Tales of the Fairy Anthology

by Catherine Stovall

  “No, not at all. Never even rode passenger on one. I just happened by. As I said, I have no idea why I’m here.” Her attention caught for a moment on his honest blue eyes, the short stubble layering his square jaw, and the fact that he wasn’t staring at her like she was crazy. Most people did.

  “Maybe it’s just fate.” He smiled, hand drifting to caress the bike lovingly, as if it were a favorite pet. “I’m one of those odd ducks that think that the Universe tends to pull us to places and things. Call me crazy.”

  Lorie laughed, enjoying the man’s company. “Okay, Crazy Mr. Wright. As long as I’m here, how much is it?”

  They talked and talked, and she didn’t feel at all like she was imposing. The store had few other customers, and their interaction seemed intimate rather than professional. Just like two old friends admiring the same beautiful piece of machinery. In fact, things went so well, so smoothly, that Lorie found herself standing with keys and paperwork in hand, the proud owner of a brand new Harley.

  ****

  Days went by slowly, as they always did. She woke up, went to work, ran errands, and came home to the emptiness that had become her world. Ever since Eric had left her for another woman, a woman who she found vile and disgusting, her life had been loneliness and pain, memories and grief. But now, it had something else, it had Matilda, her little Sportster.

  When Lorie pulled up at night and watched the garage door creep up, Matilda would be sitting right where the nice man had delivered her, the gleam of her paint like a bright smile welcoming Lorie home. When she woke up alone in the early morning hours, her hands coming up empty when she reached out for him, the sadness would push her from the bed they had once shared. Lorie would go to the door between house and garage, staring out at her new toy and feeling like she’d accomplished something, though she was unsure what.

  The phone kept ringing, the sound of “Human” by Christina Perry echoing through the empty house. Reaching blindly for the end table next to the couch, where she had eventually fallen asleep the night before, she snatched up the cell and read the screen.

  Shit! Why did it have to be him?

  After briefly considering pressing the reject button, she cleared her throat and answered, “Hello, Eric.” She had tried to avoid sounding depressed and degenerated, but she wasn’t at all sure she was successful.

  “Hello, Lorie. How are you?” The cool and callous sound of his voice told her exactly how little he cared about how she was.

  “Fine. What do you need?” She wasn’t in the mood for small talk with the man who had crushed her soul after seven years of blind loyalty.

  “I wanted to check in on you, see how you were. I talked to Imma yesterday…” his voice trailed off into silence on the other end of the line. He was trying to broach the subject gently, waiting for her response, hoping she would be the one to bring it up first.

  “Oh yea, I talked to her yesterday too. Small world. I’m doing great, Eric. Everything is fine and dandy here. How are you…and…well, how are you.” She bit back the retort that hung at the tip of her tongue like a drop of acrid poison.

  “Okay, Lorie. I’m okay. Look, I know it’s none of my business, but Imma said that you got a motorcycle—”

  “You’re right,” she sneered into the phone, “it isn’t a damn bit of your business.”

  “It’s true?”

  Lorie couldn’t help but feel a small stab of pleasure at the shocked indignation in his voice. Pushing the issue, just to gauge his response, she added in a cheerful voice, “Yes, I bought a Harley. A Sportster, actually. If you want details, she’s a brand new, straight off the showroom floor, Iron 883. I named her Matilda.”

  “Oh, Lorie. What are you doing? You must have cleaned out your savings to buy something like that. Why? You can’t ride it, that’s ridiculous. You’re going to get yourself killed, or someone else. Take it back.”

  Her pleasure turned to pain that turned to anger as she remembered how many times she hadn’t done something she wanted because he had told her it was stupid or crazy. “Look, Eric. I can do anything I damn well please. What I buy with my money and what I do with my time is my business. You made your choice, so I suggest you save your concern and opinion for that nasty whore you shacked up with.”

  She punched the hang-up button so hard that her nail snapped. The physical pain was only a brief shimmer of the mental terror that screeched through her mind and body. Shaking her hand as she went, Lorie sprung from the couch and headed to the shower.

  Anger pushed her into activity. The sadness almost always morphed into rage for her. Blind, stupid, rage. The kind of hatred filled hurt that caused her to lash out at those responsible in strange ways. Eric, for all his fake concern, could have cared less if she hurt herself. He’d be the first person to stand up at her funeral and tell everyone how tragic it was that she just hadn’t listened to him, he’d tried to put a stop to the non-sense, but she was stubborn.

  “He cares. Ha! He cared so much that he tripped over that nasty little slut and fell right into a big vat of bullshit that has nothing to do with feelings and everything to do with her fake tits. Screw him!” She cussed him, cursed him, and generally raged behind the wall of steam as she bathed. The entire time, an image bloomed in the back of her mind that soap and sense couldn’t wash away.

  She could see herself, cute half-helmet on, her hair in braids, the wind in her face, the blacktop under Matilda’s tires, and the world being left behind in a rush of sunshine, fresh air, and speed. She’d drive to town, she’d drive right down the main street where his office was, she’d do it at a time when she knew he’d be leaving, and when he saw her, she’d wave. She’d look at him and laugh, prove to him she could do this, she could ride a motorcycle and she could live without him.

  Just like that, Matilda became more than just a shiny new machine setting unused, but prettily, in the double garage. The bike was a symbol of Lorie’s strength, her intelligence, and the fact that she no longer needed Eric—or anyone else for that matter. He would be a bridge burned and forgotten on her long road out of nowhere, nothing but a fading image in Matilda’s side mirror.

  ****

  Dressed in her expensive new accessories, Lorie couldn’t believe the oppressive heat filling the garage on the early spring day. Beneath her shiny black half-helmet, complete with purple cross bones and skulls, her dark brown double braids were damp with sweat. The leather jacket weighed down on her small frame, the scent almost as heavy as the material, and the tight leather gloves felt alien against her fingers. Even the ultra-cute boots with thick soles seemed to be trying to smother her as she stood staring unblinkingly at the bike.

  Inch by inch, she moved nearer, whispering to the motorcycle. Talking to it as if it were alive, and knowing. “Hey there, Matilda, you pretty girl.” She drew a little closer. “I bet you’re getting sick of setting in this dusty garage.” Close enough now to run her hand over the seat as if she were petting a wild, timid, and untamed beast. “Maybe you and I can get some sun.”

  Time passed slowly as she mentally pushed closer and closer to the machine. Finally, with a sigh of determination, she threw her leg over the low seat and sat down. That feels good, the thought randomly slid through her mind as she watched her smiling reflection in the chrome gas cap. Is that really me? Am I smiling?

  The strange realization that she truly felt happy only made her elation grow. Soon, the strange new her—the one wearing two-hundred dollar designer shades that were sure to be ruined by bug guts and road dust—was grinning up from the gas tank. Feeling braver, she reached her arms up and wrapped her hands around the padded grips, liking the way the handlebars felt just like an extension of her body.

  Sweat was pooling in places that she loathed thinking about, but Lorie didn’t care as she adjusted the mirrors, whispered away, and shifted here and there to find the most comfortable position. She and Matilda were getting used to each other, they were bonding. It was strange to think the bike needed t
o be approached gently, but the ritual helped ease her nerves as well.

  With both feet planted flat on the cement floor, Lorie pushed off with her left, bravery and adrenaline causing her muscles to quake as the weight of the bike lifted off the kickstand. She wobbled, unsteady, the thrill of the act rushing through her veins and making her feel young and crazy again. Something she hadn’t felt in a very long time.

  The thought of the open road, or at least her driveway, bloomed up inside Lorie’s mind. That strange sense of madness, the one that had been haunting her ever since the day Eric had packed his things and drove away, eked in. The inside of the garage became too dark, the heat unbearable, the air stifling. For an instant of blind desire, she considered starting the bike, lifting the garage door, and roaring out into the afternoon sun.

  Her inner voice whispered, Not ready. Not yet.

  Her hands tightened on the grips, itching to reach down and turn the key.

  The voice insisted, You are not ready.

  The heel of her boot slid back against the kickstand, so easy to knock it up and out of the way.

  Do not do this! The voice yelled, and it was not her own.

  With a hiss and a jump, she leaped from the bike, allowing its weight to smack down hard on the kickstand. For a moment, the machine shimmied as if it might fall, and Lorie’s heart and stomach lurched. Luckily, Matilda settled without tipping.

  ****

  For days, she could do no more than look at the bike from a ten-foot distance. The incident in the garage had spooked her. She’d rationalized that the strange voice inside her mind had been a hallucination. Delirium brought on by a combination of her anger at Eric’s callous words, the horrible heat, and her own nerves. Still, she could not bring herself to touch her beautiful Matilda.

  On Friday, she woke to an edgy and uncomfortable feeling, as if her skin had grown too tight around her chest. Breathing in shallow breaths, she walked to the door that separated the house from the garage. Her fingers found the light switch without looking, and as the light burst over the dark space, Matilda came into sight.

  The purple paint seemed to glimmer less, the leather didn’t seem to hold the same soft gleam, and Matilda looked…sad. A rush of sorrow wrapped itself around Lorie, swaddling her in a tight embrace. She could feel the bike’s need to be out under the sun, she could almost taste and smell the exhaust and hear its rumble deep in her chest.

  Matilda silently called to her, beckoning her as it had done in the store.

  With her fingertips pressed to the cool glass, Lorie whispered, “I can’t right now, Matilda. I can’t. I have to go to work. Later, I promise.”

  The day dragged. She lost track of time, drifted during meetings, and missed her turn several times on the commute. She spaced out during conversations, ignored the ringing phone, and even called her secretary by the wrong name. Lorie’s mind could only focus on the idea of riding her motorcycle. She hadn’t even started it up yet, but she couldn’t wait to feel the wind in her hair.

  All the while, the feeling of compression continued to grow until she felt like a very small person caught in a very large vice. Everything seemed to agitate against her sensitive nerves and cause her head to ache with a fierce pounding. Nothing at all seemed to be able to pull her out of the decidedly horrible funk of the day.

  Just when she didn’t think she could take another thing, the worst happened. She’d finally escaped the doldrums of her job and had stopped at the grocery store on her way home. As she weaved her cart in and out of the aisles, her mind was seeing long stretches of pavement and concentrating on how she would have to switch gears—she’d been studying the motorcycle book for weeks, since she’d bought Matilda.

  With a loud crash and a startled squawk, Lorie stammered and stumbled as she bumped into another cart. Looking up, her eyes met his. Rage, humiliation, sadness, and hurt consumed her—the fires of a heart that had been well and truly burned rekindling the ache.

  “Eric.” She nodded as she spoke his name, the picture of cool arrogance and impassionate disdain, as she tried to veer away.

  His arm snaked out to catch her by the bicep, his fingers bringing back memories of fights and arguments from their past. “Lorie. Hey, don’t just walk away.”

  She turned, mouth opened to tell him exactly where he could stick his demands, but her lips froze when she saw her. The bitch’s eyes were narrowed in a go-screw-yourself-glare as she high-stepped her meth addict looking ass up the center aisle. She must’ve thought she was looking sexy with her ass swinging in the too-tight jeans and her boobs bouncing unrestrained beneath her tank top. However, Lorie only saw the slithering and slimy lot lizard for what she was; a whore on the move.

  “You’re bitch is over there, Eric. You have no claim on me, so keep your hands to yourself,” she pushed the words out between gritted teeth in a quiet hiss.

  The whine in Gwen’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard, “Eric, what are you doing?”

  He turned his head slightly, eyes never leaving Lorie’s face. “Gweny, I’ll be right there. I just need to have a word with my wife.”

  The puff of air that burst from the woman could have scorched his eyebrows off. “Wife? Wife? Try ex-wife, asshole!”

  Her arm hauled back, the bag of rice in her hand flew, and Lorie had just enough time to step out of the way as it hit Eric in the back of the head—showering white grains all over. In a fit of hysterical laughter Lorie walked away, not caring about all the curious stares that alternated between her glee, Eric’s horror, and Gwen’s childish pout.

  The bitch might be a husband stealing dirt monger, but she at least has good aim. Too bad she wasn’t holding a can of spaghetti sauce. The thought singed the edges of her mind as Lorie, still snickering and fuming, paid for her meager supplies and left the store. Sliding into her little car, she instantly wished she could be roaring away on Matilda, leaving Eric and Gwen staring at her back as her hair fluttered in the wind.

  The ride home was a blur of painful self-doubt; she questioned everything about herself as the replay of Gwen’s tantrum played over and over. Why her? She’s disgusting, trashy, uneducated, and fugly with a capital F. Damn near manly, really. Yet, he chose her over me. What’s wrong with me? What did I do that was bad enough for him to see her as better?

  Tears welled up in her eyes, hanging from her lashes like dew drops on finely woven spider webs and slipping down her cheeks in dark streams of mascara and eye-liner. Lorie sniffed, sobbed, and drove the rest of the way home in a chaotic bundle of hate, remorse, sorrow, and anger. All the hurt inside of her pushed her mind to dark places, frightening thoughts, and a want to end her existence stronger than she had ever felt before.

  By the time the garage door slid up, and her beautiful Matilda came into sight, she was near psychotic with her need to stop the infinite void that had become her heart. She had nothing left, nothing to love, and no one to love her. The bike’s charm almost didn’t lift her spirits, almost didn’t coax her to come closer—almost. Just as she made to enter the house, her groceries tucked in a single bag in her arms, she stopped. Turning to face the shimmering purple and black machine, she felt the pull. A yank on a cord attached to her internal organs. Her heart stuttered, her stomach flipped, and her lungs ceased to work for a mere second. Just a breath or two passed, but it was all that was needed.

  Suddenly feeling stronger and more determined, Lorie swiped at her face with her free hand. Drying away the tears, she smiled at Matilda and whispered, “Thank you.”

  In response, the voice inside her head that was not her voice, whispered back, “Don’t thank me yet. Wait until the real adventure begins.”

  Stiffening, bristling, and then scurrying in the door, Lorie pushed away the creeping feeling that clawed its way up her spine as if it were a diseased animal. “Losing your damn mind, woman,” she grumbled as she put the food away.

  Her helmet, shiny and new, still sat on the edge of the mahogany table in the entry way, its glea
m constantly catching her eye. The heavy coat hung above it on the rack, offering her a sense of protection, and the gloves peeked out of the pocket, teasing her with how good the accelerator would feel.

  Gwen’s face drifted through her mind, pushing her ever closer to the edge of insanity that loomed in the dark recesses of her mind. “Screw that, fugly skankhoe.” Slamming the last can of tuna into the cabinet, Lorie grabbed for her long pony tail, her fingers deftly braiding it and using her backup tie around her wrist on the end. “Screw them both. I’m living for me now.”

  ****

  She straddled the bike, her fingers itching to turn the key and press the button to bring Matilda to life. One breath, two breaths, and then three; she inhaled deeply. The garage door was up, letting the afternoon sun beam through in a large patch of light. Nothing but fear stood in her way, and she was tired of being afraid.

  Beating as if it were about to explode from her chest, her heart filled with blood and adrenaline. A deep breath, then another, her gloved fingers found the key and switched it on. A smile spread across her lips as she pressed the push button start on the handle bar and gently rotated the accelerator. She shifted her weight, pushed up with her left foot, and held the bike balanced. Leaning over,

  As Matilda’s pipes popped and roared to life, Lorie felt her spirit soar. Up, up, and away from the pain and turmoil of her life, out of Eric’s reach and Gwen’s self-satisfied glare. Freedom bubbled like hot lava in her gut, spilling out of her in a loud cry of defiance and joy.

  The sudden action caused the bike to wobble and Lorie instantly froze, bracing her feet against the concrete to hold her and Matilda steady. Her fingers stroked the gas tank, “Easy girl. I think we both got a little excited.” The whispered words were drowned out by the purr of the engine, but she knew her girl had heard her just fine.

  “Okay, Matilda, is it time?” Lorie listened, waiting for the voice to come, but only the heavy growl of the pipes answered her. “Alright, then. We are going to give this a shot.”