by Monica James
I hadn’t spoken to Bryan for months. I knew it wasn’t his fault, but I lost interest in day-to-day activities. I was a shell of the person I once was. I felt cut off and detached from my family and friends. I should have felt something, anything―I mean, I had been assaulted and then caught my fiancé cheating with my own flesh and blood, but funnily enough, I just felt numb.
Today is the first day in my new house—a run-down, isolated waterfront home in northeastern Connecticut, the place I moved to when I was fourteen. It may not be much to look at, but with two acres of untouched land, it’s perfect to escape the commotion I’ve just lived through.
I promised myself that with a new home comes new memories. Slumping into the revolting chair, the chair which caused this trip down misery lane, I grasp that I’m a fool for ever believing that I could do this. It’s been endless days since this all started, but it still feels like day one.
My miserable reflection stares back at me from the grimy window, a reflection of someone who doesn’t resemble me. My chestnut brown hair is short and styled into a bob, just past my ears. The style seems to emphasize my enormous hazel eyes which were never this big, but violence and heartache turned me into someone I no longer recognize.
I miss my long hair. I suppose I miss a lot of things. Clutching at the shorter strands, I appreciate that my hair can grow back. It can grow healthy and long, and I can almost forget why I wear it short. The same can’t be said for the reoccurring nightmares which knock at my mind every time I close my eyes.
But I was going to get better. I was determined to live. But the thing about PTSD is that it doesn’t discriminate—it hates us all. My determination may have saved my life, but it didn’t save my relationship. It tore it apart. I could see it every time Bryan looked at me. I was a victim. In his eyes, he failed me. He couldn’t protect me. I made him feel less of a man. If he ever confessed to the affair, it would have been one of the spineless reasons he used for why he cheated with Matilda in the first place. She made him feel wanted.
I tried to talk to him, to tell him how I felt, but every time I opened my mouth, the words would get caught in my throat. I closed myself off to him, and I didn’t understand why. I think a part of me blamed him for not fighting harder. We drifted apart, regardless of how hard I tried to stay anchored. The doctors said it was normal after everything I’d been through, but I felt anything but normal.
So I suppose one can’t blame me for looking at this chair with nothing but contempt and…violence. I will never associate anything good with this piece of furniture because this, just like the past ten years of my life, has been one big fucking joke. But unlike my memories, which I cannot set on fire, I can however, burn this chair.
The tranquility I once experienced, even the numbness I felt when this entire shitstorm started, begins to slowly ebb away, and unexpectedly, my composure, my indifference, floats away, and all I’m left with is murderous, spiteful rage.
I jump up like the chair is on fire. Images of this immaculate white settee being literally set on fire stokes my inner anger, and I move before my brain can chastise me for being so reckless. I’m sick of being cool, calm, and collected. I’m sick of not screaming from the rooftops about what a lying, cowardly scumbag my ex-fiancé is, and how my sister betrayed me beyond belief. But most of all, I’m sick of the hand I’ve been dealt. Why me? What did I do to deserve this? I have no direction. I have no freaking clue what comes next.
But what I do know is that my future starts with burning this bloody chair.
I won’t rule out that I’m currently possessed because I can’t believe my small, feeble frame of one hundred and twenty-five pounds is dragging this antique wooden chair across the slippery floorboards. But running on pure adrenaline and fury allows you to become the strongest person in the world.
Reaching for a perfectly positioned bottle of whiskey off the kitchen counter, I toe open the glass doors which lead out into my large backyard. Hauling with all my might, I pull the chair. It drags noisily down the weathered stairs, but I keep on persevering; only stopping when my body shudders in near defeat. I’m breathless, my entire body screams from exhaustion, and my brow is covered in sweat, but I don’t allow that to stop me as I hunt through the pockets of my butterfly print sundress to find my pack of matches and joint.
Once my fingers pass over my lifelines, I lunge for the bottle of Jameson that is sitting on the couch cushions and unscrew the lid. Taking a quick swig, I then commence to pour the brown liquid all over the pristine chair, its dirty color staining the white shade perfectly. I only stop when there is a shot left in the bottle.
Unable to wait, I drag the match along the striker and watch it sizzle to life a second later. The flickering flame burns in sync with my frantic heart, but suddenly, my insanity comes to a screeching halt, and I gasp, appalled at what I was going to do.
What will my neighbors across the lake think of me? Not even in my home for twenty-four hours and already I’m disturbing the peace with my need for vengeance. The flame fizzles out, and I sigh, hating how weak I am.
Gulping down the last of my alcohol, I stand mute, my eyes fixated on the chair and everything it represents. The joint is my only reprieve, the only thing which got me through the nightmares and the breakup of my relationship.
“Victoria, I really wish you wouldn’t smoke that.” I can hear Bryan scolding me loud and clear.
I was too afraid to push the boundaries, wanting to please the only man I had ever loved. And in return, he crapped all over my loyalty and made me feel a fool.
The cool breeze licks at my heated skin, and the sensation sends a sudden zing through me. I know what I have to do.
Looking over my shoulder, I ignore the feeling I’m being watched, and proclaim, “No more reservations, Victoria. From this day forward, I demand you to change. You survived the hardest few months of your life, and it’s your turn to be free. It’s your turn to live.”
Placing the smoke between my lips, I pull out another match and strike it, shielding it with my trembling hand as I light the joint. Sucking in a deep, heavy drag, I feel my insides automatically chill and bask in the afterglow that helps me forget what a mess I am.
The flame soon burns my fingers, but instead of blowing it out, I squeeze my eyes shut and flick the match into the unknown. A moment later, the unknown makes itself known, and just like I predicted, when my past goes up in flames, nothing has ever felt sweeter.
“Welcome home, Victoria Armstrong. Here’s to the new you.”
Fire.
As I complacently stand, watching one of my most prized pieces of furniture go up in flames, I can appreciate why so many tribes around the world look at fire as a miracle. I only just refrain from doing a traditional Aboriginal fire dance around the flaming fireball, as I don’t want to move, just in case I miss anything.
Fire takes and gives, and at the moment, it’s giving me great pleasure by taking away my pain.
I’m too transfixed on the flames and what they represent to notice a hooded figure jogging toward me and blending into the shadows until I see movement from the corner of my eye. Squinting, I focus on where I’m almost certain someone is shrouded behind an enormous pine tree. Before I have a chance to question my sanity, the shape emerges, confirming that some stranger is currently in my yard.
From their tall, towering frame and bulky, muscular build, it’s safe to assume my assailant is a man, which makes me shriek and thrust the Jameson bottle out, wielding it like a weapon.
I should run inside, lock my doors, and call the police, but the fact I have a blazing chair in my backyard, which is crackling loudly and burning brighter by the minute, has me standing my ground and endeavoring to sound confident as I yell, “Who’s there? You’ve got three seconds to get off my property before I call the police!”…on my cell, which is uselessly sitting upstairs, I silently add.
My empty threats fall on deaf ears, however, as my intruder suddenly stalks toward me. His da
rk gray hood is pulled over his head, concealing his downturned face. I don’t know why―because Lord knows I should be―but I’m not scared. I have an inexplicable sense of excitement and anticipation coursing through my veins, and all I can think is I want―no need―to see his face. He’s across my yard in five huge strides and standing before me in seconds.
I tilt my head to the side and hold my breath when a large hand reaches out and cautiously lowers the bottle, which I’m still waving around. For some unexplained reason, my arm falls willingly by my side. The firestorm has taken a back seat because all I can concentrate on is the way the fair skin of his long-fingered hands contrasts the shadows of the night as he raises them and slowly removes the hood from his head. A silver chain with a small pendant hanging off the end comes free with the movement, catching the shine of the moon.
With a measured, calculated speed, he lifts his chiseled chin, and I’m suddenly pinned with the deepest blue stare of a handsome man, who exudes nothing but confidence and allure. His angular jawline is coated in a dark five o’clock shadow, setting off his sexy, rebellious look. The moon is full, and the flames provide the light I need to see he is just as transfixed by me as I am by him.
His dark brown hair is longer on top, messily styled as though he’s passed those long fingers through it. He looks rugged and dangerous, someone who looks like trouble, so I pull myself together because I’ve just been openly ogling the handsome stranger who quite possibly could be a serial killer.
But serial killer or not, I’ve never seen someone this…mesmerizing before. I know that word is a little vague, but it’s the only one fit to describe the stranger standing in my backyard. The stranger who has stoked a tiny fire in me, a fire I didn’t even know existed.
“Hi.”
His deep, gruff voice makes me instantly remember where I am, so I stop admiring his broad chest to focus on his attractive grin.
His cockiness titillates me. “Hi,” I reply a moment later after licking my suddenly dry lips. However, realizing I should probably address the issue at hand, I ask, “Who are you, and why are you standing in my yard?”
The corner of his mouth tips up into a hint of a smile, and the simple gesture makes me wonder how he’d look with both corners lifted—handsome, no doubt.
“I’m Jude.” I nod, waiting for him to continue. “I live across the pond,” he goes on to explain, gesturing with his head to a humble but arresting looking white house across the lake.
His comment has my cheeks bursting into flames. Have the neighbors sent him over to investigate who the new weirdo is? What a way to announce my arrival to the neighborhood.
I look over his shoulder at the smoldering mess I’ve made. “I’m really sorry about the pyromania. Please let everyone know their houses are safe. I’m not usually this crazy. Well, only on Fridays. And maybe every second full moon,” I add, cringing at how ridiculous I sound.
But Jude surprises me when he smiles. I was right—complete heartbreaker.
“No one sent me over,” he clarifies, shaking his head.
“Oh?” Looking down at his black Nikes, black sweats, and gray sweater, I realize he’s dressed to blend into the shadows, not stand out, leading the neighborhood watch patrol. “Well, that’s a relief.” Not thinking, I draw the joint up to my lips and take a much-needed hit.
“But that might change once Henry gets a whiff of you breaking all the rules.”
I cock an eyebrow, not following. “Who’s Henry?”
Jude looks toward an enormous, double story house, blowing out an exaggerated breath. “Henry is one of those do-gooders. You know the type—goes to church every Sunday, drives a hybrid, separates his colors from his whites.”
“Henry needs to lighten up,” I quip, blowing out a plume of smoke.
A dimple presses into his right, whiskered cheek. “He certainly does. But I guess he has to be an uptight asshole…seeing as he’s the sheriff.”
I almost inhale my joint the moment I hear the word sheriff. Thumping on my chest, I wheeze, “Is he home right now?”
He nods coolly while taunting, “Yeah. That’s kind of why I’m standing in your backyard.”
I toss the joint to the ground, stomping on it and hissing when it burns the pad of my foot. But my pain can wait as I currently have an inferno to deal with. “Bloody hell,” I curse under my breath, my Australian accent breaking through when I panic.
Looking around my barren yard, I wonder if the garden shed has a hose, or some kind of watering device to douse these flames fast enough so that my neighbor, who just happens to be the sheriff, won’t awake to the flames of hell licking at his bedroom window.
I take off in a dead sprint, almost winding myself because I can’t remember the last time I actually ran after I got sick. When I get to the garden shed, I cuss because the double doors are locked with a rusted padlock. “Shit. You son of a bitch!” I groan, pulling on the sealed doors in vain.
A husky laugh behind me reminds me I have company, and I turn, not at all impressed to see Jude smiling. “What are you doing?” he questions, folding his arms over his impressive chest.
“Just in case you hadn’t noticed, a huge fireball is currently lighting up my backyard.”
“I noticed,” he smugly replies and continues to stand there, grinning.
I take a deep breath. “Well, how about you stop standing around like a stunned mullet, and help me figure out how I’m going to put it out without having to call the fire department?”
His voice is smooth, honeyed as he laughs. “A stunned mullet? What the hell is that?”
“It’s an Australian thing,” I grumble. “And right now, you’re the epitome of one.”
“How long have you been in the States?” he asks calmly, ignoring my panic.
This is the worst time to make conversation, but I suppose he’s trying to be neighborly. “I moved from Darwin, Australia when I was fourteen,” I reply absentmindedly.
“I’ve always wanted to visit Australia. Surf those awesome waves.” I can’t believe he’s talking about my home country in my time of crisis. I grunt in response.
There is no way I can push this thing into the lake. I expelled all my energy dragging this abomination out here in the first place. I really should have thought this through before I lit up my backyard like a damned Christmas tree on steroids. I’m actually surprised Henry hasn’t woken up to the fact a huge bonfire is burning in the vicinity of his home.
As I’m strategizing ways I can get rid of this problem without having to call the fire department, I fail to notice the fireball traveling farther and farther down the dock. It’s not until I hear a splash and a sizzling hiss do I see my problem sinking like a dead weight to a watery grave.
“I’m pretty sure a stunned mullet couldn’t do that,” Jude proudly states, standing by the dock’s edge, calmly watching the water boil and sputter. I, on the other hand, feel like I’m losing my mind.
Unanticipated hysterical laughter bubbles from my throat, and I end up cackling manically like a crazy person. Tears slide down my cheeks, but I don’t bother wiping them away. My actions tonight have no doubt cemented my insanity, and I’m pretty sure Jude is seconds away from paddling across that pond and getting the hell outta Dodge.
When will this roller coaster of emotions end? One minute, I think I’ve got a handle on everything, then the next…well, the next, I’m almost setting my house on fire. I’m losing my mind.
“Thank you, Jude,” I say when I can finally catch my breath. I walk over to where he stands. “I owe you.”
He doesn’t turn to face me, though, as his eyes are still riveted to the spot where my sad, burned-out chair has sunk to the bottom of the lake. “Why did you burn it?” he asks, his voice unexpectedly poignant.
I rub my bare arms. I’ve suddenly caught a chill. “Some things are better off as ashes.”
We stand side by side, our gazes fixed to the spot that seems to captivate us both. I’ve only just met this m
an, but I feel an inexplicable comfort around him. It’s a feeling I haven’t felt in a very long time, which frightens me.
But I don’t need any more hitches as my life is complicated enough. So with that thought in mind, I clear my throat. The sound seems to jar Jude from whatever pensive thoughts he’s lost in. “Thanks again. I really appreciate it.”
“My pleasure…” He pauses. “I don’t know your name.”
Telling him my name is harmless, I reprimand myself. What’s in a name? I squash down the significance of that quote. “I’m Victoria.”
He nods in approval. “Victoria. I like it.”
“Thanks.” I have no idea why I’m thanking him for liking my name. I guess I’m just filling the tangible static because that’s a far better option than questioning why I’m suddenly nervous around a complete stranger.
Thankfully, he’s the one to fill the silence. “Sorry for messing up your serenity.”
Looking at what’s left of the smoldering chair, I wave him off. “Don’t even worry about it. It’ll take some time before I reach the complete serenity stage.” As if on cue, the back porch light fizzles out, leaving us at the mercy of the full moon.
“Well, if you ever need me, you know where I live.” The invitation isn’t sleazy, it’s genuine.
That weighty feeling that the night is drawing to a close lingers in the air, but still, neither of us appear to want to say good night. Remembering my promise to start afresh, I ignore the mysterious pull, and say, “It was nice meeting you.”
