Catching a Fallen Starr

by Adriana Law

  “You’re alone with me right now.”

  “That’s different,” I counter. “And that brings us to the subject of men. Do you think a man is ever going to want me? The amount of guys I’ve had sex with is in the triple digits. Honestly, I’m not sure if I’m still in the triple digits…because I stopped counting. My father isn’t able to naturally love me. He has to “work” at it. No man is ever going to love me.”

  “Maybe what you need… isn’t a man.”

  I snort. “That’s just the icing on the cake. I have no job. No experience at doing anything. I don’t know how to have a relationship with my parents or anybody else. I am a…empty…sad…broken shell. I’m one of those eggs that accidently rolls out of the nest before it’s time and cracks open, nothing inside but an undeveloped embryo. A skinny, ugly bird without feathers. That’s what I am.”

  He laughs. “At least you’ve mastered the art of self-pity.”

  “It’s not funny. I'm dead serious.”

  “I can see that.”

  “There is no reason for me to get out of this bed. I’m ruined.”

  “You are not ruined. If you don’t know what you’re passionate about…then figure it out.”

  “This coming from someone who knew exactly what he wanted to do at a very early age. What am I supposed to do, make a list…” my voice drips with sarcasm, “…like you?” There is instant hurt visible in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” I say. “See. You’ve been nice to me and what do I do? I shit on you. I like your list, Sawyer. I do.”

  He clears his throat. “I gotta go.”

  “Okay.” I cover my head again. “I’ll try not to kill myself.”

  I wait for the “no, please don’t! The world would not be the same without you!” It never comes. I hear movement and fight curiosity. What is he doing? Hiding sharp objects? Flushing all the narcotics left in the apartment down the toilet? There are no drugs. I checked.

  Finally, I give in and peek out.

  Sawyer is packing what little shit I have.

  I sit up. “What the hell are you doing?”

  He carries my bag out into the main part of the apartment. Folding back the sheet I follow him. My body trembles from my not using it. I’m wearing the same t-shirt and cotton shorts I had on yesterday, and the day before that and the day before that… “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” I ask him again. He drops the bag by the door and gathers his keys and cell phone for work.

  I’m sure I’m bug-eyed. “You’re kicking me out?” I ask.

  “See you in a little while, buddy,” he tells Slick, affectionately scratching the dog under the neck. The dog’s enormous tail beats the side of his pants leg.

  “Hey,” I shout. “I’m asking you a question!”

  Sawyer pauses, hand on the door as if he is torn between answering and moving on. He says nothing. “Motherfucker,” I growl.

  You’re not trash until someone throws you away.

  I pick up the nearest thing I can find. A hairbrush lying on the bar. My hairbrush. The hairbrush strikes Sawyer in the center of his back and bounces off. “How can you kick me out after what I just told you?”

  He draws a breath and then deliberately turns, stalking toward me. He stops inches away and jabs four fingers in front of my face. “My father is on marriage number four.” He mimics his father’s voice, “Gotta find the right one. Gotta find the right one. He never stops to consider that…maybe he needs to work on being the right one. It’s always the woman’s fault. Wanna know what ran off Sterling’s mother and mine?”

  “Not really.”

  “My father loves to hit when he is angry. Every time one of his business deals went sour or…if his take-out was delivered wrong…he came home and took it out on my mother. You wanna know what I did every time he beat her?”

  I back up a step, overwhelmed by the pain reflected in his eyes.

  “I hid,” he says. “I hid like a damn coward. After she was gone and there was no woman to smack around, the bastard took it out on Sterling. The worst beating I remember was when Sterling accidently spilled his paint on the floor and cleaned it up with a five dollar towel. He was fourteen. My father didn’t give a shit about the towel; he just wanted a reason to be angry.

  And just like always…I hid! I’m not stupid; I know I couldn’t’ve stopped it, but the way I see it, my brother took his share of the beatings, and mine.”

  He pauses, staring directly into my eyes.

  “I don’t want to be that scared little boy that hides and pisses on himself anymore.” He aims a finger at his room, the place I’ve made mine over the past week. “If you want to hide and give up…there’s your things and the door. Go! I’m not going to stop you.” A hand on the door, his back toward me, he adds, “You’re the only one that change your life, Mya. I can’t do it for you.”

  The door to his apartment opens and shuts.

  Sawyer leaves me standing there dumbfounded.

  My gaze lands on the bag by the door.

  “Wow,” I say to Slick. “I didn’t see that coming.”

  ***

  Fully clothed for the first time in over a week I give the apartment a parting glance. How can a place that I’ve spent very little time have so much significance in my life? First Sterling, a dark, selfish period in my life. Now Sawyer, a dark, and it kills me to admit it, another selfish period.

  “What is wrong with me,” I ask Slick. The Saint is laid out on the cool hardwood floor. His brown eyes roll up at me. He sighs loudly. I slide on my jacket. “You’re lucky you’re a dog,” I tell him. I bend to retrieve the brush I threw at Sawyer from the floor and stuff the brush into the bag before I pick it, opening the front door. I take the stairs down and step outside. It’s raining. The sky is gray and uninviting. Reds, greens, and yellows from the street lights are reflected in the wet pavement.

  I shiver wanting nothing more than turn around, sprint back upstairs, and crawl under the covers. I pause under the overhang of Something Italian and watch the rain collect on the sidewalk.

  Traffic moves slower than usual. Lazy. Water-logged. Windshield wipers are whishing the glass of countless yellow cabs. I should call one over, but I don’t. I stand there watching life go on around me. A woman in heels darts from one awning to the next, her black umbrella collapsing right before she slips into a small coffee shop. A businessman crosses the intersection with a newspaper folded over his carefully styled hair, a briefcase in his hand. He’s prepared for anything…except the rain.

  Kids in slickers wait in line for the bus.

  I step out into the bone-chilling downpour and tilt my head to stare up at the windows I know belong to Sawyer. Everything inside screams to keep going, to just walk away, but I’ve already done that. For most of my life.

  A quote written on one of the many sticky notes Sawyer has stuck in creative places all over his apartment comes to mind: Why do we try hard for little things and so little for hard things?

  Without giving myself time to talk me out of it, I go back upstairs. Drop the bag and slide off my wet jacket. Slick greets me as if I’ve been gone for hours instead of mere minutes. His enthusiasm almost bowls me over. I stoop and return the affection and acceptance, my finger deep in his think layers of frizzy fur. My voice cracks as I kiss his mussel, telling him, “Thanks. I needed that.”

  ***

  “Does he not ever eat junk food?” I ask Slick. I’m sitting Indian style on the floor by a bottom cabinet, rummaging through my choices. I wrinkle my nose as I read the wrapper of one of the energy bars I found. “Ew. What the hell.” I toss the bar back into its boring box. “Rice cakes. Peanut butter.” My gaze skims the kitchen. “Fruit. Yogurt. Nuts.” I gasp and stretch to the back of the cabinet pulling out the first sign that I’ve seen that Sawyer Bentley isn’t a freak of nature.

  “Ramon noodles,” I gasp out, turning the package for Slick to see. “Now these are good. Made with real plastic. Bet Daddy would freak if he knew that little detail.” I flip the package around
, checking the date. “Ah. They’re out of date. He probably already knows its bad food.”

  The Saint Bernard breathes into my face. His tongue flicks out over his wet, quivering nose, drool slinging into my lap. I push the noisy-breather away, laughing, “I love you too, but you seriously need a Tic-Tac to freshen your breath. You know what I need… chocolate. How about I take a shower and go get your breath mint and my chocolate? Sound like a plan to you?”

  After my shower, I notice something sticking out from underneath the blanket on Sawyer’s mattress. The something Sawyer tossed down earlier, right before he kicked me out.

  I flip back the blanket and pick my obvious gift up.

  It’s a book.

  Not just any book.

  It’s a 2015’s book of daily Horoscopes.

  For me.

  ***

  Metal pans clang. I have destroyed the kitchen. Ingredients and dirty pans clutter the counters. I stare at my creation with an honest smile. It took several batches to get it right.

  Keys jingle and then Sawyer is coming through the door. “Wait!” I squeal, running to greet him. “Close your eyes,” I tell him.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Humor me.”

  “Okay.” He tosses his keys on the bar and shuts his eyes. His long lashes touch his cheek. I realize at that moment, as I take his hand and lead him toward the sofa that Sawyer is a really attractive guy. So attractive it makes my chest hurt. I don’t know how I missed it.

  “Don’t peek,” I say.

  His chuckle is deep, causing chills to rise over my skin. I ignore the urge to fall hard for him right then and there, remembering his earlier words: maybe what you need isn’t a guy.

  “Sit,” I tell him, directing him. “I’m serious. Please don’t look.”

  Sawyer doesn’t bring up the fact that I’m supposed to be gone, he just goes with it, sitting there in his black SWAT jacket with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. I skid around the bar into the kitchen and grab the plate, hurry back to the sofa, and drop down next to him. “Now open your mouth. But don’t look.”

  “Um…” he stretches out. “Not sure I want to open my mouth.”

  “You do want to. Trust me.”

  Without peeking, he parts his lips. I carefully place a bite in his mouth, waiting patiently for a reaction. Ok. Feeding a guy is actually hot. I push those thoughts out. No guys. Not now at least. “I know it’s not the best.” I say. “But I’m proud. What do you think?”

  He chews. Gah! The suspense is killing me!

  I watch as his tongue traces the seam of his mouth finding any remnants of chocolate. “Can I open my eyes now?”

  “Oh. Yea. Sorry.”

  Brown eyes connect with mine. “What is it?” he asks, reaching for another piece of my candy. He examines the layers of softened graham crackers, chocolate and chopped pecans before popping the broken bit of candy into his mouth. “Is that brown sugar I taste?”

  “It’s pretty awesome, right?” I’m eager.

  “It melts in your mouth,” he says around a bite. “It’s buttery…smooth.”

  “Yeah. All the good stuff.”

  Sawyer makes an mmm-sound of pleasure, lowering his lashes and resting his head on the back of the sofa. “It’s addictive.” The healthy food fanatic then reaches for another, and I smile ridiculously wide watching the way he seems to savor it. “What is it called?” he asks.

  I tell him, “I realize now that there are more than one way to please a man.” Sawyer chokes on the candy. I rush on, so pumped and excited I want to get it all out. I point at the plate full of broken pieces of candy. “I could sell this on Amazon. Or at the front counter of convenience stores.” I set the plate on the glass end table. “My plan is to…with every single sale…include an uplifting quote that will, if the candy doesn’t sweeten the customer’s day, then hopefully the words of encouragement will. I’ve already decided what I’m going to call it…Sweet Spirits.”

  I wait for him to bash the idea.

  I prepare for it even.

  “It’s a good idea,” he tells me. “I say what are you waiting on, do it.” He reaches for another piece. “I would buy it.”

  “Really?” I raise a brow.

  “Really.”

  Here comes the hard part. “Because I’ve been thinking…if I stay here just a little while longer…you never use your kitchen to cook anything…I could sleep on the sofa; I just need time to get it together.”

  “Mya. It’s okay. I don’t mind. Stay as long as you need to.”

  I fling myself at him. “You are awesome.” I hug him and kiss his cheek.

  “So is your candy,” he says.

  ***

  The Powerful Suggestion of the Dream:

  I’m trapped in hell. Hell being a tiny house in an underprivileged village somewhere. The home has a dirt floor and one door. I’m with a guy, I can’t see his face, but he is important. We’re with two other couples.

  We’re hiding children.

  Keeping them safe.

  Lining the frightened children along the walls.

  “Stay low and cover your heads,” the woman with black hair tells the children. “Do as I say. Now! Cover your heads.”

  The children cry.

  I can feel the urgency in our mission.

  Save the children.

  Save the children.

  Save the children…!

  I’m scared.

  Violently shaking. I’m not sure why or where we go, but the guy and I leave the home. When the guy and I return the woman is bent over holding up her black hair, sponging dirt from the back of her neck with a wet cloth. She is out of breath. Exhausted.

  The children are all gone.

  “Where’s the children,” I ask her.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Where are the babies,” I say again, louder this time.

  I’m desperate. Feeling the emptiness that comes from the loss of the children. The woman looks me directly in the eyes. “They are gone. Dead. I buried them.”

  Her word causes my gut to clench and has me frantically looking for the children. She has to be lying! She has to be wrong! “The men came,” she explains. “They killed them. Killed them all without blinking.”

  “Will they come back?” I breathe out, frantic and afraid for myself now.

  “No.” The woman sounds so sure. “They won’t be back.”

  “How can you be certain? They are murders.”

  “They’ve moved on to a new village.” The woman goes to her husband. They prepare their guns. “But we need to be ready in case they do come back.”

  “But you said they won’t?”

  “They might.”

  We ready our weapons. The guy I’m with has a pistol. He keeps telling me: I don’t know how to use a gun. He keeps telling me this over and over. “Okay. Get ready,” the woman instructs. “Aim at the door. It's best chance we have of taking these bastards out.” The two couples get into formation, aiming at the only way inside. Our chance. If the men come back they will ask no questions, they will just start shooting. The door is our only fighting chance of getting them, before they get us.

  The woman with black hair is the epitome of strength. She stands firm and strong as any man prepared to fight for the right to live.

  I have no weapon.

  I’m not prepared.

  The guy shows me the pistol again, repeating: I don’t know how to shoot a gun.

  We hear the men right outside. “Sh,” says the woman with black hair. “They realize they forgot us and have come back to kill us.”

  I get face down on the dirt floor behind her, knowing she will protect me. If nothing else, she will be my shield. Lying there I wrestle with the fact that I lack courage.

  I feel like a coward.

  I am a coward.

  I don’t move immediately but after a while I move forward into the line watching our door. I’m still face down in the dirt, but I’ve made a small st
ep.

  But the men never come inside. “I don’t think they know we’re here,” the woman whispers.

  I don’t know how to shoot a gun.

  Instead, the men hang five prisoners from a tree branch right outside.

  “It’s my brother,” another woman cries. Through the cracks I see dark feet with pale soles swinging from the branch. I fear the woman will lose it and give us all away. The strong woman clamps a hand over her mouth to keep her from giving us away.

  We wait until the men leave. “I think we should run,” is suggested. The strong woman hesitates.

  I speak up, “I agree. I would much rather take my chances out there than to be trapped in here with our backs to the wall.”

  I don’t know how to shoot a gun.

  So we run.

  Through a field of thigh-high grass.

  Through the yard of another home; its property cluttered with forgotten junk. The others are way ahead. The junk is so tight you either have to go over it or wedge through it. I go through it and feel something crawling over my arm. I glance down to see one of the fattest Black Widows I’ve ever seen. There’s more spiders. Climbing my leg. Clinging to the belly of my shirt. The spiders are glossy and wiry looking, fangs threatening to puncture flesh.

  I’m stuck amidst the junk, my only two options being to either move forward or go back.

  “I can’t do,” I shout to the others now way ahead. “I can’t make it.”

  Hands are suddenly on me, startling me.

  I panic, my only thought is to defend myself.

  He’s on top of me; his knees at the sides of my waist, his weight pinning me down.

  “Don’t, don’t, don’t,” I whimper.

  He’s strong. I can’t move. I can’t speak. I’m smothering. “Stop! Get off me!” I wail. A hand is on my face trying to cover my mouth to muffle my screams. I turn my head this way and that in sheer avoidance.

  All I know is I have to get free, this can’t happen again. I won’t let it. In one fluid motion I plant my weapon into his gut holding it there, twisting and turning it until he turns me loose and falls over. Gasping for air, clutching my weapon I scramble putting as much distance between me and him as I can. I draw my knees tightly to my chest and shiver. “I won’t let you do it. I won’t let you do it. Stay away!”