Fractures

by M R Field

  He stands there, speechless, his eyes boring into mine with the same intensity as my own, the torn pieces of paper floating down between us, collecting all the shards of my shattered heart along the way.

  Winter, 2012

  The morning light flickers across my eyelids as my arms reach out to stretch above my head. My fingers touch an unfamiliar metal frame and freeze. That is definitely not my bed.

  I open my eyes and stare at the white ceiling where the single light bulb flickers in the quiet room like an eerie art house film. What the fuck did I do last night?

  A sharp pain in my temple shakes me, and I curse myself for drinking too much. I hold onto the metal bar while I gingerly bend my arms a fraction to turn my head and peer through the gap to my side. I am not alone. My stomach drops, as I taste bile at the back of my throat.

  A broad back faces me, sleeping soundly. With each breath, the ink across the back of his shoulders rises and falls, with the script “makin’ waves” scrawled across it. I roll my eyes and wince at the shame it causes. Oh, him. Underneath it, another tattoo of a surfboard moves with each breath. His messy, wavy blond hair touches the base of his neck. His thick arm lies down at his side, and as my eyes continue to adjust to the bright light in the room, the sheet has fallen down past his waistline to reveal his very naked behind. Why did I pick the surfer loser? It wasn’t as though I could have fucked some intelligence into him.

  Nothing. I feel nothing. I can’t even remember his name.

  The cool air brushes across my naked skin as I sit up slowly to try and stop him from waking. I drape my legs over the side of the mattress and scan the floor for any signs of my clothes. A red stiletto lays beside the bed. As I lean forward and grab it, I see my underwear under the bed’s frame. Abandoning my shoe for a moment, I pick up my underwear and quickly wiggle the panties up my legs. Now that the business is covered, I can concentrate.

  I stand gradually and shuffle across the carpet, noticing no ache between my legs. So last night was uneventful.

  My clothing lies scattered across the bedroom floor. Being the stealthy ninja I am, I find my dress and bra in quick succession. I thread my arms through the loops of the red lace and stop. The side strap is torn away from the back strap, leaving a large hole. Arsehole! This was one of my best bras!

  Pinning the back hooks together, and ignoring the chill of regret that prickles against the skin at my back, I slip my feet though the neck of my dress and pull it up my torso, shimmying into the smooth fabric. I had made this dress quickly, and at the time was delighted that it had turned out well. The black satin holds a slight ruby shimmer that catches under the flickering light. Last night, I had felt empowered and sexy. Now, in the cold, harsh light of day, I feel like a cheap imitation of a whore.

  My thick jacket lies on the floor by my feet and I quickly put it on, buttoning over the remains of last night. I bend down and collect my abandoned clutch in one hand, quickly checking its contents, and then thread the loops of my stilettos with the other. Looking over my shoulder one more time, I check that the sleeping giant is still passed out. His chest heaves evenly in soft snores as I begin tiptoeing out, mindful not to step on any objects that litter the floor. It is like a fucking sex-toy landmine. There is shit everywhere.

  Running on the tips of my toes out his bedroom door, I race towards my freedom only to be stopped short. Where the freaking hell am I? Looking around the room, my lip curls, and I flick my labret in annoyance at the state of the kitchen. The white bench tops no longer look white. Almost every dish that could have lived in the cupboards seems to wreak germ-infestations in a dirty stupor. I wrinkle my nose as the pungent smell of God-knows-what suddenly hits me. And I let that festering slob touch me. One bath of bleach, coming right up.

  Despite the mess and the need to swallow my bile, the microwave grabs my attention as it sits to the side. Lo and behold, a few opened letters sit scattered across the counter top. I spot my mystery man’s address and retreat back to the front door, unlocking it and slipping out quietly. The bitter chill bites against my cheekbones as my shivering fingers clasp around the phone in my clutch. Looking down at it, I count my lucky stars that I still have some battery left. I quickly dial and order a taxi.

  As the minutes tick by, the moments from last night begin to replay in my mind like a bitter and dirty B-grade film. Dancing, laughing and twirling in the arms of the giant as I continue to drink. Another way to chase away the loneliness of my heart. With my warehouse recently open, I had been celebrating solo. My mother would be so sad about what I was doing to myself right now. I am going to have a launch party in the next few months, but right now the old familiar ache I feel for not having my mother resurfaces. Again.

  The ride in the taxi only compounds the ache. Paying the driver quickly, I hustle up my front walkway and jam the key into the lock. I push through the doors with the steadily growing need to get to the back of the shop. Punching the security code into the panel, I race through the stacked boxes and mannequins that line the wooden floor. The open space of the showroom begins to suffocate me as I continue to duck and weave through the obstacles.

  Reaching the back office, my clutch lands on top of my messy desk, and I ignore the contents that roll out from it and onto the floor. My feet continue to propel me forward until I am face to face with the gleaming, pale green metal case of my mother’s sewing machine. Unfastening the metal clasps, I slowly place it by my feet, stand straight, and stare at it. My eager fingers brush across the cold metal, and my accelerated heart begins to slow its pace.

  The sharp intake of my breaths eases as I continue to run my fingers along the top of the machine, remembering, remembering. The long strokes soothe the ache as I focus on the now in order to survive. Like a flamed arrow, grief punctures all that it passes. It nips. It tears. It bleeds. I want to be rid of this ache I feel. I want to feel something else. To remember without the pain crippling me. But the guilt tethers itself, reminding me what I have done. What I failed to do.

  My eyes lower to the side of the table, where a misshapen pincushion that has seen better days faces me. The weathered edges of the faded red cupcake, now lopsided, momentarily distract me. I straighten it, only for it to topple over like it always does. “See?” he says, “This sewing caper isn’t too bad. I can make you cupcakes!”

  “Looks more like a tomato,” I reply, delighted when his brows rise in shock.

  “No way, Firecracker! It’s perfect.”

  “Stick to drawing or playing the piano. Leave ‘this sewing caper’ to me.”

  I squeeze the ball and the sharp pierce of a needle stings my thumb, drawing me back to reality. I suck my thumb gently as my thoughts continue to swirl and the green eyes of my best friend appear in my mind. The man I’ve lost my way from, and am probably never going to find my way back to.

  The panel shows a dark cloud looming. No cover is nearby. “He will always find me.”

  TTE

  THEO

  Present day

  I push open the heavy wooden doors, and the sharp smell of burnt wood assaults my nostrils. I have an appointment at The Emerald Vixen with the owner, my friend Robbie, who hired me to help restore it after a fire caused significant damage a few months ago. Jerry, that psychotic bastard.

  The creak of the hinges sound as I shove the door wider, the gleam of the mirrors across the far wall reflecting against the smooth surfaces of the floor.

  The establishment is separated into two sections—the club itself, and to the side where I now stand, a studio that Robbie’s sister, Trice, uses for rehearsals with the rest of the girls, or for her own personal dance classes.

  As I step farther into Trice’s dance studio, the pristine room gives an illusion that all is perfect, unlike the burnt wreckage that lies in the adjacent room. Each step I take in Robbie’s club plunges the stench of smoke into my senses, and I clutch my fists in anger. If the smell weren’t so pungent, you would never know that my high school friend and her
baby almost died in that room.

  The door to the club opens and Robbie walks in, his phone against his ear. He sees me and waves with his free hand, walking closer. The door shuts behind him with a loud thud, secluding us away from what I imagine is pretty heavy damage.

  “No, babe, it’s fine.” He shakes his head as he gets closer. “Just text me what you want for dinner and I’ll get it … Of course I don’t mind. Gotta keep my farfalla happy.”

  I tuck the satchel under my arm and busy myself looking at my reflection in the dance mirrors. My hair is ruffled by my helmet, so I run my fingers through it, but since it’s short, it doesn’t make much of a difference. Spikey weird guy it is.

  “Hey.” Robbie moves in front of me, his phone tucked away as his hand is now outstretched towards me. “Thanks for coming.”

  We shake hands, and his grip is firm but friendly.

  “No problem.” I tilt my chin to the room. “Doesn’t look like there’s any damage in here.”

  Robbie’s brow furrows as he looks around. “Yeah, the bastard was good enough to spare this,” he jokes sardonically, turning to walk to the door to take us back towards the club.

  “How you going with it all?” I follow.

  “It’s pretty fucked, but the sooner this shit is sorted, the sooner we can begin forgetting that fucker.” He grips the handle before turning to look over his shoulder at me. “Hazel still wakes screaming sometimes, clutching her stomach.” He breathes out deeply, “You know how many times I’ve had to show her Gian in his cot so she can settle?” Robbie’s head shakes, his mouth tightening. “Just erase him.”

  My pulse quickens in sympathetic rage. I wish I could make that prick disappear into air.

  Just a few months ago, Hazel’s psychotic ex decided to douse petrol around her legs after tying her and her mother to chairs, with every intent to end their lives. Poor Hazel sat terrified, her son still in her womb, alarmingly too still as her burning contractions tore through her. I will never forget Robbie’s face as he recounted the hell that she went through. She thought their baby had died and had to sit there watching the petrol drip onto her legs.

  I suck back a breath to calm my raging thoughts as I follow Robbie through the door. The scent of the burnt floorboards smashes into my face like a blunt plank of wood. My eyes sting as the reek of destruction fills me with absolute fury. I designed this place when Robbie first moved back from the mines. I fucking spent hours with Robbie making his dream come true, and some jerk decided that a match and some fuel could take it all away.

  “It’s fucked, isn’t it?” Robbie’s boot kicks against the burnt floorboards. “He didn’t get the whole room, but he burnt out the heart of it.”

  My eyes travel to the side where the burnt-out stage stands, dishevelled. The back walls behind the stage still have traces from the licks of the flames. I step closer, my shoes scraping against the debris, taking in the stage itself, which is a complete disaster. Luckily the piano wasn’t there, but still, only a fool would think its salvation could bring any relief. Walking closer, I see the floor itself has been cleared, but a stream of blue and white police tape that originally surrounded the stage hangs loosely across the stairs.

  I roll my shirt up to my elbows, my tattooed forearms contrasting against the stark white shirt. The plus side of working out of the office for certain jobs is that I can loosen up a little. Now, looking around the room, I need a little bit of tension released, so I don’t make a special trip to jail and hunt down the prick responsible.

  I’d imagined that I’d see the burnt furniture and tossed parts of tables and chairs everywhere. But I don’t. Instead, I see an empty room that held a dream, smothered in ash.

  I am going to restore The Emerald Vixen to what it was. I am going to erase that fucker alright. When Hazel returns, her memories will only be from before that incident. I hope.

  I run my eyes along the darkened surfaces; it’s all a blunt reminder of what could have been lost.

  Robbie stands facing the stage with his arms crossed in front of his chest, staring at the ruins and the floor itself, the broken scorched floorboards.

  “I worked my arse off for this,” he mutters. “I wanted it perfect for her. It was all part of my plan to woo her. Get her to finally give a schmuck like me a chance.” His arm releases as he gestures to the side of the stage. “She was tied there.” His mouth tightens. “That rope was so tight across her belly, I thought he was trying to saw through our child.”

  “Oh man.” I frown, shaking my head. “I can’t even imagine going through that.”

  “It was hell,” he growls. “He was planning on lighting it up like Satan’s playground, too. I finally got my girl, but he was a second away from taking her away from me.”

  “Bloody hell,” I mutter, gripping the sketchpad in my hand. “Let’s erase this prick.”

  “Make it like it was, but add in a few new things if you want.” He turns to face me. “Do what you can to make my farfalla sleep well tonight.”

  I nod and flick open the cover of the pad to find scribbles of my latest comic that I was going to work on properly later this evening. I’m almost tempted to add the bastard in the next panel I draw, having him pushed off a cliff into the fiery pits of hell. Instead, I refuse to immortalise the motherfucker. I’ll erase that bastard alright.

  With renewed determination, I flick to a new page and begin to sketch a basic outline to make this cabaret even better. I’ll have this club so perfect that he will not be worthy of a presence here. He’ll be vapour. Robbie’s dream is about to be resurrected and fuck, am I going to enjoy bringing it back to him. This dream is worth it.

  For the past few months, I’ve been chasing after my dream. A dream that has claws. A dream that holds silent tears. A dream that melts under my fingertips and against my binds.

  Trinity. The only woman I can love and hate in one breath. Who caught my attention from the moment I met her.

  “Your eyes are green! I’m Trinity. Not Tricia.”

  All I can do is smile. Her vibrancy knocks the wind out of me. “Theo.”

  “Nice to meet you. If this class sucks, there’s a fire escape over there.” She tilts her head towards the corner of the room. “I heard the canteen has Mars Bars.”

  With her, I wasn’t expected to always be my best, unlike what my father expected.

  For years, Trinity and I had been caught in a power-play—one moment we were best friends, the next enemies, too immature to act rationally, and too stubborn to relent. Since our teenage years, she was the core of my happiness. Being close to her was enough. As a teenager, I lived in an emotional cage that stemmed from my father’s upbringing, imprisoned by my own insecurity or naïve stupidity. Dating my best friend was a dream I wanted but could never have. I’d already lost so much, and the thought of losing her as well … it was not something I could risk. We’d shared a moment once, but it was more frightening than the destruction that had been going on in my home life at the time. Our friendship was everything.

  Now, as adults, twisted by the need to be near each other but too willful to admit it, we are caught in a web of fear and denial. Sure, it might seem easy to date, but neither of us has the courage to broach that subject. If we make it real, it is just as easy to lose it all. Instead, it’s easier to hide behind the smokescreen and under the sheets.

  Our connection simmers between us. We cling to and thrive on the seductive torture. For years, we’ve been caught up in an evocative dance, our friendship being the common thread that holds us together. Our emotions are too volatile. A side look, a slight touch of the hand—all minor gestures that have led up to the moment we are now in. A complete clusterfuck.

  I watched her for years, throwing herself at guy after guy while I sat on the sidelines. I needed to let her be her; I needed her to break free from the wall she kept up to hide from me. When you’ve spent ten years in verbal foreplay, slowly getting closer and closer to each other, it is only a matter of time befor
e you walk away or you jump. When that moment struck again a few months ago, there was no way I was going to let her try to ignore it.

  The war that we had been raging eclipsed once we touched. When I finally won her body over, I knew it would consume me. It is only a matter of time before my firecracker unleashes her final blow and decimates me. I am going to have a lot of fun with her before she tries to do that. All is fair in sex and war. Game. On.

  For the past few months, she has been the addiction that roars through my veins. We've chosen not to speak while we let our bodies do the talking in a constant lusty haze. Our emotions are still soaring, but that wall remains. My constant need to wear her down, to get her to admit her feelings for me, is waning. But the smell of her, the taste of her, is something that I can’t let go of. She is my emancipation.

  I turn around the room and focus on the parts that need renovating. Scribbling furiously, I want every idea that gathers to imprint permanently. Robbie looks at the page and smiles faintly before leaving me to sketch a little more, while I continue to stand. I have too much burning energy to try and find a seat. The original concept for his bar, The Emerald Vixen, got me on my boss’s radar, and I want to stay there. Being a recent graduate, I am still learning the ropes, but I am dedicated and disciplined. Growing up in a household ruled under an iron fist left little room for straying. Or putting in a lacklustre effort.

  But my future has still been tainted by the strict musings of my father. The compulsion to be perfect in my industry runs through me like a hungry lion. Nothing is ever represented half done. The lines and etchings of the sketches are exactly how I want them. No room to fall short. I had been disciplined to be that way. Even after stepping out of my childhood home all those years ago, Ko’s teachings are still embedded in my everyday facet of being an architect. Except my tattoos. If anything, the colour I had tattooed was my true way of rebelling from him. His shame was my redemption. To push this depth onto my skin so that nothing of myself is hidden like it had been when I was a child. My skin is my soul’s canvas.