(no subject)
This is the rough second half of the story. There are a lot of things to be smoothed out, but I'd like to know what everyone thinks of the direction it's taken. Please, any criticism is welcome.
I’m stubbing out a cigarette in the flamingo ashtray on the windowsill when the bedroom door creaks open and Mark slips into the room with two sweating Cokes in his hand. The sweet, cloying smell of pot smoke drifts in with him, and I wonder if he stopped during his trek to the fridge to hit a joint with the guys lazing in a collective stupor in the living room. He told me he was done with that shit.
“Here, baby.” He hands me a Coke and I immediately press the delicious coolness of it to my cheek. The condensation runs down my neck and Mark dips his head to lick it off where it gathers at my collarbone. He starts to kiss a trail up my neck and I shove his head with mock anger.
“Can’t I even drink my soda first, you stupid animal?”
He grins and throws his hands up as if to say “have it your way.” I turn my attention back to the window, watching the traffic pass on the interstate just across the fence. The bed creaks in protest when Mark sits down behind me, and I hear the popfizz of his Coke opening.
“Do those guys ever leave?”
“Not really. Most of them don’t have anywhere to stay. And my mom never leaves her bedroom, so she doesn’t really notice how many of them are crashing here. Besides, she got used to having a house full of boys. When my brothers left, she just looked on those guys as replacements.” We settle comfortably into silence. The moving colors of the traffic combined with the heat of a central Florida July is sending me into a trance-like state. Somewhere in the house someone is pounding on a wall or a door. I pull a random card out of the tarot deck that rests next to the flamingo on the windowsill. I assume it was left there by an ex-girlfriend, as Mark doesn’t seem much of a fortune teller. The card is The Star, upside down. I have no idea what that means.
There is a knock on the door and it opens just a few inches. Lackey McBadteeth sounds scared. “Uh, Mark, Danny is about to beat the front door down. He wants to, ah, talk to you.”
“Ignore him, Todd,” Mark drawls. In contrast to Todd’s hesitant fear, Mark sounds bored and exasperated. “He’ll sober up and remember he doesn’t give a shit about that bitch, or me for that matter.”
“Alright.” The door clicks shut and Todd shuffles away down the hall.
“What’s that about?”
Mark shifts around on the bed before answering. “Danny’s pissed at me.” It takes me a minute to connect the name to Wild Turkey.
“Why?”
“I slept with some little slut he had a thing with.”
“Oh.”
“Look, it was before I even met you, only he just found out, okay?”
“Whatever.” The silence returns. The cars merge into a blur of colors as my eyes unfocus. The rhythym of a siren lulls me deeper into my trance.
“Hey, Lydia?” It sounds almost like an apology from the start. I know what’s coming. I stoop and pick my jeans up from the floor. I’m looking around for my shirt when he gets up from the bed and grabs me by the wrist. He puts his face right in front of mine. “Hey, why don’t you answer me?”
“I don’t want to talk about her anymore, asshole.” She’s been hovering on the edges of every conversation. I’m sick of her intruding into what has become my only refuge from her. I doubt I’ll be coming back here. Why doesn’t he know when to shut up? What is so fucking fascinating about her? He shakes his curly black hair out of his eyes, tightens his hand around my wrist, and then releases me. Without hesitation I lunge for my shirt behind him and start to pull my clothes on.
“Look, whatever you say about those...visions, how do you explain this?” Mark crosses the tiny room, yanks a drawer open on the cheap bureau, pulls out a dead, withered flower on a long brown stalk, and flings it at my feet. The papery petals scatter when they hit the concrete floor. “It was a white rose. I pulled it out of the garden at the place where I was working to give to...Danny’s girl. The day I met you and Cassie. Do you want to know where that garden was?”
“Why should I give a shit?” I start for the door but he pushes in front of me and puts his hand on the knob.
“The Sultan’s Garden. It’s a restaurant. I used to wash dishes there. How could she have known that, Lydia?”
My heart is going all spastic and I’m trying hard not to cry. I hate that I cry when I’m angry. You lose all credibility in an argument when you start to blubber like an idiot. “She’s not clairvoyant, dammit! She just does it because she hates me! She does it because she wants me to spend my life being nothing more than her babysitter! You’re a moron for falling for it!” I’m screaming now. My breath is fast and hard and I struggle to calm down. “Now let me go. I don’t want to see you anymore.”
“Look, I know how it feels to be the ignored kid. I have six older brothers. By the time I came around my parents didn’t have the time or energy to give a shit. But just because she hogs all the attention doesn’t mean she’s a complete fa--” I kick the hand on the doorknob as hard as I can and he releases it to clutch his fingers to his chest. Before he has time to react I’m flying down the hall to the front door. I pass the living room and the potheads rouse themselves to whistle and jeer. I look down and see I’ve forgotten to zip or button my jeans and that I don’t have my shoes.
“Lydia, hey, don’t go out the front--!” I’ve already thrown the deadbolt and jerked open the front door. The huge, ragged oaks on the perimeter of the lawn throw darkness over most of the yard. Even now, in the small hours after midnight, the air is so thick with clinging, hot water vapor that I feel I am swimming in a shadowy sea. It is not until I step down from the porch that I realize my mistake; Wild Turkey rises up from the shadow of stunted magnolia. He may be drunker than ever, but he’s quick as he grabs me by the hair, twists me around, and holds me in front of himself like a hostage in a bank robbery. I can feel the ticklish edge of a blade at my throat.
“I guess we could call it a trade, Mark,” Wild Turkey growls. Mark has brought a shotgun with him. He holds it awkwardly and I guess he’s probably never used it before. Most likely he is just hoping he presents a scary picture, standing there on the dark porch lit only by the fitful, orangey streetlights and the perpetual wan nighttime glow of the Orlando sky. I’m sick of this shit. I jab my right elbow hard into Wild Turkey’s gut and stamp my bare foot on his toe. He grunts and lets go of my hair. He probably means to release me from the arm wielding the knife too, but instead he drunkenly drags the blade across my neck. He staggers off, doubled over and puking.
My hand darts to my neck and when I hold it in front of my face it glistens darkly. I turn and start to walk toward the street. Halfway down the walk my head gets light and I stumble and fall hard on my knees. Things are starting to blur again. There is a gunshot behind me but it seems like it should sound much louder than it does. Mark’s screams come to me across a great distance.
Across the street is a Catholic church. A spotlight is trained on the sign out front. It reads “Mary, Queen of the Universe,” and is decorated with a painting of the Holy Mother. I can hardly believe, but the artist’s conception of the Virgin’s face under her crown of stars looks exactly like Cassie. “Goddam Cassie.” The Virgin Cassie’s chaste smile hides something perverse, I know it, and I weakly raise my middle finger to her as the colors all go dark.
I’m stubbing out a cigarette in the flamingo ashtray on the windowsill when the bedroom door creaks open and Mark slips into the room with two sweating Cokes in his hand. The sweet, cloying smell of pot smoke drifts in with him, and I wonder if he stopped during his trek to the fridge to hit a joint with the guys lazing in a collective stupor in the living room. He told me he was done with that shit.
“Here, baby.” He hands me a Coke and I immediately press the delicious coolness of it to my cheek. The condensation runs down my neck and Mark dips his head to lick it off where it gathers at my collarbone. He starts to kiss a trail up my neck and I shove his head with mock anger.
“Can’t I even drink my soda first, you stupid animal?”
He grins and throws his hands up as if to say “have it your way.” I turn my attention back to the window, watching the traffic pass on the interstate just across the fence. The bed creaks in protest when Mark sits down behind me, and I hear the popfizz of his Coke opening.
“Do those guys ever leave?”
“Not really. Most of them don’t have anywhere to stay. And my mom never leaves her bedroom, so she doesn’t really notice how many of them are crashing here. Besides, she got used to having a house full of boys. When my brothers left, she just looked on those guys as replacements.” We settle comfortably into silence. The moving colors of the traffic combined with the heat of a central Florida July is sending me into a trance-like state. Somewhere in the house someone is pounding on a wall or a door. I pull a random card out of the tarot deck that rests next to the flamingo on the windowsill. I assume it was left there by an ex-girlfriend, as Mark doesn’t seem much of a fortune teller. The card is The Star, upside down. I have no idea what that means.
There is a knock on the door and it opens just a few inches. Lackey McBadteeth sounds scared. “Uh, Mark, Danny is about to beat the front door down. He wants to, ah, talk to you.”
“Ignore him, Todd,” Mark drawls. In contrast to Todd’s hesitant fear, Mark sounds bored and exasperated. “He’ll sober up and remember he doesn’t give a shit about that bitch, or me for that matter.”
“Alright.” The door clicks shut and Todd shuffles away down the hall.
“What’s that about?”
Mark shifts around on the bed before answering. “Danny’s pissed at me.” It takes me a minute to connect the name to Wild Turkey.
“Why?”
“I slept with some little slut he had a thing with.”
“Oh.”
“Look, it was before I even met you, only he just found out, okay?”
“Whatever.” The silence returns. The cars merge into a blur of colors as my eyes unfocus. The rhythym of a siren lulls me deeper into my trance.
“Hey, Lydia?” It sounds almost like an apology from the start. I know what’s coming. I stoop and pick my jeans up from the floor. I’m looking around for my shirt when he gets up from the bed and grabs me by the wrist. He puts his face right in front of mine. “Hey, why don’t you answer me?”
“I don’t want to talk about her anymore, asshole.” She’s been hovering on the edges of every conversation. I’m sick of her intruding into what has become my only refuge from her. I doubt I’ll be coming back here. Why doesn’t he know when to shut up? What is so fucking fascinating about her? He shakes his curly black hair out of his eyes, tightens his hand around my wrist, and then releases me. Without hesitation I lunge for my shirt behind him and start to pull my clothes on.
“Look, whatever you say about those...visions, how do you explain this?” Mark crosses the tiny room, yanks a drawer open on the cheap bureau, pulls out a dead, withered flower on a long brown stalk, and flings it at my feet. The papery petals scatter when they hit the concrete floor. “It was a white rose. I pulled it out of the garden at the place where I was working to give to...Danny’s girl. The day I met you and Cassie. Do you want to know where that garden was?”
“Why should I give a shit?” I start for the door but he pushes in front of me and puts his hand on the knob.
“The Sultan’s Garden. It’s a restaurant. I used to wash dishes there. How could she have known that, Lydia?”
My heart is going all spastic and I’m trying hard not to cry. I hate that I cry when I’m angry. You lose all credibility in an argument when you start to blubber like an idiot. “She’s not clairvoyant, dammit! She just does it because she hates me! She does it because she wants me to spend my life being nothing more than her babysitter! You’re a moron for falling for it!” I’m screaming now. My breath is fast and hard and I struggle to calm down. “Now let me go. I don’t want to see you anymore.”
“Look, I know how it feels to be the ignored kid. I have six older brothers. By the time I came around my parents didn’t have the time or energy to give a shit. But just because she hogs all the attention doesn’t mean she’s a complete fa--” I kick the hand on the doorknob as hard as I can and he releases it to clutch his fingers to his chest. Before he has time to react I’m flying down the hall to the front door. I pass the living room and the potheads rouse themselves to whistle and jeer. I look down and see I’ve forgotten to zip or button my jeans and that I don’t have my shoes.
“Lydia, hey, don’t go out the front--!” I’ve already thrown the deadbolt and jerked open the front door. The huge, ragged oaks on the perimeter of the lawn throw darkness over most of the yard. Even now, in the small hours after midnight, the air is so thick with clinging, hot water vapor that I feel I am swimming in a shadowy sea. It is not until I step down from the porch that I realize my mistake; Wild Turkey rises up from the shadow of stunted magnolia. He may be drunker than ever, but he’s quick as he grabs me by the hair, twists me around, and holds me in front of himself like a hostage in a bank robbery. I can feel the ticklish edge of a blade at my throat.
“I guess we could call it a trade, Mark,” Wild Turkey growls. Mark has brought a shotgun with him. He holds it awkwardly and I guess he’s probably never used it before. Most likely he is just hoping he presents a scary picture, standing there on the dark porch lit only by the fitful, orangey streetlights and the perpetual wan nighttime glow of the Orlando sky. I’m sick of this shit. I jab my right elbow hard into Wild Turkey’s gut and stamp my bare foot on his toe. He grunts and lets go of my hair. He probably means to release me from the arm wielding the knife too, but instead he drunkenly drags the blade across my neck. He staggers off, doubled over and puking.
My hand darts to my neck and when I hold it in front of my face it glistens darkly. I turn and start to walk toward the street. Halfway down the walk my head gets light and I stumble and fall hard on my knees. Things are starting to blur again. There is a gunshot behind me but it seems like it should sound much louder than it does. Mark’s screams come to me across a great distance.
Across the street is a Catholic church. A spotlight is trained on the sign out front. It reads “Mary, Queen of the Universe,” and is decorated with a painting of the Holy Mother. I can hardly believe, but the artist’s conception of the Virgin’s face under her crown of stars looks exactly like Cassie. “Goddam Cassie.” The Virgin Cassie’s chaste smile hides something perverse, I know it, and I weakly raise my middle finger to her as the colors all go dark.