Red

by Tracey H. Kitts

  He wasn't blinded by my beauty. Rather he chose to let it overshadow my flaws, even though he saw them. He did not even appear to notice or care about my scars. Alfred looked at me as if I were a work of art, and not an object. I'd never felt so much like a woman, nor so proud to be one. How do you say ‘thank you’ for reading someone's mind? Especially when you weren't supposed to be there.

  * * * *

  I slumped to the training room floor, my body exhausted, mind still racing with the thoughts of my conflicting emotions. I had tried everything possible over the past two weeks to get Alfred and Marco out of my head. “If you can keep them out of your head, you can keep them out of your bed,” I kept telling myself. I wasn't entirely sure that line of thinking was correct, but it helped me sleep at night.

  I looked up at the solid steel knight I'd been fencing with. “Well there you go,” I said to myself. Putting my hand on his cold metal foot for balance, I rose to my feet. I placed the rapier I'd practiced with to my forehead, and made a dramatic bow. Then with a flourish and a swish, replaced the blade to its holster at my hip. I took a step toward the dummy, propping my head against his arm. The cold steel felt good against my overheated face. “My knight in shining armor,” I breathed.

  "Well, aren't we morose?"

  I turned to see Kat making her way across the training room, her white pants reflected in the highly polished wood of the floor. I'd always thought Kathryn looked good in white. I leaned more heavily on the knight, suddenly feeling my days of nearly endless training.

  "Not that it isn't good to see you, Kat, but to what do I owe the pleasure?"

  She held a sparkling piece of jewelry to the light. “I came to return your necklace."

  I leaned forward, releasing the knight in order to inspect the necklace more closely. “Kat, you borrowed this last year."

  "Bout time I brought it back then, don't you think?"

  "Why don't you just admit you came by to check on me?"

  "Ok. Fine, I came by to check on you. And just in time, it would seem. You're talking to dummies for crying out loud."

  With a melodramatic flourish of my wrist, I motioned toward the statue as I said, “Kathryn, meet Don.” I turned to the knight with a smile. “You're not a dummy, are you Don?” I said playfully.

  "Don? As in Don Quixote?” She laughed. “Gees, you really are losing it, Lil.” She motioned toward the knight. “Your knight in shining armor, huh?"

  With a sigh, I placed my hands on both her shoulders. “Darling, this is as close as I'm likely to get."

  She laughed before saying, “If you ask me, it'd be too hard to pry him out of that tin can, even if he were real."

  "Is that all you ever think about?"

  Kat pretended to actually consider the question. “Mostly."

  I began unbuckling my sword belt as I walked to the hook where it normally hung.

  "What's wrong, Lil? What's really wrong?” she asked.

  With my back still turned to her, I answered as honestly as I could. “When I figure it out, I'll let you know.” She seemed to understand my answer. As we walked past the large full length mirror near the door, I realized we looked like different sides of the same coin. Kat looked so vibrant and alive. Her snug white pants and sleeveless matching blouse looked fresh, like the summer day outside.

  Preferring form fitting clothes for training, so as not to hinder my movements, I wore black yoga style pants and a sleeveless matching shirt. Both were tight enough to reveal I'd lost more weight lately. I had always been slender, but as of late, I'd begun to look positively thin. Staring at my reflection that morning, I looked every bit like the Death the dark woman had called me that night.

  "Speaking of morose,” Kat said, “What's wrong with Alfred?” She gave a sort of half laugh. “Who pissed in his cornflakes?"

  I couldn't help but laugh. “That would be me, I'm afraid. I sort of ... told him about cuffing Marco to the chair when I questioned him."

  Her mouth fell open slightly. “And he was jealous?'

  "I think so."

  Kathryn looked as if that was the best news she'd heard in a long time. “Really? You know,” she added, smiling, “This might not be a bad thing."

  She was right. The ‘bad thing’ was waiting in my kitchen. As we walked across the house from the training room, my ears were assaulted by the sound of shrill feminine laughter. Kat shot a questioning look at me. We entered the kitchen to find a woman I did not know obviously flirting with Alfred. I wanted her out of my house.

  "Lilith.” Alfred smiled. “I'd like you to meet our new neighbor...."

  "Marcy Johnson,” the woman said, rising from the table and extending her hand.

  I looked at the hand with its polished red nails as if someone had just offered me strychnine. My lip curled slightly as I forced myself to say, “A pleasure, I'm sure.” She looked awkwardly at her outstretched hand. Before she could retract the offer, Kat seized her hand and introduced herself quickly, “Kathryn Roberts,” she said with a smile.

  I gave Kathryn a look that said clearly, “Whose side are you on?” as she turned her fake smile to me, and nodded toward the two empty seats at the table. I ignored the gesture, walking toward the refrigerator instead, while Kat took a seat beside our guest. Marcy looked to be about five foot seven. She had blond frizzy hair, a flat chest, wide ass, and a pointy nose. I opened the fridge and pretended to look for something in order to avoid conversation as much as possible.

  "So, Marcy, what do you do?” Kat asked.

  I paused for her response. “I'm a teacher,” she said, her thin lips parting in a sugary sweet smile that turned my stomach. I closed the refrigerator door harder than I'd intended to and she turned her big blue bug eyes on me. “And what do you do?” she asked.

  I smiled maliciously, about to blurt out that I killed frizzy headed school teachers, but Alfred interrupted, “Lilith's an artist,” he said quickly.

  "Ah, that explains it,” she said, glancing at my bare feet with their deep purple toenails, lingering on the dragonfly tattooed to the top of my right big toe. I wiggled the toe and she jumped, much to my satisfaction. Her sweet smile wavered only slightly as she turned her attention back to Kat.

  "What about you?” she asked.

  "I'm an interior designer,” Kat answered.

  Marcy gave another shrill giggle, casually touching Alfred's arm as she said, “That's always looked like such fun to me.” My grip tightened on the bottle of water in my hand. I turned to look out the window above the sink. If I kept looking at Marcy I'd either retch, or start throwing the set of expensive kitchen knives that my eyes kept wandering toward. I looked down and saw a hastily scribbled note in Alfred's handwriting. It said Elijah had called. That at least gave me something better to think about than the annoying, giggling woman at my table.

  I gazed back out the window, tuning her out as much as possible. I let the image of her pale blue bug eyes fade into the startling deep blue of Elijah's. Elijah Jasper was absolutely adorable. Watching Marcy fling herself at Alfred made me wonder if I shouldn't talk to Elijah more. The thought of going out with him had occurred to me before, but the innocent way he smiled made me wonder what place he could possibly have in my life.

  He definitely wasn't my type. That in itself made him seem dangerous somehow. I wasn't sure I was ready to explore new territory. For the most part, I liked older men. I've always felt comfortable with an older, more experienced man. I supposed I was considering a relationship with Elijah in retaliation for having to watch that woman coming on to Alfred. Until Kat brought up the subject, I'd never thought of Alfred romantically. I wasn't sure what I felt, but until I could sort it out, I did not need some slutty school teacher hanging all over him.

  I caressed my hip absently, wishing I'd kept on my sword belt. But, then again, who needs a sword when you're part animal? I looked at her fake smiling face with its over done make up and wondered how she'd react if she knew I could rip men apart with my bare h
ands. That's when it hit me, I was jealous.

  I remembered the way she'd looked at my tattoo. If she knew what I really was, she'd no doubt be the first to point a finger at me with one of those high gloss red nails, calling me a monster. Make no mistake, if ever the opportunity presented itself, I would hurt this woman. I was snapped from my fantasy of strangling her till her eyes bulged out by the realization that she was leaving. Kathryn quickly offered to show her out. With an artificial smile to me, she followed Kat to the door.

  Alfred looked at me like he wanted to say something, but after seeing the expression on my face, changed his mind. Kathryn walked back in, smiling at us both. “So, what do you think of your new neighbor?"

  "You know, Kat, that was what first attracted me to this place, its lack of neighbors."

  "She seemed pleasant enough,” Alfred said, his smile widening at the glare I shot toward him.

  "Sure,” I said. “She had a brainless, amoeba sort of charm about her."

  Kat barely stifled a giggle at the look that passed between Alfred and me. “Well,” she said, trying to maintain her composure, “I should really be going."

  "I'll see you out,” I offered.

  "That's alright,” she said, “I've been here before.” And with that, Kathryn was gone, leaving me alone with the man I'd managed to avoid for the past two weeks. Alfred gave me a look that said he was clearly displeased with my treatment of Ms. Johnson.

  "If you don't like the woman, fine,” he said, “but you don't have to be openly hostile."

  He seemed surprised when I replied, “I don't want to argue,” and quietly left the room.

  * * * *

  I entered my bedroom, and closed the door on the world. There was more than one reason I'd felt bad that day. I sat down at the small writing desk and picked up my journal. I kept a journal of my most unusual dreams, occasionally recording important events in my life, as well. It had been a year ago that my cat, Conan, had died. I closed my eyes and remembered a large, long haired black cat, with a white belly, white paws, and a streak of what looked like white war paint smeared across his pink nose. I felt tears sting my eyes as I turned to the page in the journal I'd written last year.

  "My cat died today. I believe there is a purpose in everything, but I fail to see the purpose in my cat dying. Conan was probably the best friend I had. He was certainly more loyal than most people I know. Now that I think of it, I don't believe I have a picture of him. That's ok. I'm not likely to forget him. I think he was poisoned. He got sick last night and died early this morning.

  Why is everything I love taken from me? I'm afraid that I don't love enough, that I don't show enough of what I feel. But, just when I give up the fight, stop holding back my feelings ... they're gone.

  If it's a man, he leaves. If it's a friend, they turn on me. If it's a pet ... he dies. The story of my life, I suppose. I am so close to loving Bradley the way that I should, the way that I need to...."

  Bradley was the name of the man I'd been involved with for three and a half years, who later turned out to be married. I continued to the next passage I'd written only three months before.

  "The last time I gave myself over to that type of all consuming, accepting, understanding love, it all went to hell. I should have seen this coming. The first time that I was hurt this badly, I nearly lost my mind. Ever since then, once I'd mentally recovered, I've held back.

  There is a part of myself I do not give. I give my compassion, my understanding, my protection, if need be. I give my time and my energy, but every time I give my trust ... my heart, something goes wrong.

  Is it so wrong to love a friend like family? Is that why they abandon me or stab me in the back? Is it wicked of me to find some measure of peace in a strong embrace? I'm tired of withholding myself from the people I care about. I'm tired of living in fear of what will be taken next. It's eight forty five in the morning, I've been awake since four and now, I've just been to visit the grave of my cat, my companion for the past four years. I've got to eat lunch with some of my mother's family in a few hours ... Fuck me."

  I put down the journal and dried my eyes. It was painful to remember, but reliving that memory seemed to help me. We cannot really begin to heal until we give ourselves permission to hurt. The first time I was hurt badly, that I'd briefly mentioned in my journal, brought to mind a face I thought had long been forgotten. I saw the face of Peter, the first man I'd ever loved. We'd been dating when I was attacked and like a trusting fool, I'd told him what had happened. His face that used to shine with love, became the first to cringe at the sight of me. I watched the hand I'd once held be the first to point a finger, and with a voice I'd committed to memory, call me ‘monster'.

  I kept telling myself that I was not a monster. A man who could throw someone away so carelessly, he was the monster. Even knowing that, I still wondered what was wrong with me. I was tired of having to dilute myself in order to make other people feel safe. No one could handle knowing all of me. If only I could find someone who would understand. I have let go of people I wished I could keep. You can't keep people, but you can hold on to the love you felt for them. All I've ever wanted is for someone to love me for me, not who they think I am, or who they want me to be. I know what it's like to be turned away because it would be too difficult to love someone ‘different'. Men fear what they do not understand. I stood by and watched Peter marry another girl I'd known in school. She was ordinary, simple, easy, and I despised her for it. Looking at Marcy Johnson, the resemblance was uncanny.

  However, I sympathized with Peter, as I later came to sympathize with his wife. Does it really matter if Peter was hers in the end, when he was mine first; when a part of him would always be mine ... a part she was not capable of touching? At least Peter had been man enough to say goodbye. I would always love him for it. I didn't really miss Bradley, for I saw him as he truly was before he left. I was glad to be rid of someone like him, it just ... hurt. My love and my trust had been abused by someone who was unworthy of them both. I found myself wondering if what I felt for Alfred was something more than friendship. And, I asked myself, does it matter if Marcy has him, knowing it's me he cares for?

  "Yes,” I answered out loud, “it does."

  * * * *

  The beautiful summer day had begun to turn as ugly as my mood. Through the doors to the balcony, dark clouds could be seen gathering. Technically, it was still spring, but when the temperature reached nearly eighty degrees every day, I called it summer. That's the only thing about Florida I wasn't fond of. I did not deal well with the heat. But, you can't have everything, and living in the middle of nowhere, with almost no neighbors, I was probably surrounded by some of God's best art work. As I walked out onto the balcony, surrounded by deep red roses, I marveled at the fact that there were people who did not believe in the existence of a higher power. I watched the storm clouds rumble and swirl, looking like a bruise mingling with the blue of the sky. I had the urge to get a blank canvas and some paint. Yes, God existed, and he was an artist. In my opinion, anyone who doubted that need only watch one sunset. Every day the countryside around me was painted with the same masterful hand in a slightly different portrait.

  The first few rain drops began to fall around me, making the roses look like bobbing little red heads as the rain bounced from their petals. I closed my eyes, tilted back my head and let the rain wash away the bad memories. After a minute or two of the refreshing downpour, I stepped inside and made my way to the shower. The upstairs bathroom is huge. There's an alcove in the corner that hides the walk-in shower with a wall made of large river rock. I shed my wet clothes, throwing them onto a mat so as not to damage the wood floor.

  The shock of the hot water on my skin after the cool rain was surprisingly pleasant. I looked out the small octagon shaped window to my right, watching the rain slide down the glass. I needed to talk to my father. Talking to him always helped to put things in perspective. I dried off quickly, put on my robe, and began looking for
my communicator.

  My father was on planet Terra. He went back and forth as his job required and at the moment, it required him to be there. I sat down at the writing desk, making sure my robe was closed up to my chin. My father knew I wasn't a saint, but there was no reason to look trashy. I pushed the red button on the small communicator and watched as my father's image projected into mid air before me. He was cooking French toast.

  "Hey,” he said, dropping his spatula on the floor.

  "Hey, Daddy. Do you have a minute?"

  "Yeah,” he picked up the spatula, flinging it into the sink behind him. “I've been wanting to talk to you,” he added, sitting at the table so I could get a better look at him. Jacob Ellis Mercury was fifty one years old, but he didn't look it. The streak of white hair on the chin of his otherwise red beard was the only indication he was over thirty five.

  "What's wrong?” he said, apparently getting a better look at me, too.

  "Bad day."

  He smiled in a way that said he remembered exactly what my bad days normally consisted of. “Someone pissed you off, huh?"

  "Yeah.” I laughed, feeling better already. “I'll get over it. What did you need to talk to me about?"

  "Barak.” He said the name as if he were referring to a cockroach.

  "Why, what's he done?"

  "Remember the crap he gave you about equal rights?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, he's asking for permission to speak before the council."

  "The Wizard Council?” I said, disbelieving Marco would go that far.

  "That's right. Won't say what it's all about, though."

  "He'd need a special escort even to be allowed back on the planet."

  We both paused, considering the situation. I spoke first. “Do you think he'll get it? Permission to speak to the council?"

  "I'm not sure, but if he does, I'm damn sure gonna know what he says.” He held up what looked like a small blue dragonfly.