by Rue Volley
This sad attempt at dating had been a complete disaster.
I started to walk up the sidewalk leading to our steps and then I remembered that I had the helmet on. I undid the strap and jerked it off, half tempted to chuck it back at him, but I turned, and he was off the bike and staring at me like a sad puppy.
I walked toward him and handed him the black helmet. He tapped it in his hands.
“I haven’t taken a ton of girls there, Abi. He made that sound awful.”
“More than once is plural, and it’s fine. You do whatever you like, we only live once, right?”
I turned, and Brad caught my wrist, stopping me. I sighed as I looked back at him.
“Abi, it wasn’t like that. I really like you and yeah—okay, I have taken maybe like five girls there, but you are the first one that I wanted to make out with.”
I shook my head. “Okay, thanks, I guess.”
“And that kiss was something, right?”
I looked down and then back up to him. “I—listen. I appreciate you, all of you.” I looked down his body and felt a little bit of heat on my face. I cleared my throat and looked back into his eyes. “But I’m damaged. I won’t lie. You know what I mean?”
He looked down at my crotch, and I adjusted so he would look back into my eyes.
“No, I don’t mean that, I mean emotionally.”
He laughed and rubbed his neck. “Oh man, I thought you meant the herps or something.”
“The herps? You mean herpes? No,” I laughed. “Anyway, I—it’s the guy, the guy damaged me and I’m not over him. I don’t know if I ever will be.”
“Well, I know what helps,” he whispered as he stepped toward me.
I leaned back. “No, it wouldn’t, but thank you. I appreciate the offer. Have you heard anything that I said? I’m emotionally jacked up here.” My eyebrow arched.
He smiled. “Who isn’t? I mean hell, we all have baggage, right?”
I tilted my head. “What kind of baggage do you have?”
He paused and then pointed with a snap. “The Walking Dead ended.”
I shook my head. “Okay, you mean the show?”
“Yeah, man, have you seen it? Crazy right? I was pretty depressed when they aired the last episode.”
I pointed at him. “Okay. I gotta go, but thank you. Seriously, it was fun.”
I walked away from him, pausing only to look back a couple of times to make sure that he wasn’t following me.
He yelled up at me. “Okay, can I call you?”
I ignored him and slipped inside the house, letting Brad go back to his emotional trauma with the ending of his favorite TV show.
I leaned against the door while the engine of his bike revved outside. I heard him take off, and the hum finally faded off into the distance. I nearly fell over when my mom’s voice startled me from the shadows.
“So, how was it?”
I watched as she stepped forward into the dim light of the foyer. I looked her over. She stood there in a white tank top and her underwear. I glanced at the open windows.
“The whole neighborhood can see in here, Mom.”
She laughed, lifting a glass of red wine to her lips and sipping from it. She lowered the glass and tilted her head.
“Your hair is wet, did you guys go make out at old mill bridge?”
I took a slow breath and exhaled. It would never end, would it?
“Yes we went there and no we did not make out.”
She winked at me. I pushed wet hair behind my ear. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Well, how was it then?”
“I—it was interesting.” I walked toward the kitchen and poured myself a glass of wine. I took a large drink from it and filled it up again. She sat down at the island and grinned at me. The faint light rained down on her and made her skin look as if it had a glow to it. She did look fantastic and happy. Both of which I wished that I could be. I tapped my nails on the top of the island and then looked at her.
“And?” she asked.
“Okay, so we went to the drive-in.”
“Okay.”
I took another drink and then sat down across from her. I toyed with my wine glass.
“Then we ended up at the bridge, where man bun decided to strip down to nothing and jump off of it and into the water below. Well, he didn’t jump, so much as he fell off of it. In which I panicked.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Of course!”
“So I took almost all of my clothes off and jumped in to save him, I found him on the river bank. I thought I was going to have to give him CPR—do you know how long ago I took classes for that, Mom? Maybe I should brush up?” I paused as I thought about it. She snapped at me. “Go on.”
“Oh, so I drag myself out of the river and listen for a heartbeat. Then he rolls me over and we kissed—once.” I held my hand up with one finger extended.
She rolled her hand. “Oh this is good, go on.”
“So, there I am under him, and he’s naked, but I told him I couldn’t—so he rolled off of me.”
“Bummer.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Mom.”
She held her hand up. “What? He’s hot.”
I nodded and took another drink of my wine. “No—he is and big, I mean.” I set my wine glass down on the top of the island and motioned to her. I held my hands out and simulated his size not unlike she had done for me when explaining the mailman. Her eyes widened.
“Oh for the love of all that’s holy.”
I nodded. “Yeah, but anyway, we walked back up and boom. Sam’s dad was there shining a light on us, I could have died.”
She laughed and dropped her face in her hand.
“Mom, it isn’t funny, he’ll tell Sam and—”
She looked up at me. “And what honey? You don’t want him, right?”
I bit my lip and took another drink of my wine. She leaned down and pointed at me.
“Abigail Elisabeth Watson, you do! You want Sam Quinn.”
I swallowed and shook my head. “No—no, Sam is a friend, and that’s it, that’s all. He is perfectly happy with Liv, and that’s awesome! It is.”
“Uh huh.”
“I swear it isn’t like that, Mom. I love Sam, but not like that. I just don’t want his dad telling him that I was half naked with Brad crawling out of the water. I didn’t do anything.”
She stood up and tapped the island with her open hand.
“Why don’t you call the boy and tell him yourself? Strike first and that way the story is told as you want it to be and not second hand.”
I took another drink and stared at the red wine in my glass. “You’re right. I’ll call him tomorrow, or maybe just go over there. Should I go there? No, I should call, right?”
She sighed and finished off her glass. She grabbed the wine bottle and tucked it under her arm.
“I’m going upstairs to read.”
I laid my head down on the island, and she laughed at me. She stepped up, extended her hand and rubbed my head.
“Abi, I just want to see you happy, okay? This is your journey, no one else's.”
I nodded and then stood up, wrapping my arms around her. “I know, Mom,” I said quietly. She backed away from me and touched my cheek with her open hand.
“You look so much like your dad, you really do.”
I took a slow breath. I missed him. He was a great mentor and a great dad. I wished that he was here to listen to me and to tell me what I should do. He always seemed to have the answers to everything, but I knew Mom was right. This was my journey in life, and I needed to find my footing on whatever road I chose to be on.
I just hoped that they all didn’t lead back to Jack.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE DEEPER THE CUT
__________________________
I ended up in the cemetery, dead of night, with a bottle of wine in tow. I slowly opened the black iron gate. It creaked loudly from lack of oiling. I shushed myself as the wine settled into my
bloodstream and made me tipsy.
Mom had gone to bed, but the longer I sat up by myself, the more I drank. Jack started to bother me again. His sudden appearance in my dream and then his unwelcomed intrusion into my mind on the river's bank haunted me.
I craved him, once again. I couldn’t help myself.
I stumbled inside and looked around. It wasn’t nearly as creepy as I remembered it being when I was a child. This place always served to keep kids indoors at night as rumors of zombies floated around. It’s ridiculous what you tend to believe when you’re young.
I closed the iron gate behind me. The clanking sound reverberated throughout the cemetery.
“Abi, come on, get it together,” I whispered, talking to myself in third person.
I walked along, taking a swig from the bottle here and there, staring at some of the older stones that lay in the cemetery. I waved at a couple of them.
So many people had been buried here. The cemetery was originally erected in 1803 when the town was founded.
New Weston had initially served the train industry and quickly grew in its agricultural stability. They harvested wheat and corn here, utilizing the train system to ship it out further into the Midwest and back east. It was also surrounded by thick, healthy forests. Lucky that they were because the farming slowed due to unpredictable seasons of flooding and drought. It was then that the mill started to financially sustain the people here.
Along with that, came the migration of the spiritualist. They came here, set up shops and helped the population grow.
I stepped up to one stone and leaned in, reading the inscription of a man and his wife. They had died on the same day, it didn’t say from what, but back then anything could kill you at any given moment. I wouldn’t have survived a single day. I can barely survive now.
I stepped back and stared at the ground in front of it and imagined them holding each other in one coffin, leaving this mortal coil together as one. It was romantic, and it gave me the feels. I sniffled and took another drink of the red wine, gulping it down. I pulled it from my lips while I stumbled to the side. I caught myself and straightened my shoulders. I pointed the bottle at the stone. “That’s the way you do it! It’s all about loyalty and true love, I know that it exists, and I tip my hat to the two of you for being faithful to each other—forever.” I bowed and almost fell over as I lost my balance again.
I turned quickly. I heard laughter, it was coming toward me. I stumbled forward and hid behind the large gravestone, peeking out from the side of it. I saw a girl running across the grass with a boy following closely behind her. The long sleeves on her black dress flapped in the wind, her black hair shiny and long, catching slivers of the moonlight as it swayed back and forth. The boy grabbed her wrist, and it all went into slow motion for me.
The couple morphed into Jack and Rose right in front of my eyes.
He leaned in, cupping her face ever so gently. He kissed her and I could hear the soft moan that escaped her lips. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he lifted her up, holding her against him as tightly as he could. He backed up and lay her down on the top of a large concrete slab that covered some poor soul’s remains.
“Rude,” I muttered to myself as I narrowed my eyes and refused to stop watching them.
He leaned in, kissing her neck, biting into her. She moaned again—her legs spread, and his hand moved up her thigh. I could see her pale skin and his fingers digging into the side of her leg. I stood up and walked toward them, quiet and unsuspecting, until I accidently dropped my bottle of wine on the small path that sat between us. It shattered, making a terrible noise. I never took my eyes off of them. I couldn’t.
“Jack?” I said. My head tilted to the side as they went in and out of focus in front of me.
I looked down at the red wine as it ran across the pathway like blood. I lowered to my knees and picked up a small piece of the broken glass, placing it to the side of my wrist.
“Is this what you want?” I asked the blurred figure in front of me. I cut into it very quickly. I lifted my wrist to my lips and tasted it, it was sensual at first, and then the cut started to sting. I hissed, lowering it and wrapping my hand around it. The blood poured out over my fingers.
I think I cut too deep. It was totally by accident. All I wanted was him. I wanted him to see me, to want me again.
“What the hell?” The boy asked as the girl stood behind him.
I looked up, with blood on my lips. They came into focus and I could see that it wasn’t Jack and Rose, it was a young couple just out having fun.
“Oh, crap,” I muttered as I started to sway. I fell to my side and the last thing that I remembered were his shoes stepping up to me and muffled voices sounding as if they were in a panic.
I lay in the white room with a tight bandage wrapped around my wrist. There was a faint ache under it. The cut called out to me, not unlike the scar on my fingertip had in the past.
A woman walked in wearing a black button-down, a white lab coat, and dark grey dress pants. Her black heels clicked on the floor beneath her.
She closed the door behind her and turned with a chart in her hand, her thin black-rimmed glasses rested at the tip of her nose. She looked to be in her late forties, like my mom. Her blonde hair was pulled up in the back, tightly wrapped into a neatly placed bun. Two strands of her hair lay at each side of her face. She was gorgeous. Her light green eyes matched her pale skin. Everything about her seemed to be prim and proper.
She closed the chart and looked me over, clutching it to her chest as she approached me.
“Abigail.”
I adjusted on the bed. Everything was so white and sterile around me. I was troubled by all of it. It reminded me of Rose Valley. I hoped that I wasn’t a new resident in the mental ward against my will. I certainly didn’t mean to end up here, and I knew that the situation looked horrible.
I swallowed hard, beating back the panic that was slowly rising inside me. I waved and then lowered my bandaged wrist. “Yep, that’s me.”
She grabbed a tall stool and rolled it about four feet to the side of me. She sat down very casually. I’m sure that she was trying to make me feel less awkward.
She peeked at the chart again and then looked up at me.
“My name is Cynthia Marlow.”
“Abigail Watson,” I let my eyes lower to her chart. “But you already know that.”
“Yes, I do. Listen, Abi, should I call you that, or do you prefer, Abigail?”
I tapped the bed with my hand and then lifted my wrist. I touched the bandage and eyed it. This was a disaster. I knew what it looked like, and I wasn’t sure how to explain myself without sounding like I should be locked away. This was so ironic when it seemed that I was doing so much better when I came home. Ending up here was something that I could have never foreseen.
“Um—Abi is fine and this,” I waved my wrist, “It isn’t what it looks like. It was an accident.”
“Well,” she said calmly as she adjusted herself on the stool beneath her. “The couple who you saw in the cemetery said that you approached them, you called the boy Jack and then cut your wrist. Would you like to talk about Jack?”
I sighed and started to fidget with my hands. I stared at them knowing that this was probably the worst case scenario. “Oh, man.”
She leaned down, and I looked up at her. “Listen, Jack is—I mean was my—I’m not sure what to call him,” I said, which was totally honest. What was he? Sometimes I wonder if he was even real or if I made him up out of loneliness.
“Lover?” she asked, not missing a beat.
The wine still had me a little bit off kilter, so my ability to lie was at a minimum. “Um—kind of, I guess. I’m not sure what to categorize him as. He’s just Jack.”
She tapped the chart on her lap with an open hand and looked me over. Her soft features did ease the tension to a certain degree. I’m sure she studied every type of personality, and it showed.
“Love is a dan
gerous thing,” she said quietly.
Truer words had never been spoken.
I laughed. If she only knew. I wasn’t even sure if love could explain anything that I felt for Jack. I thought that I had loved him, but what is love? Does it make you crazy? Does it make you hide away from the world and then do stupid things like I did in the cemetery? I must have looked insane to anyone on the outside this situation and with good reason. The emotions that I had been hiding started to bubble up in me.
My eyes became glossy, I couldn’t help it. I had avoided talking about him or how I felt for a long time. When everything ended as it did, I recoiled, lingering in the city while I wasted away at a job that just served to distract me. I shed my life and my skin so thoroughly that it was hard to recognize myself in the mirror.
I hadn’t dealt with the loss. I had simply departmentalized it.
All of this was a lie and now here I am, laying in the hospital after doing something that would be damn near impossible to explain. I made eye contact with her as one tear ran down my cheek.
“Jack is—his tastes are unique.” I wiped my cheek and rubbed it on the thin white blanket that covered my legs.
She tilted her head. “By unique, do you mean in the bedroom, or in life, in general?”
I nodded to her as I read her white badge on her coat. It read mental health and awareness. I figured that honesty may save me when lying to myself had led me here.
“In everything. He was like no one I had ever met before.”
She tapped her pen on the chart. “You talk about him in past tense, is he dead?”
I laughed. “I never even noticed, to be honest, I don’t talk about him at all. To be frank, it would be easier if he were—dead, I mean.”
She paused as she jotted something down. I eyed her chart, and she looked back up at me.
“Do you wish him dead, then?”
I lifted my hand and rubbed my neck. “No, I don’t. But, well, when you lose someone it is easier if there is a goodbye and Jack and I never said goodbye to each other, it just ended, abruptly.”
“And why was that?” she asked.
I looked around the room and then back to her. “I left, there is this other girl and—it’s hard to explain.”
