WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1)

by Fowler Robertson

  When I wasn’t at work, I tried to stay busy. I cleaned my house, rearranged furniture, painted walls, planted new flowers or pulled up weeds. For some reason, I can’t sit still. The peaceful feeling I used to have has left and I am on edge constantly. The Dumas of Umbra quakes and rumbles and I am clumsy on my feet. I should have known it was a warning.

  I was in the closet de-cluttering junk when a box fell off the top shelf. Branson’s body fell out of it, collectively in about a hundred pieces. Why couldn’t he stay where I left him? His bare bones, his enticing flesh, his hound dog eyes. My skin gave off hungry vibes. Sexy Kodak squares of Branson glare up at me—telling me things I didn’t want to hear—showing me things I didn’t want to see. His eyes said he was waiting on me to return, kiss him on the cheek, wrap my arms around him, say I’m sorry and then make love. After I caught my breath and wiped the animalistic scent off my skin, I discarded the thoughts. Put them away—out of my mind. Where are my matches? Torch him, burn it down, house be damned. I could do that, sure, but that was compulsive crazy Willodean overreacting. That's the thing about therapy, bones are always dug up. The skeletons clatter and clack until they’re dealt with.

  I am a reactionary. Over-reactor.

  When chaos hits, instead of reacting impulsively, as I used to do or rather wanted to do because it felt incredible better, like releasing atomic energy on a desert. It just felt better. But the aftereffects are tragic. BURN IT DOWN! I want a match right now to burn it all up. But no—no, I can’t do that. I’m supposed to stop. Calmly take a few deep breaths like some stupid yoga freak. BURN IT DOWN! My emotions are wild. I am so close to blowing. Why did I keep the pictures of him anyway? Why didn’t I throw them away months ago? What is wrong with you Willodean? Thoughts waiver in and out and it hits me suddenly and without warning. My knees buckled to the carpet. A meteor, a panorama of left over gunk spews out of me.

  ***

  Only a few weeks and it would be final. The fairytale forever girl was given a death sentence of divorce. For family and friends it was just another reason to baffle me with bullshit. Offer advice, encourage me to get on with my life, gird up your bootstraps, move on, and experience what’s out there, yada-yada. How the hell do they know what's best for me? How could they possibly understand what I was feeling? All I could feel was spent, emotionally exhaustion, unloved, unwanted, failure, crippled and pissed off. Sure, clearly I was damaged, but being labeled a divorcee was not on the fairytale list. Marriage meant something to me. It was an end to my aloneness, my alienated existence, and my wayward wanderings. It was everything to me to be married. To be loved. So yes, it ticked me off to no end that people could easily say, “Willodean, just move on girl. Plenty of fish in the sea.”

  Fuck you fish in the sea people. Fuck you all. And that’s when I went into my shell. Me and the little girl isolated ourselves inside our little house of horrors, all alone. Single. Alone. We watched reruns of sappy love stories and cried rivers of tears that flooded the hallways and overrun the waterfalls. We consumed enormous amounts of Blue Bell and liquor. I made my own topping, chocolate syrup mixed with cognac. I call it Triple D’s, short for drunk-divorced-don’t give a damn. The more you eat the less you give a shit. When I wasn’t hoarding food in massive consumptions, I was in nuclear meltdown mode. It was easy to spill over into the darkness of the house inside me, occupying each insidious room as a punishment, a house guest re-visiting the perils of regret. The Amodgian shadows welcomed me back, knowing my bitter struggles and bouts of insanity. They’ve had plenty of opportunity to watch, study and observe me since my birth. Yay me! I’m a haunted little house of horrors. Just as an over-abundance of light can cause blindness, an abundance of dark can cause chaos. After long periods of isolation, swept up inside the Dumas of Umbra, I would storm out, half mad, in a blind, shattering rage, acting out and releasing something wild and growing inside me, unnamable.

  I am a reactor. I over-react. And since I didn’t know how to deal with such raw emotions, the pent up desires, unyielding lust and hunger came spilling out. I roamed, devoured and consumed anything and everything in my path. The loneliness unbearable. The gaping black hole inside me cried for filling. I walked a long tight rope, suspended over a dark abyss, wobbly, and unsure of myself, no steady ground, no soil or substance to grip my feet, no arms to cling to, no connections to attach myself—alone with nothing but the constant wake of falling, lapsing into a tunnel of twilight without moon, stars without light, blinded in dark, forced to live with the damned and then die, without ever being loved. The vacant arms of the man pillow was not enough. I allowed strange men into my bedroom, to come and go. I seduced and ravaged like a wild animal. I cared not to know their names, only to feel their bodies next to mine, skin to skin, a fleshly touch, or a heartbeat to know I was alive. But every day I felt deader, colder, a numbness more than feeling alive.

  The upheaval of my life played out in two extremes; either I was completely isolated and withdrawn, hoarding up inside the house inside me, nullified by morbid shadows or I was a wild hellion walking the tight rope of anything dangerous and destructive, men with no names, dark doorways and allies, frisky hands and drunken breathes. Defiant, rebellious and with no sense of balance as if the world spun and took me with it.

  No was not in my vocabulary. It would not form a word in my lips. It is not that I didn’t want to say no—it was that I couldn’t. It was stuck inside the house, in a locked room, no access, couldn’t locate it but knew it was there. I remember in my upheaval of darkness, while I acted out the terrible inside me, the whole time, the little girl is screamed the word out loud and so passionate and painful she loses her voice. “NO!” She screamed. “Say NO.” She wrote it on the walls, acted it out in sign language and carved it in the floors. She screamed it for me, in me, of me and beyond me, a thousand times over, before, during and after the terrible awful. Her screams tipped over into my night terrors. Her screams echoed down hallways and pinged off window panes, never releasing its noise, going in circles, spinning and collapsing, absorbing into her skin, unable to penetrate my own. It was during these times I fought the worst of my madness, unable to control the wild unnamed adult that had to flee the curses of her own genetic makeup. What’s important to note is that I only remember these things now—because I wrote them down on the blue line inside the black notebook, called the book of pain. Reading it is eye opening. And scary as hell. It’s like I’m reading about some other girl. A very frightening mad woman. I’m a drug induced adrenalin man-junkie that needed a constant fix. A woman that would not touch the pain. Only circle the mountain of pain, over and over, coming close, so close, tracing the scars, feeling it in trickles and then it takes over and the woman runs. It is all she knows. The aloneness takes over, the neediness overbearing, void, empty. Her need for affection, to be love, and touched is primal and consuming. One after another, man after man. Each one leaves her empty. Black widow—temptress—seducer. That was me. I leaned on men like big skyscrapers, only to find out they were weak towers, wobbly and no stability, cracked foundations, fractured hearts. They fell and took me with them, crumbling to rubble. If I wasn’t sucking up some unsuspecting man, I was dying my hair to attract one. I’ve been a redhead, a blonde, and various shades of brunette, never satisfied with the woman in the mirror. My frustrated hair dresser told me verbatim, “Honey. It’s not a hair problem—it’s a heart problem.” I glared at her as if she just dyed my hair blue. I stormed out, pissed as all get out and commenced to do it myself. What does she know? When I fried my hair and looked identical to the mad scientist on Back to the Future, I figured she knew a lot more than I did. So I surrendered. And when I say surrendered, I mean, moved on to something else. This was my life. Wreck something and try something else. A replacement fix. Another addiction. Maw Sue’s words haunt me.

  “The enemy has prepared an addiction for you.”

  I have more than my fair share. I am my own addiction. I went on compulsive shopping sprees,
wiping out paychecks in one weekend, buying stuff I didn’t need or could afford. The temporary high would plummet to regret. The material object lost its luster. I’d be right back where I started. Broke, half mad, stringy hair and surrounded by a lot of crap. The house inside me shook, rumbled and quaked on its foundation and the little girl screamed, “No.” while she ached in the pain that was me. She cried, “Make the pain go away. Love me, save me. Help me.” I could not save her. Hell—I couldn’t save myself.

  The memories were almost more than I could take. When I came back to myself, I snapped. The little girl screamed inside my head impaling me with her vicious cycle of cries. Frantic, I pick up each picture of Branson and began ripping them to shreds. One after another, bone by bone, skin by skin, eye for eye. I enjoyed every minute of it. A barrage of pent up noises escaped my lips and I slipped into a state of catatonic scary. Resentment and anger seethed. I stacked the bones of Branson in little piles in front of me, dismantled into sections, arms, legs, torso, ears, neck, and eyes. I enjoyed seeing him torn to pieces. Just like he left me. Bastard.

  When I thought the nightmare was over—the universe sought to torture me more. In worse ways than this. I stood up to get a trash can and my eyes caught a glimpse of the demon hanging in my closet like limp moss from a tree limb. Seeing it re-surged a violent memory. The jacket, a demon in disguise hung on a hanger at the end of my closet, pressed against the pine wall, all snug and tight. Just like Branson used to fit with me. Spooning on the couch or under the covers. My mind drifts and touches dark places. My second skin crawls. I charge across the floor and jerk the demon off its hang. I am a reactionary. Over-reactor.

  The next thing I know, I’m standing in front of the mirror wearing the gross, filthy green demon. Why I had to put the jacket on, I don’t know. It was quick, over and done. Maybe to see if Branson still fit me, as sick and twisted as it sounded. It was true. A part of me wanted him back. Badly. Achingly. The part of me that liked being wrapped in demons. Another part of me craved the familiar, uncomfortable comfort that was us, even if it was bad. Attention is attention no matter what form it takes, at least it’s not alone. The girl I see in the mirror, the grown woman’s reflection fading in and out, girl to woman, woman to girl—is the one I don’t understand, the girl I hate, the sad little girl who is drawn to dark things. The girl who used to be drawn to light, moon and stars, is drawn to the black beyond the black, the dark way past the lesser light and I don’t know why.

  The jacket demon was military green, long sleeved with brass buckles and deep pockets. Branson gave it to me our first Christmas together. I gifted him his favorite cologne. While he was splashing it on, I took off all my clothes, except my panties and put the jacket on. We made love in front of the tree, lights twinkling in the deep of night. The jacket still smells like that night, cologne, carpet, sex, pine scented trees. It makes me long for his touch, his kiss, the good times we had. I try to keep the good ones so they’ll override the bad but it’s off balance. It doesn’t stop me from feeling. Just one more touch. Just one more smell. Just one more day with him, the way it used to be. When it was good. Because when it was good, it was really, really good. I gasp remembering. But when it was bad—it was demon bad. A warm spring pools up between my legs and a need overtakes me. I claw at my skin, hungry, a touch starved addict craving a body to fill its desires, its outstanding debts, its sweet revenge. I lose myself in twisted thoughts, wrapped in a green jacket, trapped in a past that will not release me as if I am again, wrapped in demons. The brass buckle dangles and rubs against my stomach. It’s cold and brings me back to the stark reality of my life. What are you doing Willodean? The mirror reflection that is me, speaks and gives me a stern look. “Take off that damn jacket. Burn the sumbitch right now. What the hellfire has gotten into you anyway? Gawd! After all he done to you and you’d go back? You’ve come too far to lose it now. Snap out of it. Get a grip girlfriend. Get a grip.”

  “Okay, okay.” I take off the jacket but the demon doesn’t hush. His delicate voice, a chime that breaks me, a simple jingle, a jangle, a lost earring or perhaps a few coins. I was notorious for misplacing things. Last week I found a gold peace sign inside a pair of blue jeans and a ticket stub from a Sammy Hagar concert. Before that, a few Michelob beer caps and a five dollar bill inside a suede hippie vest. I haven’t drank Michelob in years. I swear, from the look of things, my life is unclaimed and sitting in a lost and found box somewhere. Dingle, dangle, cling, clang. I long to silence the green demon so I reach my hand inside the pocket and pull out the lost something or another. My heart thuds. My eyes grow wild and fall to the floor. Two nickels and four years of my life sit in the palm of my hand like hatched baby demons I snatched out of the nest. The gold wedding band burns my skin until the fires of deceit crackle and sizzle. I feel as if I have just ripped out my own heart, with my bare hands and stare at it beating, one horrible beat after another. Uncontainable tears flow. Each one unleashes a memory, good, bad, and ugly—all meshed together. I see reflections, warped and blended coming off the wedding band, a mirror to myself, the poor, sad, unlovable, broken Willodean. A crumb of bitterness on my tongue takes me back to the day my life came undone.

  The final divorce was over by months. Days passed slow and horrid. Signed, sealed, stamped and finalized, a declaration of war over, a cease fire signed by both parties. The only thing I wasn’t doing was taking the ring off. It was my only attachment to the hopes and dreams I held secretly inside me. Without the ring—I was nothing. My life meant nothing. The ring was the only visual validation that I was of any importance at all. Certainly I was worth at least six hundred and forty-two dollars of 24 karat gold. Long after the papers were signed, I walked in a trance, dual realities not fully here and not fully there, not fully anywhere. In my colossal downfall, not willing to accept reality, I merely stuffed the ring out of sight, out of mind.

  Pink elephant. I pretended it didn’t exist. I did the very thing seekers should not do. Seekers cannot deny their existence, their true namesake, regardless of what happens in their lives, because good and evil are part of the internal makeup that characterizes what a seeker is to become. Without struggle, without war we would not know peace. Every lesson of life is to teach us something about life, about ourselves. The light and the lesser light both make up the substance of who a person is. Instead of facing the lesser light, and lighting a candle like Maw Sue did in her ceremonials, I stuffed the ring and all it represented inside the pocket of the demon, inside the closet, inside the room, inside the house, inside me. And just like pink elephants, when demons hide, they grow.

  ***

  Moth to flame. Our eyes slithered and collided across a crowded smoky bar room. Since I didn’t burst into flames, I fell in love, or lust. I shouldn’t have been there to begin with. I wasn’t able to sit still so I roamed, searched and sought after a man to love me, someone I could marry, spend the rest of my life with. Branson was just there, and seemed to lodge his way into the fit. He was life of the party. He held a beer in one hand, cigarette in another and danced on tables. He was the center of his own attention. He didn’t seem to care what others thought and I found this utterly attractive since I lived my whole life based on other people’s opinions, likes and dislikes. He shimmed and sashayed on the dance floor, and grinded his hips with a charismatic charm. He was ordinary, cute and outspoken but his green cat eyes held a glint of bad boy and that is all it took for me to latch on. It wasn’t his fault, really. The irresistible seductive charm I possessed captivated him. The spell worked as I knew it would. Sex always worked. The initial phase, at least. Once I got men, I always waited for the spell to kick in and render to me what I wanted in return. It never happened. For Branson and I, we were so tangled in each other, it was hard to tell who was who. I don't recall having giddy feelings of love, or butterflies. It was sex. Period. I was waiting on the magic to start but it never did. Looking back on it now—Branson was the honest one. He showed me exactly who he was. We�
�d been dating a week and a few days. One night at the club, by closing time, he was drunk off his ass, stumbling and barely able to walk. I insisted he give me the keys to his truck and let me drive home. He threw a wild eyed fit, cursed me out, called me a fucking bitch and told me to get in the goddamned car or he’d leave me standing in the parking lot at 2 AM. I was scared to death. For him, for us, for my life. He already had two DWI’s in the last year. I felt trapped. I had no one to call for help. So I got in the truck with him. I sat in the middle next to him in case he passed out while driving, at least I’d be able to grab the steering wheel. It was the scariest ten miles behind the wheel of an automobile I’ve ever had. He went ditch to ditch, down back roads, taking out mailboxes, garbage cans, running stop signs, and red lights. How the hell he found his driveway, I’ll never know. There were times, I’d try to grab the wheel and tell him to stay on the road but he’d go into a road rage. He’d jerk my hand off, start cursing, and send the truck reeling off the road again. All I could do was pray silently that we’d make it home alive. The whole time, in my head, I’m thinking, if I get out of this alive, I am never coming back. I am leaving his drunk ass tonight. When he pulled into the driveway, I was in a drenching cold sweat. Branson stumbled inside the house, knocking things down left and right. I stood in the driveway beside my car still in shock. A part of me wanting to run so fast away from him and never come back. But the darker side of me, the confused torn, displaced Willodean needed to fix him. He needed me. And so I went inside, and stayed like I always did. When I walked down the hallway, I saw his legs sprawled out on the carpet through a crack in the bedroom door. He was passed out cold. That night I laid between cold sheets processing it in my mind. He needs me, that’s all. He needs me to fix him. Yeah. That was it. He’ll change soon. He just needs someone to love him more. It sounds crazy to me now, but back then, it made perfect sense. It’s all I knew. I needed to fix things. And since I couldn’t fix me—I set my eyes on the next best thing. A man.