The Tenth Circle
It was nuts- and this wasn't something he'd ever admit to his friends- but the best part about being with Trixie had not been the fact that she was, well, hot. It had been knowing that even if he'd never been an athlete or an upperclassman or popular, she still would have wanted to be with him.
He'd liked her, but he hadn't really loved her. At least he didn't think he had. There were no lightning bolts across his vision when he saw her across a room, and his general feeling when he was with her was one of comfort, not of blood boiling and fire and brimstone. The reason he'd broken up with her was, ironically, for her own good. He knew that if he'd asked Trixie to drop everything and follow him across the eath, she'd do it; if the roles were reversed, though, he wouldn't. They were at different places in that same relationship, and like anything that's out of alignment, they were destined to crash sooner or later. By taking care of it early- gently, Jason liked to think- he was only trying to keep Trixie from getting her heart broken even harder.
(Don't try to do something for someone else's own good; don't try to take matters into your own hands and making decisions with regards to things that do not involve just you alone. It has to be a consensual decision.)
*
Bartholemew looked at her. 'Did you see Trixie and Jason having sex?'
'I'm not into peep shows. I was upstairs.'
'Alone?'
'With a guy. Moss Minton.'
'What were you doing?'
Zephyr glanced up at the detective. 'Nothing.'
'Were you and Moss having sex?'
'Did my mother ask you to ask me that?' she said, narrowing her eyes.
'Just answer the question.'
'No, all right?' Zephyr said. 'We were going to. I mean, I figured we were going to. But Moss passed out first.'
'And you?'
She shrugged. 'I guess I fell asleep eventually, too.'
'When?'
'I don't know. Two-thirty? Three?'
Bartholemew looked at his notes. 'Could you hear the music in your bedroom?'
Zephyr stared at him dully. 'What music?'
'The CDs you were playing during your party. Could you hear that upstairs?'
'No. By the time we got upstairs, someone had turned them off.' Zephyr gathered the stack of stuffed animals, holding them in her arms like a bounty, and walked toward an empty shelf. 'That's why I figured Jason and Trixie had gone home.'
'Did you hear Trixie scream for help?'
For the first time since he'd started speaking to her, Bartholemew saw Zephyr at a loss for words. 'If I'd heard that,' Zephyr said, her voice wavering the tiniest bit, 'I would have gone downstairs.' She set the bears down side by side, so that they were nearly touching. 'But the whole night, it was dead quiet.'
*
He gave the drawing to Laura when he was finished. She has the body of a superhero- muscular and able- but her hair and face and neck were all her own. A galaxy swirled around her feet. There were people sketched into the background- the crowd that had gathered. Walter's face was nearly off the page. Beside the figure of Laura, however, was a man who looked just like the artist. 'So that you'll be able to find me one day,' he said, ans she felt as if a storm had blown up inside her.
Laura looked at Walter, holding out his ten-dollar bill. She lifted his chin. 'What makes you think I'll be looking?'
The artist grinned. 'Wishful thinking.'
When they left Mill Avenue, Laura told Walter it was the worst sketch she'd ever seen- her calves weren't that big, and she'd never be caught dead wearing thigh-high boots. She planned to go home and throw it in the trash. But instead, that night, Laura found herself staring at the bold strokes of the artist's signature: Daniel Stone. She examined the picture more closely and noticed what she hadn't the first time around: In the folds of the cape the man had drawn were a few lines darker than the rest, which clearly spelled out the word MEET.
In the toe of the left boot was ME.
She scrutinized the sketch, scanning the crowd for more of the message. She found the letters AT on the rings of the planet in the upper left hand corner. And in the collar of the shirt worn by the man who looked like Walter was the word HELL.
It felt like a slap in her face, as if he knew she'd be reading into the drawing he'd made. Angry, Laura buried the sketch in her kitchen trash can. But she tossed and turned all night, deconstructing the language in the art. You wouldn't say meet me at hell; you'd say meet me in hell. In suggested submersion, at was an approach to a place. Had this not been a rejection, then, but an invitation?
The next day, she pulled the sketch out from the trash, and sat down with the Phoenix area phone book.
Hell was at 358 Wylie Street.
*
Thoughts of you put a smile across my face. ♥
He'd liked her, but he hadn't really loved her. At least he didn't think he had. There were no lightning bolts across his vision when he saw her across a room, and his general feeling when he was with her was one of comfort, not of blood boiling and fire and brimstone. The reason he'd broken up with her was, ironically, for her own good. He knew that if he'd asked Trixie to drop everything and follow him across the eath, she'd do it; if the roles were reversed, though, he wouldn't. They were at different places in that same relationship, and like anything that's out of alignment, they were destined to crash sooner or later. By taking care of it early- gently, Jason liked to think- he was only trying to keep Trixie from getting her heart broken even harder.
(Don't try to do something for someone else's own good; don't try to take matters into your own hands and making decisions with regards to things that do not involve just you alone. It has to be a consensual decision.)
*
Bartholemew looked at her. 'Did you see Trixie and Jason having sex?'
'I'm not into peep shows. I was upstairs.'
'Alone?'
'With a guy. Moss Minton.'
'What were you doing?'
Zephyr glanced up at the detective. 'Nothing.'
'Were you and Moss having sex?'
'Did my mother ask you to ask me that?' she said, narrowing her eyes.
'Just answer the question.'
'No, all right?' Zephyr said. 'We were going to. I mean, I figured we were going to. But Moss passed out first.'
'And you?'
She shrugged. 'I guess I fell asleep eventually, too.'
'When?'
'I don't know. Two-thirty? Three?'
Bartholemew looked at his notes. 'Could you hear the music in your bedroom?'
Zephyr stared at him dully. 'What music?'
'The CDs you were playing during your party. Could you hear that upstairs?'
'No. By the time we got upstairs, someone had turned them off.' Zephyr gathered the stack of stuffed animals, holding them in her arms like a bounty, and walked toward an empty shelf. 'That's why I figured Jason and Trixie had gone home.'
'Did you hear Trixie scream for help?'
For the first time since he'd started speaking to her, Bartholemew saw Zephyr at a loss for words. 'If I'd heard that,' Zephyr said, her voice wavering the tiniest bit, 'I would have gone downstairs.' She set the bears down side by side, so that they were nearly touching. 'But the whole night, it was dead quiet.'
*
He gave the drawing to Laura when he was finished. She has the body of a superhero- muscular and able- but her hair and face and neck were all her own. A galaxy swirled around her feet. There were people sketched into the background- the crowd that had gathered. Walter's face was nearly off the page. Beside the figure of Laura, however, was a man who looked just like the artist. 'So that you'll be able to find me one day,' he said, ans she felt as if a storm had blown up inside her.
Laura looked at Walter, holding out his ten-dollar bill. She lifted his chin. 'What makes you think I'll be looking?'
The artist grinned. 'Wishful thinking.'
When they left Mill Avenue, Laura told Walter it was the worst sketch she'd ever seen- her calves weren't that big, and she'd never be caught dead wearing thigh-high boots. She planned to go home and throw it in the trash. But instead, that night, Laura found herself staring at the bold strokes of the artist's signature: Daniel Stone. She examined the picture more closely and noticed what she hadn't the first time around: In the folds of the cape the man had drawn were a few lines darker than the rest, which clearly spelled out the word MEET.
In the toe of the left boot was ME.
She scrutinized the sketch, scanning the crowd for more of the message. She found the letters AT on the rings of the planet in the upper left hand corner. And in the collar of the shirt worn by the man who looked like Walter was the word HELL.
It felt like a slap in her face, as if he knew she'd be reading into the drawing he'd made. Angry, Laura buried the sketch in her kitchen trash can. But she tossed and turned all night, deconstructing the language in the art. You wouldn't say meet me at hell; you'd say meet me in hell. In suggested submersion, at was an approach to a place. Had this not been a rejection, then, but an invitation?
The next day, she pulled the sketch out from the trash, and sat down with the Phoenix area phone book.
Hell was at 358 Wylie Street.
*
Thoughts of you put a smile across my face. ♥