AnguiSH

by Lila Felix

  Anguish

  A novel

  Lila Felix

  Copyright 2013 Lila Felix / Rebel Writer Productions, LLC

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be resold or given to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard word of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or a 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.

  Cover art: ZenyaGFX

  Cover Photography by K. Keeton Designs

  Cover Models: Cameo Hopper and Justin Schrock

  “The anguish of the neurotic individual is the same as that of the saint. The neurotic, the saint are engaged in the same battle. Their blood flows from similar wounds. But the first one gasps and the other one gives.”

  Bataille, Georges

  Acknowledgements:

  First and foremost, my husband and my kids. For every time you got me away from the computer and requested that I be present, I love you for it.

  To the Hellcats:

  Thanks for taking in a glue-eating, iguana stealing, weird, fuzzed out girl from down the street and making me feel like I belong.

  For Shelly and Mandy: You are the wind beneath my wings.

  To the Rink Rats: I love all your guts times infinity!

  To the ones who love me,

  Despite the squeaky voice and endless jabber

  To the ones who miss me when I’m gone

  Who never split and scatter

  To the ones who give and embrace me freely,

  Without score or scribbled pen,

  You love me without falter

  Through choice you are my kin.

  Lila

  Prologue: Two Years Earlier

  “Oh come on Breaky.” Why in the hell I’d put up with her calling me ‘Breaky’ for so long was beyond comprehension. It reminded me of a song, sung by that mulleted country singer years ago. But I went along with it, blindly. I went along with a lot of shit. I complied when she took all of the money from our bank account on a weekly basis and went shopping. And I’d given her a debit card attached to my account, the most ludicrous decision by far. I relented when credit card bills came in with my name on them that I’d never applied for, and certainly never charged fifteen grand on. I backed off when she asked for space. I didn’t even say anything when she claimed not to want to sleep in the same bed as me anymore because I snored. I’d never snored a day in my life. I thought I was giving her ample space—everyone needs space, right?

  All black clouds that portended the storm.

  And then I was in the middle of a full blown panic attack, cowering in front of her friends.

  I’d walked into the party wanting to spend time with my friend Memphis who I hadn’t seen in a while since Holly hadn’t come home again. I also just needed a break from being home alone all the time. I hated it. It was too silent, too eerie. As soon as I opened the door to his apartment, he turned white as a sheet and tried to stop me from entering.

  “What the hell, man,” I asked him.

  He looked left and right and gave me a glance that registered apology and embarrassment. I rubber necked, looking for the source of his shame and spotted it immediately. Holly was straddling some guy on the couch, her hand down his pants, her tongue down his throat right there in front of God and everyone I knew.

  I stalked over, the anger brimming to the surface and barked at her, “Jesus Christ, Holly!”

  This is the part where she started her Breaky act in this play.

  The guy beneath her guffawed out a laugh, “Come on man, she’s been screwing me for months like this. She’s been screwing you by robbing you blind. Like you didn’t know.”

  I didn’t. I didn’t have a clue.

  His friends started in on me next and the more they jeered and the more cackles erupted from her mouth, I lost it. I couldn’t do anything but stare at the sneer on her face as their revelations pounded in my ears. The edges of the room fizzled into shadow as her betrayal sunk in.

  “Where do you think all the money’s gone man? Or does Daddy give you so much you haven’t even noticed? She’s been paying our rent and buying us beer. Hell, I even got new shoes out of the deal—plus a piece of this fine ass,” He squeezed her behind and she yelped, a dog pissing on his property.

  Drums beat in my ears, a creature clawed to get out of the confines of my chest, organs somersaulted, menacing salty waves clanged against my eyelids. The density of the air changed and I sucked in molasses instead of air into my lungs. It was that moment that ruined me. It was in that moment I shed my former self and left it dead in Memphis’ house. All the world faded.

  Breaker

  “It’s disgusting,” I parroted her; she always got nasal when referring to all things pestiferous. The top items on her list of foul objects: Ground beef, roaches, carpet of any kind, and of late, me—well, my growlery in particular.

  “Don’t you sass me Breaker James. I could care less about your detest for my meddling. Get it cleaned up before I show up next week or I will hire a maid myself,” she quipped.

  The shudder ripped through me at the thought and she knew it. She couldn’t hire someone—she wouldn’t. Damn her for knowing how to hit below the belt.

  “Fine. I’ll take care of it, Mom,” I groaned back at her. It wasn’t that bad. Yes, the dishes were piled up in the sink and something growing a fur coat on one plate in particular—I think it was spaghetti, was being the operative word. And maybe the dust could be seen flying in formation when the sun shone through the splice in the curtains. There was no soap scum ring around the bathtub, but that was because I never took baths, that has to count for something. If I were a regular person, I would keep up with the everyday chores. I would keep up with chores like emptying the dishwasher and washing my clothes.

  If I were a regular person, I could actually walk out of this prison—house, it’s a house.

  “Test me not Breaker. I will not be moved on this. And I get what you’re going through, I do. But no son of mine will live in filth—period.” She hung up the phone, unwilling to hear my response. I had to clean this place up. I had a week.

  I didn’t used to be like this. I was that guy who did the dishes after dinner because my girl had cooked. I spent Saturday mornings cleaning the house and making sure the grass was mowed. I got dressed in the morning and ran—outside. I went to visit my mom and my sisters. I went to school where there was a real classroom and the phrase virtual classroom was unheard of. There were lots of things I used to be and do.

  During the week that followed, I did some things, none of which I would call cleaning. I wrote. I journaled. I stayed in chat rooms constantly, my only method of social interaction. I expected a knock at the door telling me I’d been catfished any day now. I studied and worked on classwork. I didn’t clean. In fact, I would say the mess had doubled in volume and stench. I just didn’t care. Why should I? In this chasm, not quite living and not quite dead, no one, except my mother, gave a rat’s ass if my house was clean.

  I did do my laundry, mostly because I was out of things to wear. I didn’t wea
r real clothes anymore. I wore basketball shorts and old band and sports t shirts. Who was gonna see me? And my bedroom was clean for the most part. The rest of the house—no one came over, so why would I care if it was presentable? Anyway, she wouldn’t hire a maid. She knows how I feel about—people. I really didn’t mind people one on one but eventually they would want to go out into the world. And that was where my part ended. I never left this house, not even to go to the mailbox. I never went to the grocery store or the park. I didn’t get to hear concerts or leave a lame party early.

  It had been two years, three months and nineteen days since the party. Subtract three days spent in the hospital for monitoring and that’s the length of time since I’ve been out of these walls.

  I threw a t-shirt on, since Mom would be at the house any minute and tried to scroll excuses through my head, picking the most lucrative options as to why I hadn’t obeyed her request as I tore down the stairs. I plucked ‘I had a ton of schoolwork’ out of the mental pile and decided that was my story.

  I heard her car in the driveway; it was the only car which made an appearance in my driveway. I smirked to myself. She was soooo not hiring a maid. I had this in the bag.

  She walked in and I hugged her, kissed her cheek and smiled that gooshy sweet grin I knew she loved.

  “It smells like a garbage dump in here,” the look of determination on her face terrified me. She was dressed like she was a high level executive, all pencil skirt and pearls even though everyone knew she was a country club rat.

  I laughed it off, “Come on, you’re being dramatic.”

  She closed her eyes and exhaled, “Breaker, I have to.” She looked down and shook her head.

  “No, Mom. I’ll take care of it,” I could feel my innards begin their quaking and quivering at just the thought of a new person in my house. An elephant sat on my chest and the little beating mouse thumped furiously against the weight. God, what if I had a panic attack in front of them and they thought I was a freak?

  “No Breaker, I’ll take care of it. This,” she pointed to the kitchen behind me, “is what happens when you take care of things lately. This was not part of the deal. I’m sorry if you don’t like it. Just one more thing to talk to Angela about. Tell her your mother forces you to be hygienic.”

  She always did this. She thought that the psychologist came to the house and all we did was talk about how bad of a mother I had and that must be the root of my challenge. That wasn’t it at all but there was no convincing her lately. She’d convinced herself if she’d paid more attention to Holly’s antics she could’ve prevented my downfall. Hell, I couldn’t stop it, how could she?

  “What are you gonna do,” Come on logic, work your magic. “Put an ad in Craigslist? What would it say? Wanna clean for a guy who is a slob and—insane?”

  “Don’t do that Breaker. But yes, that’s exactly what I intend to do. I’ll have to ask Navy about it since I’m not good at the computer stuff. She’ll know what to do. I’m also going to put some flyers up at LSU. So, I will narrow the people down to a few and then I will send them over here for interviews,” she held up her hand before my mouth could protest, “I will schedule it so you know they are coming but this is happening, honey, so just get over it.”

  She left me silent and stunned until the reality of what she said crashed down on me, “Shit!”

  Ashland

  Annoying—that was the word used most often to describe me. I’ve heard the whole gambit: pesky, irritating, vexing, bothersome and my favorite, galling. That one was used on me by the teacher who used to run the S.A.T. class after school. He called me galling and then told us to write that word down and then use it in a sentence. But good, old fashioned annoying was the word Tracy used this morning, not so politely explaining to me why she didn’t want me in her study group.

  “You just talk too much. I mean, some people just wanna be quiet. And you think you’re really funny, but we really just don’t. I’m sorry. I’m sure Professor Landry will put you in another group.” She hung up afterwards, not even a goodbye. And it was me who was annoying?

  This was nothing I hadn’t heard before. I was obnoxious. I talked too much. My voice was too high pitched. I sounded like Minnie Mouse—too soprano, especially when I was happy or thoroughly pissed off. My voice has been compared to a meth-laden prairie dog, a hamster caught in a wheel and King Adrock from the Beastie Boys. The latter of which I kinda liked. Who doesn’t love King Adrock? I was too needy—too desperate for friendship. I showed affection too frequently. I trusted too easily and I trusted everyone. I tried to help people, sometimes even to my own detriment. I got run over—a lot. I had some tattoo on my forehead, only visible to the users that read ‘run me over’. I called it loyalty and kindness. So that’s why, at a young age, I gave up on friends. I kept my head down and my hopes high. I spent my time alone, smothered by books and music until I got to college. It was then, isolated in a new city, I realized I needed some people to rely on.

  Now I had Stephanie, but ever since one of my Dad’s businesses had gone under and he couldn’t pay for my dorm room anymore, I only had two more weeks with her as my roommate before I would have to find another place to live. That was gonna suck. I had a job lined up at a local restaurant but I only had enough money for rent; most places wanted first and last month’s rent plus a deposit. I didn’t know what I would do.

  Stephanie plopped on her bed, her long blonde hair fanning out around her as she threw her torso onto her pillow.

  “Studying is the pits Ashland. Let’s go get ice cream.”

  I tied up my shoes, getting ready to visit the library. Ice cream was her stress release, talking was mine. But since I’d been so joyfully reminded that I gabbed too much already once today, I decided not to press my luck. Not that she cared. She knew who I was and loved me anyway.

  “I gotta go study,” I forced my voice to speak at an octave lower, determined not to sound like a rabid feline.

  She waved at me, a pageant wave. I grabbed my backpack and left. Now without the group to study with, I needed to buckle down especially since I’d loaned my completed study guide to Matt, one of the study group members. I was not even attempting to get it back. I may be a tad bit more self-confident than I was before—but I was far from stupid. This was my third year at LSU and I was determined to graduate on time. I intended to be a vet but sometimes it felt like I was walking uphill—and I was out of shape.

  Every single semester, something tripped me up. The first day of class, my first semester of freshman year, the teacher announced in front of the class that I had a delinquent account and needed to leave and visit the Bursar’s office. But when I got there, I was told it was a small error to my account and no big deal. Too late—there was already a large dent in my pride. I ended up dropping that class and entering one where my confidence hadn’t been pancaked.

  The second semester, I waited too long to order my books because I was working over break to pay for them and the bookstore was out of stock. So, while waiting for my books to arrive, I spent the first two weeks of class looking over the shoulder of a grungy guy who I swore had pesto sauce in his ear—every—single—day.

  I finally made it to the library. The LSU library smelled like old musty books. It was such a great smell. The elevators were over forty years old and their rusty hinges wailed in warning for me to take the stairs or possibly plummet to my death. I took the stairs to the basement where I searched for the little room that sold older books and magazines for a dime a piece. I never bought any, since I had no place to put them, but it was nice to look. The vintage housewife books always cracked me up. I quit my useless shopping and made my way upstairs to get down to business. I found a table on the second floor by the mostly for show reference books and took up residence. I cracked open my textbook and started in on cell walls and cytoplasm.

  Hours and chapters later, I stretched and decided to call it a night. LSU wasn’t the safest place at night and I needed to get back
to the dorms before the creepers came out to play. After all, I was the girl who trusted even the most suspicious looking stranger—axe murderer bait. On my way out, I decided to check the bulletin board for jobs and apartments. I saw mostly ‘get rich quick’ flyers printed on neon green paper with pull off phone number tags. But on the bottom right corner, on cream colored paper embossed with the initials ANC, with the C the largest, was a handwritten note with the words ‘Live In Maid Needed’ across the top. It threw me off amongst the other cold, computer printed flyers and piqued my interest simultaneously.

  The name Anya was written with a phone number and instead of scribbling the information down on a sheet of paper; I ripped the note from the corkboard and stuffed it in the pocket of my jeans. I didn’t want anyone else to get wind of this opportunity before me—sucker punch move. I got back to the dorm after picking up a sandwich from the Union. When I arrived back in my dorm room, Stephanie was passed out cold with a highlighter still in her hand and a cup of melted chocolate ice cream on the desk next to her bed.

  I had eaten my sandwich on the way back. I looked at the clock and decided it was too late to call the number on the paper, no matter how much it intrigued me. I folded it in thirds and placed it in the top drawer of my desk for safe keeping. I grabbed my toothbrush, toothpaste and a towel and tip-toed in to the communal bathroom down the hall; listening for suspicious sounds.

  One episode of my messed up freshman year I named ‘Shower Surprise’ in which I tried to take a shower—big mistake.

  I had just stepped into the warm, sputtering spray and pulled the curtain behind me and started to wash my hair when I heard the ruckus outside the flimsy barrier. I heard bodies tripping over each other and flesh slamming into walls. Then the other tell-tale sounds started. College love conquests were pretty noisy. If I hadn’t already had a head full of shampoo, I would’ve bolted immediately. I rinsed my foamy head as quickly as possible and scrambled out, eyes squeezed shut. I ran back to my room in only a towel at the exact moment a group of people returned from a pep rally. I endured the cat calls until I reached my room.