Below Unforgiven by Kimberly Stedronsky
Text Copyright © 2013 by Kimberly Stedronsky
Editing and Interior Design by Drive Around Publishing
Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
First Electronic Edition: December 2013
First Paperback Edition: December 2013
Below Unforgiven is a satire by Kimberly Stedronsky, and is not intended maliciously. Kimberly Stedronsky has invented all names and situations in her stories, except in cases when public figures are being satirized. Any other use of real names is accidental and coincidental, or used as a fictional depiction or personality parody.
NINE ½ WEEKS
SIN CITY
THE HOAX
THE HELP
THE GIRL CAN’T HELP IT
CHARADE
PULP FICTION
POINT BLANK
DEMON KNIGHT
MADE OF HONOR
BLAST FROM THE PAST
THE GAME
ABOUT LAST NIGHT
DIRTY ROTTEN SCOUNDRELS
SAVE THE LAST DANCE
RUN
CALIFORNIA DREAMING
THIS IS THE END
WRECKED
UNFORGIVEN
28 DAYS LATER
THE PROMISE
Nine ½ Weeks
V
“I’m so cute. Matthew, look at me,” I turned in the mirror, grinning, running my fingers over my protruding stomach. My skin was stretched, taut, and my belly button poked out like a tiny, nautical knot.
“I can’t look anywhere else,” he smiled, slipping in behind me and wrapping his arms around my middle. I sighed and fell back against his chest. He gathered my long, dark hair to one side, dropping a kiss to the crown of my head. The strands were almost black in the winter months, but lightened to more of an auburn brown in the sunshine.
“How was class today?”
He smirked into my hair. “Fun. I did a pull-up contest in the doorway with one of my students.”
Laughing, I rolled my eyes. “And?”
He grinned. “She beat me.”
“Beat by a third grade girl,” I tsked, pinching his strong upper arms. He winced, and I delivered a playful punch. “I’ll bet the other teachers were excited to see that.”
“I let her win.” He cupped my chin in his hand, tilting my face up for a kiss. “How’s the headache, beauty?”
I stiffened. “Hurts. But I’m so freaking gorgeous, staring at my own reflection helps distract me.”
“You are freaking gorgeous. And I’m taking you to the doctor tomorrow.”
“Matt-…,”
“Vivian, please don’t argue.”
“That’s just going to be another bill. Another hundred bucks to check my blood pressure and watch me stand on a scale. I’m fine. Pregnant women get headaches. Google it.”
“I did Google it. And you’re only nineteen.”
“I’m almost twenty. And shush.” I tapped his lips with my finger before turning, making my inelegant way down the wooden staircase of his small bungalow. I knew that he was right behind me, ready to catch me if I started to fall.
“Your mom called again. I saw her missed call on your phone downstairs.”
“Probably giving me last minute numbers for clinics that do third trimester abortions.”
“Ah, Viv. Stop it. Give her a break, she regrets trying to push you.”
I cringed at a low pain in my abdomen, and though I tried to hide it, Matthew noticed immediately. He wrapped his arm around me, leading me to the couch.
“I’m fine.”
“Your hands are swollen.” He sat next to me, curling his fingers in mine. “I saw your ring by the sink.”
“A diamond like that doesn’t belong on Vienna sausage fingers.”
“Ten seconds ago you were gorgeous,” he chided.
“Hi, I’m your fiancé, Vivian. You must not have met me, I’m an overly-dramatic actress,” I murmured, sarcastic. “Hand me my phone, please.”
He did, and I listened to my mother’s bossy voicemail as he scanned the muted television channels. As my mother’s voice serrated my ears, I almost wished that I’d never started speaking to her again.
“What’s going on?”
“She wants me to go to a bridal show next weekend. Does she forget that I’m about to pop her out a grandson in about five minutes?”
He chuckled. “You still have nine-and a half-weeks to go. She wants you married before our baby’s here. You know that. Put your feet up.” He patted his thighs, and I moved awkwardly to the end of the couch to prop my ankles on his jeans.
As his hands worked over the arches of my bare feet, I sighed, watching him watch the baseball game. He was tall and lean, nearly 6’2”, and between his broad shoulders and his black geek glasses, I was a goner.
I remembered watching him enter the Cleveland Playhouse for the first time. He led a class of third graders in the door of the Allen Theater, ushering them to their seats. As Belle in our production of Beauty and the Beast, I’d been asked to greet the children at the matinee and hand them their programs.
“You can’t be Belle. You have blue eyes. Belle has brown eyes.”
I managed a tight grin at the obnoxious little girl, trying to ascertain more decorum than a nine-year-old. “Aren’t you adorable?” I crooned, a little too enthusiastically.
“Where’s the real Beauty?” The girl complained, taking her seat with a pout. She turned away, and I fought a losing battle with my maturity, making a face at the back of her pig-tailed head and sticking my tongue out at her.
“I only see one beauty here,” his voice replied, and I broke into immediate hives as I realized the teacher had seen my deplorable reaction. He turned to me, his caramel eyes sweeping over me from head to toe from behind black glasses.
When I performed, I could feel his gaze on me throughout the entire show. At the end of the musical, he approached the stage, and I widened my eyes at the rose in his hands. The thin, silken fabric petals lit up with the help of a AAA battery. I knew the novelty roses were sold in the gift shop. “You were wonderful.” He smiled, his eyes crinkling behind those glasses. I just stared, speechless. He glanced at his class and the two overwhelmed, chaperoning parents. “Thank you. It was a pleasure, Miss Hale.”
He turned, and I stared down at the cheap flower, grinning. “Wait…,” I rushed over to him, unable to stop my unabashed smile. “What’s your name?”
His own smile turned almost shy. “Matthew Fowler.”
“Would you like to go out with me, Matthew?” I asked, unflinchingly, because that’s how I rolled.
Bold.
He was obviously taken aback, and his grin radiated boyish charm. “I really would.”
“Well, hurry up and give me your number, then,” I ordered. He smirked, reaching into the pocket of his shirt, right next to his tie. Between the glasses and the pen in his front pocket, I decided that this GQ nerd was hot.
“I just had a program,” he searched the seats, and I turned my palm upward, directly in his line of vision.
“Write it on my hand.”
He locked eyes with me for a long moment, and I felt my heart ricochet inside of my chest. “I’d love to,” his husky voice replied, and as I felt the BIC moving against my palm…
I was done feeling anything except for Matthew from that moment on.
Those days were just a succession of words, dates, food, and other nonsense time-killer
s until we were back in each other’s arms. The first time that he made love to me, I told him that I loved him, and he echoed my words. He was my first-and my only-and the drama that followed was just a page in our happily-ever-after screenplay.
Fade in
1.0 Interior, parent’s house, Thanksgiving.
My parents hate him because he is nine years older than me.
2.0 Interior, Matthew’s bungalow, the couch, the kitchen table, the couch again, against the living room wall, his bedroom, a blanket in the back yard under the stars (montage)
I get pregnant.
(He is overjoyed, I am appropriately terrified, and we are hopelessly devoted to the idea of a life together.)
Cont’d
3.0 Seedy downtown clinic, in my mom’s car, two days after Christmas
My mom tries to drive me to get an abortion; I stop speaking to her for two months.
4.0 On stage, at the theater, New Year’s Eve. Perfection.
Matthew proposes; I accept.
5.0 Theater restroom, Wal-Mart restroom, McDonald’s restroom, campus bathroom, corridor in the mall leading to the restroom, Matthew’s bathroom, Matthew’s bedroom, kitchen sink, bushes next to the front door, neighbor’s driveway.
Vomit.
6.0 Matthew’s house
Drop out of Case Western University, plagued with headaches.
Move in with Matthew.
Cont’d
“It doesn’t matter how much it costs, Vivian.”
“I have no insurance, I’m not covered by yours, and the delivery alone will be-…,”
“Stop worrying.” He pinched my pinky toe, and I giggled, twisting away.
Neither of my parents had ever carried health insurance. My father made nearly $300 thousand a year after climbing up the corporate ladder of a huge cellular phone company, and was stubborn in his beliefs that health insurance was a waste of money. My mother fully supported him.
Of course.
After I’d stopped speaking to my mother, my father had offered Matthew a sarcastic ‘congratulations, asshole’ before suggesting we look into Welfare. I tried to block that entire day from my mind.
Though I was speaking to my mother again, I was too proud to accept any money from my parents.
Not that they’d offered.
Matthew and I weren’t married yet, and there was no way I’d be covered under his insurance. The baby would, of course, but not the delivery.
I nudged him with my toe. “Why in the world do you want to marry a wannabe actress, anyway? You’re too smart for that,” I murmured, blinking. Dark spots skittered across the white walls of the living room, and I narrowed my eyes.
“You’re an amazing actress.”
“At least I have you convinced.”
“Why are you blinking like that?”
I turned to look at him.
And that was the last thing that I remembered.
One Year Later
Sin City
V
“Darlin, we got a situation here.”
Cringing, I drug my teeth against my bottom lip, mouthing a silent fuck. Turning to the counter with an overly bright smile, I raised my eyebrows. “What’s the problem, Mr. Grady?”
With a pft, he slapped the plastic DVD case on the counter, leaning forward on his elbows. The smell of tobacco and sweat and crotch turned my stomach.
“What’d I tell you? Just Mike.”
“Mike,” I corrected quickly, taking a step backward.
“Magic Mike.”
I raised my eyebrows again, my forced smile falling. “What’s wrong with the movie, Mr. Grady?”
“Skips. Scratched or something.”
I glanced down at the title.
Beaverjuice.
Oh, clever.
“Okaaaay,” I gingerly picked the plastic case up by the corner. “The whole movie, or just parts?”
He gripped his enormous belt buckle and tugged left and right about five times, rolling his tongue in his mouth like he was preparing for the spittoon. “Eh, I don’t know, ‘round the time she’s getting ate-out by the ghost sluts in the attic, ‘suppose.”
“Okay! Thanks!” I clipped, tossing the case next to the old Sylvania TV/DVD combo. I reached for two pumps-make that three-of Purell next to the basket of movie boxes. The hinges of the saloon doors in the back of the trailer squeaked before I could turn to the cash register.
“This one’s on the house,” he called from the partitioned porn alcove, and I rolled my eyes, tightening my long, dark ponytail.
“I’ll credit your account after I review the disc.”
“Hmfp,” he snorted, and I heard the sound of boxes shifting on the shelves.
“Take your time in there,” I mumbled, under my breath. Lots to consider. Girl on girl? Girl on girl on girl? Fetish?
I know, I sounded like a judgy two-shoes. Really, I had no problem with porn. I also had no problem with the hard-working actresses oh-my-god-I’m-coming their way through law school. Fine, whatthefuck ever, do what you gotta do. But I did have a problem with perves like Magic Caveman making up imaginary reasons why he was getting free porn tonight while he made sweet love to his knuckles.
“You still actin’? That why you workin’ here?”
Cringing, I wiped my palms on my jean shorts. Really? I’m an aspiring actress, therefore I work in a backwoods video store straight out of 1996?
“Someday. I need to save up, you know, work for a while.” I absently reached for my copy of Doubting Damon, a hopeful Indie novel of plotless proportions. The tagline on the back cover made me cringe. “Damon’s on a path of sexual self-destruction… and only Belina can save him.”
I wanted to strikethrough the entire blurb with my Sharpie and write: “He was a masochistic fuckwad, but given his ability to speak in short, staccato sentences, her precious virginity was his for the taking. Moo ha ha ha!” (Complete with smoldering, growling, and roguish goatee grabbing.)
My best friend, Theresa, had self-published a book our senior year. She had asked me to edit and format the manuscript, as well as build her a website, and I’d had so much fun designing her page that I did one for myself to sell my editing services.
My indie author clientele was growing, and I was making some decent money editing. Usually, I preferred an eversion of the book on my Kindle app, but this time the author had sent me a paperback.
I was getting paid fifty bucks to edit all three hundred pages of the print version of Beaverjuice.
Oh, well. Fifty bucks is fifty bucks.
“You legal yet?”
I didn’t like where this was going. I also couldn’t see his hands from behind the paper-thin trailer wall. “I’ll be twenty-one on Saturday,” I answered defensively.
While slender had described me best for most of my life (except during my pregnancy) there was a little magic going on in my new C cups lately. My grandmother had greeted me at her door in June, giving me an appreciative, Sixteen Candles-esque once over. I had almost expected her to clap her hands together and squeal ‘Vivian! You’ve gotten your boobies!’
My body had changed into a curvy place that I didn’t recognize, but now I was getting more attention than ever before.
“Whoooo, need an A/C unit in here. Hotter than a hoochiecootchie in this here trailer.”
He emerged, satisfied, tossing Intercourse with the Vampire on the counter. I sighed, ringing the rental into the computer. “You know, True Blood is basically the same thing-and it kind of has a story line, too.”
“Don’t get HBO.”
“Right.” I smiled again, slipping the movie into the Valley Video bag. “Have a good night.”
He winked at me, tossing two wadded up fives to the counter. “Keep the change, darlin’. Your granmama tells me you’re workin’ too hard. Four jobs? Five?”
“She worries too much,” I gestured to the cash register. “This’ll be credited to your account, Mr. Grady, for tomorrow. But I appreciate the gesture.
”
He tipped the bill of his cap, grinning again. Eyelid up, cheek to brow, flash of teeth. Is he winking? Is that a tick?
“Take it easy, darlin’.”
Ew. “Yep.” I waited until he pulled out of the gravel driveway before flicking on the patio lights. I was closing up at ten tonight, whether Robin liked it or not. She made about enough money from Valley Video to pay me and buy one ‘new’ movie a week. And by new, I meant we finally carried Twilight.
New Moon.
Cracking open the DVD case, I flipped the shiny part over and held it under the old desk light. “Scratched my ass.” After a second, I giggled at my own stupid joke, pressing the eject button and waiting for the plastic tray to pop out of the TV. I tossed the disc into the tray, letting the machine whir and groan as it begged for readable content.
The candy beneath the counter caught my eye. Twisting my lips, I considered being good and going for the cherry Blow Pop. Fifty cents versus a dollar. One dollar, a whopping one-sixth of my shitty hourly wage. At the last minute I grabbed for the Runts, growled, and snatched the Blow Pop. Unwrapping the sucker, I shoved it in my mouth before the Runts could tempt me again.
Mmm. Dinner.
“Okay, here we go,” I exhaled, hopping up on the counter with the duct-taped remote. Hitting skip twice, I twirled my tongue over the sucker, so tempted to crunch for the gum.
No patience. Ever.
A gothy, titastic girl (I assumed this was the porn-version of Winona Ryder) almost made it up the attic stairs before the ghost attacked. And by attacked, I meant grabbed her by the ass face-first. His sheet had two eyes and a glory hole, and after a few sissy-fight attempts to ward him off, our heroine succumbed to getting railed from behind.
“You can see my cock, even with the sheet?”
“Oh, my god,” I giggled, twirling my hair in my finger. Her oh-so-fake yelps filled the trailer, and I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes.
Wait- was that a skip? Or some kind of bullshit attempt at fast-motion videography?
I paused and unpaused. (I don’t know why-like it would help.) Resuming play, the DVD definitely skipped. Now another ghost appeared at the top of the stairs, and there were only so many holes left for this guy. Deductive reasoning told me she wasn’t going to be shrieking much longer.
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