Under The Cornerstone
Copyright 2016 Sasha Marshall
Published by: Sasha Marshall, LLC
Originally Published: September 17, 2016
Proofread by: Brittany Allen, Kathy Aronoff, Teresa Bledsoe, Teresa Harrington, Mary Meredith, Monica Moore, Penny Nardi, Rachelle Pinlac, and Polly Young.
Cover Designed by Sasha Marshall
Photographs on Cover: ©Dollar Photo Club
Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the above author of this book.
For anyone who’s ever suffered from anxiety,
I pray your soul finds peace. I hope that whatever demons claw at you, die quick and painful deaths. Sometimes it seems the whole world becomes our demon, as we weave through the complexities and complications of this life. With age, experience, and wisdom, we often find that the world is indeed our nemesis. It is a tiring process to constantly go against the grain simply because that is who you are. It is defeating at times to refuse to follow the sheep. This is certainly a cause for anxiety, as society always has a way to remind you that you are the black sheep. To that, I say, fuck society. Be yourself. Love yourself, and never, ever feel anxious again because you are a great spirit. Do not hide you, as this world would be a much duller place without you.
“Great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds. The mediocre mind is incapable of understanding the man who refuses to bow blindly to conventional prejudices and chooses instead to express his opinions courageously and honestly.”
-Albert Einstein
Contents
Dedication
Extremely Important Note
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Part II: Johnny
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Epilogue
Leave A Review
Stalk Sasha
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Extremely Important
Note
This book was inspired by a song, as most of my books are to one degree or another. I almost didn’t publish this book, because I didn’t want people to concentrate on the source of my inspiration instead of the story this book holds. This story was inspired by Highly Suspect’s song “Vanity”. I made up the rest of the shit, but I always give credit where credit is due. While the book does have the band member’s first names, and the name of the fictional band is named after another of their songs, “Blood Feather”, this book is not about the musicians in Highly Suspect, therefore it is not a fan fiction piece. I’m honestly too lazy to change first names or band names, they already had first names and a song I liked the title of, and that’s the honest truth. No sense in reinventing the wheel and all. I do not know them personally, therefore, I cannot attribute any likenesses or lack thereof between the characters I created and the members of Highly Suspect, and this includes the massive giant named Jimmy I saw on a stage in Montgomery one night. I’m sure they all served as muses in one capacity or another, but nothing more. To clarify, this book was entirely inspired by the song “Vanity”, not the musicians, but thanks to the band for the inspiration.
If you’re one of those people that has to have a say in what genre I classify this book, then go put it in a review. Don’t email me. (Seriously, I have a life and don’t get down with hate, so keep your hate mail to yourself. I’m all about the peace, bruh.) They wrote a song, I found inspiration from it, then I wrote a book about three guys with the same names, yet they aren’t the same people at all. They are fictional characters, fictional being the keyword here. Please don’t show up at their concerts asking them about this book, or about Noely, or about Jimmy Crawford. They won’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, because this isn’t a biography. Once again, it is a work of fiction. I’m hoping this serves to clear up any misunderstandings before they begin. My service to mankind is done. Peace out.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. Please be advised there are sexual situations, profanity, and other situations which are not suitable for anyone who is younger than 18 years of age.
Prologue
Franz Kafka once said, “I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we’re reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. That is my belief.”
Kafka wrote The Metamorphosis in 1915, and after I’d read his quote on the internet I thought about how my own story is both reflective of his opinion on books and of the metamorphosis process. My story still wounds even me, and it isn’t full of happily-ever-after’s. I grieved deeply at so many points during my life. I’m telling you my story of metamorphosis. I’m going to tell you how I was wounded and stabbed by loved ones. I hope it wakes you up like a blow to the head so that if need be, you can also become a colorful butterfly too. Hopefully my story affects you like a disaster, because it often felt as though I was in the middle of chaos, despair, and destruction. I hope you realize how deeply I grieved someone I loved as though he had died, even though he was very much alive. I hope that my story tears your heart open, even if only a little, and changes your life forever. I hope it makes you see that love never dies. And while it never dies, love can also destroy us at times. It can coddle us and keep us warm at night, but it can also tear us apart, leaving our world ravaged and empty. At some point, each of us has to dec
ide if that love is worth fighting for. Is it worth a second chance? A third chance? Can there ever really be a happily-ever-after? If so, how much of it depends on us?
Metamorphosis… the changing of one’s self to a completely different one. Caterpillars change completely from an insect that crawls in the dirt and trees, eating its own weight in leaves. The insect with twelve-legs will then shed its skin four or five times before it wraps itself in a cocoon and digests itself. It’s a tough transformation. As the cells divide inside the cocoon, the caterpillar mutates or transforms into something beautiful… the butterfly. Once metamorphosis is complete, the butterfly emerges, only it isn’t ready to fly just yet. You see the butterfly is still wet and there’s not yet blood flowing to the wings, so even though they’ve been through a beautiful, but a painful transformation, they aren’t quite ready to fly off into the world. The butterfly sits in the cocoon and flutters its wings until it dries and the wings have enough spirit in them to spread and give it flight. And so, in all of its colorful beauty the butterfly spreads its wings and flies away into the cosmos, showing the entire world how beautiful it is. It no longer lurks on the land and in trees, eating leaves, no, now it wants nectar. It wants to divulge in the greatest and sweetest thing the world has to provide its young self.
I think the universe gave us the metamorphosis of the butterfly so humans can remember we often undergo the same process. Unluckily, some people never really undertake all the matters that are needed for a metamorphosis to truly happen. Not enough people recognize they should or want to be someone different. I realized I didn’t recognize who I was at all. Life circumstances shaped my mind and I believed I possessed a role to play for twenty-six years, but the role I played was for the people I loved. It was never for myself.
I also had to find out that nothing ever remains the same. The world is constantly evolving and so are we. We change. Sometimes the change is insidious, only sometimes it is as miraculous and considerable as the metabolism of the butterfly. This happens to our relationships with other people, and in my own story I’ve often looked back to ascertain exactly where in time one of my relationships changed. I attempted to determine when the lines blurred and feelings changed. I wanted to know, why? Sometimes we never find out the why and have to learn to embrace what our hearts tell us.
Chapter One
I stare at the girl in the mirror and then at my phone that incessantly rings and pings. I tried to cover it up, but all the makeup in the world won't hide the bruises and busted lip. This was the last time he put his hands on me though. I'm through with his shit.
Rich calls for the third time tonight. I stare down at my phone knowing I'll have to answer eventually. I have to make up some last minute excuse for not being there.
I grew up with the boys in Blood Feather, and now they've gone and got themselves a record deal. They leave next week to tour as an opening act all over the U.S. I always knew they'd make it. Tonight is their going away party since they'll be too busy loading up next weekend to throw a proper party. And I'm going to miss tonight. I'm missing their big night because my boyfriend, scratch that my very recent ex-boyfriend, didn't like what I was wearing out tonight. He let me know not only with his words, but his fists.
Whore. Bitch. Slut.
Johnny calls next. It's his sixth time. He'll be the one to show up at my door in the middle of his own fucking party.
"Hey," I answer.
"Where you at Noe?" He asks.
"I'm at home."
"You're over an hour late,” he says with concern in his voice.
Me and my damn promptness. Now it is biting me in the ass.
I hesitate. I hate lying, especially to him.
"Noely?"
"Yeah. I'm here. Look, I just started feeling ill all of a sudden and I hoped it would pass. It must've been what I ate today."
Good enough.
He doesn't speak, but I can hear the crowd getting quieter as he steps away from them. I hear a door open and close, and then perfect silence.
"Did you hear me?" I ask in a rush to end this conversation.
"Yeah,” he replies and then hesitates.
I hear the click of his lighter as he lights a cigarette and takes several hits off of it before he speaks again.
"What did you eat today?"
"What?" I ask with too much pitch in my voice.
Fuck. He knows I'm lying.
His tone becomes agitated, “What. Did. You. Eat. Today?"
"I..." I begin.
"Why are you lying to me?" he asks.
"I'm not."
"You're a shit liar."
"That's not nice," I pout.
"Neither is lying to one of your best friends."
"I..."
"Don't fucking do it,” he warns.
"I ate Chinese."
"You fucking did it,” he sighs. “From where?" he asks quickly.
"New China Wok."
That's my favorite so it was an easy lie.
"What did you order?"
I roll my eyes, "Sweet and Sour Chicken."
"What time did you go?" He asks.
"Fuck Johnny! On my lunch break!" I yell.
"You eat lunch at twelve and unless New China Wok was open only for you today, they've been shut down for restorations for a week. The sign on the door says they won't open back up for another week."
Well, fuck me.
I sigh because I know I’ve been caught.
"Why aren't you here, Noles?" He asks with his sweet voice.
I hate his sweet voice. I can't say no or lie to his sweet voice.
"I just can't make it. I'm sorry. It's killing me not to be there. Please don't be mad at me. I'm so proud of you guys. I truly am," I feed him what truth I can.
I wait for a response.
Zilch.
I wait for several more seconds.
Nothing.
"Johnny?"
Nothing.
I look downwards at my phone and see I'm babbling to myself... Because he hung up on me!
Uh oh, right? He's two blocks away. It takes less than ten minutes. Fuck.
I pick through my makeup bag and cake on more concealer, cover it with powder, and do it again. I grab a Yankees cap and throw it on my head and then realize how stupid it looks with my mini dress. I rush to my bedroom and find a pair of blue jeans and a long sleeve shirt to cover the bruises on my arms. I slide my feet in a couple of chucks as the rap comes at the door.
I rush back to the bathroom and throw all my makeup back in its bag and then chunk it in a drawer. I look in the mirror one last time.
I did the best I could.
"Open the fucking door, Noely!" Johnny shouts from the other side.
"Stop shouting!" I yell back at him.
I rush to the door and throw it open.
He narrows his blue eyes at me and scowls.
"What's wrong with your lip?" He asks.
Damn, I forgot to cake on lip gloss.
"Nothing. Why aren't you at your party?" I shoot back and turn around leaving him at the door.
He slams the door and shuffles behind me.
"Noely!" he raises his voice at me.
"What?" I turn around and yell back.
He gives me the death glare, and then he steps to me quickly and grabs my bicep. I wince in pain and he drops my arm like it's on fire.
He looks my face over, knocks the hat off my head, and grabs me by the hand. I'm led into the bathroom.
"Why are you being such an asshole?" I seethe at him.
"You lied to me. You never lie to me. You want to pull some shit over on the twins? Go right ahead, but you've never lied to me!" he turns to me as he finishes his rant.
Hurt outlines his face and now I feel even shittier than I already did.
Before I realize what he's doing, he lifts a wet cloth to my face and wipes the three thousand pounds of makeup off my cheek. I bat
him away and try to push past him. Johnny picks me up under my arms and sets me on the vanity.
"It's too late now, Noe baby. Sit there while I take all this shit off. Don't you dare fight me on this."
I fight him anyways. He's always been intuitive and astute, but knowing he might know and knowing he actually knows are two entirely different scenarios.
Plausible deniability and all.
He wraps his arms around me and pulls me to his chest. I try to wiggle out of his hold to no avail.
"Let me go!" I scream at the edge of hysterics.
"Tell me what happened,” he says softly.
"It's none of your damn business!"
Johnny rips me from his chest and holds me by my shoulders. The tears well up in my eyes. I grew up with him and all the other hard knocks in the neighborhood. I'm not a crier, and if I feel the need to cry, I do it in private.
"You're wrong. If it has to do with you, it’s always my damn business,” he tells me.
I look away. I'm too ashamed to look him in the eye. I let this happen to me. I saw the signs. I made excuses before Tony got physical. I stayed. That makes me an idiot and forgive me for not wanting everyone to know. I sure as hell don't want the guys I grew up with knowing I became that girl. The girl we never understood. The girl we talked shit about.
"Go back to your party," I whisper.
"That's not where I want to be,” he replies.
I laugh sarcastically, "Right. Johnny fucking Rome never turns down a party, especially one thrown in his honor."
I push him away and walk into my room. I pull the shirt and jeans off not caring that he's here. Gently, I crawl between the covers as the stiffness in my body begins to set in.
I hear him talking to someone on the phone, so I hope he'll just get the hell out of here and let me be. I can drown in my misery right by my lonesome.
Next, I hear water running and instead of investigating I roll my eyes and throw the covers over my head. I shut my eyes and hope I fall into a coma. An actual coma, so I don't have to deal with this shit. A week long coma should work just fine. I'll wake up with "short-term memory loss" and the whole nine yards.
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