No bodily fluids. Remain anonymous.
Basically, no funny business is what the ad stated. It pays $50, and the first shoot is a trial run, so if it goes good, more money in my pocket to model my feet. I’ll take it.
I watch the train on the opposite track, going in the opposite direction of my destination. I get lost in the tracers the steel and lights leave in front of me.
Exhaling, my shoulders slump as I recall mine and Liam’s last encounter. I haven’t heard from him since, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Everything in me screams that it’s my fault. That I somehow asked for what he did, and continues to do, to me. I should say no… I should push him away, yet my heart screams for him to stay. My mind knows the truth – that he’s using me. That he’s been using me for years.
Doesn’t matter. I’ll get desperate and call him again. I always do. Either a date will go wrong, or I’ll fall into a deep depression – again.
“Got any change to spare?” A raspy voice asks from beside me. My eyes flit to the source, and I see a scraggly gentleman beside me - a half-burnt cigarette hanging from his cracked lips as his grubby hands cling to a bottle of cheap whiskey dangling between his legs.
I smile, not bothering to clutch my bag any closer to my chest. He’s not a thief. He’s a homeless man. “I’ll give you $20 if you tell me a story.”
His eyes gloss over as they fixate on the train in front of him. “’Fraid I don’t have many stories to tell.”
Chuckling, I cup my hot chocolate-to-go in my gloved hands, appreciating the warmth on my cold fingers. “Everyone has at least one story.”
He smiles, and I watch the wrinkles around his eyes stretch towards his droopy cheeks. “Guess I’ve got a couple, but nobody ever cares to listen.”
My eyes travel towards my train as it rolls to a stop. “Got any plans tonight?”
“Nope. Same ol’, same ol’.”
“Alright,” I say, patting his torn jean cladded leg. “C’mon.”
“So, what ever happened to David?” I ask before taking a bite of my hotdog. Earl, the homeless man, already finished the two I bought him.
He sighs, his shoulders slumping as we continue our trek to the weird photographer’s house. “No idea. He was a great friend. Never did know if he made it back, or not. I never stopped wondering, though.”
Huh.
Interestingly, Earl is a veteran. He graduated high school at the age of seventeen and joined the Navy the very next morning. David was lost at sea, and Earl’s eyes get distant at the mention of his name. I can tell they had a bond like no other, but I’m sure that is inevitable when death is looking you in the eye and you have a flag to serve; your comrades and letters from home the only things keeping you sane.
His team was assigned to lead in the first wave on Omaha Beach, and were to stay a thousand yards away from the beach for each successive wave to follow them. They had to wear special clothing and armbands to detect the poison gas that the German’s possessed.
“In order to get to the landing crafts below, we had to climb down cargo nets that hung from the battleship’s deck. He went first, and I had a feeling deep in my gut that something was wrong. He was a scrawny kid, and wore these big, coke-can glasses. They made his frightened eyes look even bigger when that wave caught him. Took him under, and alls I could do was watch. I didn’t have a chance to try and grab him. Once he went under, I never saw him again.” He sighs, his eyes wandering to some store window housing mannequins wearing the latest Fall fashions.
“When those bombs are dropping, and your adrenalin is pumping, you don’t feel pain like you would if the person you cared about was gunned down on some street, right next to you. You don’t have time to hurt, so I guess the healing process never really sets in. The hurt just stays in that same place, deep in your gut. You go on feeling like you’ve been punched in the stomach most days. Other days, you just try and stay numb. I never got into the drugs, but my devil lives in a bottle. I’ll say that much.”
I nod, my eyes fixating on the cracks in the sidewalk. I’m sure to step on each one. “If you could go back, would you still have enlisted?”
“Hell yes!” He claims, not missing a beat. “I learned a lot about myself on that ship. Even now, when the tips of my fingers feel like they’d freeze clean off, I still wouldn’t change a thing… except for David. I woulda tried a little harder to reach down there and catch him before the ocean did. But I was young and, I can’t lie, scared to death. The hardships you face in life are your best teachers. Even mistakes, they can teach you something valuable, too.”
Trials and tribulations - futile for some that have faced many throughout their life, and integral for those that have yet to grow. Sometimes you’ve got to get kicked down repeatedly before life humbles you. Earl is the perfect example of humility. He fought for his country, only to be ignored by its civilians. He fought a war that took his friend, and I’m sure the stress didn’t help his already ill wife. He gave up some “things” to become “nothing,” because he lost “everything.” Yet, his soulful stories speak volumes. His soul took a beating, but it’s still there in his hazel eyes. Battered spirits are always so quiet. That’s how I knew he’d have a story that would not only inspire me, but would also make me question my own circumstances.
Those are the most powerful stories of all.
The photographer was some grease bag, and I’m happy that Earl decided to accompany me upstairs. There was some method to my madness. I’d trust the homeless man over Mr. Craigslist Ad any day.
Other than some awkward glances between me, Mr. Craigslist, and Earl, it didn’t go too bad, and I am fifty dollars richer after letting some stranger snap pictures of my feet.
“Here we are,” I say, taking a seat on the bench. I’m exhausted, and it’s already past 1 AM. This Friday night is typical as bargoers stand around us, many of them drunk, waiting on their train home. The same one I’m taking.
Joy.
Reaching into my bag, I pull out the fifty bucks that I just earned, handing it to Earl.
He waves his hands in front of him. “No, no, no! That’s too much.”
I push the fifty-dollar bill into his palm before enclosing it with his dirty fingers. “Your story did more for me than you know. You need it more than me, besides…” I shrug, tucking my hands into my pockets, “I could use the company again for more of these odd jobs.”
He laughs. “Yeah, you ought to be careful out here, kid. You might think you’ve got it figured out, but truth is, you won’t until you’re old like me – your face sagging down in wrinkles as you look back. Time will change you. That’s life, I guess. Don’t take a clock for granted, and hang on to those precious seconds that serve to change you. Something tells me you’ll be alright, though.”
Standing, he tugs his baggy jeans up over his hips. “I’ve got to go, kid. Got some numbing to do.”
I smile, staring up at him. “You’re not getting on the train?”
“Nope,” he says, turning and walking towards the stairs. “I kinda like this side of town.”
“Where can I find you?” I holler behind him from where I sit.
“Fifth and sixth,” he yells back, his voice becoming more distant as he ascends the steps.
Chapter 7
Pulling the vanilla cake from the oven, I plop the pan on the counter before shaking the oven mitts from my hands. I allow it to cool as I mix the homemade frosting, dripping some purple food dye in, and watching the darker swirls blend in with the lighter ones until it’s a desirable dark purple hue.
“Happy birthday to you,” I sing to myself as I spread the icing over the cake. Reaching across the stove, I retrieve the bat shaped sprinkles and shiny black stick candles. On my own, I fashion my 28th birthday cake. Something I’ve been doing by myself since I was seventeen and mom decided that she wasn’t going to do it anymore.
“Stay the fuck out of my relationship, Emily!”
“Happy birthday, dear Emily, happy bir
thday to you.” I sing as I light the candles. Then, I close my eyes, and I make the same wish I’ve made since I can remember: not to feel alone, for once.
Sighing, my eyes flutter open and land on the dark form perched on the open window’s sill. “What the fuck?” I murmur to myself, abandoning my cake as I cautiously approach the bird. “Get out of here,” I whisper, shooing it with my hands. But all it does is shift left to right as its head cocks to the side, eyeing me with those strange eyes.
When I consider the eyes of a bird, I see something subtly feral – even more so once you’ve captured it, holding it in your hand while its tiny heart wildly beats beneath your thumb – only to release it when the little thing looks like it can take no more.
This bird does no such thing. His tenacity never falters, and my hands fall to my sides as I look into the eyes of this peculiar crow.
“Are you following me or something?” I ask, my head tilting to the side as I take a step toward it, the concrete cold on the pads of my feet.
Running my hand through my hair, I frown as approach the window, keeping the bird in my line of sight as I scan the street below. For a moment, I think I see a shadow, but in the blink of an eye it’s gone.
Once again, I peer into the eyes of the crow, never abandoning my spot beside him at the window. His gaze tells a story most animals do not. I see life in there, and it goes beyond basic instincts. “Strange that I only began seeing you around once I met that guy…”
Rowan.
God, I wish that this bird was some type of messenger if it meant seeing him again, but alas, it’s just a bird, and I’m just some crazy woman. Still, the thought makes my blackened heart beat a little faster as the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. For some reason, I don’t feel alone on this birthday.
So, I leave the crow where he sits on the window sill, and I cut him and I a piece of cake.
Sitting on the worn ottoman beside the window, I slide the cake to the crow from across the sill, and it cocks its head to the side before it begins pecking at it wildly. There are those animal instincts; no hesitation when offered something. No hunt necessary. A gift, and though he can’t say thank you, I can see it in those odd eyes that stay fixated on me.
Chapter 8
“Lift higher!” I holler from the top of the stairs where I’m holding one end of an eggplant colored couch. It smells like dead cats and mothballs.
Royce is on the other end; his scrawny arms struggling to hold up the heavier side from where he stands on the fifth or sixth step. “Working on it, Em. This bitch is heavy.”
“Yeah, well it looks like it came from the 1970s. I’m surprised it isn’t barf colored.” I retort, beads of sweat forming above my brow. “Not bad for fifteen bucks.”
“This thing stinks,” he complains, and I scoff.
“The faster you stop bitching, the faster we get this thing down the stairs.”
“Then two blocks to get to your house,” he says, eyeing me from over the couch as he wags his eyebrows. “What’dya think about a nice, romantic dinner? Me, you, your place.”
I glare at him. “Fuck off. You’ll get $25. Just like we agreed.”
He chuckles nervously. “C’mon. It’s not like that night was all that bad.”
I ignore his statement and give the couch a subtle push. It prompts him to slowly begin backing down the steps.
A sigh of relief escapes me once we’re outside; the cool, Fall breeze kissing my cheeks. Setting down the couch, I adjust my black beanie. “Alright,” I say, lifting my end once more. “Let’s get this bitch back to the apartment.”
“What the fuck?” I murmur as we shuffle to my door. It’s cracked open, so I grasp a broken broom leaning next to a bucket of ancient cleaning supplies in the hall.
“Emily,” the voice says from inside. My hand holding the broom begins to shake, and I clumsily set it against the wall as the tips of my fingers push the door open the rest of the way. Liam’s dark eyes zero in on Royce from across my dim apartment.
Royce stands behind me, his head cocked to the side as he frowns at my stepfather. Clearing my throat, I reach into my pocket, grabbing twenty-five bucks before shoving the money into his palm. “I’ll see you later,” I murmur, my eyes never leaving where Liam sits on my torn couch.
“Who is that?” Royce asks, and my eyes grow wide when I see Liam stand before he approaches the door. Grasping my arm, he pulls me inside. But before he can close it in Royce’s face, Royce blocks it with his hand. “Em,” He says, and Liam shoves me behind him. He’s like a wall, he’s so big.
“Get out of here,” Liam seethes, the door slamming shut. Whipping around, he grasps my shoulders before considering my wide eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me that you needed a new couch? What happened to the one I got you?”
I can see the arm of the couch that I took the knife to behind him; stuffing clumped up beside it on the concrete floor. Labyrinth decided to make a bed out of it, and snoozes peacefully on the couch’s filling. Though, upon looking closer, I realize he’s not moving. Not even so much as a breath. The filling beneath him is stained red, and when my eyes travel back to Liam, I realize that there’s red on his arms and hands, too.
“No,” I whimper, my voice shaking as my knees buckle. “No.”
I fall to my knees, and he allows me to. Sobbing, I bury my face in my hands – the tears seeping through my fingers before they descend to my jean covered legs.
It seems like forever that I cry, the hurt awakening my ice-cold heart. The pang is deep in my gut. That cat meant more to me than he’ll ever know. He’s never had to seek comfort in an animal. He’s never lied awake with a fur ball clamped to his chest as he wept into the wee hours of the morning. Labyrinth knew when I needed him, and he never left my side when I felt like I was falling apart. Some nights, he was the only thing that kept me from unravelling completely.
Staring at Liam’s shiny dress shoes, I don’t even wince at the thought of him kicking me square in the chest, like he’s done so many times before. This hurt goes beyond anything physical, and I almost want him to outwardly harm me so that I can forget about what I’m feeling on the inside. I wish I could say that I can’t believe it, that I don’t believe it… but, that would be foolish of me. Liam takes, he never gives. Even when it’s a gift of his own. I never know how long his “kindness” will last.
“Emmy,” Liam said, his hand grasping my shoulder as I lied on my side. My chest felt hollow; each breath raspy going in and out.
“I miss Juniper,” I sobbed, and he sighed behind me, running his hand over my back in circular motions. “I know, baby. I know.”
“You’re never here, and when you are, you’re with her!” I cried out, causing his hand to still. “Now I don’t have my cat. I don’t have anything!”
“I have something for you,” He responded, leaving my side temporarily before returning with a black box wrapped in a red bow. The sound coming from the box told me what was inside, so when I opened the box and saw the grey tabby kitten with big, green eyes, I wasn’t surprised. Sniffling, I lifted the kitten into my arms, and he seemed to fit perfectly.
Liam gently grasped my chin, lifting my lips to his for a delicate, sweet kiss. Then, he made love to me as the kitten played with my clothes hanging from the open closet.
I was seventeen then, lost in lust and stuck in love. When I stopped idolizing my mother, Liam became my revere. He’s disguised as a handsome, wealthy, and successful business man. Liam has always known how to hide his truth so well. That wasn’t why I fell in love with him, though. I fell in love because he only showed me his wickedness.
He loves to punish me, and I find myself constantly giving him reasons to harm me – because maybe I like it, too.
But not now.
Not as a stare down at his shiny shoes to avoid his blood-stained hands.
There are two types of people in this world: good people and bad people. The good people are usually silenced by humility, and the
bad ones are generally arrogant by default. That’s how I’ve learned to spot a wolf in a crowd, even though there are far more wolves than there are lambs.
If I were to meet Liam today, I’d stay clear. I’d probably run in the complete opposite direction. Every mannerism, every word, every action that I’ve glossed over for years couldn’t be more apparent to me now, not only in this moment, but at this point in my life. I keep allowing him back in at my own discretion because I’m a fucking self-loathing masochist, and he’s a narcissist who found the perfect fix.
His self-importance clouds the air, and its suffocating. My lungs can’t expand any further as I hold in the breath, feeling the last of my tears slither past my cheeks to my chin as I become numb again. This isn’t the first time I’ve trampled down my feelings. Probably won’t be the last, either.
I try and hold onto the tiny sliver of pride that I have left; my resolve already weakened in my tearful state. I don’t know why I choke down the tears anymore. He already thinks I’m pathetic, anyway.
“The cat didn’t tear up the couch,” I whisper, watching the remaining tears freefall from my chin to the cold, cracked concrete floor. “I didn’t think you were coming back. I never do.”
He kneels, and I avoid his eyes like the plague. I feel them on me – willing me to give into their spell… to look inside the soul of a charming monster.
His energy builds up around me like an angry tidal wave. It threatens to crush my soul, and I feel the resentment prickle my heart as my small hands ball into fists.
The Horror of our Love: A Twisted Tales Anthology Page 30
