DREAMS of 18

by A. Kent, Saffron

  “What the fuck are you doing?” he growls.

  “Whatever you said,” I whisper, looking up at him, my knees on the squeaking, ancient hardwood floor.

  Then I go ahead and put my hands on the floor too, going down on all fours. My hands are a few inches shy of where the shards of glass start. They are scattered around, between him and me, and I don’t care if I have to crawl through glass to get to him.

  I glance up at him again and find his frown the thickest I’ve ever seen. It’s so deep, it’s almost like a hole in the ground.

  “You told me not to play games with you. Not to mess with you. To do as you say. So if you want me to kneel, then I’ll kneel.” I put my hand forward and take a step toward him. “I’ll crawl and beg and sacrifice myself until you move on. Until you don’t hate or feel angry. I’ll do anything and everything. Because that’s all I can do. I can’t change the past. I can’t take back my kiss, Mr. Edwards, but I can make you forget and move on.”

  And then, I lift my hand and walk it forward.

  I’m about to bring it down on the first broken piece of bottle and cut myself on it so I bleed and seal the oath that I’ve made him in blood when a hand grasps my wrist.

  Before I can even process this strange turn of events, I’m snatched up and pulled off my knees.

  The sudden change makes me dizzy and a furious Mr. Edwards swims in front of my eyes. The bones of his cheek and jaw are hard. As hard as his grip on my wrist, my bare wrist.

  He’s touching my skin.

  I’m so confused and distracted by his fingers on my naked skin for the first time that I wince when I hear his voice again. “Don’t. Ever. Do that again. Not for me.”

  That’s when I make sense of it all.

  He pulled me up at the last second.

  Not only that but he pulled me up by walking through the glass himself, on bare feet.

  In horror, I look down and find those feet of his, all bloody, but before I can say anything, he pushes me away like he burnt himself on my skin, so that I stumble back.

  And he stalks out of the room, leaving bloody footprints in his wake.

  He asked me what my plan was and I do have a plan.

  I’m at his cabin again and with me, I brought stuff for that plan too.

  Stuff like my suitcase, which I’m going to leave in my car for now; I don’t wanna spook him this early in the morning by showing that I’m here to stay with him for a little bit. Other than that, I left a note for my new pen pal, Billy, and asked him to do me a favor and buy stuff on the list I attached with the note.

  He did. He even left it at my door with a note of his own, saying that if I need anything else, all I have to do is ask. I left him another note and thanked him and told him that I was going to go away for a while.

  I wish I was strong enough to see Billy face to face. I wish I could at least say hi.

  But that’s not important right now.

  My entire energy needs to be focused on Mr. Edwards and the plan that I have for him. It’s going to be hard but he can do it.

  Okay, first order of business is to get these new roses planted.

  So I go out back to his rose garden that I worked on yesterday. I let my hobo slide down to the ground and squat to fish out my headphones and lollipops. Popping one in my mouth and putting on “The Chain” by Fleetwood Mac, I get to work.

  The air is quiet and the breeze barely exists. It’s like even the wind doesn’t blow in this part of the world. Everything, even the trees, the ground, the grass is abandoned and on its own.

  Something about that, about the silence and the loneliness of the place tugs at my heart as I’m digging holes and planting the overnight-soaked-in-water roses.

  I’m on the ground, bent over, my knees mashed into the dirt and my hands pressing the soil around the last rose bush when I hear the backdoor open even through the song in my ears, and I stop.

  Hastily, I straighten up, take off my work gloves and my headphones before turning around.

  Mr. Edwards is up.

  Like yesterday, he’s standing at the threshold, leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his chest. He’s just woken up; sleep is evident in every line of his sharp face and the stuck-up strands of his thick hair.

  There’s one difference though. He’s wearing a t-shirt: white over his plaid pajamas, and he doesn’t have a liquor bottle in his hands.

  So I guess there are two differences.

  Swallowing, I leave my stuff on the ground and stand up, all dirty and mud-caked. My eyes instantly drop to his bare feet. The hem of his pajamas flutters around them, making them seem as vulnerable as yesterday.

  I still can’t get over how he walked on broken glass to prevent me from doing it myself. I was supposed to bleed for him, seal my promise in blood.

  But he bled for me, instead.

  Gosh, he bled for me. And he touched my bare skin.

  Biting my lip, I ask, “How’re your feet?”

  His gaze drops to my mouth, making it tingle. “I’ll live.”

  “You should really put bandages on them.”

  “How are my roses?” he asks, ignoring my advice.

  They remind me of you…

  His words flash through my head and every part of me blushes. I remind him of delicate flowers he used to grow and care for. The flowers with pink, velvet petals. The color I’m sure my skin is turning into.

  If only that was a good thing.

  “Well, at the risk of pissing you off, I think they should be good. Unless you remember that you hate them now and forget to water them on purpose, they’ll live too.”

  A glint shines in his eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it’s a glint of light amusement that somehow cuts through the tension.

  “By the way, they’re Peace, the roses. Since you know, I took away your peace and all that. So I’m giving it back.”

  “You are, huh?”

  “Yup. They’re supposed to have lemony –”

  “Lemony yellow petals with pale pink edges, I know.”

  Damn it.

  Why is it so sexy that he knows these things? Someone like him, someone so rough knows so much about something so tiny and fragile. Before I can ask him how he knows so much about the roses, he tells me, “I’m not paying you for all the yard work. In case this is how you plan to finance your college education.”

  A churning happens in my stomach.

  Liar.

  I’m a liar.

  But I still try to tell the truth. “I don’t want your money.”

  “You want water?”

  “Are you going to tell me to jump in the lake again?”

  “I’m going to go back to the kitchen, open my fridge and bring you a bottle of water.”

  I blink.

  Then I blink some more.

  Did he really just say he was going to bring me water?

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Are you going to poison it? The water?”

  “Hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” He scratches his beard. “Actually, I was thinking it’s the least I could do for all the free yard work you insist on doing around here. But if you want to jump in the lake instead, you’re more than welcome to.”

  And just like that, he straightens up from the doorjamb and leaves.

  I stare at the door, now empty of his presence, wondering what just happened? Is this somehow… a truce?

  I can’t keep the smile off my face as I dash up to the rickety stairs and enter his house.

  I was so distracted yesterday that I didn’t notice a single thing about this cabin. But I do now.

  The hallway is short and narrow and as I walk down it, the floor squeaks. The walls are beige in color and bare. Once upon a time, I think this hallway was clean and free of dusty cobwebs that hang in the corners of the ceiling. The wooden walls didn’t have cracks in them, eit
her.

  I come upon the living room and the state of disarray is even more pronounced.

  The dusty, marked-up windows. In fact, one of them is broken even. A jagged hole in the glass, with cracks running up and down in all directions.

  The furniture is all old, reminding me of those abandoned mansions where everything is covered by white sheets for years and years, until someone comes along and takes the sheets off and lets the couch and the coffee table breathe.

  Only here, nothing is breathing.

  Everything is suspended and alone. Almost dead and lifeless.

  And in the midst of all this is Mr. Edwards. He stands in the kitchen – tall and aloof – at the island where he was yesterday when I wanted to crawl up to him, as he watches me watch where he lives.

  “Nice place,” I tell him.

  He accepts the fake compliment with a dip of his chin. “Thanks. I decorated it myself.”

  I shake my head at him. “You do know that I’m going to clean it all up, don’t you?”

  “Why? Are you my maid now?”

  “No. I’m your fairy godmother.”

  He studies me, runs his eyes up and down my disheveled body. Like yesterday, I’m mud-caked and dirty. The tendrils of my hair hang around my pale face in a sweaty mess, and I think I left muddy footprints on his floor when I walked inside.

  He’s not looking at the muddy footprints though. He’s looking at the state of me and I’m not sure if I pass muster.

  I so wanna, though.

  So, so wanna.

  Finally, he looks me in the eyes, nothing on his expression to suggest what he’s thinking as he says, “My godmother is dead. And I’m allergic to fairy dust.”

  Slowly, I smile.

  Then I chuckle and he watches it all like he can’t stop.

  I know it’s not true but I’m liking the delusion in this moment. So much so that I tell him, “It’s okay. If you faint from your allergies, I’ll stab you in the heart with a very sharp needle and bring you back to life, Mr. Edwards.”

  Mr. Edwards looks at my chest for a flicker of a second before murmuring, “Yeah, I’d rather you don’t. I’m not sure being alive is on my agenda.”

  Then he walks away from the island and goes to the cabinet above the sink. Out comes his precious: Jack Daniels.

  But before he can take a sip, I blurt out, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  His eyes flick to me, bottle clutched in his hand. “Yeah? Why? Is it poisoned? Like the water I’m going to give you in about two minutes.”

  I roll my eyes at his sarcasm.

  “Yeah, that’s funny.” I go to the island and lean against it. “What I mean is that the precious Jack Daniels of yours is not doing you any favors.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Noted.”

  “You know, every alcoholic thinks that he’s just so smart, doesn’t he? But he’s not. For example, did you know that drinking has both short-term and long-term effects? Like, long-term, you could lose your memory. You could get alcoholic hepatitis. Cardiomyopathy, liver fibrosis, high blood pressure including erectile dysfunction.” I pause so the information can sink in. “Yeah, I’m not kidding. I mean, it’s all over the internet, the news, the TV. Everyone knows how alcohol is bad and –”

  “What was the last one?” he interrupts.

  “What?”

  “The last thing you said. After high blood pressure.”

  I squint, thinking about it. And just as I figure out what I did say, I notice that his eyebrows go up in challenge.

  “What, you don’t think I can say it?” I fold my arms across my chest.

  He shrugs. “If I thought that, I wouldn’t have asked.”

  “Erectile dysfunction, okay? You’ll get erectile dysfunction if you keep drinking.”

  He sets his bottle down and folds his arms across his chest too, leaning against the counter. Now it looks like we’re having a face off of some kind.

  “What’s erectile dysfunction?”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Enlighten me.”

  I tap my foot for a few seconds before I round the island, causing a ruckus on the sagging hardwood floor, and stand directly in front of him.

  I crane my neck up to look at him – God, he’s tall – and he bows his head, looking down at me. We’re so close that I can feel his minty breath on my lips. So close that my feet recklessly think that it’s okay to close that inch of distance between us and get up on his feet.

  So close that they recklessly think that they are in love with his feet.

  “Fine. You want me to enlighten you? Your dick, Mr. Edwards, your dick won’t work, if you keep drinking. That’s what erectile dysfunction is. Now, are you happy? Did you think I wouldn’t say it? Do you think I’m some kind of a delicate flower who can’t say dick?”

  He unfolds his arms and comes away from the counter.

  His bare feet touch my sneakers and I’m forced to make space for him. Well, not forced exactly.

  I move back and keep moving back because I want to. Because I can’t help myself.

  His eyes are trained on me and he’s so big that he overtakes and hijacks all my willpower. I want him to hijack all my willpower and pin me down like a butterfly.

  Which happens exactly five seconds later when my butt hits the island. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m trying to tell you something.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “That I don’t have a dick.”

  “Wh-what?”

  He nods, staring me in the eyes, making me squirm. “Boys have dicks. Dicks that sometimes don’t work. I’m not a boy. Do I look like a boy to you?”

  “No.”

  “What do I look like then?”

  Does he really have to ask?

  I mean, just look at him. Look at that beard of his. All thick and dark and lending him a dangerous quality. Not to mention those lines around his gorgeous eyes. His high, sculpted cheekbones. That brawny body of his.

  He leans down toward me, bringing that body closer as he puts both his hands on the island, caging me in. “So?”

  “You’re a man,” I whisper, thinking that if he puts a little more pressure on the island, if he throws in a little bit of his strength, he can rip it out. So very easily.

  As easily as he can carry me and throw my tiny body around.

  I should really stop having that thought. Really.

  “Right.” He nods. “So, I don’t have a dick. I have a cock.”

  Jesus Christ.

  He said cock.

  Cock.

  So much filthier. Dirtier and more illicit. Like, you can only say cock when it’s the middle of the night and all the lights are turned off.

  I grab the island as well when I feel something tickle in the back of my knees, making them weak. “Okay.”

  “What do I have, Violet?”

  I’m not sure if he’s growing bigger with every second that passes or if I’m growing smaller. More feminine and submissive and pliant.

  “You have a cock,” I whisper like the slave I am.

  And then, I focus really, really hard so I don’t look down and check out the area where his cock is supposed to be.

  “Good.” He straightens up and moves away. “So I guess erectile dysfunction is off the table then.”

  After that, he makes for the counter and picks up his bottle again. I wake up from my daze as well and blurt out, “Don’t do this.”

  He gives me a blank look and takes a sip of whiskey.

  “Please, Mr. Edwards.” I step toward him, feeling a little disoriented from the fog he just put me in.

  “I think you should get your water and go.”

  He goes to take another sip but I make it to him in time and put my hand over his.

  I can’t even cover it, his hand. My fingers are so tiny and so pale against his bronzed ones. I could look at them forever, his big fingers and
my moon-colored, small ones.

  I squeeze his hand not only to stop him but to feel his strength, and his entire body goes tight. As if I somehow squeezed his heart, that beating, vital thing inside his chest.

  “Let it go,” he warns.

  I glance up at him and find those cheekbones of his darkened and flushed probably with anger and hate for me. “I know you don’t like me. I know you hate me.” His jaw clenches and his knuckles tighten up under my palm. “But I can’t let you do this. I’m not going to stand aside while you ruin the rest of your life. Alcohol is bad for you. It’s unhealthy. It’s destructive. You can’t waste your life like this. You can’t drink your life away because I kissed you and your whole world exploded because of it. You can’t do this to yourself. Or to Brian. I know he hates me too. I’ve betrayed his trust. You probably already know that we aren’t even friends anymore. He won’t talk to me. He won’t pick up my calls and I… know that’s my fault. But I’m not going to watch while you hurt yourself and him more, okay? I can’t.”

  I squeeze his heated fingers again. “I can’t watch you hurt yourself. You have to stop because I don’t have the strength to take on more blame, Mr. Edwards. You can blame me for all your problems. You can be cruel to me. You can be mean, but you can’t do this to me. I won’t be able to bear it. I won’t. So please, stop. For your sake, for your son’s sake and for mine.”

  Something hot trickles down my cheek and I realize it’s a tear. A lonely trail of salt water, burning my skin.

  I actually wouldn’t have noticed it or noticed the burn even, if it wasn’t for him.

  I noticed it because he’s watching it.

  He’s watching that lone tear trailing down my cheek, followed by another one. And another.

  He’s watching me cry and I’m not sure I like it. I promised myself that I wouldn’t cry in front of him. I wouldn’t show him any weakness.

  But I failed. I failed because I can take everything he wants to throw at me but I can’t take him destroying his life like this.

  I can’t take it.

  I expect him to be disgusted like he used to be when one of his players cried. Or even unmoved.

  I never expected him to look like this.

  This stricken.

  This… affected. There’s a groove running down the center of his forehead and he has made himself so rigid that he’s almost vibrating with the effort.