A War Like Ours

by Saffron A Kent

  Table of Contents

  A War Like Ours

  Publication Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Also Read

  Thank You

  A War Like Ours

  by

  Saffron A. Kent

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  A War Like Ours

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 by Saffron A. Kent

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com

  Publishing History

  First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2017

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1364-1

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1365-8

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my husband, who taught me that tears shed for your true passion are no tears at all.

  And to my parents, who believed in my passion even when there was no reason to.

  Chapter One

  Madison

  I was a hater. I didn’t want to be—I tried not to be—but that was kind of my thing.

  When I was a kid, I hated school. Well, what kid didn’t? I hated having to go and sit through classes when I could be outside smoking pot. I hated when teachers talked to me about my failing grades. I wanted to be a pot dealer one day. How many pot dealers did you know who had a degree?

  I hated the couple that lived in the next trailer van. They fucked so loud their two-year-old baby could never sleep. Neither could I, for that matter. I tried to steal it once, the baby I mean, so he could at least have a good night’s sleep. But they caught me. It wasn’t a pleasant interaction. The words “cops” and “jail” were thrown around.

  But most of all, I hated that my mom was a romantic, a believer in true love. All my life I had seen my mother fall in love with men who abused her, cheated on her, stole money from her, and left both her body and her heart broken. I hated that most of the time she came home from her dates, pockmarked with angry, purple bruises. Bruises courtesy of the men she claimed “loved her more than life.” But she never learned.

  This is it, Maddy, she would say. He’s the one. He’s going to take care of us. He’s going to save us, take us out of this dump.

  She was wrong every single time.

  As I grew up, boys started to take notice of me. They would throw me flirty glances, leer at my bare legs in a skirt or the mounds of breasts under my tight T-shirts. I loathed it so much that I wore such clothes on purpose, to play with them, to make them want me. Every time it happened, I wanted to run to my mom and tell her, look, Mom. Men aren’t as smart. They are stupid as fuck. Lose hope, Mom. See me. I’m here.

  But to my mom, I was invisible.

  Then one day, she was gone, killed, murdered, taken away from me. By a man. He killed my mother, and on the night of her funeral, in his drunken haze, he killed me, too.

  ****

  Every day around four a.m., I jogged from my house to the only park in our small town of Hedge Lake.

  As I ran the sleepy, darkened streets, I’d imagine myself sitting in a plastic chair—a yellowish white plastic—with ten faceless people sitting in a circle around me. I imagined we were all assembled in a basement, dingy and wet with cement floors. To our right was a long table with a starched white tablecloth and towers of coffee cups. Then, I’d picture myself standing up or maybe raising my hand—I wasn’t set on this part—and saying, “Hello, my name is Madison Smith, and I’m an addict.”

  In my mind, I heard those ten people murmuring, throwing me smiles of solidarity and whatnot. A sisterhood of addicts. For some reason, I never imagined any men in my imaginary circle of addict friends. I, also, never gave our group a name, like, Alcoholic Anonymous or Drug Addict Association or whatever.

  Because, truth be told, our addiction was weird. It didn’t have a name.

  That morning, I reached the park in record time, less than the usual twenty minutes. The park stretched before my eyes like a green carpet with a running trail winding across. It was deserted, and the trail edged with shrubs felt abandoned, only lit by the yellow light of the lamp posts.

  The lake—the namesake of our town—came into view up ahead, dark and calm. I had taken this path so many times I could run it with my eyes closed. The shrubs grew into tall trees, mostly junipers, as the trail snaked its way along the lake.

  On my way up, I passed a squatting cottage overlooking the water. The bottom of its beige walls was dank, the paint peeling off in bubbles. Its roof was overrun by ivy that dangled over the checkered windows. This cottage was part of Hedge Lake Resort where I worked on the staff. There were eleven cottages in total that were rented for the summer. But this one—cottage eleven—was my favorite. It was less than perfect, with its cracked and faulty corners on the exterior walls. That morning I thought I saw a shadow moving at the kitchen window, but it was gone before I could be sure.

  After another ten minutes, I reached my destination—an alcove made of three overgrown shrubs, nestling a bench, hiding it from sight. The bench faced the lake and a mesh of foliage. The wood felt warm to the touch, and I plopped down on it, panting, trying not to pass the fuck out from exhaustion.

  I sat for a few seconds, blinking, and then as natural as breathing, my nose tingled and my eyes burned. The tears came, silent and heated. I didn’t even have to try. They were there like they had always been—welling, clogging my throat. The first stream of tears felt like a relief, a victory.

  But a second later, the relief vanished and something else took its place. Something dark, bordering on despair. Like my brain finally caught up to the fact that crying alone, hidden from the world, couldn’t be a good thing.

  Why was I crying? Well, because I was addicted to it. See, totally weird.

  I wish I could tell you that I was depressed or even suicidal. But no, that would be too easy. What I had was more than depression. It was called sadness. And sadness couldn’t be tamed like depression, even if you took the right medicine or saw the right doctor. Sadness couldn’t be cured. It couldn’t be diagnosed. It lived alongside you, feeding off you, and yes, it made you cry.

  So that was my new thing now. Jogging to the park and crying all alone every day. It sucked. Trust me, I still prayed for bulimia or coke addiction or something equally ordinary and horrible. The addict sisters sighed in my head in soli
darity, once again. They hated this bizarre addiction, too.

  I didn’t know how long I sat there with the world around me blurry through my teary eyes, but eventually, I’d had enough for the day. I cleared my throat and cleaned the snot and tears off with my shirt. Now calm, I sat there, still and unthinking, until the sun rose in the sky. Time to go back.

  The air was muggy, as I walked home. The streets weren’t deserted anymore, a few people milling about, watering the plants, walking the dogs.

  Hedge Lake, New York. I had moved here from Pennsylvania when my mother died four years ago. It had a population of…well, who cared? Anyway, I guess based on what I had read somewhere once, it was simply called a town, not big or small, just town.

  People called it quaint, with tiny little cottage-style buildings, or even picturesque, with cobblestone pathways rivering between dwarfed buildings. When the flowers were in full bloom and the trees sprawled with life, and when the sun’s rays hit the lake just right, this town apparently looked alive. I didn’t see it though. Beautiful things were boring, weren’t they? All squeaky clean and perfect.

  Reaching home, I unlocked the door and pushed it open. There on the couch was a woman—my girlfriend, Julia. Her blonde hair was sleep-tousled, and she was sipping her coffee. She smiled as she saw me. “Hey, you’re back. How was your run?”

  “It was good. It’s fucking hot today, burning really.”

  She walked to the kitchen, just off the living room. “Do you want some breakfast?”

  I followed her. “Can you pass me the water?”

  “Sure.” She opened the stainless steel fridge and dug out a water bottle.

  Julia offered it to me but didn’t loosen her grip on it. She searched my face with her green eyes, and a furrow of concern appeared on her forehead. I met her eyes head-on. I knew that she knew. She had known for a long time about my crying jags but never asked.

  Slowly, her fingers slipped, and she smiled a phony smile. “I think cucumber will work best, don’t you?” She turned back and rummaged inside the fridge, looking for cucumbers, I presumed. She set one on the granite-topped island along with eggs and looked at me. “I’m worried about you, Madison. I know you don’t sleep well. And look at your puffy eyes. You look so tired. Are you taking those sleeping pills I got for you?”

  Julia and her pills. No, I wasn’t taking those sleeping pills. If she had her way, she’d have me swallowing pills on my birthday, too. She was a devout pill-chugger. Even her breath smelled like the hospital.

  “Yes, I am, and don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Just hungry.”

  She released a relieved breath and the tension in her shoulders disappeared. “So do you want eggs?” She rolled an egg in her palm, smiling like we hadn’t just lied to each other. “I’ll make them extra salty, just the way you like. Although, personally, I don’t know how you can eat so much salt.”

  “It’s a talent. Thanks. I’m gonna go take a shower.” I leaned in to kiss her on the lips and the smell of sickly pills tickled my nose.

  If I had to describe Julia in one word, I’d call her a hero, or maybe a savior. She was attracted to people like me, people who were broken, so she could fix them. But the twist was, she didn’t really want them fixed. If they were fixed, they wouldn’t need her anymore. And she lived to be needed, appreciated. So she stroked my hair when I couldn’t sleep but never really asked me the reason behind it. She sliced cucumber for my puffy eyes but never acknowledged they were puffy because I cried every day.

  And if I had to describe our relationship, then I’d say it was parasitic. Imagine a parasite latching on and feeding off a host to survive. No, nothing dramatic like fangs and sucking blood, but close. That was our relationship. Me, the parasite; Julia, the host. Only, in this case, the host didn’t mind. She loved it.

  In the bathroom, I splashed water on my face and studied it in the antique mirror. The glass was dotted with dried water droplets and toothpaste splatter. The lines and scratches on the wood frame spoke of years of use and abuse.

  I reached up and stuck two fingers in my mouth, stretching it into a distorted smile, with teeth peeking out. I pinched my cheeks, widened my eyes, anything that would change my face. But no, I looked the same, only an ugly-clown version of myself.

  No matter what I did, I looked exactly like my mother—dull brown hair, brown eyes, stubby nose, and round face. It scared me how much I resembled her. I hated mirrors.

  After my quick shower, Julia and I had breakfast together. Before leaving for work at seven thirty a.m. sharp, Julia reminded me to take my birth control pills. This one I did take, for bad periods. Sometimes Julia’s penchant for pills worked; I tended to forget the things I needed.

  Julia and I worked at the same resort; she was the manager and hence, my boss. I was one of the staff members who sometimes collected laundry or manned the reception desk or even minded the guest’s children and so on. It was all based on a rotation chart. Most days I did the cleaning rounds or took the reception duty. But on the worst days, they put me in charge of the kids. I wasn’t very good with them. My grand plan was to sell pot, which never panned out by the way, not changing diapers.

  I bagged my uniform—a sky blue T-shirt with the black cursive logo of Hedge Lake Resorts on the front pocket and jean shorts—because I didn’t want to get it sweaty while walking in the heat. I put my hair in a bun on top of my head, pocketed my cell phone, hung my ID around my neck, and went out the door.

  Twenty minutes later, the same path I had taken that morning brought me to the resort. It took up half the park and was bordered with tall junipers. A big white board with Hedge Lake Resorts scrawled in red stood at the edge of the property. The cottages, with arched brown roofs and beige outer walls, semi-circled the lake. A tiny patch of garden spread out in the front of each cottage with blooming daisies, hyacinths, and roses.

  Right opposite the line of cottages was the main reception area, also built like a cottage, although a bigger one. A tall water fountain with stone fish crowning the top stood before it, and a dogwood tree leaned over the roof of it. Pink flowers lay scattered around the glass entrance.

  I pushed open the glass door of the reception house. The reception cottage housed a dining area with a buffet and a sometimes-free bar, plus a kitchen, a gym, a play area for kids, space for yoga, Pilates, and other fancy exercise classes, and Julia’s office.

  The shiny tiled floor glistened, and a hint of lemon clung to the air as I made my way across to the spanning mahogany front desk to sign in. Cringing, I saw that I was assigned the finger-painting class on the schedule. Seriously. Why did they keep giving me the kids?

  “Hey, Madison.” Lily glanced at me distractedly from behind the desk. She was typing furiously on her phone. Without looking up, she said, “God made heaven and hell. And do you know who made the rest of the world?”

  I swiped my card on the black slot by the computer to sign in. “The Chinese.”

  Finally, she looked up, frowning. “What? How’d you know that joke?”

  “Because you told me.”

  She threw her phone on the desk and heaved herself up, emerging with her mountainous pregnant belly. “Oh no! I never repeat my jokes. I’m losing my mind. It’s official. I have a mommy brain now.”

  I tried to stop my smile. “There’s a name for it?”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Hilarious.”

  I narrowed my eyes right back. “Anyway, I got a new one for you.”

  “All right. Hit me,” Lily said with suspicion in her voice.

  I placed my elbows on the desk and leaned in. “This woman, she goes to a doctor because she has stomach cramps. She thinks she’s finally pregnant. So when the doctor says, ‘Do you know how to change diapers and stuff?’ She goes, ‘Yeah, of course. Does that mean I’m pregnant?’”

  Lily widened her eyes. “I have a feeling I’m not going to like the answer.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

 
“Remember that you wanted to know,” I warned her before getting on with the joke. “So the doctor goes, ‘Uh, no. You have diarrhea.’”

  “Ew! That’s gross,” Lily snapped. “First, fuck you for telling me a pregnancy joke. Second, that’s not a joke, Madison. Jokes are supposed to make you laugh. That’s just…ugh. I don’t even know what that was.”

  “Hey, don’t kill the messenger. I didn’t make the joke. I got it off the internet.”

  “You know how to use the internet?”

  “Yeah. I’m not that retarded when it comes to technology, you know.”

  “Yes, you are. You still use a flip phone.”

  “So what? That doesn’t mean anything.” I rolled my eyes. “And how do you think I look at porn?”

  That got her interest as she leaned toward me. “You watch porn? What do you watch, girl on girl action?”

  I leaned closer. “Do you want to watch girl on girl action? How about I give you a show? You can even star in it.” I smirked when she wrinkled her nose. She was too easy to rile up.

  “Ugh! Stop coming on to me.” She held up her hand, showing me her wedding band. “I’m married.”

  The full sleeves of her maxi dress slid up, revealing her dainty wrists. And in turn, the cigarette burns on her skin. Yeah, some marriage. I stared at the marks hard as anger and disgust churned in my gut. Why did women have to fall for the abusive guys? Did they have extra charm to make up for their assholishness?

  I’d met Lily’s husband, Josh, once last year. Charming guy. If you liked the rugged, burping with too many chicken wings, heavy with his hand kind of guy. Five minutes with him, and I knew he’d kill Lily one day. Just like that man murdered my mom.

  Lily pulled her sleeve down and covered the abuse, much like she did with her lame jokes. I dropped my gaze to the schedule in front of me, and she took her seat on the chair, getting busy with her phone. Her abuse was the secret we both knew but never talked about, but today I couldn’t stop myself.

  “You know, I—”

  “Don’t you have kids to terrorize?” Lily’s eyes were still on her phone.

  I got the message. She didn’t want to talk about it, and I didn’t know what possessed me to even go there.