Distorted Perceptions

by Diana W

He nodded seeming to finally accept my dismissal.

  "Ok," he reached in his back pocket and produced a card. "But if you ever need to talk about anything, especially on this matter," he held it out towards me, "call me. I like to think of myself as a pretty good listener."

  I hesitantly took it from him. I was too exhausted to decipher if he was being genuine or trying to hit on me. I nodded and placed it in my purse. "Will do."

  I turned around and proceeded to order my Uber. Ten minutes later, I was waiting outside the emergency room's doors for a four-star rated James in a burgundy Nissan Altima to pull up. It said he was only a minute away.

  My attention was caught up with some man being wheeled into the sliding doors and screaming about a tingling sensation in his leg, when a black Suburban pulled up in front of me. I couldn't see anything through the limo tint but when the passenger window rolled down, I would have had to been blind to miss the full two rows of gold teeth.

  "Aye, you Cah-sandwich?" He looked back down at his phone screen, I'm assuming for my picture.

  Jesus, I was grateful that I had makeup on and my hair was fully relaxed and past my shoulders on that pic. A complete opposite of my current naked face and flexi rodded bushy hair. I looked down at my own phone trying to figure out why the hell James looked like he drove here straight from a Cash Money Records video shoot. His profile picture was clearly from the nineties.

  "Nah, I think she went to the restroom," I pointed behind me and took off walking away from the vehicle.

  I guess I was going to have to make that call to Denise after all.

  I started to dial her number when I heard some laughing nearby. I popped my head up to see Officer Lucas cackling by his steering wheel.

  I walked over to his unit and stopped just shy of his window, biting my lip to keep myself from laughing too. I swear this shit only happens to me.

  "Is that not your Uber ma'am?" He blocked his mouth with his fist.

  "No," I replied sarcastically.

  "Oh ok. Again, are you sure you don't need a ride?" His question now laced with amusement.

  "Whatever," I grabbed the handle of the backseat door and got in.

  After that laugh, we didn't talk much on the ride to my house. His only question was whether the address from my license plate he ran earlier was where I was going. I confirmed it and that was that.

  I waved him off and now here I was, back at...home? I dropped all of my things onto to the sofa and walked into the kitchen. The ingredients for my lasagna were still sitting out, waiting to be used. I thought about cleaning up, doing the wifely chore of keeping the kitchen nice and neat, an obsessive pet peeve of mine, but you know what? Fuck that. Elliott obviously didn't appreciate it or anything else I provided for him. I instead opted for the wine bottle I opened before I left and took it with me up the steps, chugging down a mouthful of it as I made it to the second story.

  I kicked off my tennis shoes and took another swig. I placed the bottle on the nightstand and climbed into bed fully clothed, jacket included, and pulled the cover up over my legs. I took one more gulp of the wine for good measure and then hit the switch on the nightstand lamp. I was comfortable, almost to sleep, when I distinctly heard the front door of the house close.

  Chapter 3

  My eyes popped open at the reality of an intruder breaking into my home, tonight of all nights. I mean there's no night that would have been better than another to get robbed but commmme oooooon.

  I sat straight up, contemplating on what I could use from the bedroom or bathroom to protect myself. Calling the cops was out of the question with my cell being on the sofa downstairs and we hadn't had a house phone for over five years now.

  Rat tail comb?

  Oil Sheen?

  Ooh.

  Oil sheen and the lighter that I use for my incenses. Yeah, that's it. A makeshift flame thrower.

  I carefully climbed out of bed walking almost cat-like with my back hunched to prevent any unwanted creaks in the floorboards. Approaching the entrance way of the bathroom, my meds and wine cocktailed mind slowed down its racing enough for me to come to a reasonable conclusion. And if that assumption was correct, Officer Lucas may have been right about that homicide theory of his.

  I backtracked towards the nightstand and thanks to the moonlight peeking through the curtains, was able to make out the outline of the wine bottle. In one fluid motion, I picked it up and proceeded to finish off every ounce of liquid in it. As I heard footsteps near the unclosed bedroom door, I flipped the bottle upside down and held it by the narrow end.

  My beloved husband treaded not so carefully into the room, bypassing the switch for the ceiling fan's light, on a path to the bathroom. A habit of his he had developed with our opposing sleep patterns. I was usually in bed by ten o'clock at the latest whereas he would literally be up grading papers or watching tv until the wee hours of the morning. He wouldn't turn on any major source of light for fear of waking me and had learned to maneuver in the darkness of our bedroom.

  "You must be either deaf or ready to die."

  I reached behind me and flipped the switch on the lamp. Elliott nearly stumbled into the closet doors at the sight of me.

  "Cassie," he tried to regain his stance, “I didn’t know....what happened to your head?”

  "So, which is it?" I threatened again as I bounced the bottle in my hand. My blood boiled the more my nostrils filled with the distinct scent of the cologne I purchased for him this past anniversary. Something made by Versace that I could barely pronounce but I remembered how it had caught his attention one day at the mall as we were passing through Macy's. Now he was wearing it for his mistress whose idea of expensive Italian was probably eating spaghetti with a non-plastic fork.

  "Cassie, I just need a few minutes to talk to you," he stammered.

  "Talk? No," I shook my head methodically. "We're past the point of a talk," I bounced the bottle again.

  "Cassie," he held his hands up. His beautiful face that I loved to kiss for no reason at all, filled with remorse. "I'm...sorry."

  "Sorry?" My head flew back in disbelief. "Seven years of marriage.” I pointed the bottle in his direction as the wound on my head began to throb. The effects of the wine pulsing my heartrate to a dangerous pace. "You owe me more than a fucking sorry."

  Elliott’s alarmed eyes went to the bottle and then back up to my face, "Cass, I know I hurt you but..."

  “But what?!” I swung the bottle at his head, but he jumped backward with enough speed to dodge it.

  “Are you crazy?!” His voice reached a level I'd never heard from him. "I know you're upset but put that damn bottle down!" He puffed out of breath.

  "I'm not putting shit down!" I charged completely forward this time hoping to connect with anywhere that could cause damage. It would be justifiable. He deserved to feel what I felt. It didn't matter to me where the pain was rooted from.

  Elliott caught me by my wrists, shaking them with enough force to send the bottle flying out my grasp and rolling into the hallway. I screamed like a rabid animal trying to break away from his hold.

  "Get off of me!"

  When I realized there was no use in trying to hurt him with my hands, I started kicking wildly.

  "Cassie...Stop!" Elliot wrestled with me towards the bed. My knees folded at the edge of the mattress sending us both backwards onto it. I scrambled to regain some control, but he pushed my hands firmly above my head and hovered his weight above my waist to prevent my legs from hurting him.

  "GET. OFF. OF ME!" I screamed into his face, jerking and bucking my body to break free. I hated him and that tormented expression on his face. He was the cause of all of this.

  "GET OFF OF ME!"

  "Cassie," his tone was gentler.

  "Nooo," my tears broke through, deflating any energy I had left. I closed my eyes and repeatedly banged my head back against the comforter. "Just get out."

  "I don't I think I-"

  "GET OUT!" I screamed up to the ceil
ing. The heaving of my chest from trying to catch my breath was becoming painful. I got so lost in the sound of my tears that I hadn't realized Elliott had released his hold on me. I could still sense him there even though I refused to open my eyes to the sight of him. My stomach wouldn’t be able to take it.

  A minute or two later, I felt myself being lifted up but I didn't care anymore. All I wanted to do was sleep this pain away. Sleep the years I gave him away.

  My head landed on the pillow I knew was mine from the smell and I turned my body in the opposite direction. Elliott pulled the covers up to my neck and I suddenly felt the weight of his head on top of mine.

  "I'm so sorry I hurt you baby," he spoke into my hair with his beard grazing a part of my ear. The scent of cognac heavy on his breath.

  I squeezed my eyes shut even tighter. This enduring gesture was similar to his goodbyes in the morning for work, but they were laced with 'I love yous' and promises to see me later. Not this bull that seemed to be falling from his lips with every syllable he spoke. There's no way he could be sorry for what he did because he wouldn't have done it in the first place.

  "I swear baby. I swear on my mother that I didn't sleep with that girl," he sniffled.

  I didn't respond nor would I. If he wanted to lie on his dead mother, that was his business.

  Wetness slid down my neck and it took a second for me to realize that he must’ve been crying too. Getting caught must be the thing that gets some form of emotion out of you. Elliott was stone walled when it came to anything related to conveying his feelings. A typical man that thought emotion made him look weak. Oh, but not when it came to getting his students riled up for a protest or taking action in their communities. Nah, that was his calling. To teach others to become better than they were. Every single person but his god damn self. I can't even recall witnessing him shed a tear about anything personally, not even at the funeral of the same mother he was swearing on.

  We sat there in that awkward moment for at least another minute until he realized I wasn’t responding. He removed his head.

  "I'm gonna go by Trevor for the night."

  Whatever.

  I honestly didn’t care if he went back by Victoria's ass as long as he wasn't breathing the same air I was. I didn't have the energy to inform him that he was going to be crashing over by his best friend Trevor way more nights than tonight. His footsteps moved away from me and I heard a few of the drawers slide open. About ten minutes later, I heard the sound of a zipper.

  "I love you Cassie.”

  I pulled the cover over my head, ultimately dismissing that statement. When I heard the front door close and lock, I finally succumbed to the exhaustion that had overtaken my body.

  Chapter 4

  The distant sound of pounding and ringing was the first thing that broke my sleep. My dear sister shouting my name like a mental patient off their meds, was the second. My body jolted upward quicker than my brain was prepared to do, and I held my head as all the painful memories of last night came flooding back at once. My swollen eyes attempted to adjust to light of the blinding morning sun while my stomach reminded me that wine was the closest thing I’d eaten to food since that crappy burger.

  I felt like shit. Emotionally, mentally, and physically.

  I used the little energy I had to struggle out from under the covers and mustered downstairs to the door.

  “Cassie! Open this d-”

  I swung the door open, catching Denise in mid-knock. I unlocked the storm door and she frantically rushed in.

  “Thank God! I’ve been calling you all morning! And what happened to your head?”

  Her soft hands cupped my face, inspecting me similar to how she does Tyler after he trips and falls over his clumsy feet, which was pretty often. Even with his new glasses, my poor seven-year-old nephew’s hand-eye coordination was that of a stringed puppet. A trait he definitely inherited from his father.

  “I’m fine, I’m fine," I swatted her away. “And can you please stop screaming," I simmered her down with both hands.

  Her forehead wrinkled and she removed her hold on me. "What? I'm not yelling."

  "Just shhhh," I held my head in my hands and staggered toward the kitchen. I needed coffee. No cream. Unflavored. Quiet ass coffee.

  I pulled a mug from the dishwasher and placed it by the coffee machine. I stared at it for a few seconds hoping the coffee would magically appear in it.

  "Cassie, you need to tell me what happened," Denise demanded from my left.

  Or was it my right?

  "Elliott called me and said to come check on you and-"

  "Denise!" I squinted my eyes, narrowing my sight on the machine, pushing my hands down on the counter for support. I always adored her squeaky voice but right now, I couldn't deal with the siren like pitch of it. "I will tell you whatever you need to know if you can just make this coffee and let me drink at least half of it first."

  After a hard stomp of her foot and a few grumblings, she pushed me out of the way, "Move then."

  I was grateful for the big sister privileges that never wavered from our childhood, as I trudged to the living room and fell onto the sofa. I yanked the neatly folded brown throw blanket near my head and pulled it over my face. I wasn't sure of the time, but I had a strong inclination that going to work wasn't in the cards for me today. Hearing the disappointment in Dan’s voice wasn’t going to be fun but he'd understand, especially since this was out of the norm for me. I closed my eyes for a second until the smell of my French Market brand, dark roast sent a tingle up my nostrils.

  Dammit that Denise knew me well.

  I slid the blanket down just enough for peeking purposes and turned on my side in an attempt to get comfortable. Looking towards the fireplace, my heavy eyes gravitated towards one of my wedding pictures on the mantle. It stood directly in the center, towering over the others from that day and those of past vacations and outings. It was of only Elliott and me. We were engaged in a loving kiss, eyes connected, while my chapel styled train neatly pooled behind me. My lace-encased arms were looped around his neck as his hands were locked onto my waist. All my hair was pulled from my face in a low bun that housed the veil cascading down my back. Elliott was clean cut. Baby faced. Way before the beard and his sponged brushed hair. The botanical garden at City Park served as the background, breathing life to the scene with vibrant colors of the spring. That day was nothing short of amazing. More than I could have ever dreamed of for myself.

  Before Elliott came into life, my feelings towards relationships, whether platonic or intimate, were of abhorrence. Manifested from my college years after I tragically lost the only roommate that had become like a sister to me in my junior year, and the guy that I thought I was going to spend forever with, left me at the lowest time of my life. I retreated from the world, only leaving my dorm room, and then my parents' house, when necessary for either class or work. I knew it wasn't normal and far from healthy but nothing and no one was important enough for me to pour my energy into. I was never diagnosed but I'm sure it would've been some form of depression. I was spiraling. Fast. All because I thought I could handle Shanice’s suicide and Julian's departure on my own.

  Until one day I did that thing where I assumed my gas tank being on E meant I had at least fifteen to twenty miles left in it.

  Wronger than wrong.

  I literally coasted to the gas station as my '95' Grand Prix sputtered off just shy of the pump. The damn hose of the nozzle couldn't even reach the tank and coming off an open to close shift at the GAP had my feet and stomach howling. I stood there looking all kinds of busted, trying to figure out what to do next, until a fifteen-pound smaller Elliott with his all black framed glasses, stepped from around the backside of the pump offering his assistance.

  He produced a gas can from the back of this truck, paid for my gas despite my constant objections, and filled my tank up. I thanked him a million times over and tried to offer money, but he kept smiling with that dimple of his telling me n
ot to worry about it. When he realized that I wouldn't let up, he said I could thank him by going to dinner with him. My immediate thought was to refuse but because of the uniqueness of the situation, I obliged. It was just one time and I told myself I could cut the date short whenever I felt like it. We exchanged phone numbers and parted ways.

  Three days later I found myself back in his presence, sitting in the courtyard of a hidden gem of a restaurant, completely engrossed by his explanation of Louisiana’s Code Noir. I faintly remembered it from my Louisiana history class in high school, but to hear the passion in his voice as he explained the contrast between slaves of the Spanish and French to those of the British, was like watching a live action documentary narrated by Morgan Freeman. And only a soulless person didn't love Morgan Freeman's voice.

  I was by no means a history lover, but I could’ve listened to him speak about that subject all night. That's the conversation that prompted me to tell him that he should go into teaching, to which he responded that he was enrolling in a doctorate program for African American studies because it had been on his mind to go in that direction as well. That entire night, we never once discussed anything too personal, and for that, I was grateful. It felt refreshing to just...talk.

  None of our demons.

  No fears.

  No hang ups.

  Just the things we found interesting that kept us going on a daily. Even though I hadn't fully figured out the keep going part yet, I talked about my love for Mexican food, my job, and the music I was into. Before we knew it, the staff at the restaurant were performing closing procedures around us. Elliott paid for our meal and walked me to my car. My nerves were on edge praying he didn’t try anything remotely close to a kiss, but to my surprise he opened my car door and allowed me to get in. He told me how much enjoyed dinner and bid me goodnight with a pat on the hand. I can admit that although I didn’t want the pressure about calling him or making plans for another date, the lack of it left me…well…confused. It made me wonder if I had said or did something wrong throughout the course of dinner. Not that I should've been caring anyway.