watch on as the man’s arm moves rhythmically, rubbing at the secrets under her skirt. She throws her head back, her thick, wavy hair reaching the small of her back.
She unbuckles his belt and opens his pants. Her hands dip inside the opening. She then sinks to her knees.
I feel as though I have been punched in the stomach. Oh, my God…how could she?
“Samantha!” I call out to her. I attempt to cross the road, but find myself immobilized at the edge of the sidewalk by an invisible force. “Samantha!” I call out again.
They don’t stop, she continues her sexual assault. Holding her head as she slides her mouth onto his cock, he closes his eyes and tips his head back.
“SAMANTHA!” I scream again, but no sound is released from my throat. I scream for her time and time again, begging her to stop, asking what she is doing, but my voice is nonexistent.
As I stand at the walkway, unable to move, unable to speak or breathe, she regards me from her position on her knees, from the side of the stranger’s hips. Slipping him out of her mouth she holds him in her hand and smirks ominous and wickedly at me.
The street falls into an eerie silence.
“He tastes good, Hayden. And he lasts longer with my mouth around him than you ever did.” And she continues her onslaught.
Tears cascade down my face, my chest swells, my gut clenches.
Samantha.
I wake with a start. My labored breathes and accelerated heartbeat echoing in my ears. My body coated in cold sweat.
Not again, please, not again.
I turn to my left. Samantha is sleeping peacefully. Her right arm tucked underneath the pillow, tendrils of her hair splayed across her face.
As I gaze upon the woman who made me suffer, while I watched the acts that she performed on another, the pain, hurt, angst and devastation I endured at the mercy of my dream is ripped away from me, and is replaced with anger, hatred, and disgust.
With only forty-five minutes before the alarm is due to go off anyway, and unwilling to stay in the bed with her, I push myself up, throw on some pyjama bottoms and a white T-shirt, and head for the kitchen.
A pot and a half of black coffee consumed, and I still feel totally exhausted and inert. Everything apart from disgust and antagonism is numb. I cannot withstand the horror of these nightmares any longer.
I can clearly see by the way of Samantha’s attitude that my dreams are bringing her distress, but for once, I think I have actually gone past caring. It’s a difficult matter. How can you explain to someone that you’re angry at them because of a dream that you have had…it is absurd.
Then again, a small part of me actually wishes that what I had witnessed in my dream was true; at least I would have a solid, concrete reason––a valid reason, for my insolence. At least that way we could argue about it and I could finally verbalize the rampant emotions that are tormenting me, pulling me apart from the inside out. Be able to finally get closure and move on with our life. But it is impossible to do such a thing when it is only making you suffer in your unconscious.
It is beyond frustrating.
I stare into the half empty cup before me, while I sit stooped over on the stool at the kitchen island. I feel as though I am in a trance, totally disconnected from the world…like I’m in a dream state. The sensation it marshals is very disconcerting. It’s confusing, not being fully aware of what you are doing. You take a sip of coffee, then wonder when you place the cup back upon the surface, if you had actually just taken a sip…not fully remembering.
But the fury that is feeding my raging furnace…that, I can damn well remember.
I remain silent and brooding when Samantha enters the kitchen. She fixes herself the last of the coffee and wraps her arm around my neck. I cringe, stilling myself, inwardly screaming at her to take her dirty little whore-hands off my body, as flashes of my dreams merge together to form a collage of her infidelity.
“Good morning,” she purrs, and her lips connect with my neck. Tears form in my eyes out of rage and aversion. I screw them closed. She senses my tenseness and unravels her arm from me. Shimmying around the corner to my left, she places her forearms on the adjacent edge. “Did you manage to get any sleep?”
Refusing to look her in the eye, I remain focused on what little contents in inside my cup. “Fuck did, I!” I mutter exasperated and defeated.
She places her hands around mine while I grip at the glossy, ceramic mug.
“Hayden…”
I pull away from her touch. Segments of the dreams which I’ve had for near enough every night, for nearly three weeks and always involve her is still raw to talk about. Her touch, her scent, even her voice elicits the beginning of the same Goddamn cycle of annoyance, fury, rage and fear all over again.
I shake my head and push myself off the stool. Tossing back my remaining beverage, only wishing it was a double of Southern Comfort that took its place. Propping the mug on the stainless silver board after I have rinsed it up, I walk around the island anticlockwise with my head down, in an attempt to avoid looking at her.
“Hayden, please. We need to talk about this,” she calls after me and grasps my shoulder with force.
Endeavoring to control my uprising wrath and keep my tongue in check, I take a deep breath. It was a dream, Hayden…only a dream; she hasn’t done anything wrong, my subconscious beckons my voice of reason. I shake my head, no, she did do something. She ran off that night, allowed that Neanderthal to grope her. She even admitted that she would have done something with him. The promiscuity…it’s Addison…NO! She is not, she is Samantha, and she loves you.
With raging emotions and the conflict of my conscious and subconscious, swaying me back and forth like a hypnotist’s crystal, I shake my head, and mutter, “Please, Samantha…just leave me alone,” before shaking her off, and padding drearily to the confines of my bedroom.
I spend as much time as physically possible getting myself showered, shaved and dressed. The more time I spend away from Samantha, the less pain and hurt we both have to endure given the current circumstance.
Finally dressed in my dark, navy suit and crisp white shirt, I comb my hair back hastily, before going out to the kitchen for another coffee before leaving.
As I round the entrance of the kitchen, Samantha jolts and shoves something into her purse, while offering a suspicious grin.
“What was that?” I point at her purse.
“That…” she shakes her head and raises her shoulders. “It was n-nothing. J-just an old bill,” she stammers her way through her explanation. I fight the urge to just tell her to shut up, that I know she is lying. What’s the likelihood it is an
other fool’s number?
Every part of me screams out for her to prove that it was a bill, to show me. If it was something that minimal, why the suspiciousness that she radiates? But do I want to reinforce my paranoia if it is something more? I nod my head and glance up at the black faced clock, with silver Roman Numerals around its circumference adorning the wall above the doorway, 7:35 a.m.
“You better get yourself ready. Don’t want to be late,” I drone, trying to repress the involuntary trembling my body is compelling me to yield.
“Okay. Give me fifteen minutes.” She sashays passed me.
I close my eyes and strive to think of a happy place, a happy time. I can’t recollect any. The events in my unconscious state is so overpowering, they’re all I can concentrate on. My dreams are quicksand, and I am feeling myself sinking lower and lower, struggling with every fibre of my being to not allow it to consume me. My limbs ache, my head is throbbing, my stomach contorted and my heart is ice. I can’t fight it anymore…
I truly am weak. I truly am a failure.
Staring blankly on the road ahead, I rest my left arm on the window frame. I try to replace the negative thoughts with positive memories. My fingertips softly brush against my lower lip, as I endeavor to remember the passion and the sensations of Samantha’s mouth upon mine. The way she held me last night after our shower. The amount of shit she is taking from me right now.
I pull into the underground parking lot and shut off the ignition.
There is a muffling sound coming from Samantha. I peek towards her and notice her pushing her hands up and down over her black, pinstriped clad thighs.
I am taken back as she asks me directly what label our relationship is characterized as. She is everything she had named, how could she think she was anything else. She is my friend, my partner, my lover. I am just unable to show it at this current time because my sane mind is being held hostage to my unconscious.
This is so confusing. I am confused trying to understand it in my head, let alone explain to her.
“Then why do I feel as though you detest me? I can’t touch you because you recede from me, I can’t talk to you because you scold me.” I hang my head, and lock my fingers. Oh, Samantha…I don’t hate you, I hate what you did to me. My subconscious shakes his head, curls his upper lip at glares at me in disapproval.
She connects her hand with the side of my face. Her touch exhibits the equivalent effect as Medusa stare, her touch turning me to stone, making every organ in my body sink to my stomach. My limbs are numb as my blood rages.
Discerning my reaction, she pulls her hand away.
“I just want to help you and understand you, Hayden.”
I continue to pick at the corner of my thumbnail. “How can I make you understand…when I don’t even understand it myself?” My voice is croaky as I fight to push my words passed the mass in my throat. I want to curl up into a ball, I want to hide away and just…give up. My eyes are sore, my head is hazy, I have no idea if I am in reality anymore…I just can’t keep doing this. The combination of emotions and snippets from my dreams are driving me insane.
Crooking her index finger, she places it under my chin and coaxes my head up. “You are not alone, Hayden. You have me, and I hate watching you retreat back into…” she hesitates for a beat. I gaze at her with sore, tired eyes, too exhausted to pull away. “…A person that I don’t recognize.”
Alarm bells ring loud and clear instantly through my ears. What? Is she fucking serious? Talk about kicking man when he is down. I feel my eyes deepen. I am mortified by the insinuation. Indignation silently creeps up and hijacks my leading emotion, overriding and devouring every feeling like a tidal wave.
She cautiously drops her hand from my chin.
“I cannot believe you just said that,” I hiss through clenched-teeth as my jaw works rapidly under my flesh.
“No, Hayden. You have taken that out of context, I didn’t mean…”
“I don’t care what you meant, Samantha. Yes, I am fucking damaged goods, but for some reason, you were the only person who could pull me through it, and now…” Now, you are the one that’s causing me to be like this, because if you didn’t run off and allow that Neanderthal to grope you up, and fondle you in public, I would have been blissfully unaware of your expanse, licentious ways. Even when I was in front of you, you still turned your back on me and continued like some cheap whore! That is what I wanted to say. But I stop myself and not a second to soon.
“Just get out of the car; we’ve got work to do.” I reach over onto the back seat and retrieve my briefcase. Pushing myself out of the creaking leather material, I exit the car. Taking my frustrations out on my door, I slam it with all of my might, and accept my fate as I spiral down the rabbit hole, and give up on giving a fuck about anyone…or anything.
I sit back in my leather chair behind the desk in a trance, bouncing mechanically, rhythmically. The motion is soothing, but doesn’t lift the heaviness in my heart or the ache in my head.
Leaning across the desk, I gently pull back and release a small, metal ball of my Newton’s Cradle before sinking back into the cracking, plush material. I stare emptily at the small spheres on opposite ends as the velocity of their collision sends the opposite in motion. I close my eyes, absorbing the clicking, tapping sound that the cradle emits. Inhaling deeply, I concentrate solely on the resonance that fills my office and my mind, as I make an attempt to keep myself grounded.
The ringing of the phone echoes, shielding the soothing, cyclic clinking sound of the device, which was proving effective in regaining and maintaining my composure.
Reluctantly, I sit forward and pick up the receiver.
“Mr. Wentworth. Mr. Hudson, your 11:15 is waiting in reception.” Her voice echoes down the handset. My body tingles, and not in a pleasurable way.
“Okay. Give me a few minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
I slot the receiver back into its cradle and sit back once more.
Fisting my hands through my hair, I sigh cripplingly. Come on, Hayden. Keep your mind on what needs to be done. Focus on your work. Remain focused, you have to remain focused, I repeat my mantra. The realization of having to stay decisive is one thing…making it so, is another entirely.
I round the corner to reception. Samantha is not at the desk, and I am filled with relief that I am not compelled to set eyes on her, not after her insinuation this morning in the car. How could she accuse me of such a thing? I don’t want her pity. She told me that she wouldn’t look at me differently; yet, she had the nerve to say that I am reverting into someone she does not recognize. I was, and still feel the embarrassment of my past, and to have her point out that I am weak again…my stomach twists, and bile rises to the back of my throat.
At the same time, I am irritated that she is not where she should be.
“Mr. Hudson,” I call out. The medium build gentleman stows his cell in his breast pocket and pushes himself from the couch.
“Mr. Wentworth,” he strolls towards me and proffers his hand. I accept and shake it professionally and with purpose. “Thank you so much for seeing me on such short notice.”
“It is not a problem at all, Mr. Hudson. Please, my office is this way.” Our hands fall to our sides, and I lead him down to the bottom of the hall to my office, still silently repeating my mantra.
“Please, take a seat.” I gesture to the burgundy chair and round my desk.
“Thank you.”
“So, what can I do for you today, Mr. Hudson?” I place my elbows on the curvature of my chair arms, steeple my fingers and place them against the seam of my lower lip.
“Okay, it’s quite confusing, and––” he is interjected by a knock at the door.
“I’m sorry,” I raise a hand to the gentleman to halt him. “Come in.”
The door is pushed open, and Samantha enters. She walks across the carpet, swaying her hips in the way which would normally have my cock twitching in my pants. But with how I feel rig
ht now, only one word is swimming in my mind, and it’s not a nice one either, rhymes with more.
“Your coffee, Mr. Hudson,” she murmurs politely.
“Thank you, Miss.”
She gazes down at him and smiles with warmth that I haven’t detected in a while. Or have I been too oblivious to notice…I don’t know, but it infuriates me and makes my blood boil rapidly.
“You are more than welcome.” She raises her head to look at me. “Can I get you anything, Mr. Wentworth?” the warmth of only a moment ago that was specifically aimed at another is no longer present. It makes it easier to stay in my heated, enraged dwelling.
Contradiction, my subconscious sneers in his sing-song voice as he taps his fingertips on his thigh.
I sit on the edge of my seat, my arms folded and resting against the cool metal studs that secure the leather padding of my desk. Averting my eyes from her quick and easily, I glance down. “No, that is all thank you, Miss Kennedy,” I dismiss her curtly.
In silence, she leaves the office, closing the door behind her.
“I’m sorry for the interruption, Mr. Hudson.” I raise a fraction from the edge of the chair, and pull it closer into me. I sit back and gesture to him politely. “Please, continue.”
“I am having problems with an ex-partner.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“We entered the relationship about eleven months ago, everything was brilliant. But I soon realized that we weren’t best suited.” He takes a sip of coffee. “There was about a fifteen year age gap. Now, I was unperturbed with that, but her attitude towards it…” he shifts and winces, “well, I wanted a girlfriend––a partner. I guess she wanted a sugar daddy.”
Locking my fingers, I rest my mouth on my knuckles. “Okay. What happened?”
“When I ended the relationship, she didn’t take it very well. She started to stalk me and harass me, especially at work. She would come into the office and cause a scene.”
“Did you file a report?”
“Yes, I did. The police went to her and warned her to stay away.” The look of pain and anguish in his eyes is a reminder of something closer to home, a nerve that is still painful for me.