Clark, Jess

            Is it dishonest to give mini versions of yourself to lots of people but not give anyone all of you? Handing out these mini versions of yourself like your latest mix tape, little hits of connection so that you never feel completely alone, so you satisfy your need to interact without compromising your vulnerability. So you spare your pillowcase the wet mascara chronicles. So you save your mind the racetrack of questions, self-doubt, over analyzing. Is that dishonest?

Can’t make that mistake again, even if they’re hidden behind loving eyes, the doting arms that wrap around you when you shift in your sleep. The smiling eyes standing at the door with your coat while you look for that second high heel hiding under the couch. The delicate hands that tuck stray hairs behind your ear – the same hands that find themselves resting on your knee by second nature. The soft lips that steal forehead kisses when words have expired. The troubling eyes that you never see again, the soft whispers you never hear again. That bottom lip that’s never heard of apologies or explanation. The ghost that haunts the empty half of your bed, the vacant corner of your heart. Can’t make that mistake again.

That’s called safety to me. Security. Strategy. Daddy always talks about security. Give yourself security so you never have to justify his actions. Support yourself, financially and emotionally. I don’t raise scared daughters. I don’t raise excuses either. Just remember baby, the earth doesn’t rest on the axis of men.

           Strategy is quenching their thirst with insignificant stories, the ones men think are personal gifts they never sought themselves entitled to. They’re a little dangerous but not revealing enough where they’re scared or overwhelmed. They’re the stories that tap into their protective side, the stories that push you back onto the sidewalk because that car came out of nowhere.

You grant them with the confidence of seeing your inner layers, when they’re really still standing on the other side of the bridge to your soul. It’s the surface scratching stuff and they’d be terrified to find out these superficial tokens aren’t even the deep secrets. The dark shit. You tell them enough to make them feel like the quarterback of your heart. They’re never going to be more than the water boy. It’s modern entertainment. Reality TV is out, ghosting is in. Are you ready for it?

           “Thea, I’m so sorry. You don’t have to tell me more… of course you can and I’ll always listen, but if it’s too hard… I understand. I’m sorry that happened to you. You don’t deserve that.”

           My hair is always tucked behind my right ear, letting that little diamond stud shine. I push my shoulders forward, bat my eyes downward. My shirt is always loose but never hiding my figure completely. My game is to tease, to hold my tea between both hands, soaking in the steam, looking up at my knight in shining armor – for the night. He has no idea I’m winning.

           “No need to apologize. It’s not your fault. But thank you, you don’t have to listen. I normally don’t open up about this stuff. Sometimes though, when you haven’t talked in a while about it, it all builds up and falls on a stranger. Ya know?”

           Pico works in real estate. And when I say real estate I mean he was the agent’s bitch and he knows just how much cream is in a splash, how much sugar is in a pinch. He’s kind, almost unbearably handsome, straddling smart and intelligent with his degrees, well read. Boy had all the bells and whistles when all he wanted was my key.

           “Well I’m always here to listen, Thea. And I hope I won’t stay a stranger for long.”

           He will.

           “I hope not either,” I lift my chin up so he can see the grey in my eyes sparkle with the impending sunset outside. I raise my eyebrows with a slight innocence, my smile with a faint appreciation. He has no idea I’m winning.

           Pico talks about the trends of foreclosure. The intersectionality between race and economics. The projection of gentrification in the coming years along the water downtown.  If it were my ghost talking, my ears would be perched, my mouth hanging open in wonderment, my mind unfolding like weak origami. Pico is a few boys too late.

           “You know? Heart breaking stuff, but unfortunately I don’t have the authority to dictate the direction of any of these contracts, yet.”

           I nod, knowing damn well he would never have the authority to dictate anything. Everything is systematic. Just wait.

I scan the room, in true coy fashion, stealing glances from around the coffee shop. Such little effort is needed to put Pico in the palm of my hand. Just wait until I clench my fist like a stress ball sits inside. Pico will spill out from every corner.

Watch until he explodes at my very touch, deteriorating while my legs are wrapped around him, my breath close enough to his ear, sharp enough to make him groan in longing. I’ll gleam in the moonlight, covered in a sheer layer of his sweat. I’ll pull at his back hard enough to know I’m close, but not hard enough where he thinks he can try anything wild. I’ll run my fingers through his hair, dictating where he belongs next on me. I call the shots with every tiny tooth mark I leave in his shoulders, with every begging harder baby. But he’ll never reach me deep inside no matter how hard he thrusts.

           I’ll make him a pot of coffee before I sneak out. I won’t call Pico back. Won’t make that mistake again.

J.M. Clark

Hydrangeas full in bloom, the softest purple invited us to pull up closer in the driveway. So many of them, lightly drooping in bunches, blocked the bottom of the window into the warm sunroom. My eyes traveled from the flowers and up the window only to see hand blown glass spheres of all different sizes and colors hanging from fishing line behind the glass. I wondered how they stayed so still, where Liam and Felicity got them. In that moment, I loved them so much I despised my mother’s decorative taste at home more every time I came here.

I continued to sit shotgun. Father already turned the car off, but I couldn’t go. As excited as I was, the chilled air was drifting away and the stale warm air returned to comfort me. I was stuck in the moment, a little nervous. Then I saw Ellie, Ray Bans pulling her hair back, as she shuffled to the trunk with a cumbersome laundry basket of clothes.

Ellie had always been my best friend. In one aspect we were two of a kind, in the other I looked like the Virgin Mary beside her. Ellie was an only child, I was the middle mostly fallen through the cracks. Her back was always covered in labels, mine in her hand-me-downs. I was her last season shadow but I didn’t mind. She made me feel like I belonged. Ellie showed me the ropes, let me in on a sliver of the childhood I never got. She was my sparkle. What I learned growing up beside her, collecting her left over sparkle, was that no matter how much time we spent together, no matter how much she shared, she was never threatened because she knew she was always going to be better than me. Her charity didn’t threaten anything. Sometimes I wondered though, if we hadn’t been cousins would we be this inseparable? When you’re short on friends though, and don’t know the secret to making more you don’t overthink those things. You just accept them.

She was a stretch of black pavement away, thirty minutes if you’re speeding, but it felt so much further. We had separate lives. Oxford Heights and Guilderland possessed vastly different atmospheres, there was an elitism I only heard about cross-town. Father said we moved out of there when I was young so he didn’t raise brats. Ellie and I briefly recollected our teenage angst every encounter we shared. Other than that we only reminisced on the memories we created, including the week’s worth we were about to remember for the rest of our lives. I had never gone on holiday without my family before. I didn’t have a single ounce of fear, just pure foolish excitement.

“Y’all coming or what? All of my stuff is already packed in the car,” Ellie threw her fists on her hips and waited to see us moving in response.

Her enthusiasm pulled me out of the haze and lit a fire under my ass. I scuttled with arms open wide to all of my possessions, so I could pile them into the Camry trunk. Little did I know, laundry baskets fit better than duffle bags, and I studied that trunk like a game of Tetris. As usual, Father was over thinking, over packing, over analyzing. Hydrogen peroxide, old baseball caps, and fishing line were necessities that we couldn’t leave behind in his mind. I don’t try to understand, but merely nod and smile. He’s Toula’s father from My Big Fat Greek Wedding. Broke a leg? Terminally ill? Family drama? Hydrogen peroxide will fix it.

At this point he was over talking to Liam and Felicity. Part of me always knew Father didn’t care for them much, he always thought they let Ellie get away with murder. He backed off for a week because he knew he’d never be able to take me on a vacation like this though. I appreciated it more than I led on.

Ellie and I were already strapped up in the back seat reading our Seventeen magazines. Now, Liam and Felicity were my mother’s cousins so Ellie was really only my second, but we were always excited to go somewhere new, having strangers assume we’re sisters. That’s what I liked about tagging along with them. I was an honorary daughter and sister. Our final goodbyes before our very underestimated trip, Father kissed my forehead through the low peeking window in between us. My hair anticipating blonde sunshine, my skin excited for a sheer layer of freckles, my legs thirsty for a tan - we were ready to go. The engine was running with that air conditioning blowing to the point where its uncomfortable frost clothed our knees alone. Sitting Indian-style I laid a pillow across my lap, half for comfort but mainly due to scarce room anywhere else. Whipping the car out of the driveway into the center of the cul-de-sac, Ellie and I could tell we weren’t the only ones excited to be smothered by the journeys of Delaware. I didn’t think twice about the feverish waves Father gave me through the tinted chamber of the Camry, but in hindsight I wish I could’ve held on to that hand forever.

His hands weren’t soft, but that’s what I loved about them. They were huge, perfect tickling war hands, ideal hair braiding hands. They had nails that grew precisely even, they were dry and dingy and cracked and they always smelled of nicotine. I never imagined them to be desirable hands but in between tears they were the only hands I wanted to hold. I took him for granted, I just didn’t know it yet. Daddy’s girl.

After seven hours, two movies, and countless sing-alongs to the best of The Doors we had finally arrived. Liam and Felicity were the parents every kid wanted: very hip, a little negligent, and a bit stuck in the ‘70s for comic relief. Bethany Beach, Delaware was our haven for the next week. We had nowhere else to go and that was exactly what the four of us wanted.

Settling in was one of my favorite parts. Walking into a gorgeous condo waiting for my touch of character, your shaving cream, brushes and make up bags to line the counter in the bathroom. Ridding the drawers of the old wood stench, like a weathered paperback book, I laid down a bathroom towel from home along the bottom and filled my folded shirts and shorts side by side. Sneakers for tennis and sandals for the beach lined accordingly beside the dresser and window. Now here was the debate - which gets the bed adjacent to the window? Ellie had her own bedroom and a separate playroom at home, so this week I just wanted a bed next to the window. Luckily she was too fatigued to state her case, and it was an easy defeat.

With things set to a tee, we headed off down the stairs and out to venture. It was like one of those villages you put atop your mantle at Christmas. Illuminated at night, the boardwalk was home to hundreds of shuffling feet in and out of restaurants and ice cream shops. Overwhelmed with its beauty, Ellie and I waited for the cameras to stop rolling and reality to set back in. As excited as we were, our bodies spoke louder crying for sleep, but our minds weren’t yet ready, time was flying too fast.

Felicity was always an early bird, said Ellie was wasting the day waking up at such late hours. Eight was her idea of a snooze, and off she was waiting for us at the bottom of the stairs holding a beach bag, and chairs while simultaneously struggling to put sunscreen on her back.

“You girls know you can sleep back at home! Lets go before the beach fills up! Ellie, your father has the snacks in his bag.”

“I’m not doing this shit every morning,” Ellie said, rolling her eyes over to me.

I would’ve agreed except I never really found justice in anything Ellie complained about. I shrugged. We were family, but I got the sense I was going to see her only-child flaws rise up this week. Soon enough our long blonde hair with waves to match the water, cotton cover-ups and J. Crew flip flops struggled behind. The Delaware sun shone upon us the entire mile we walked. I looked like a fool, switching my bag from shoulder to shoulder just to evenly strain them both. Shoulders back, leggy and standing tall, Ellie paraded ahead gracefully, as per usual.

We arrived at the private beach the first day, which was underwhelming to our judgmental side. We were satisfied tourists just people watching on the public beach from then on. Ellie and I loved nothing more than to people watch. Maybe we were too critical or too serious. When being politically correct was demanded more often at our heightening ages, it was nice to quietly analyze and giggle at strangers from a distance, to blame it on our naïve youth.

The days started to mesh together. Our mornings spent on bicycles through the villages, peak of the heat spent drinking Diet Coke in reclining sun chairs reading tabloids, nights experimenting with the local fare and live music. I always thought if someone took snap shots of our days they would be Polaroid, sporting a sunny faded tint over them. They were colliding in my mind, which night I had the catch of the day to which morning I ate two oranges at the beach while staring, trying to figure out how that fellow fit in his wet suit. Elastic never ceases to amaze me. Things were beginning to change though. It became apparent that Thursday afternoon that those coy stares weren’t only addictive, they were dangerous.

Allotted enough money for lunch and frozen yogurt, we made the getaway to Five Guys on the boardwalk. Ellie and I had an acquired style that followed us wherever we went. Not because we were flawless, but because we were merely insecure. The thing about thirteen and a half is you cover up all the things you aren’t with material things you wish you were. It was working so-so. We grabbed two chairs at the counter looking out the window, so we could eat and people watch as per usual.  Ellie and I ate our junior burgers side by side. That Thursday though was not like that Tuesday or even that Wednesday. They sat there innocently enough, on the bench outside directly across from us, taunting our teenage minds.

They were Ben and Jordan. They had vile intentions masked behind deceptive smiles. Fitting to our youthful immaturity, we scarfed down our meals quickly and while seeming cavalier, we sat on the other side of the bench from them. Obvious enough what we were doing, the boys spoke first.

My eyes were the only things that weren’t paralyzed. They darted over Ben like a pinball machine. He was certainly no chore to look at. He had that shorter sandy blonde hair that styled itself with salt water, and his skin. His skin looked soft and was tan but not tan enough where you questioned his ethnicity. I studied the freckles that sat on his shoulders, the ones his Celtics jersey didn’t hide. I wondered if he played basketball too, maybe he’d get a scholarship for college, maybe he was in college. I took turns looking at him because I didn’t want to stare, stole little glimpses of him, learning the curves of his face with every quick glance. Ben sure made Jordan look like charity. Jordan was a little sweaty, little doughy, and a little too talkative. You’d think he’d shutter looking at Ellie, but clearly his genetic setbacks didn’t stop him from trying to flirt. I felt those hazel eyes sweep over me whenever I was looking down, counting the nails in the boardwalk planks. I’d look up and see him looking at me. Ben looking at me. Ben’s eyes demanded mine back. As much as I loved the idea of him looking at me, wanting my attention, the reality was so much more nerve-wracking.

I let Ellie do the talking. If I spoke, I’d stumble over words like bad hopscotch and we’d never see them again. And when I say I let her do the talking, I mean she’s good with taking initiative. Her words make moves. A real go-getter. When I lump us together, it’s her abundance of confidence that averages out to mine being mediocre. I sat there, peering up occasionally, but mostly staring down picking at the hangnails decorating my nail beds. Inside our small talk we exchanged hometowns, ages, names, and Ellie’s number.

 Mistake One.

 The four of us went about the condo getting ready for the evening. Ellie’s dad, Liam, made a tradition of burning his dress shirts with an iron, and then his wife would have to salvage it with her secret cornstarch trick. Felicity took forever and a half to get herself ready for anything of importance because she usually meanders around the house with a glass of wine, getting drunk in the process, saying, “it helps me relax!”  With Ellie’s wise expertise, I had eyeliner on for the first time. Not having been introduced to contacts, my glasses were the humbling touch to my outfit of jean shorts, a white tank top, and a burgundy cardigan. Father just had to pick out the frames with butterflies with on the arms. Maybe that was his small effort to repel his daughter’s maturity. In the midst of organizing my ensemble I caught a glimpse from the corner of my eye of thumbs - moving quicker than ever. Jerking my head back, I saw Ellie texting Ben.

Yea for sure, we’re free after dinner. You?

Us too, we’ll be around the boardwalk. Meet at the beach by Sal’s shirt shop? 10?

Word. Your cousin coming?

Yea! She’s staying the whole week.

 Mistake Two.

 The center of the boardwalk was our meeting place. Liam and Felicity split to listen to some local talent. They were the type that considered live music a hobby. It was a stiff departure seeing as they were never physically affectionate to Ellie. More of a verbal “love you” rather than a hug and peck seemed to suffice. They headed west as we headed south down to the shore. My heart raced a little, that anxiousness rising up from my stomach, now sitting with its legs wrapped around my heart. This didn’t quite faze me, as almost everything incited that reaction. I simply thought we were walking along the water, forgetting about her racing thumbs from earlier. The straps of my sandals hooked on my finger we walked side by side down to the beach. The sand was cold but not that cold-it-feels-wet feeling, just cold. Gazing ahead to the barely visible horizon, I was startled to see those familiar smiles appear in front of us.

Wearing the same outfits as before showed that they weren’t trying too hard, but why were they there? Ellie quickly engaged in conversation like old pals, as I stood there puzzled. In another dimension I thought off, and thought, and wondered, and it clicked. It was planned and it wasn’t right.

 The Virgin Mary was isolated from the bliss and ignorance.

 We sat in a square behind the fences and grass that grew through the sand. Claiming to have taken part in the conversation, I was actually just an onlooker to the game. It was a game of risk. I just pictured us passing around a revolver, and the bullet was waiting for me. Who had done what, when, and how many times? All of the words quickly stirred together and topics changed too quickly for me to figure out the ones prior. How were there seeds and stems in buds if they hadn’t bloomed yet? My neighbor’s dog was named Molson, but I wasn’t aware you could drink him, and apparently I don’t need my softball uniform to get to third base. I couldn’t tell if Ellie was a prime liar or if she had been keeping a few untidy details from me.

Ellie was effortlessly popular, confident, and magnetic – her common knowledge was my astonishing discovery. I latched onto her like it was my saving grace from everything I was. She was less than a year older but worlds ahead. Ellie stood apart from everyone. She was the first to have a real bra, a real manicure, real experience. Boys loved that. We put her on a pedestal and they all climbed up to meet her. She spoke ambiguously enough so other girls could never steal her secrets. She never got lonely at the top. Her words spread like butter. So if she were lying, I’d never know. But she had the prerequisites, she had no reason to lie.

Then they look at me. They ask what I’ve done. I’ve done nothing. I kept my questions to a minimum to avoid the embarrassment. I responded with,

“Not much, woke up early had a parfait for breakfast, went to the beach with Ellie earlier.”

They laughed, and I think the boys had mistaken my sheer inability to adapt or socialize with quick wit, but I felt this pressure shining down on me in the pitch of night. I was embarrassing not myself, but Ellie. This nervousness had initiated that unholy muscle to press against my pea-sized bladder. The gates opened and the horses were off! I had to go like Seabiscuit and there was no stopping me.

 Mistake Three.

 Quickly hustling back to my designated spot in the sand you could say conversation was already winding to a finish. It was an hour young of midnight which was plenty for the youthful. We walked up back up to the boardwalk together and said our goodbyes. Timid, I simply nodded and smiled. It was a classic, my safety. Parting ways, Ellie and I met Liam and Felicity back at some restaurant down the boardwalk. We were exchanging nights, Ellie was pouring out lies, all believable - but still lies. While she was digging a hole of mistrust, I looked down on my phone.

It was a light that read an unknown number. That unknown number wanted to tell me that I looked so pretty. As flattering as it was, he was still a stranger. I responded.

 Mistake Four.

Ya know, there’s just something about you. You’re pure. And your eyes, I love them.

           Oh thank you, they’re real.

           Thank goodness, fake eyes creep me out. They always look so empty.

             The witty banter continued a while longer, and it made me wonder again how old Ben was. I wasn’t about to ask, as if I had a problem with it. Just made me wonder, why me? He must be five years my senior, an illegal difference regardless of chemistry. Pure?

My thumbs racing as fast as Ellie’s earlier that evening, I was blinded by the empty compliments and conniving plans being mapped out. I was never the hero, but always the sidekick. I was never the fries, but always the ketchup. Know what I mean? I had to seize a rare opportunity. Maybe what I reveled in most was making Ellie my ketchup for once. All of the sudden I was the one who was preparing a lie! The Virgin Mary doesn’t lie, but starting with Ben, there were going to be dozens of necessary lies to follow. Words flew from condo to condo, phone to phone, until the early hours of the morning. That led to a break in the cycle.

 Friday August 1:

 We woke up late. We didn’t ride bicycles. However, we did sit on the beach. The tabloids were in the bags, I had a better story instead. They wanted to meet up that night at the same spot. It was our last full day in Bethany and it was crucial. Our hearts raced with anticipation and wonder and excitement.

We told Ellie’s parents we were going to go to the local movie theatre down the boardwalk, a stretch from Liam and Felicity who were supposed to meet old friends for drinks. I wasn’t sure how they knew people there, apparently they were friends of Felicity’s from college. Odd, but figuring that out wasn’t on my list of priorities at that moment. It was to successfully spew lies out of a thirteen-year-old girl’s mouth. They were successfully spewed lies. Take my word for it.

Two tickets, fifteen dollars, and minutes later, we walked out of the theatre. Had to keep a paper trail in case there were questions later on. We met by the bathrooms, the four of us. Our conversation the night before hadn’t settled the awkward small talk, but only heightened it. We walked down to the beach, walked along the water. Jordan was quite fond of Ellie from the looks of it. Jordan was ketchup. I had Ben chasing after me. I didn’t know that it was a game, a literal chase with a literal prize. A revolver. Looking down listening to Ben talk, I watched my toes sink into the wet sand. I should’ve looked up sooner, but I didn’t. I looked up to see nothing.

 Where was Ellie? Where was I?

 Neon shirts can’t save you now

The blanket of night wraps around any light

The excitement of the beach, she understands the danger now

With his hand over her mouth, she put up a silent fight

 She squirms, he scolds

As she tries to escape, the tighter his hold

The sand’s comfort disappears

Pushing her against it unleashes her fears

 Excruciating, one word to describe the pain

Tears pouring so hard she’s about to faint

Dripping down in hope his hand will slip off her mouth

But he persists to invade south

 He finished, stood up, told her she was easy

Left there, stripped naked of her dignity

Barely capable of clothing herself

She trembles, she shakes, her body aches

Happiness for the rest of the trip she fakes

 Location couldn’t change what happened, and the only thing at home I missed were Father’s hands. Seeing his crooked smile as I pulled up in the driveway widen, I was hesitant to get out of the car, as if he could see the shame splashed across my face. He ran towards me, and those hands picked me up in the air faster than I could say hello. He spun me around, set me down, put my face in his hands and examined me. I could tell he missed me just by the reek of nicotine on his hands - quite the chain smoker when he’s anxious. He said freckles looked perfect on me, and how more grown up I looked after just a week. I just stood there with my face against his warm hands, and let myself cry. I let his palms fill with my wet apologies. My tears were no longer water, but thoughts and regrets. That was my home, the only man I could trust, the only hands that could ever hold me again.

She opens her eyes but it’s blurry. She bats them a few more times for clarity. Through wet, smeared mascara she notices her arm lying limp off the bed. Trying as hard as she can, she realizes that not even the tips of her fingers will move for her. Her eyes are open, her head can barely move back and forth, and there’s a monster on top of her. His name is Chris. He’s maneuvering her around like a dead carcass, her dead weight entirely at his will. She tries to scream but whispers barely come out. She feels everything this monster does, tossing around her ragdoll body, but she cannot move. The frightening reality is setting in – she has no motor skills and is helpless. She is defenselessly being raped and she cannot remember how she got there.

Her body is slowly coming back to her, but will never truly be hers again. She’s in an apartment she doesn’t know, her legs giving out beneath her as she tries to find a toilet. She’s violently ill and the monster is chasing after her.

Natalie Meyers was a 19 year-old student when she was drugged and raped three years ago, and didn’t seek medical treatment for a week afterwards out of fear and shame.

“When I couldn’t do daily things without wincing in pain, I couldn’t hide it anymore, I finally called someone. You know what it’s like to feel like you to have to keep a secret until you physically can’t anymore?”

Natalie recalls ringing a family friend who she knew would be discrete. Together they went to the hospital. She was embarrassed and confused, and at the time not even sure if what happened was rape, since she physically couldn’t speak against it. When trying to remember her thought process, she goes through a rollercoaster of unknown blame and unanswered questions.

Her friend adamantly assured that her lack of consent was more than enough, that her limp and unconscious body was enough, that his need to drug her to have sex was enough to define what happened as rape.

To medical professionals, there was no doubt as to what had happened, having to tell her based on their exams it was much worse than what Natalie remembers, even a week later. She found herself in and out of the hospital for weeks following her initial visit.

“Who else was going to believe me? No one was there. I waited too long for a rape kit to be done. Come to find out, Chris was actually a pretty popular drug dealer, and if I blew him in, I was the one who was going to be crucified,” Meyers says.

She filed a report with the police but never took further legal action, despite knowing her attacker.

“The officer taking my statement asked me if I ever told him to stop or say ‘No!’ and I told her that I couldn’t speak. I tried. I had no voice. I was drugged. And the officer said I didn’t really have a case if I didn’t speak against it. The officer was a woman. She was supposed to understand. I was livid all over again,” says Natalie.

Recounting the experience anxiously, she recalls feeling doubt in her own story, not being able to recall all the details. When getting emotional or defensive, the officer would tell her to stop crying and tell her objectively what happened. She wanted to storm out, and give up.

“When I finally told my parents my father actually told me if I had never been in that bar underage I never would have been raped,” Natalie says, “That was a whole fight in itself. Then it was, ‘what are you going to do about it? Press charges? Go to court?’ I felt powerless, like what I had to say never mattered. It was my fault and now I had no choice in how it was going to be handled. Our house was a war zone for a long time.”

Natalie Meyers is not unique; she is the silenced majority. As the victim toll grows greater, so does the divide among the public as to how much truth is behind these claims. Either every woman really has a heartbreaking story such as this, or women simply want to be part of the movement speaking out against harassment and assault. Many, like Natalie, have been criticized for waiting so long before talking about it, questioning why they didn’t come forward sooner if what they say is in fact true. Such a black and white question can only be answered in shades of grey.

“Every woman has a story. I think it’s incredibly rare to come across someone that doesn’t have a story. I mean, my coworkers and I discuss it on a regular basis. While I think all the allegations coming in are plentiful, I think there’s probably a lot of truth to them,” says Blair Maycomber, a pharmacist.

“I feel like people have been sweeping it under the rug for a long time. I think it’s become commonplace for women to just deal with harassment. When you asked me to do this interview, I thought which experience should I talk about? I have so many, and I personally don’t know a woman that hasn’t experienced some sort of sexual harassment,” Maycomber adds.

To the silenced majority who has one if not multiple testimonies of being sexually assaulted or harassed, the flood of accusations in the media seems long over due. Rather than women jumping on the bandwagon due to the fear of missing out, it’s obvious that the endless train of women coming out against their attackers just shows how prominent this issue is and finally something is being done in response. Now that women realize their words won’t be lost or wasted but heard and taken seriously, there are a lot of people finally opening their mouths.

The question that remains when discussing with Blair is the margin of mistruths behind these claims. Maycomber reminds that being the victim isn’t an enjoyable experience, in any capacity.

“I’d say that people don’t actually enjoy being the victim. I think there’s a very small subset of sick people that enjoy being the victim, and given my profession I know there’s a very small selection of people like that,” Blair adds.

Maycomber explains why women, like Natalie Meyers, have been silenced for so long. Up until now, the culture surrounding assault and harassment was to victim blame, causing the victims and survivors more harm than good. The process of speaking out was just as traumatizing due to the retaliation women has received in return.

“For whatever reason, people don’t believe singular accounts, but accusations in numbers speak,” Blair says, “When my ex-boyfriend, when I was 17, tried to rape me, and I told a friend, they said ‘Oh maybe you are telling the truth because Kara said that about him too.’

“As far as for pressing charges, it never seems good enough to just have one account but a whole mass of them. There was a woman at work, who filed a sexual harassment claim against a man, and she was the 16th person, and he was still not fired. I think it’s because it’s a lot of he-said-she-said and it’s hard to nail down any truth. But it definitely seems to never be enough for just one person to say it.”

Blair and Natalie have different experiences with the same outcome, feeling that their voice isn’t strong enough alone to make a difference. The media has had an enormous effect on the strength of individual voices. Unfortunately, this came at a cost – a slew of women being attacked, and being silenced for even decades before being acknowledged. Men like Bill Cosby and Harvey Weinstein and dozens more have been icons in Hollywood uncovered as men who used their power to relentlessly prey on women looking to further their careers, just because they could.

“So like for example, Bill Cosby was before all of this started to come up, before the up-and-coming movement of people speaking out against sexual assault. I was not surprised by taking men advantage of their power status and holding it against women and their careers,” says Blair. “I think people are surprised because of the characters they play. People fall in love with the characters they play but the fact is, they’re actors and actors are capable of being bad people or doing bad things too.”

Maycomber raises another vital point. Some of these men have played characters that the public falls in love with, and to shame the actor would to shame the character.

I don’t want to call her an idiot, but does she really not know? I’m there, lying at the end of her bed when we watch television at night. We’ve watched all the First Response commercials together, FaceTimed her sister when she told us she was pregnant. Even when I’ve been under the table outside on the patio, her and her girlfriends talk about how long it’s been since Justin called back, how Kimberly thinks she’s pregnant but doesn’t want to be the first to speak, how she’s three weeks late. I was always there. And thank goodness, because at least someone was listening for her.

           I could smell it as soon as it happened. Dad came out of the bedroom to get a glass of water and they finally let me back in. I hopped up on the bed and just smelled it on her, a little tadpole running around inside her, looking for safe haven. She was a big fan of the “pull and pray” approach. That’s what she told Bryce last time Mom had the girls over for wine night. I’ve only seen Mom chew on those gummy vitmains, and to my knowledge, never seen her take pills. So unless she’s got some other useless form of contraceptive, she was just pulling and praying. Before they nicked my manhood off, I couldn’t imagine idolizing condoms too much either, if dogs wear condoms. Not sure. I’ll get back to you on that.

           Anyway, I love her, my human. She’s the only mother I’ve ever known. But lord is she dense. You don’t just have the flu everyday at 9am, and stop grabbing your boobs in public. I’m on the other end of this leash you know! Out to make me look bad. Get this, she had the audacity to come out of the grocery store with a package of turkey. Not on my watch. Doesn’t she know lunchmeat is just asking for a baby with a missing leg? We’ve both watched Dr. Oz, I know that for sure. Don’t worry, when she put her groceries down to untie my leash from the bike rack, I knocked over the bag and ate all that turkey. Pretty selfless move on my part, I wasn’t even that hungry at the time. She thought I was just in one of my moods, “spaniel spasms”. She’s an idiot.

           The next day, I see her open the door for Bryce. That could only mean one thing, wine, lots of wine. Sure enough, Bryce pulls a giant bottle of Merlot out from behind her back, and miraculously another with the other hand. So now I’ve got to shatter two bottles of wine? Dammit Bryce. Mom goes to unload the dishwasher, the clean glasses out for them. Soon there’s six glasses on the counter. I reluctantly pull away from Bryce scratching my butt, jump up on the counter, and sweep my paws across, knocking over all the glasses, watching them shatter. Oh I knew I was in for with this one. Of course, there’s an ungrateful uproar, she pulls her hand back like she’d ever dare hitting me. I get all squeamish and look sorry enough for her to get the dustpan. Bryce assures Mom that it’s not a big deal, that she’ll drink wine out of my water dish. Good one Bryce, I’m in stitches over here laughing. Mom’s got the dustpan and is on the ground and I leap up once more and knock both bottles over. I dart into the bedroom before she can grab my collar.

Naïve is an understatement in the not-so-United States in 2030, ignorant even. It’s charming when you read books about how Native American tribes pass their stories down simply by word. It’s endearing, a token of character, until it’s frighteningly necessarily. My fear isn’t quite authentic, but more second-hand. I don’t remember much during the age of Net Neutrality, my life has adapted mostly around the destruction of it.

           This man, Mr. Trump, they call him the Freudian nightmare of politics, a sell-out, a war on morality, a stain to sanity. There’s a lot of things said about him, but you can’t read them anymore on the Internet. Mrs. Hutchinson spent a whole class period with the door shut, to tell us some things we “ought to know already,” and she knew if she didn’t tell us, no one would. She told us how the world wrote before him, laughed fearlessly, waved freedom in the air with their pens. She never shut the door when class was in session.  And she never would again. Mrs. Hutchinson quit for some reason the day after. No one’s seen her since, even in the supermarket.

           We had a double period that day, in December, and she shut the door for all eighty minutes. She told us about things called unintended consequences. Apparently, you could post anything you wanted on the Internet, and anyone could see it. You could write opinions, not just speak or think them. Your art could be online, not limited to your living room. Your sex could be profitable, for the whole world to see, not just for your cat at the bedroom doorway. The sex part never quite made sense to me until recently, fascinating stuff. Makes me wish Net Neutrality still existed.

           Mrs. Hutchinson called this stuff porn, and there were all different kinds, she said there were more kinds than colors. Imagine. I can’t. Well, I have quite a bit. Just ask my sock drawer. She said it broke her heart to see what we considered normal these days. To see us compared to North Korea, our food poisoned, to see our sisters enslaved, groggy maidens tied to musty mattresses. She said before we were born, when the Internet was free, no one had to be given up as tribute. She said this porn stuff saved our girls. That the colors of the Internet were an outlet to all of the bad men out there.

           Today, every family is expected to have at least one girl. The government says it’s to help with the decreasing population, which Mrs. Hutchinson said is because people die too quickly when they can’t afford their medicine. The government is in charge of medicine. The government said it’s because people aren’t interested in having kids as much anymore, something about the evils of feminism. I’ve only heard about it. Mrs. Hutchinson said the underground sex slavery was sprawling on the surface, and it had wedged itself into every family.

Before we were born, there weren’t government visits, or last birthdays, or goodbyes. Today, it’s standard practice that a random date is selected every year. This year it was it was April 12th. Every girl born on April 12th nine years ago would be taken away. A man in a suit would come to the door, and we’d all be waiting, heads bowed, knowing where she was going. It was bittersweet when they took Claire away, but we were told it’s to save humanity. Patriotism. They wouldn’t tell us where we could find her, or write her, but that she was in good hands. They promised. Mrs. Hutchinson cried for the first time I’ve seen when she told me, “That’s not how things work, sweetheart. We were doing just fine. The men that see Claire everyday used to go to jail. Now they’re customers, professionals, neighbors. Honey,”

She paused, caught her breath, and I knew in these few breaths that everything she said was becoming truth. Claire was in danger.

“There are men out there that are, they’re animals. They’re sick. And when the Internet became a monopoly, and Big Brother moved in, they took the colors from the Internet, and these animals had no outlet. So the government gave them a new outlet.”

           He drives me crazy, quite literally, but I’m crazy about him. We’re inseparable, you see. He needs me. Quite frankly, he wouldn’t be anywhere without me. He owes me his life, in multiple regards. His legs aren’t long enough to compare, his bike is a seasonal leisure, and the bus is comical. Uber drivers? More like mobile serial killers. No such thing as trust these days.

How do people survive in the big cities, assuming a car a luxury? The bus is unreliable, always late, smells, packed. His hands don’t dictate the temperature or music. The bus doesn’t have a trunk to hide his liquor on road trips, boxes of clothes when Sophie kicks him out, again. For all the bus doesn’t offer, you think they’d pay Patrick for riding, rather than vice versa.

           Patrick is too good for them anyway, perhaps too good for me, but I’ll never let him see it. I’m purring until my last day on this beautiful paved Earth. I am his Swedish built rock. Sometimes when he doesn’t close the blinds, I can watch the telley with him from the driveway. Patrick loves The Bachelor. Feels all too familiar. I’d be on the dealer’s lot, driving around people that pretended to want me, care for me, mates that said they were coming back for me. They’d get all heated about how much I’m worth, and storm their boots off when they decided I wasn’t in their budget. Doesn’t do a girl much warmth being led on like that all the time, which is until Patrick came in.

He saw me, requested my dark emerald shimmer, my camel leather heated seats, my sun roof that held him a little closer to the sky. He walked with purpose into the dealership, my siblings and I all wondered who the lucky engine was – it was me.  I glided off the lot onto the main roads, impressed him with my precision. I took care of him, made an offer he couldn’t refuse. And that’s exactly what happened, took me home the next day. I got the final rose.

“Hey, wouldn’t mind snapping a quick one with me and my new whip, would ya?”

“Not at all! Anything for our newest and best customer.”

Jack was such a skeez, but he always tried to find me that forever home so there wasn’t much I could say. Jack took two pictures vertically, another two horizontally.

           “What are ya gonna name her?”

           “That’s a bloody good question, been thinking about it on my way over.”

Patrick placed his hand on my side-view mirror.

           “Katrina. Katrina. Quick, sharp, timeless but trendy.”

           “Wonderful, sir. Couldn’t have picked a better name myself. You know, Katrina is going to make you a Volvo driver for life. Just you see,”

           Just like telley, it’s after the cameras stop rolling that all the glamour isn’t guaranteed. Sometimes, he leaves me running and forgets while he’s inside. Sometimes, he spills things on me, apologizes, lies about taking me for a wash the next day, doesn’t clean me up for weeks. Gives me damn headaches when him and Sophie fight inside me. Sophie was almost always right, he should’ve come home that night. I always knew where he was, but I’d never confess. I was Patrick’s first, and Sophie’s second.

Wagging tails and laughter engulf customers as soon as they enter Steve’s Wonderful World of Pets. A boxer bounces around a playpen, clumsy but charming. He effortlessly wins the hearts of two little girls and their parents.

The French bulldog hands out kisses through the class to every pair of eyes. The Lhasa Apso plays with his rambunctious roommate. He is a palm full of sandy-colored fur, a skittle-sized tongue and curled tail. These puppies stretched smiles across the store, playing their way to forever homes.

Looking around the store, one wonders how protestors would ever question the love and care these puppies receive from the Steve’s Pets team, and the claim that this team acquires their dogs from puppy mills.

Steve’s Wonderful World of Pets has been under fire since they opened over 20 years ago, along with all other pet stores that carry puppies. Many protestors adopt the mindset that pet stores and dog breeders cannot coexist without compromising the well-being of puppies. Customers especially buying their puppies from Steve’s are wondering where their pet really came from, and under what conditions. These unknowns leave potential owners on the fence. They don’t know if there is a right or wrong approach to the pet buying experience and where on the spectrum the truth lies.

Brian Wittcop, assistant manager of Steve’s Pets since they opened, reassured he holds no prejudice because he recently accepted a job closer to home, meaning he will only be with Steve’s Pets for a few weeks longer.

While all the puppies come from breeders, Brian explains that there’s a middle source involved, called brokers. Steve’s Pets uses Choice Puppies as their middleman and the reason why is practical and necessary.

“We need essentially to be able to have someone offering us a guarantee on the health of the dogs; somebody that’s doing screening and background checks on breeders.”

Not only does Choice Puppies do background checks on breeders to prevent working with puppy mills, they, “essentially build a network of breeders.” Wittcop explained that with using brokers, many rival in asking why Steve’s Pets doesn’t deal with private or local breeders instead. Interestingly enough, dealing with private or local breeders would be inhumane due to the need to supply the demand their store receives, which they could not fulfill.

“We don’t bring in pit-bulls. That’s not because we feel negatively of the breed but because there’s an overabundance of unwanted pit bulls that need homes through rescues and shelters. So we would certainly be contributing to that epidemic by bringing them in,” Wittcop says, rivaling the assertion that Steve’s Pets not carrying pit-bulls is discriminatory.

Not only are pit bulls in excess, they are better suited in shelters because they’re often abandoned past their youth. Pet stores would not be able to supply adequate care for them, much less have kennels that could comfortably fit them at their varying ages and sizes. Pit bulls are also a PARVO sensitive breed, PARVO being an intestinal virus that has a high mortality rate – something that could affect the health of the other puppies at Steve’s Pets.

Brokers are able to verify the welfare of puppies because all puppies come with their own certified health certificate. Steve’s Pets specifically has a vet-tech and supervising vets that examine every puppy twice – once when they come into their care and again before they go out on the floor to be sold.

“So if a puppy were to fail that exam then we would return them to the broker and the broker would return them to the breeder.” The breeder would foster the puppy until they were healthy enough to be sold again, Brian says.

“In large part, if the animals are being bred properly they shouldn’t be bred more than once a year or essentially every other heat cycle… Say, I sell 25 Yorkies in a year – I’ll never be able to get 25 Yorkies a year from independent, private breeders. They’re only breeding once a year so they’re only going to have a couple pups per litter because they’re a toy-breed. So we need a to have a source that can provide ample puppies - and that’s just us, that’s not even counting all the other sources they would sell to.”

“It’s very rare that we have a puppy here that’s 20 weeks or older,” explaining that almost every puppy sells in that time frame. In instances where a puppy doesn’t sell by 20 weeks Wittcop says, “We just continue to care for the animal until they find a home. We mark their price down until they’re sold.”

In instances when Steve’s deems a puppy unfit to be sold, whether it is medically or behavioral, Wittcop assures that they foster or adopt them out. “I have a puppy at home that we took back at seven months of age because he was supposedly having behavioral issues and rather than see him end up in an unfit situation we took him back.” Brian says, “We (Steve’s Pets) evaluated him here, and didn’t see any issues so I took him home myself and we still have him right now.”

Brian was dealing with a customer that brought a cocker spaniel back, having claimed the puppy had “spaniel rage.” Spaniel rage is a rare behavioral issue the breed deals with. Because of this, it was very difficult to sell a dog that was not only brought back regardless of the validity of the claim. Wittcop fell in love with this very spaniel and decided he’d bring him in a home where he knew he would get the proper attention and training.

Given all of these procedures Steve’s Pets takes to making sure every puppy finds a home, the question remains – what base do protestors have against Steve’s Pets? Wittcop was quick to answer.

“I know from the people I’ve talked to that it’s the feeling that any pet store that carries puppies… had to come from a puppy mill – that that’s the only source a pet store would have to get puppies.

“The first problem with that lies in the fact that there isn’t really a clear definition of what a puppy mill exactly is…. Under the assumption that most people would agree that any animal that is being mass-produced without providing proper medical care should be looked at as a puppy mill, then by those definitions none of these guys (puppies) come from those sources.”

A USDA inspector examines all of Steve’s Pets puppies twice a year. Despite this, protestors go a step further concluding that affiliation with USDA leads to puppy mills.

“That’s not really accurate. It’s better than not having any inspection. The largest problem is even the people that would speak negatively of the situation don’t provide an ample alternative.”

Not only does the USDA come in biannually and inspect the puppies, the SPCA has to look into every complaint they may receive from the public, investigating any validity to the claim.

Brian recalls several instances where the SPCA would come in and chuckle after being told their kennels are too small. Brain and other employees are amused by this baseless accusation.

“Even our units here, those are vet grade kennels. That’s the same size kennel that veterinarians would use for animals while they’re in their care. If we have a breed that grows faster – if we bring in a Great Dane and we don’t sell that puppy in a week it’s going to outgrow these kennels pretty quick. We have 48 inch crates that we’ll open up and assemble… until the puppy is sold” Brian says.

Other protestors complain about seeing a dozen dogs in kennels and crates. They accuse the puppies of being lonely or isolated. While the sight has a disheartening element, taking a step back and looking at reality outside of pet stores offers perspective on the matter.

Brian shifts in his chair and is visibly agitated by this claim. He explains that their puppies are actually given more attention than most, if not all, household dogs.

“Any time that puppy goes home, and that owner works eight to ten hours a day, they’re left alone… whereas they’re getting constant attention from people going in and cleaning their kennel, feeding them, and customers requesting to play with them.”

           HER eyes are sea glass - the green shards you wouldn’t dare step on, because if you did, you’d have to apologize to debris. The edges of her cut-back stares were sharpened by crashing waves of pent- up arguments and resentment. Her eyes punish you without warning, they make you bleed, regret, seethe. Her eyes follow you in her sleep, haunt you in broad daylight. The corners of her glass slice you from across the room, a fresh warm crimson river flows over your skin like silk. You’re clothed in her punishment. Her eyes.

           HER teeth are porcelain gates, and to open them would flood you with her heresy. Each fragment she preaches weaves with her next lie, unfinished, unplanned, messy, selfish – no less conniving.  They speak words you can’t hear, but can feel when her smile shakes your core. Her smile is a shape-shifter. You think you’re alone in this until you look over at the frost creeping across the windows. Weak enamel breaks down these porcelain gates though, they shatter, and in defense, her tongue slithers out of the dark caves of her mouth. Her tongue is venomous, ruthless, unapologetic. Her tongue digs its fangs into your neck. You reach out to strangle it, but it’s too quick for you. Her tongue is the protector of pride, on the front line of accusations, peeking out from the gates – ready.  Only the strong survive.  Her tongue.

           HER skin is paper – hold her up to the light and call her on her bluffs. Self-mutilated from the sun, her skin is a prayer for cancer. Her skin gathers around her twisted smile before her tongue is ready to slither out. Her skin is spotted, a leper of morality. Her skin has aged, collected chips her shoulders can no longer bear. Her skin is the paper castle she hides in, climbing to the top, shaking in under scrutiny, sweating through a fever of accountability. Her skin drapes off her high cheekbones, swaying in harsh weather, shivering in fear. Her skin is a broken dam when she sheds blood. Her skin has little left to give. Her skin.

           SHE walks through the door, dropping pieces of her entitlement along the way like breadcrumbs to her tower. No one dares to follow her, no one desires to. She sheds, crawls in bed, and victimizes. She retreats to other caves. She smokes, she sleeps, she disappears, she points fingers, she crumbles. She.

           She wasn’t always this way. You always hear about the breaking point, the pivotal moment only hindsight offers. She had a kind heart, a full face, a soft smile, a wide waist. Her eyes were hand crafted prisms you wanted to collect with every heart warming gaze, her teeth were white marble stairs that led you to sun light, her tongue was sharp as a whip and dancing with humor, her skin was velvet – when her waist was wide.

           All of these cases are understood in fewer words than more, the newly deemed worthiness by their owner – the worthiness everyone’s seen all along.

Not wanting to get up, she feared she didn’t have anything to write in, that is until she stretched over, pulled a notebook out of the crate bedside, realizing she had made a lifestyle where writing was always within arm’s reach.

A pen nearby went without saying...

His words made her feel lonelier.

They spilled out of his mouth but in such a manner of entitlement and unwelcome assertion. Their minds could have been parallel if not on different planes.

His words were timely, stealing her silence.

His words smothered her - and she let them, reluctantly.

His words took her back to the moment…

The moment where she stood at the top of the stairs outside her apartment, where grass grew dew and leaves lost their crisp for the night. The moment where he was standing at the bottom of those stairs but he met her at a distance. Where she slid her hands around the back of his neck, tucked behind his shirt collar. Where they were peacefully trapped in their first kiss, gently learning each other’s lips. Refreshing, satisfying, intoxicating. They held that moment and between them they felt something beautiful growing.

Shit, it’s letter day. Of all days to be late, you had to file through your closet just to choose the same sweats as always, she thought while fumbling car keys back into her flimsy sweatpants pocket. For such an early appointment she hadn’t noticed the elevator dark until it shut and she found herself content in the pitch for her short ride upstairs. She loosely believed in omens, and perhaps would’ve been more pessimistic if it weren’t letter day. Today, on letter day, Thea mustered the little optimism that lay deep inside her.

Letter day was something she had been waiting for for quite some time, the opportunity to read her penned heart made for Finnick aloud to Lydia. She had been grappling with something that she once found comfort in but now couldn’t escape the possibilities of her own insanity. She had become enamoured with the untold stories war leaves on those left at home, and their love that lay somewhere between them in the abstract. This admiration soon turned to fear, for her inner critic came out to remind her, He’s not coming back. Sure he’s called, reminded me that I’m beautiful. He’s always been too nice for his own good. For my own good. Enough is enough. We had a good run. This needs to end inside me before I bury my heart in embarrassment’s sand. I can’t have these types of distractions now. Work should pick up and take care of my idle thoughts. He’s left this whirlwind romance behind him, I’m sure he has. It’s time I do the same.

Likewise, when her heart couldn’t bare the punishment anymore, she returned to what she knew best, the puzzle piece her soul was missing since he left. She recalls all the potent, raw romance that they once felt, untouched by reality’s harsh winds. She finally thought that if she laid faith in her patience, she may have found the exception to all her pessimism. That her puzzle piece hadn’t forgotten about her, that she had a piece of his puzzle too. But she had no release from this volley of heartbreak until today.

A normally even-keeled, private, and reflexive person, she was about to sit across from a professional and hear the verdict of her once sound mind. She hadn’t read all her letters while timing herself but she hoped they’d all fit in her remaining time, with some left for criticism. Thea found solace in Lydia’s polite and undisputed honesty.

Salutations genuine but exchanged through a filter of anticipation, Thea took her usual seat to the left across from Lydia. A few exchanges of her weekly toils from home life surfaced, but the letters arose as priority.

“Would you rather explore the root of why this upsets you, or would you like to read your letters to Finnick? I know we talked about that, wasn’t sure if you had changed your mind?”

“No, let’s do that. I’ve got them on me,” she said. Relieved that she didn’t forget, Thea pulled her phone out of her pocket attentive to not seem too eager. Getting comfortable, she sat back in her seat, brought her feet up with her and wrapped her anxious tapping fingers around her knees.

“4-10-17. Dear F,” said Thea.

As she continued, Lydia watched honey drip from her lips, ten letters worth. Her eyes followed Thea’s tapping and twitching fingers, where she’d grab at her sweats’ seams right before she voiced some daring profession to Finnick she perhaps thought she’d be judged for. Mesmerized to finally see her relaxed, she hung onto every beautiful phrase that fell out of her mouth. There she was, reciting her element. In all her imperfection, Lydia finally understood all the broken and half-hearted attempts in past appointments to explain her dilemma and to identify what was happening. With every word, in every letter, Thea was painting the love story between her and her soldier with her own self-discoveries entwined. Lydia was looking at a window, seeing light she had never seen in Thea before, finally having found that pot of gold to helping them both understand her.

           “If I write to you again, it will be to the man, not the idea of the man. I have faith that if we have a time; it will come when it is supposed to. I cannot rush that by leaning on parts of you. I will combat my issues here while you do the same there. I worry about you. I am always here. I will never forget you, the first time we spoke, touched, kissed, made love. I still feel the same. Time inhibits nothing in your name. My heart is blind of time. With love, T.”

           She finished; knowing the few stutters in her lengthy soliloquy didn’t hinder her message, she still looked at Lydia unsurely.

           “You are such a beautiful writer. I’m more than glad we didn’t put that off any longer. You’re not crazy. You know, sometimes we’re not meant to be with our soul mates forever. Sometimes, they’re brought into our lives to show us something, but then they leave. And sometimes we have more than one.”

           She was intrigued with his appearance – enamoured even. She’d like to know just when this compelling attractiveness would end. His face bore a simplicity she had never seen, though he had all of the crucial features, freckles additionally. He sat there across from her, his peacefulness in light of the circumstances would imply Declan being inept, and no other plausible excuse existed to Ella. Her eyes fixated on him, they bounced and scattered themselves from temple to temple of his chiseled cheekbones. When would this transformation happen? She wondered. Would it happen immediately, or out of sight when I’m asleep? Would it be gradual or all at once? She was worried she wouldn’t get the satisfaction she had anticipated.

            Declan sat there, entertained; his eyes sparkled of an undisturbed resilience.

“Any minute now, right?” she said.

“I’m not sure, maybe we should sit here and let supper chill while we wait.”

           Declan found humour in her anxiousness, given he was the subject at hand. Ella’s father, a man often dismissed by the town for no reason other than a lack of relevance was buried the morning before. It was Declan’s foolish games that put her father under earth – target practice ought to be a little more secure.

           As tribute, rather than the town doing well on her wishes, the local healer was called to irony; cursing life for Declan by stealing his signature good looks until he felt the same pain he had inflicted upon Ella. This presented her with bitter resentment, a responsibility to take matters into her own hands until she saw the score evened. This healer though, didn’t account for the fact that he wasn’t the only one that enjoyed looking at him.

           “What’re you thinking, little miss?”

           “Patronizing me does no ease.”

She waited, she wanted to elaborate but she wanted nothing but perfect words rolling off her tongue, crawling across the table, climbing up his shirt collar, and resting in his ears. She didn’t know how to make him suffer without herself suffering more. Every second she absorbed in his presence she resented the healer more. She was filing through creativity, searching for ways to reverse the curse. She wondered what to do first: collude on how to save him from his inevitable future, or jump across the table and enjoy him before fate took over.

           “This really wouldn’t do either of us any good, I didn’t choose your punishment, and so it won’t satisfy me a bit. We should really ring the healer, tell her to reverse her mischief before it ruins us…”

           “I’m sorry, dear, and what would satisfy you?” he said, his lips curling up.

The words were sitting on his tongue, the feet of “satisfy” dangling off the edge of that handsome bottom lip when his clothes ripped. His shoulders broadened. His skin stretched beyond its limits. His calm finally erupted. His eyes winced in the pain of his quickest growth spurt known.

           “Ella!”

She ran to him. She ripped the remaining linen, so the transformation couldn’t take credit for doing so. She took his lips with her own and savoured her fleeting opportunity. Taking her face into his palms, it was his new claws that had torn her neck nearly in two. He held her,  her heart broken, dissatisfied, unresolved, beautiful, gasping for air.

I wonder if there’s a Home Owner’s Association policy against people that order too many tacky decorations from the Miles Kimble magazine. Surely, my sanity is worth an additional monthly fee, because I’m one patriotic wind chime away from blowing my brains out, all over her house of course. Unfortunately for her kids, they are too young to know the impression their mother’s distasteful enthusiasm made on the other parents and her new neighbours. Those kids are damn adorable though. They make her look admirable when they run off the bus into her arms, like they’ve been tortured all day at school.  Can’t say I’ll ever get the pleasure of relating.

           Feet tucked underneath me, I shifted around in the rocking chair out front, so I could skeptically watch Betsy more comfortably. I have a full cup of coffee’s worth of judgment left. We have a great house; bungalow meets craftsman with beautiful stained glass and woodwork all over, and a giant porch fit for five. After my advance for the new book went through, I finally put new furniture out here; it was such an eyesore before. Wicker furniture is so typical. Teak is classic.

           Do you think she’s just living up to her potential, having been named Betsy anyway? How much could one aspire to with a name like that; it’s modest, hokey, and not too far reaching. Betsey is ill fitting and store brand in the world of women. While the contrast makes my house look better, I wonder as neighbours if Mark and I are tacky by association?

           “Honey, I’m running late, can you let Henry out for me?”

He was fixing his tie, and I was giving him the once over like the first time I saw him from across the bar. Twelve years ago, I tripped like I had three feet, ran into the bathroom and told my girlfriends, “I’m going to marry that man out there.”

“Carrie, lets just wash the vodka out of your skirt first.”

To this day, I’ve never thought about giving my everything to anyone else.

           “Sure babe, I’ll take care of the dog. I was about to come in and get ready before the vet anyway,” I said, standing up out of the chair to kiss that after-shave good day. I fixed the tie after his handsome attempt, gave him an umbrella for later, and saw him off.

           “Henry! Does someone want to go out?”

He barreled down the stairs, probably having been rolling around in our bed. He wasn’t supposed to sleep up on the furniture, but he was our baby. Clamoring down, it’s like I could see fur flying off his coat in the warm morning sunlight. I let him out, slid the glass door shut, and lint rolled his usual spots like a daily ritual. When he finished covering up his droppings, like I couldn’t see them anymore, I leashed him and he fled to the passenger seat of my car.

           I think vets become vets because they inherently prefer pets to all other humans; at least that’s what their greetings tell me. I’m not sure she says hello to me anymore, but Henry loves her, so be it. Today we were discussing when he’d be fit enough to breed.

           “Were you going to find another long-haired Dalmatian, or a short coat? Long-haired are so rare, but recessive.”

           Jackie, I’m aware. And just as last time, I want Henry matched up with another long-coat, because I want little puppies running around looking just like him. I’m not sure what makes her think I enjoy repeating myself. My phone rings. It’s Andrew, the degenerate nephew I’ve never been so happy to hear from.  I reassure her that I’ll be right back before I step outside.

           “Hey Aunt Carrie, I just woke up, got your text though. What’s up and how much are you paying?”

           “Andrew, for two-hundred dollars, I need you to do two things: steal all of the decorations on my neighbors front lawn, then break into her garage and get the rest.”

           Irritably listening to him laugh for a while, I heard in his drawn out amusement his thinking I’m being irrational.

           “Do not tell your mother, she’ll kill me. But is that alright?”

           “Yea, yea, that’s fine. Just hope this isn’t your neighbor Betsy, she’s the shit. Remember when -”

You have got to be fucking kidding me. I’d exhaust myself to sleep trying to rationalize why people like her.

           “Just do it. Tomorrow night,” I said.