The Lightning

The Lightning


HE didn’t realize it that morning as he woke up, but that would be the day that Justus would have his revenge. He watched as the photographer set up and tested the lighting equipment. This was the fifth year in a row that his father had set up the “Christian Family Photo Album,” so at this point; the sessions were becoming something of a tradition. For the rest of his family, it was a time to enjoy each other’s company, to put on the very best of their Sunday Best and to smile like the proud family of a successful minister should smile. Yet, for Justus, it was a time when he was forced to swallow all the resentment he had built up toward his father over the years and smile like a jackass.
The photographer flashed the bulb again, “We should be ready to go in just a second, Reverend Watts.”
“Oh,” His father released an affectedly good-natured chuckle, “I prefer Pastor Watts, but sounds good, we’re ready when you are, thank you.” He took a last minute glance over at Justus in an attempt to weed out the smallest imperfection. “Justus, your tie’s crooked, fix it!”
Justus put an obligatory hand up to fix his tie, not really caring which way he moved it, simply trying to give his father what he wanted with the least amount of attention or effort. He continued to stare into the flashes of the lighting equipment. That’s what started all of this god damn mess, anyways, he thought, ever since those god damn lights did the trick he’s been riding his high horse into god damn heaven.
The time in question that Justus was thinking of, had been a little more than five years ago, just before the “Christian Family Photo Album” had started. Justus was eleven, and his father had been placed at the First Baptist Church just a year before. He was a young minister who believed passionately, and who could hold the attention of a large congregation quite easily Sunday after Sunday. In those days, Justus had to admit, even he looked forward to seeing his father speak the sweet truth of Jesus Christ, and bring people to the most emphatic reaffirmations of their faith. Had he not developed such a hatred for his father since then, Justus might have allowed himself to remember the happier times he and his father had shared together in his youth. It was an almost everyday occurrence that his father would read scripture with him, and Justus delighted in the proud looks he received from his father when he was able to recite the Ten Commandment and the Beatitudes from memory. Yet, anytime he thought of these things now, Justus was sure that what his father had enjoyed most was not he, himself, but his accomplishments that would serve to affirm his father’s reputation as a holy man. Still, things had been quite alright until the Sunday when a simple coincidence had changed his father from a simple and honest minister to what Justus heard some of the more senile women of the church refer to as “the right hand of God in our own backyard!”
Justus had been listening to his father’s sermon that Sunday very intently, as usual. It was about the Christian’s responsibility to remain active for the purposes of God everyday, and that no matter what we couldn’t just sit around and wait for God to make us do something. During one of the more animated moments of the sermon his father had raised his pointed hand to the sky and shouted the phrase that, very soon, Justus would mark as a turning point in he and his father’s lives:
“Don’t sit there and wait for the lightning!”
And then, as soon as the word “lightning” had left the parted lips of Pastor Watt’s bright red face, by mere coincidence, by Holy intervention, or by what Justus would refer to later as the “god damn grace of god,” the lights flickered. It wasn’t the sort of phenomenon that if experienced by itself would be considered supernatural. It lasted for, at most, five seconds, but perhaps what made it seem more fantastic was the accompaniment of a buzzing noise. Although it was probably just the muffled hum of electricity, the sound was enough to link Pastor Watt’s preceding sentence with the flicker of the lights, so that all who were in attendance would swear that it could be nothing but Divine Intervention. The immediate reaction of the congregation was to sit, awestruck. No one knew exactly what to say or perhaps if it was even appropriate to speak, as the Pastor was, actually, still in the middle of his sermon. He seemed just as stunned as everyone else. Finally, there seemed to arise a chuckle of good humor, which the Pastor embraced with a polite and playful “Ahem” and continued on with the sermon, as though nothing had happened. But Justus looked back at the congregation and from the front pew where he always sat. They were beaming. The minister had arrived. That afternoon around the supper table he saw similar grins emanating from his mother and younger sister. His father ate his roast beef, smiling to himself. Justus couldn’t place what it was, but what to everyone else seemed like a miracle, to him seemed only ominous. It was though on that day, his father went to bed as a different man, someone who seemed entirely alien to Justus.
And then things changed. First with his father’s creation of the “Christian Family Photo Album,” which was really more of a glorified phone directory with family portraits. What Justus finally saw during the annual photo shoots was his father’s ridiculous vanity. He would spend hours parting his hair just left of center, stealing his mothers tweezers to remove any gray hairs and liberally applying cologne. Justus would always consider it his father’s annual fashion show for the old women of the church. They would gather in the room to see the proud minister’s family have their picture taken, gabbing back and forth continuously. Within a few years, Justus would find it amusing to look at them and imagine that they were a bunch of chickens, clucking away unintelligibly at the most trivial of matters. Aside from these sessions of vanity, the Pastor’s sermons became fierier, instead of a reaffirmation of faith; he began to speak of “the depths of hell” and “sins which will weigh us down like a heavy and rusted chain.” He remained affable at church activities but at home he would sequester himself within his study for hours on end, reviewing drafts and sermons, and preparing Bible studies and church events. The first direct attack Justus felt against his own self was when he was forced to take part in the town’s Fourth of July parade. He and his sister, Kara, were supposed to sit on a trailer as his father towed them with his truck through the parade route. When Justus, who at the awkward age of twelve had embraced a rather shy and introverted disposition, asked his father why they had to sit on the stupid trailer, the Pastor only chuckled and said, “You’ll see, Justus... you’ll see…”
Then the day came. Justus waited to leave for the parade in the back of the truck, as his father walked out to the driveway and started the car. And then he saw the scheme his father had concocted. His little sister, led by his mother’s hand, had been done up to look like the Statue of Liberty. When thinking back about how long it had taken him to realize the significant connection he had with such a get-up, Justus would actually become angry. He sat with a downtrodden scowl as he and his sister were towed through the entirety of the parade with dual signs on the side of the trailer that read “Liberty and Justus.” It occurred to him only then, that perhaps when his father had chosen an uncommon name like “Justus” for him, that this had been his plan all along. He stared into the rearview mirror of the truck to find his father’s eyes, and when he did, he was disgusted to find that the possessed a look of complete self-satisfaction. The humiliation of Justus’s friends laughing and jeering at his participation in a spectacle so stupid left a scar in his heart.
But the actually cruelty of his father, the really malevolent and horrible actions, came the following year, when Justus turned thirteen. At this point in his schooling, Justus truly had become the quintessential example of a shy and lonely teenage boy. He would eat with other kids from church, which he was grateful for, but his conversation was limited to various “umms” and “ahhs” whenever he sought to say something meaningful. He soon chose not to speak at all, based on his irrational reasoning that it would be better not to do so than to develop a stutter. Being so terribly shy, he had nothing to do most days but fantasize, and being racked by the hormonal explosion occurring in his body he began to take an acute notice of the budding bosoms on his female schoolmates. Then, there were fantasies about his Sunday-school teacher, Mrs. Dobbs, a woman of thirty-eight with breasts large enough that pant-suit could do nothing to hide. The cycle was set, and Justus quickly discovered how to tame, and subsequently reward his erections while showering on most, if not all mornings. It never occurred to Justus that his father might notice the excessively long time it took his son to bathe, and instead of simply yelling at him, as was usual, use a more creative means of showing his son that water wasn’t free. The irony was that just as his father sought to teach Justus a lesson, Justus, in his imagination, was actually teaching Mrs. Dobbs a lesson of his own. He quivered at the thought of sharing the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil with his sultry temptress of a Sunday-school teacher, who would most certainly submit herself to being carried away in his strong arms and allow him to ravage her night after night. It was in the middle of this fantasy that Justus was shocked by his father pouring a glass of ice cold water on him, which, in contrast to the steaming-hot shower proved enough to send Justus skyrocketing out through the shower curtain onto the bathroom floor. Justus realized as he lay there that his hand was still gripping his previously hard and quickly dissipating member, and that his father was standing directly over him, witnessing his mortal sin. Pastor Watts, in turn, was so shocked that he dropped the glass which shattered on the floor next to his feet. Justus stared up at his father, mortified, and Pastor Watts stared back at him, mouth agape.
“YOU,” he said suddenly, readjusting his gaze, “are a filthy fucking abomination in the sight of the Lord.” Justus couldn’t believe his father had actually cursed, “Rinse off… then clean this up. Hurry, we’re going to be late for church,” He stepped over Justus and out of the bathroom.
Surprisingly, there were no immediate repercussions of this incident. His father and he stopped talking altogether, as opposed to hardly at all, and Justus continued about his regular routine… although he always, always remembered to lock the bathroom door.
The axe finally fell after about three weeks when he and his father went to the Father-Son Bible Study on Wednesday night. Justus had only suspected in his worst nightmares that his father might mention something about their encounter in the bathroom at the Bible Study, and after the first two weeks following the incident had passed and the had said nothing, he began to relax and pass the time in a foggy daydream as he usually did. He almost didn’t notice when his father began to discuss the sin of lustfulness as a pitfall to young men, but then he felt his father’s glare fall upon him.
“Justus has had his own problems with lustful thought,” the Pastor said.
“Dad, don’t,” it was impossible, surely his father couldn’t be this cruel.
“Some of you might be surprised to find…” he continued.
“Dad, STOP it!” Surely, his father had to have some boundaries.
“…that Justus has had trouble abstaining from the Sin of Onan,” and thus his father proved that he had none.
The other boys, most of whom were Justus’s lunch mates, looked at each other confusedly. “What’s the sin of Onan?” one asked.
“Onanism is the same thing as autoeroticism,” The Pastor explained. “You boys might know it better as masturbation.”
Justus didn’t wait to hear the snicker see the looks of shock and embarrassment fall on him. He threw his chair across the room and stormed out into the hall, his face ablaze with anger. His father followed after him.
“Justus,” he called, “Justus, stop!”
Justus reeled around, “Are you fucking kidding me? I go to school with them, I’m going to have to see them tomorrow… GIRLS will hear about this!”
“We have to be held accountable for our sins of thought and action… even if it means a little petty embarrassment on your part!”
“A little petty embarrassment? I’d like to see you cope with—“
His father cut him off, “I am a LEADER of this church, and as my son, it’s important that you be made an example of from time to time, especially if your behavior isn’t all that exemplary. You should thank God that I’ve called your sin to the forefront, and now you’ll be able to deal with it more easily. You don’t know how many boys your age struggle with this problem in secret. It separates them from God.”
“I don’t care about God!” He was overwhelmed by thoughts of his father’s hypocrisy, so much so that after the words had left his mouth he stayed long enough only to see the fire of his father’s temper start up. He didn’t wish to continue the battle, only to provoke his father to the point of anger. He turned again and ran the whole two miles home.
He was grounded obviously. Yet, surprisingly, it was a decision made solely by his father. When Justus had spoken to his mother about the incident, a woman who was usually well-versed in submissiveness, even she had to acknowledge the ridiculous of his father’s actions. Instead of the usual attentive and loving greeting, she gave her best try at a sidelong glance and managed to let out an “Honestly, dear,” but this was to no avail. The Pastor had not cooled off, he had been justified, he was a man of god and Justus would have his punishment. But other than that, life at home didn’t seem to change much. Justus and his father continued a cycle of not talking, and Justus was left alone and no longer made an example of, so long as he came to church and kept up the act as best he could. But at school the torments never ceased. His shyness was intensified by having the entirety of the school know how he spent his free time. It wasn’t long before girls were pointing and laughing or turning away in disgust, and the boys from the bible study, those he had mistakenly thought were his friends, stopped associating with him altogether. Justus became the sad spectacle of a boy at school who eats alone.
So Justus was surprised and relieved when he finally saw a window of opportunity for revenge at the annual photo shoot. It came upon him almost without warning as is mind wandered while waiting to fake a smile. It dawned on Justus that his father’s one weakness in regard to sin was that he was always known to use the f-word in cases of surprise or disgust. He thought back to the time he had been caught in the shower, and even to a different time he had been forced to help his father move a couch. It proved too heavy for Justus, and he accidentally let the sizeable piece of furniture fall on his father’s foot.
“Mother fucker!” his father had practically shrieked.
He quickly apologized, to both Justus and his heavenly father, and proceeded to ice the wound. It had almost slipped Justus mind as something significant, but rather solidified his opinion of his father as a religious hypocrite.
But on the day, he finally realized that he could use the bad habit to his advantage. It finally dawned on him as the old women began to gather in the room to see them have their picture taken. They began to gab about how big Justus had gotten, where he would go off to college, how beautiful his mother’s blouse looked and of course how the minister had a photogenic quality that was almost regal. He once again, began to imagine them as chickens, taking extra satisfaction in demeaning them because he was quite sure that of all the member of the congregation, it was they who held his father’s image most dear.
The photographer began to orient them in their sitting position in front of the camera. “Okay, Pastor Watts, looks like everything’s all set up, “ he announced, “Let’s have your children sit in the middle, we’ll have your daughter and Justus sit in the middle, and then we’ll have your lovely wife beside your daughter and you can sit right behind Justus here… there we go, that looks great…”
Justus couldn’t believe his luck. Actually, he could. It was the same stupid pose they sat in every year, and the only difference would be that sometimes he and his sister would switch places. But this year he was lucky to have his father sitting right next to him, thus setting him in the perfect position to execute his ad hoc plan for revenge. The photo session began, which usually meant leaving the same plastered smile on for about five minutes. He waited for a sufficient amount of flashes until he could tell that the photographer would keep going, as he would develop a rhythm of click and flash. Then, slowly, purposefully, he extended his leg straight outward. The cameraman didn’t see, and no one else in the family seemed to notice until right before it happened. He waited until a few seconds before the next flash and then, with all his might, summoning all his pent up rage, he swung his heel downward as hard as he could.
“Justus, what are you—” the Pastor started.
BAM! Right down onto his father’s slightly exposed ankle. And then, Justus smiled, and with that smile, he realized he was happier than he had been in years.
“Fucking CHRIST, Justus!”
FLASH. The old ladies stood silent in shock and heartbreak. Justus was already being scolded by his mother. His father chuckled in an embarrassed manner, and asked the old women to forgive him. His sister started to cry. The photographer looked up, not realizing what was going on. But to Justus, everything just seemed to fade into the background of his newfound contentment. He was quite sure that he had timed it just right. The grounding would be so, so worth it.

The photo arrived a month later. Justus found it before his mother did, as he’d been skipping his last class of the day for about a week to get to the mail first. In the parking lot of the church, he had offered the photographer fifty dollars for an eight by eleven print of the shot. It had turned out perfectly. The part that actually pleasantly surprised by was his mother and sister’s eyes focused downward directly on the point of impact. He could actually see his mouth wide open in fear and puzzlement. His father’s face was the crowning achievement. From the way his mouth was positioned open and his eyes seemed to be clenched shut in pain, Justus was sure that the picture had caught him mid f-word, just as the “u” sound was rolling into the hard “k”. And there, in the middle, smiling with what he realized was his first genuine smile in the “Christian Family Photo Album” was Justus. Smiling because he had held his father accountable for his sins of thought and action. Smiling because of his liberty and justice. Smiling because, in the end, all he had had to do was sit there and wait for the lightning.

Park Bench Voyeurism By: Sarah Rovito

Nobody tells you when you’re getting old that it’s happening. You just wake up one day and WHAM, like a baseball bat to the chest, you can’t catch your breath after walking across the room. You can’t stand up or sit down or walk up steps or take a shit without an ache or a pain or a pill or ten. The younger years were good, I suppose, but now I have nothing to do but sit around and wait to die. I choose to do my sitting and waiting in the park. In the park I get to see the things that remind me that I’m not sorry I’m going to die. I go to the park to see the wretched; the ones who remind me to welcome death. When, at times, I feel sorry that I never had kids or a family, I just go to the park, and am quickly reminded that its better this way. The world has gone to shit. In my day we had romance and humor and simplicity. Oh, to be young forever.
Today begins like most. Some coffee in a chipped mug, oatmeal, and a fistful of pills. Glue my teeth in, put on a sweater, pants, and comfortable shoes that everyone sixty-five years and over is required to wear. I’m seventeen years past that deadline. I put some slices of bread in a baggie and tuck it carefully in my pocket. Leave the house without locking the door. Maybe someone will come in while I’m gone and steal my life out from under me. One can only hope.
I get to the park early enough that I have my choice of benches to sit on, at least, of the ones not occupied by those who have bedded here for the night. I choose one close enough to the lake but also somewhat near the entrance. I like to see who comes and goes. I settle in and take a look around. It is early enough to catch the morning joggers, all covered in spandex and sweat, running their workouts. I sit with my hands in my pockets and watch two of these fit young people as they run past each other. He strong and steady, she slender and swift. As they pass, their eyes meet, and for a split second they are all the other one sees. They pass and the moment is over. But it is ok because they will pass each other once more on the other side of the lake and the park can fill with eye contact and lust and sweat all over again. A one night stand lurks just around the corner.
It is the end of May and the breeze that dances across my bald head is warm. Warm enough that I’m glad I didn’t wear a hat, but cool enough that I’m glad I wore a sweater. I watch a woman walk into the park through the main entrance. The woman is smartly dressed in a sharp, black skirt, just shy of being called mini, a dark purple blouse, pantyhose, and pumps. She walks to the other side of the path towards the grove of Beech trees. She checks her watch, fondles her luscious, dark hair, and looks about her. If only my measly manhood had not died those many years ago I would be enjoying Ms. Purple Shirt quite thoroughly. I reach my hand into my pocket and over to where my member lay limp against my leg. Nothing! Not even a tingle or a twitch. A man enters the grove and interrupts my fantasies as he approaches Ms. Purple Shirt. She reaches between her C-cups and pulls out a roll of cash. This she discretely places in the man’s hand and likewise receives something in her own, which she nests down comfortably in her cleavage. They barely exchange a glance and walk on. This does not shock me. Nothing that happens in the park shocks me, not even coke-head executives.
It is the quiet period in the park now. The bullying kids and their whimpering victims are in school. Oh, to be young again. The drug-dependent business people are in their museum-like offices snorting their coke. Oh, to be numbed by money. The bums are begging out on the sidewalks in front of the coffee shops and bookstores. Oh, to have no shame. The joggers are off cleaning their houses or buying groceries or having their affairs. Oh, to be emotionally detached. Right now it is just me and the ducks and the bread in my pocket to bring us together. I walk to the edge of the lake and pull out my baggie. They gather around me and flock at my feet. There are so many that I imagine if I fell down right here, it would be like falling on a feather bed, except with breaking bones and blood from all the ducks I would crush.
The bread is gone, and I limp and hobble back to my bench and spend the next few minutes trying to catch my breath. I look around and spot a group of pre-teens strolling through the West entrance. I eye them suspiciously, knowing they should be in school, and eager to see what they are up to. The obvious leader of the group is a medium-sized boy in jeans made for a man three times his size, a camouflage print t-shirt, and gym shoes that are untied. The others include two non-descript little thugs who think they’re too good for the American education system, a boy much younger than the rest who has a deep scar above his left eye, and a girl, pretty, slender, and sly-looking. Damn kids. They enter into the shelter provided by the grove of Beeches. I suppose they do not see me, or rather, know that I am of little importance, and proceed with their business as if I were not here. With the little scar-faced boy as the lookout, the other boys first take turns kissing the girl on the mouth, to which she responds with little giggles and wipes her lips on her sleeve after each one. I drink this sight in with disgusted glee. The boys then take turns greedily thrusting their hands up the girl’s shirt, to which she responds with painful scowls as they squeeze and pinch her newly-developed shame. She then stealthily slides her dainty hand down the front of each of their over-sized pants for about five seconds each, to which they respond with nervous glances as she briefly touches their small, preteen pride. When this awkward display is over she readily accepts a five-dollar bill from each participant, even the little lookout who got none of the action. She strolls out the main entrance of the park and leaves them to go back where they came from through the West entrance, avoiding eye contact with each other. This does not shock me. Nothing that happens in the park shocks me, not even adolescent prostitution.
It is lunchtime. I get up off my bench and walk out through the main entrance and head to the corner.
“Morning, Charlie,” I say.
“Well hello there, Maxwell,” answers the ancient and rickety black hotdog vendor.
“Just one today,” I say, “Mustard and relish.”
“Very nice, very nice. There you are,” he replies with his usual joviality. Charlie is a happy man. Apparently Charlie doesn’t spend much time in the park. Oh, to be blissfully ignorant.
I hand Charlie a dollar and a quarter and take my hotdog back into the park, and back to my bench. When I walk through the main entrance I see a young woman in a heavy jacket quickly leaving through the West entrance. I can only see her from the back, but her hair is long and greasy and her head is hanging low. Oh, what beautiful sin have I missed? I eat my hotdog in about three bites, and wash it down with a handful of pills. I sit with my hands in my lap for awhile, and watch a mother who has just entered the park with her toddler; I honestly can’t tell if it’s a boy child or a girl child. The woman sits down on a bench, maybe three away from mine, and proceeds to make phone call after phone call after phone call. All the while the child is wandering around aimlessly looking for some form of entertainment. The lake, the child decides, seems to be the best choice. As the child totters along the water’s edge the mother animatedly converses about the smutty novel she is reading. The child, about three or four years old, slips in a slick of mud and falls in the shallow murky water at the edge of the lake. The ducks do not appreciate this and explode upwards in an eruption of chaos and quacking. The mother hangs up her cell phone and trots her overweight ass over to her genderless child, yanks it by the arm, and scolds it for getting wet and muddy. They leave the park, the child in tears, the mother in a layer of fat, annoyance, and dissatisfaction with life. If only she’d chosen a career over children. This does not shock me. Nothing that happens in the park shocks me, not even horrible parents and their struggling-to-not-disappoint-them children.
It is late afternoon when the bums begin to return to the park. They would hate to be left without a bench to sleep on. I do not make eye contact with them. I come here to see the wretched, not the hopeless. The park is for them at night and for me in the day. We do not meet. I begin to ready myself for my walk home and my evening alone with my aches and pains. Sitting on a park bench all day can really hurt a body. But I am a voyeur, and I would much rather watch the world around me crumble than watch the walls at home crack. Two-bedroom condos are boring places and my war vet checks don’t allow me to afford a TV. As I stand to leave, I spy a bum dressed in filthy, dark pants, a shirt that was once white, a coat, even though it’s warm outside, and a tangled mass of hair that probably hasn’t been washed in decades. There are no shoes on this man’s feet, only socks. He rises from his bench, leaving his trash bag of shit to hold his place for him and heads over to the grove of Beech trees. This is not unusual; he’s probably just going to take a piss. But he soon emerges with a wiggling bundle in his arms. He looks around inquisitively for the mother of this new-found baby. Oh, to be abandoned under a Beech tree. But I know the mother is long gone. Hurried out the West entrance with head hanging low when I went to get my lunch. The bum goes to his bench, reaches in his trash bag and removes a package cup of applesauce he probably scored at the food bank. This he spoons into the child’s mouth with his finger. This shocks me. Nothing that happens in the park shocks me, except this. This is an unabashed act of kindness. This is selflessness. This is love. This is good in the world.
At home that night as I groan and grumble and ease myself into bed, I can’t help but think that somewhere in the park down the street there is a bum and a baby sleeping on a park bench. I pull myself out from under my covers. It is around 3 a.m. I get dressed and take a fistful of pills. I walk out to my little garage and find my ax. I walk to the park in the chilly, dewy night and enter the grove of Beech trees. I have seen good in the world. I swing my ax hard against a Beech tree. I will not stand to see any more evil. I swing my ax again. I have seen good in the world. These trees are a dwelling of evil. I have seen good in the world. I swing my ax again and my arm begins to ache. I can not catch my breath and I see spots. I swing my ax again and fall to the ground and leave this partially good world and it’s partially cut down Beech trees.

Signum Crucis

The lady that showed me the apartment told me the building caught fire in 1880, luckily only the top two floors of the four-story building had burned. That explains why my third floor apartment looks so modern when compared to the rest of the building. The apartments on the top two floors are luxury suites that take up the entire story. They were recently remodeled after being sealed off for over a hundred years, but for some reason the third floor is much cheaper than the fourth floor. I told myself I was going to research the fire before I committed to the lease, but the lady was cute so I signed the lease with the intent of impressing her. Being the first time owner of a luxurious downtown penthouse is a hard opportunity to pass up, even though it’s not on the top floor.

            The first night is always awkward in a new apartment, especially alone. I just don’t understand why I’m single. I’m a young optometrist fresh out of grad school. I’m in shape, I’m loaded, I’ve got a badass car, and now I just moved into this gigantic apartment. What’s not to like about me? I’m a fuckin’ catch!

            The part I hate most about living alone is showering, you are at you’re most vulnerable state while you’re in the shower. I didn’t always feel that way. But when I was in grade school my grandpa made me watch that movie Psycho and ever sense I’ve had this strange urge to maintain control. I get really crazy when I lose control.

            Well unfortunately its 11:00 p.m. I’ve been at the gym all night, and I smell like an ass. Tomorrow’s Friday, I have to work. I must shower. Its no big deal, single people shower everyday. And I’m definitely never going to find a chick smelling like gym room musk.

            Lathering shampoo is always the worst part about showering. All the suds start falling down into my face, and I always feel blinded. If a killer were going to rip open the shower curtain and slice me to pieces that would be the time.

            I always undress in the bathroom. This way I always have a knife in the pocket of my pants. I fold my pants the same way every night, and I always make sure the pocket with the knife is facing up. I don’t want the killer to see my defense before I have a chance to stab him with it.

            Shutting the curtains is a commitment I’m not always willing to make. “Goddamn this B. O!” Tonight I make the commitment.

            I scrub and scratch the shampoo onto my scalp with an intense haste, but pain doesn’t matter. Did I just hear a noise? I’ve got to clear my eyes. I must have control! I think I see someone behind the curtain. “Hello! Is there anybody there?” No answer. Of course they didn’t fucking answer! I open my eyes too early and blind myself with the remaining suds on my face. Through the blurry pain I see a tall dark figure behind the shower curtain. I blink furiously trying to relieve my blind eyes. Fuck the burn. I must live. I must have control!

            I fling open the curtains and dive for my knife. My soaking hands drench my folded sweat pants. Fuck my eyes are burning! Suddenly I hear a crash in the kitchen! “Hello? I’m going to slash you to pieces if you don’t show yourself!” No answer. I run into the kitchen and see that the window leading to the fire escape is open. I know I closed the window before I went to the gym. I’ve been robbed.

* * *

            Fortunately I survived my shower, and so far I haven’t noticed anything missing. I hope it was just some petty thieves and not an insane neighbor. I always have the worst neighbors.

             I feel much better now that I’m clean. Falling asleep is not nearly as difficult as showering because I keep a loaded Glock nine millimeter underneath my pillow. I would take a gun into the shower but I’m worried that the water and mist would rust the barrel. I only invest in expensive weapons. They are precious to me.

* * *

            Lonely Friday nights are a tradition for me. I get off work at five and the office I work for is closed on the weekends. Some of the lab technicians I work with have a poker game every Friday night. They invited me to the game once but none of them had enough money to match the bets I was placing. One of the guys tried to cheat so I pulled my Smith and Wesson nine millimeter from my holster and set it on the table, I could tell I was making them nervous. They don’t invite me to their Friday night poker games anymore. Those pussies are probably just jealous that I make more money then they do.

            I take up different hobbies to fill the void of my lonesome weekends, but I rarely stick with anything. Since this apartment building is in an artsy-part of town I figured I’d go down to the local art store and try to pick up chicks.            

            When I got to the art store the only chick there was behind the counter. In fact, we were the only two people in the store. I grab a bunch of brushes, tubes of paint, canvases, basically anything I can grab. I don’t look at the price tags. Money is not a problem with me. I just want to impress the cashier. She looks kind of cute. How much could painting supplies cost anyway?

            “Four-hundred, ninety three dollars, and twelve cents.” She announces after ringing up the last tube of paint. Rather than respond I stare blankly into her young eyes. I can tell I’m making her nervous with my silence. I reach into my pocket and pull out my wallet. I quietly hand her my credit card. The credit card machine seems to take an eternity to process my purchase. The Silence is making everything awkward and I feel like I’ve lost control. “Crazy weather we’re having huh?” I finally break the ice. “Uhhh… yeah. I love the change of the seasons.” She replied! “Well… I’ll see you around!” I think she is trying to get me to leave. She hands me my bags and I walk out of the store without saying a word in reply. Damn it, I didn’t even give myself the chance!

            I decide to buy a bottle of whiskey and drink my problems away. Sitting in my gigantic living room drinking myself into madness I feel the sudden urge to paint a picture. After all, I do have a small fortune invested in a bunch of painting supplies sitting on the floor by the front door. As I paint the canvas I don’t really intend on painting anything in particular. I’m just blobbing goops of red paint on the canvas and brushing back and forth. Brushing the canvas I start to see a red border developing on the canvas. It almost looks like a red curtain. I decide to paint a brown stage. Mixing the paints on the canvas I start to feel an overwhelming feeling throughout my entire body, almost like I am under another’s control. It must be the booze. As this mystical feeling moves my hand back and forth I look at the canvas I am painting. It is fucking terrible! It doesn’t look like a stage at all. I decide to go to bed a failure in yet another attempt at a hobby.

            I begin to fall into that stage of sub consciousness in which you feel half-awake but you’re unsure if you’re dreaming or not. As I lay in bed an old man slowly walks into my bedroom door and approaches my bedside. He must be the intruder from earlier! He stops and looks down at me. Straight into my eyes he glares, and in a ruffled voice the man asks: “ Why have you come to disturb me?”

            “I am not here to disturb you, I only live here. Who the hell are you? What do you think you are doing in my apartment?” I scream at him. I reach for my gun but my arms are motionless. I can only squirm my head back and forth!

            “In the name of the lord I will punish every demon you send my way Satan! Why does your master Lucifer send you to torture me? I’m nothing but a lonely old man!” His voice echoes throughout the room with such a power that it shakes my body.

            I try so hard to reach for my gun as he starts to move in on me. He sticks both his old, long, wrinkly hands out at me with the intent of strangling me. “No!” I scream. Why wont my arms work? If I could just grab my gun I could smoke this motherfucker. What is wrong with me? I must be dreaming. I must be dreaming.

            I awake in a cold sweat, and I can’t breathe. Inhale. Exhale. I get up out of bed and walk into the living room. The canvas is lying on the floor and the cup of water I used to clean the brushes has spilled on the new carpet. I must have knocked it over in my sorrowful, drunken stumble to bed. The more I look at the canvas the more I’m beginning to think it doesn’t look like a stage at all. In fact the brown stage kind of looks like a building. And the red curtain kind of looks like a fire. It looks like a building on fire. It looks like this building on fire. “That’s fucking awesome! I have to hang that up right over the couch!” I congratulate myself.

            After watching two hours of Ren and Stimpy re-runs on late night TV and taking shots of whiskey I black out. The next morning I am brought into my hangover by a loud thudding happening up stairs. Neighbors so soon? I am already regretting picking the slightly cheaper third floor apartment, rather than the more expensive, yet identically size fourth floor apartment. I always have the strangest neighbors.

            As a means of breaking the ice I always ask my new neighbors for some sugar. I know its corny but I’m desperate for some company, and maybe there will be some cute single girls living there.

            Three knocks on the door and I hear some soft footsteps approaching from inside the apartment, as the door creaks open I take a peak at who is inside. It is a young boy about twelve years old. He has red hair, a pale and freckled face with extremely high eyebrows and cheekbones that slope to a point in the center of his face. He looks like a heathen brat. “Hello little boy, do you think you could get your parents for me?” I ask. “No.” he yells as he slams the door in my face. What a little bastard. Someone should teach that little punk a lesson.

            All that afternoon I had to listen to that fucking kid run from one end of the apartment to the other. I tried to turn my stereo up loud enough to block out his footsteps, but it seemed like every time I turned the music up louder he would just run faster and make more noise. I even put a Slayer album on the stereo, but the heavy metal was to no avail. The brutal music seemed to make that little shit more excited. The thudding would begin at one end of the apartment, then it sounded like he would run to the other end and then run back as quickly as he could manage. What a little fucker. I finally was relieved when I fell asleep at eleven p.m., unfortunately I didn’t have the courage to take a shower. Especially after I was robbed the last time I showered. And that dream I had last night is not helping my courage

            That night the same man visits me. As he walks towards my bedside I don’t even bother trying to fight for control of my arms. I’ve lost control. “I’m truly sorry for the things I said to you last evening. You see I had you confused for someone else.” The man calmly says as he stops at my bedside. “Let me show you something Franklin, follow me upstairs.” The man leads me out of my apartment, into the stairwell, and up to the top floor of the apartment building. The stairs are made of marble leading to the top floor, and the maple handrail is unfamiliar. The first two stories of the building look like this now, but the top stories have carpet over the stairs and a metal handrail, I wonder if somebody fixed the hallway now that they have residents on these two floors. “Do you know who lives in this apartment Franklin?” The man asks. “No. I tried to meet them yesterday but the bratty ass little kid slammed the door in my face.”

            “Let me tell you something about the child living in this apartment Franklin. He has been possessed by one of Satan’s many demons that can roam the Earth. They have been sent here to drive the innocent into insanity, and to convert the faithful into non-believers. But I know you are not an insane person Franklin. In fact, God has sent me to inform you that you will be fulfilling a prophecy similar to the one that lead me to my own salvation. You see this building was built on a portal to Hell. Humans cannot see this portal, which is why you have never seen the many spirits it transports to hell daily. Unfortunately Lucifer can also use this portal to send demons onto Earth. Many years ago one of Satan’s demons bewitched a young boy who also lived on the fourth floor. I, like you, also lived on the third floor beneath the possessed. I accepted God’s request. Do you accept God’s request to once again preventatively destroy a possible threat to the good, and holy?”

            “You’re fucking joking with me. Do I look like an idiot? I’m a fucking doctor buddy! I wasn’t born yesterday.”

            “This is no time for joking Franklin, Satan must be stopped.” Replied the calm old man.

            “But I’ve never been religious. Why has God chosen me?” I question.

            “You are now what I was before. I was once a lonely man with all the luxuries of life handed to me. I know about your parent’s car crash, I know about your inheritance, I know everything about your lonely, tragic existence.” The man looks dead into my eyes with the composure of someone who has reached total nirvana.

            “Fuck you! Everybody knows about my parent’s crash! I hate fucking talking about my parent’s crash! I should kick your ass for bringing that up.” I can’t hold back my tears and my eyes blur as I stare a look of pure hatred into the eyes of this old man. “If he would have let me drive they would still be alive! He was too drunk, damn it he had lost all control! Why the fuck are you doing this to me?”

            “You have lost everything. You are one man who has nobody. But you can have someone Franklin: God. God is the perfect savior, and this holy deed will be the ultimate repentance. That is why God’s fate has led you to this apartment. We are both prophets of mortal blood. We are of the same mold. You will discover this truth with time. But for now you must decide. Are you willing to help yourself by helping God?”

            “Yes.” I reply in a clogged voice resulting from my emotional breakdown.

            “Good. Oh, here comes little Ricky now. Don’t let his size confuse you, Satan has given him extreme powers.” And sure enough the same redheaded kid came walking in the room. Only now he is dressed in extremely old clothes. He is barefooted, with dusty old pants that don’t even reach his ankles anymore. His suspenders wrap over his murky dark brown, wool shirt. His sleeves are rolled up and his hat looks like it has never been taken from his head. In fact everything looks different. Everything in the apartment looks very old. The stove is coal burning, there is no refrigerator, and candles light the entire apartment. The décor of the apartment is themed around the color of the dark wood that lavishly decorates every nook in the apartment. Suddenly I see little Ricky drop to his knees in the center of the living room and his eyes roll back into his head. He begins to scream shrilling noises, and he starts to foam at the mouth. Suddenly he begins to laugh in the most frightening, deep, and demonic voice I have ever heard. “Fools! I see you! I know you have traveled to my world. I see all! I will punish you with such intensity that you will beg me to pluck your eyes from your head just so you will not have to see your treacherous remains!” I have to wake up. I must regain control!

            But I can’t wake up, just like I couldn’t grab my gun. The old man walks out the front door and down the stairs so I quickly follow behind him. As we walk back to my apartment I realize that the room looks nothing like my apartment. There are a lot of fine gothic details in the woodwork and doorways of this apartment that must have been destroyed during the fire and forgotten during the remodeling. There are excellent paintings covering the floor, table, and walls. A real talent has created all of this art. I also begin to notice how there is nothing modern in the entire apartment, the fire pit is even functioning! The fire pit in my apartment had been sealed off during the remodeling. “You now know what you must do. Don’t you?” The man interrupts my thoughts.

            “Kill him.”

            “Yes you must remove him from the Earth and banish that demon back to the Hell that he came from.” The man speaks in such a monotone voice now. I haven’t heard his voice tone fluctuate since my first encounter with him at which he screamed with all the force of God.

            “How do I kill him?” I ask.

            “You absolutely cannot leave before he dies! You have been chosen by the lord himself to partake in this cleansing of evil. You must watch him die! You must burn him in the same way that demon wishes you will burn in the fiery pits of hell. It will not kill the demon, but it will kill his vessel, and the fire will send him straight back to hell. God wants you to burn him alive just like he had me do so many years ago. God is the keeper of Heaven’s gates. God is not someone you want to disobey. If you think the demons are bad on Earth, try dealing with Satan in hell.”

            “I can’t do that! I don’t want to die!” I shriek.

            “What do you have to live for Franklin? You are all alone. God is giving you a purpose.” The man makes a good argument. I am really lonesome. “Do God’s deed. Kill the child of Satan, and send that demon back to hell.” This was the last thing the man said to me before I awoke.

            Again I awoke in a cold sweat, only this time I really feel disgusting. I had sweated profusely throughout the night, and my entire comforter was soaked in pungent sweat. I didn’t even realize I was taking a shower until after I had rinsed the shampoo from my eyes. I guess some things just aren’t scary when you’ve got God on your side.

             I spend most of the day staring blandly at the living room wall. I don’t want to die, but what is the point in living after disobeying God. And if I don’t kill this brat then I’ll have a demon in constant, and close proximity to me. I decide to hang the canvas on the wall, but first I have to paint windows on the building. I’ve never felt the fulfillment of salvation before but I think I felt the tingle of God saving my soul as I brushed the white paint onto the canvas. I really have been chosen. But why me? I must dream! I lie down and try to fall asleep. The answers will come to me in a dream.

            Lying in bed during the daytime is useless for me. I’ve never taken a nap before in my life. I just lie flat on my back and watch the ceiling. The thudding of that brat has been non-stop today. I have to go out and make myself tired. I’ve always hated Sundays. All I have to do is golf and go to the shooting range, and I’m always alone during either activity. So I go to the shooting range and imagine the target is my young neighbor. Aiming a handgun is the ultimate form of control. Sometimes the wind on the golf course obstructs my control and I get frustrated. But going to the shooting range is always fulfilling. The butt of the gun rest in my powerful hands as I pull the trigger. I empty round after round into the target. I nearly separated the target in half I shot so many rounds into the thing. The loud banging of the handgun only makes me more alert. The control of my perfect aim makes me even more attentive. I’m not going to fall asleep. I must go by blind faith. I am the chosen one. God has given me control, and it is now up to me to fulfill my destiny. I control the fate of the holy people.

* * *

            Pouring gasoline all over the apartment smells worse than I could have ever imagined. I douse the two thousand dollar stereo first, who needs music? Besides the devil influences most good music anyway. The mattress almost soaks up the entire gallon, so I put a few trails leading to the gas stove and the water heater just for reassurance. Should I go get another gallon? The gas station is only across the street, and I don’t want the kid to live. Fuck it, this will do. I turn on all four-stove tops and let the kitchen fill with the leaking gas. That should take care of it. Walking back into the bedroom I give myself the sign of the cross. Head, chest, left, then right shoulder. Then I recite a prayer: “Dear God, please give me your divine wisdom and supreme power as I journey into the battlefields between heaven and hell. I ask for your blessing and hope that you will cherish me for all I have done in the name of the lord. Amen.” That was relieving, and I really felt a spiritual presence. But the thudding has stopped. In my commitment to dousing my apartment I didn’t even notice that my neighbors are not home. I guess now I’ll just wait for them to return.

            I’m waiting for the apartment to fill with gas, I’m waiting for the perfect moment for my life to end, but most importantly I’m waiting for the first thud to come bellowing down from upstairs. That demon wont make it three steps in the door before I blow his ass straight back to hell. I don’t even worry as I pick up the box of matches from the end table. I know I am doing the right thing. I know what God wants me to do. I know that I am in control. God has given me control through salvation.

           

           

 

 

 

             

It’s Not You It’s Me

The door was locked and the only thing she needed was behind it. She rummaged through her purse looking for his room key one more time. Frustrated, she dumped the contents of her purse on the floor of his living room, old receipts, a tube a ruby red lipstick, change, a compact. The eclectic contents of her purse scattered wildly around her, still no key. She hated how he felt the need to lock his damn bedroom door. She left her mess and flipped over couch cushions, searched under end tables and on top of door frames. I know he keeps an extra key around here somewhere. She thought getting into the house would be the hard part. But in ten minutes she had shimmied up the back deck to the second story entrance off the kitchen that was rarely locked. Suddenly she heard a car door shut and the sound of Brian’s voice carry through the window.
“I miss you too mom,” he said as he fumbled his key into the lock.
He can’t find me here! Jessica quickly threw her stuff back into her purse and darted into one of the living room closet. What the hell was I thinking?! Now she was stuck in the dark cramped closet with God knows what other creatures. Her ex-boyfriend and his four roommates were not the tidiest group to say the least. Jessica would spend hours washing dishes and scraping crud out of the microwave when she and Brian where still together. She missed it. She missed everything about him, even though Brooke told her not to.
“Jess!” seriously listen to me. “It’s over,” Brooke paused. We had been talking my ex-boyfriend Brian for hours now. I could feel the hot tears, rolling down my cheeks. Brian and I had broken up yesterday.
“Oh hun, come here,” Brooke scooted closer to me on the couch and wrapped her arms around me. I don’t know what I would do without her, she was perfect. From her perfect blonde waves, to her flawless completion, to her insane knowledge of boys. Jess couldn’t even remember a time when Brooke had been broken up with. She was always the heart breaker; she had boys drooling over her constantly. If she broke up with one she had reeled in another one by the end of the week. Brooke did whatever it took to get the boy she wanted. That was the only thing Jess had ever even thought wasn’t absolutely perfect about her. But hell, who cared, she was still that perfect girl that everyone wanted to be or be with. Since Brian and I had broken up she was the only human contact Jess had unless her Alanis Morsett CDs counted. Every day that week Brooke had showed up with ice cream, magazines, or new shoes. Somehow, Brooke new the perfect ways to cure a break up.
“I promise I’ll make it home soon, things have just been crazy lately.” Brian’s voice startled Jessica and she strained trying to hear what he was saying. He must be on the phone with his mom again. That woman was constantly calling him. Brain walked past the living room closet that was doubling as Jessica’s hide out, his room key in hand he opened the door effortlessly. That is how easy it was supposed to be for me!
Jessica’s eyes had been straining to see Brian’s flawless body since he had come in. His dirty blonde hair was tousled and damp with sweat. His white cutoff shirt was old and worn. One side was even tied in a knot where the line piece of fabric that held it together finally gave out. He must have just finished his Wednesday workout. Jessica hated his Monday, Wednesday, and Friday routine, even though she couldn’t argue with the results. His alarm would blare at 9 o’clock in the morning reminding Jessica that she was about to lose him to the gym for the rest of the day.
“I have another call I have to get Mom, I’ll call you later.” Brian’s voice startled her. With all of her daydreaming she had forgotten that at the she was a hostage to emotions, in a cramped musty old closet.
“Hey baby girl,” Brian’s voice rang in her ears. His words were like a broken record that she couldn’t get out of her head.
Could this be the space he needed? When Brian had broken up with Jess he seemed like he really wanted to get back together, or maybe he was just that good. She was starting to wonder.
“I know isn’t it nice to be able to see me whenever you want now baby girl,” Brian’s voice rang in Jess’s ears.
She used to be his baby girl. “Jess, baby girl stop crying. Pleaseee,” she remembered him begging. They were sitting in her living room. “It’s not you. I promise, I’m just busy right now. School just started. I have a house with the guys. I just need to get my shit straight babe. That way I can be better for you.” Be better for me my ass Jess thought. They had talked about the break and Brian had agreed on not to talk to any other girls, let alone date them, he promised. And now not even a week later he had another baby girl. The last text he sent to her is what confused her the most. He had decided that they shouldn’t talk for a while so that the break would work. She had read that text a million times. Some just to say “hi” others were “I miss you”. The only one that he had answered was the one that read “I’m sorry about whatever I did to make u need ur space. Plz can we talk”
All he said was “Jess remember this is for us k. it’s not ur fault. I just need a lil space so I think that we shouldn’t talk for a while… k?” she played the text conversation back in her head. Not wanting to cause problems she agreed, and that was what made her write that damn letter in the first place.
She had tucked in his underwear drawer yesterday when she had come to get her stuff. Jessica could hardly wait for the phone call when he open it up and read her true feelings. Do you remember the time we went to that park that over looked the city? The letter read. And how we spend all day there. It was the first time that you told me you loved me. I can’t live without you Brian. I just know I can’t. I know this break is for us but I miss everything about you. There were even some smudges from where Jessica’s tears had fallen on the letter. She almost rewrote it but she decided that they made it look sincere and heartfelt.
She didn’t have time to reminisce. She could faintly heard Brian come back into his room and plop of his creaky old mattress. She had to find out who the mystery girl on the phone was. She strained to hear the muted voice in the other room but couldn’t quite make out words that he was saying to his ‘baby girl’. She was supposed to be his baby girl. I bet he is feeding her the same corny lines that made me fall for him when we first met.
Jessica reached for the handle and slowly pushed the closet door open just a bit hoping to catch more of Brian’s conversation. CREAAKKK, the old door groaned as if to protest its involvement in her crazy scheme. It felt like someone had hit her in the chest with a baseball bat. She couldn’t breathe and she was sure that if he would listen he could hear her heart from his room. Brian’s voice was quiet for a minute and then it started up again.
“The doors unlocked come on in,” he said.
More carefully Jessica peaked out into the room. Brian had dropped his workout bag in the living room, just outside his bedroom door. Since her nook was directly across from Brian’s bedroom door she could see part of his room. His faded black area rug was sprinkled with clothes and books. There was a mirror on the back wall and if Jessica twisted her body just right she could catch Brain’s reflection in it. Her heart hurt. She never knew that having a broken heart could physically hurt.
She closed her eyes and laid her head back. She had to think of a way to get out of here with the letter but without Brian seeing her. There was no way he would take her back if she he found her hiding in his house because she broke in. She sounded crazy. “Bry!” she heard a high pitched voice yell his name. She shot up in the closet, bumping her head.
Oops! I hope no one heard that she thought was she rubbed her head.
“Yeah, I know it took forever! I missed you too, baby.” It was that damn voice again but this time it was coming from his room. She knew that she had heard that voice before. Carefully twisting her body again she glanced out the crack in the door. Her black heels and mini skirt practically had Brian drooling in the door way. Her wavy blonde hair was swept up in a perfect ponytail. What?? Jess was confused. There was no reason for Brooke to be hanging out with Brain. And there was no way in hell she could justify her best friend calling the love of her life “baby”.
What a bitch! I can’t believe that the same girl that was chowing down on Ben and Jerry’s and giving me relationship advice is screwing MY man! Jessica clenched her fists. I should kick her ass.
“Come here,” Brain said pulling her close. Seeing her best friend and boyfriend kiss made Jessica’s heart stop. Her stomach flip flopped. This was his space, his baby girl.
Brooke pulled away. “If you don’t tell Jessica I will,” she said.“We can’t keep this a secret forever. Maybe she will understand if she hears it from you.”
“We just talked about it on the phone before you got here baby, I will figure something out. Promise. You know what, I know this park that overlooks the city, we should go there. You deserve some Bry time,” He said wrapping his arm around her waist winking at her. Jessica listened to the footsteps become quieter and quieter. She sat there even after she heard the car start and pull out of the drive way.
I can’t believe that he is taking that slut to OUR park, Jessica thought. “Oh Bry! This park is so beautiful” Jessica imagined Brooke flirting shamelessly with Brian.
“Not as beautiful as you, baby girl, ” Brian said using the same tired lines he had used on Jessica when he took her there. “Let’s see if we can get closer to the overlook for a better view.” Brian and Jessica crept down the steep hill that over looked the city. Just then one of Brooke’s stripper heels got caught in the mud and sent her tumbling down the hill and over the edge.
“I’ll save you, baby girl!” Brian said flinging himself over the edge to save her. Jess chuckled at her day dream. When she started this crazy scheme all she wanted to do was bring things back to the way they used to be. Back to the happy days before they started fighting all the time and all the passion was gone. Back to before Brooke. She realized it was too late now.
Her whole body throbbed. She kicked the closet door and watched it as it smashed against the wall. “I don’t give a shit if anyone finds me,” she said out loud. She went straight to his top drawer and pulled out her precious letter. “You don’t deserve this douche bag,” she said out loud. She pulled up his computer chair and set her purse on his bed. She pulled out a tube of ruby red lipstick and jerked off the cap. She climbed up on the chair and started writing on the wall. When she was done she stood back and admired her handy work. She scooped up her purse and headed down the stairs. The only thing she regretted was not being able to see his face when he read his wall that said, “YOU’RE RIGHT, IT’S NOT ME IT’S YOU.”

Bullets over Beijing

In basic training, they always try and prepare you for war with live-fire exercises, but, as I soon found out, there is no substitute for the real thing. Even in basic training when you hear the gunshots and people yelling, in the back of your mind you know it’s not real. No matter what, you know that you aren’t going to die. But, people do die, and in November of 1942, I realized that. Live-fire took on a whole new meaning for myself, Luke Raleigh, and the fellow troops of the United States EZ Company 2nd Battalion 506 Division.
The trenches were deep and surrounded by barbed-wire, spanning over two hundred yards of battlefield. Over the first three days we were there, the intense rain began building up along with the bodies. EZ Company was stationed in the foothills of Beijing, defending an American Intelligence stronghold. There were about a hundred of us total, and our job was to defend the attacks the Chinese sent our way. Not three miles away, was a mountain-based barracks with around five-hundred Chinese who were unafraid of death.
I remember when I left Brooklyn and had to say goodbye to my family. My mother wouldn’t stop crying, and her hug seemed to last for days. It was hard to let go of her, as I pulled away, she smiled with a single tear rolling down her cheek. That one tear could have saved a man’s life if her were dying of thirst. My father was a tough man, a former Lieutenant in WWI and he shook my hand and told me how proud he was. I had always felt that my father was grooming me for the military. I could sit here and recite every war story he had ever told me in great detail. When I told my father I would be enlisting, I remember him exhaling deeply. As if, that was news he had been waiting to hear for sometime. Every time we talked, I could sense that he wanted to tell me something, try and explain what the war would be like. But he never did. I guess he didn’t want to scare me. How exactly do you reassure someone you love that everything will be okay, when you have no way of knowing that. But, I knew they were worried, and I was worried but I didn’t show it. I knew I wanted to serve my country, but I didn’t want to die. So, somewhat reluctantly, I boarded the bus that took me to North Carolina’s Fort Benning to begin my basic training. The entire bus ride I sat transfixed in thought. I thought about my family, my friends, what the war would be like, what it would feel like to kill someone.
But, those thoughts couldn’t have been more arbitrary. Because, all those thoughts go to shit when the bombs explode and the bullets start flying.
I sat deep in the southern-most corner of the trenches with Bowers and Cahill, my M1 Garand clutched tightly in my sweating hands. We all knew the importance of your weapon. I had my standard issue rifle, an M1 Garand, along with a Colt revolver handgun. I was also equipped with three grenades and extra ammunition. Your gun was your livelihood, without it, you were as good as dead.
I was close with both Bowers and Cahill as we all came up together through basic training, and we had become brothers. Since day one, I found Bowers and Cahill and we roughed it together. Bowers was a big man, 6-4, 240 pounds with wide shoulders and a solid frame from Chicago. His hands were enormous, grizzled with cuts and veins pulsing through them as they gripped his Thompson submachine gun. Cahill was a lean son of a bitch, never could gain weight, but lost it rapidly if he didn’t get a meal in him. I don’t know how he did, but Cahill was always laughing or making jokes. They both smoked cigarettes as if they were going out of style. It kept them on an even keel.
The sun was nowhere to be found the first time they attacked. It was as if God had turned off the lights because he didn’t want to see what was about to happen. There was a slight breeze blowing over the field. A faint smell of spruce trees that lined the battlefield, and somewhere off in the distance I could hear a bird chirping. In that moment, there was peace, and I almost forget about the war. BOOM!!! A mortar rounds hit just fifteen yards to the left of us. It was a noise unlike anything I had ever heard, and reality came hurtling back and hit me like a coffin hitting the bottom of its gravesite. Dirt shot up from the ground all around us as those five-pound mortar shells collide into our defenses. We were immersed in smoke, unable to see and panicked. I heard Bowers shooting his Thompson off into the distance, but the Chinese were out of range, just bombing us from a distance. I knew they were just trying to scramble us and make us waste our ammo before their infantry came in on us. I could hear someone screaming in the distance, and it made my soul shiver. It scared me, I had never heard someone scream and yell like that. Calling out to God and his family, only they couldn’t help him now. I wanted it to be over so bad, I covered my ears and blocked the sound of hell from my mind. I had never heard the sound of anyone dying before and I hoped that if I died, it would be quick and I wouldn’t make any sounds like that. For about ten minutes, the bombing stopped. But, as abruptly as it stopped, so it began again. This time, the bombing was focused on the opposite end of the trenches, which led myself, Bowers, and Cahill to believe that would be where the Chinese made their ground attack. With clear vision and no shells exploding in our vicinity, Cahill and I used our rifles to try and pick off Chinese in the distance. At that moment, a wave of Chinese, at least five hundred-strong stormed in on our left flank.
The first day of basic training was filled with running and yelling. That’s really all it was. I can’t remember how many times I heard our CO say something like, “It’s my job to make sure you don’t get killed over there.” Our CO was a real ball-buster, his name was Briggs and he spit when he talked. He had it in for Bowers, I think because Bowers was so fucking big that Briggs wanted to prove his dominance over all of us by picking on the biggest bad-ass we had in our outfit. A lot of the things we did were just useless, but they made us do it just to keep us busy and sane. Latrine duty, kitchen duty, barracks duty, just pointless shit that wasn’t necessarily going to make us better soldiers, more so to give us the mental dexterity to keep it together when someone is trying to kill you. You could be the strongest, the fastest, you could shoot your rifle straighter than God himself, but if you lost your mind on the battlefield you were already dead. Being mentally strong and cool as a cucumber in the face of adversity was the life force that drove the United States Army. Our gunnery sergeant taught us a lot about warfare and weapons. For instance, during a combat situation if you were being fired at and the bullets were snapping, that meant they were far away. On the other hand, if they were hissing that meant they were just missing you. Two days before graduation, we had one of our last tests before they would be allowed to send us into battle. We had to make four successful parachute jumps from an aircraft at least 1,000 feet above sea level. Before we went aboard, they reminded us of some key strategies, you know don’t forget to pull your chute and shit like that. So, we boarded the plane, and as it began to rise, my mind wandered to things like my family and my chute not opening. But, but then I started thinking about the soldiers with me. Over the past 6 months, Bowers and Cahill and the other men in our unit had become something more than just soldiers. They too, were my family. You can’t let down your family. As the plane leveled out, Cahill tapped me on the shoulder and winked at me.
“You nervous,” Cahill asked.
“No, I’ll be fine, I just want to get the first one out of the way,” I said.
“I was just thinking, how cool it would be to take a piss right now off this fucking plane. Think about the poor bastard I might be pissing on. I think it might kill him, coming from this high up,” Cahill said with a grin.
“That’s disgusting,” I said as I started laughing.
We lined up down the plane and walked towards the rear as the tail opened. First, we double-checked all our equipment. One by one, we toed the edge of the opening, and when given the signal dived out into the cool evening air. The rush of wind against my face was refreshing. I wasn’t nervous anymore, I was alive. I pulled my chute and glided down peacefully towards the ground. I reveled in that moment, like a father holding his newborn son the first time. It was a joyful experience. I made the next three jumps actually anticipating it, with Bowers and Cahill at my side along the way. With those successful jumps under my belt, I graduated along with Bowers and Cahill and some other 300 paratroopers.
The Chinese overran our forces, and as we heard cries of retreat coming from all around us, Cahill and I mounted our bayonets and prepared for close range combat. I’ve never ran so fast in my life. I remembered when I was little, my seven or eight, I got chased by dog. I remember running as fast as I could and thinking the whole time that if this dog catches me, I’m a goner for sure. That’s what it’s like running from an enemy actually trying to kill you. The worst part is, you can’t see what’s going on behind you because you can’t turn around and look. Cahill and I easily outran Bowers although we didn’t realize it at the time. We ran over dead bodies of soldiers we knew and jumped down into a trench, turned around and laid down some cover-fire for Bowers who was about fifteen yards behind us. I just squeezed the trigger, even though my rifle only carried seven rounds, I must have squeezed it twenty times. It was the first time that I killed someone. It was like time stopped, the man’s body was suspended in air, and I was forced to watch as he made his peace with God. I wish I was braver, hell even tougher. But, it felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I remember thinking that if this is what it felt like every time you killed someone, that I didn’t want to kill anyone else. I didn’t revel in it, because I didn’t have time to as Bowers was almost to us. The huge bastard jumped in and knocked both of us down. We sprayed some more fire in the gooks’ direction, and then turned and started running again. The attack didn’t stop, they just kept coming. They were everywhere, I ran and shot, ran and shot and before I knew it, I was back at the intelligence stronghold with about thirteen other soldiers. We spread out, about fifteen yards between each man and just fired. We couldn’t count how many we killed, but it wasn’t enough. They were too many, and we were too few. Our men started retreating again, everyone but Bowers who continued shooting.
Bowers was unafraid, his hands shook as he sprayed bullets everywhere. I had to get him. As I ran towards him, he took a shot to the stomach. The bullet shot out the back, followed by blood. His huge hands dropped, and his head keeled over. I dropped my gun and ran after him. My adrenaline got the best of me. I tried to lift him up and throw him over my shoulders, but he was too big. So, I grabbed the shoulders of his uniform and dragged him on the ground. I could hear Cahill yelling behind me, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. I wasn’t scared until the first bullet tore through my shoulder.
I didn’t stop, I kept moving. When the second bullet hit my thigh, I dropped down to one knee. But, I got back up, there was a determination that reverberated throughout me. A feeling that failure wasn’t an option, retreat wasn’t option, leaving my best friend to die wasn’t an option. But, to die honorably was. So, when the third bullet tore through my ribs and punctured my lung, I couldn’t go on. I laid there, on the grass with Bowers’ lifeless body in my arms as my vision blurred and my heart pounded. It pounded because it didn’t want to stop beating.
I can’t remember dying, what it felt like or what I did, I can only remember living. I can’t remember the terrible things I did throughout my life, the people I hurt or neglected. But, I do remember making my mother smile, and making my father proud. As the light of my life faded, I see my mother and father holding each other. My mother’s head is in my father’s arms, and I see a single tear, slowly roll down my father’s face. A tear that could quench the thirst of a dying man.

Fashioned by Accident

I clenched my teeth and jerked the steering wheel in my hands to the right, pulling onto the gravel shoulder. “Okay, Michael,” I said. “Let’s have it.”
The adolescent at my side drew his head higher: it reminded me of a turtle he had once had as a pet. “Huh? What?”
“Come on, kid. You’ve been hang-dogged and mopey since the moment I mentioned meeting Mark for dinner tonight. What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he barely whispered, his head lowering again. “I shouldn’t have . . .”
I sighed and turned to face my son more directly. “Look, guy,” I said, deliberately softening my tone. “We’ve always talked things out, right? Since the day you learned to talk, we’ve worked through things together. You turn thirteen, and you think that’s going to stop? No way, kid. What’s the problem?”
Michael raised his head and met my eyes. I thought he might be fighting tears for a moment but resisted the urge to hug him the way I could when he was much smaller. I waited. “I guess I feel weird, a little, around Mark.”
“Oh.” Of course: Mark. How dumb of me. I should have guessed weeks ago when Mark and I began to date. Michael thinks I won’t understand.

The year I started the fashion design track at the university, every time I looked, Cathy was there. She was there on Tuesday, in fleece and jeans, holding hands with my father as they started out on a long evening stroll. She was there on Friday, in flowing black silk, sipping a glass of wine after the symphony. She was there on Sunday, in cashmere and corduroy, making pot roast and carrots in my mother’s kitchen. She was nothing like my mother.
I owed my creative genius and my future career to my mother. She had enchanted me with a miniature, pink and white Hello Kitty sewing machine for Christmas the year I was seven. We used to spend hours together in fabric stores, where she taught me how to spot quality materials. My favorite memories of her still are the afternoons when I sat beside her in her sewing room, our machines humming in harmony as we stitched. I felt her presence there years after the stroke that took her from me so suddenly. When I sat in her place at her sewing machine, continuing to create illusions out of fabric and thread even in her absence, the happiness and the comfort that were my mother remained.
Cathy’s increasingly frequent presence in the house was jarring to me. Bringing women into our home was not something that my father did—at least, not before Cathy. We hadn’t needed outsiders since Mom’s death; we depended on each other. I liked going to the grocery with Dad on Saturday mornings and reminding him of the things I knew we needed but he always forgot. I liked skipping church on Sundays sometimes in favor of going out for a leisurely brunch and an afternoon movie that he always liked to call a “matinee.” Sometimes, when I thought about growing up and going to college, I felt guilty. I wondered how Dad would manage on his own.
To be fair, I have to admit that he had tried to prepare me. I have some vague memories of him talking about some woman that he met on an interview for the magazine where he worked. Still, the first time I met Cathy, I felt a little hijacked. The first thing I really noticed about her wasn’t her size or her hair: It was her suit. I remember the soft beige wool and the way it draped around her. The fabric was finely woven and clearly expensive, and I recall admiring the tailoring that had gone into the suit’s design. I barely remember anything we said. Beyond the fact that we were in a restaurant for dinner, I cannot even recall where we were. I had two thoughts in my head: one, that Dad was probably going to marry this stranger some day; and, two, that she at least had some appreciation for finer clothing.
When he finally decided to propose to Cathy after almost two years of “courtship,” as he called it, he made up his mind without asking me. I had always thought that she was only around because I had kept my mouth shut about her. Sometimes, when she seemed too comfortable in the kitchen or when she wandered into the sewing room to talk to me as I worked on a project, I wanted so badly to let her know that the power to force my father to throw her out was all mine. I never said it aloud; I kept it to myself; but when I was really irritated, I could hear the voice in my head, screaming, “I can make him leave you any time I want.” I was a little less sure of that power after he asked her to marry him.
I was Cathy’s only bridesmaid, in spite of the fact that she had sisters and friends that she could have asked who would have helped her more. The wedding was planned just before my senior capstone project, which would take me to New York for several months, and I was inundated with designs and assignments in the flurry of activity leading up to my departure. Dad had once hinted that Cathy might enjoy it if I would design our gowns as a wedding gift. I think the first time I ever really felt grateful to her was when she defended my refusal to do it. She told Dad that it wasn’t fair to put one more burden on me, but the truth was that I didn’t want to be that invested in the event.
Their wedding day was so filled with tension that even the air felt electric. Dad had been packing and repacking his worn leather suitcase all morning and nearly forgot to load it into the trunk before we drove to the church. He dressed, then he undressed before deciding that maybe he would wear his tuxedo to the church after all and dressed again. As he slipped the car key into the ignition and I settled into the passenger seat, he patted my leg. “What lives we have ahead of us, Dana, my girl,” he said.
“Just be happy, Daddy,” I heard myself say, in spite of the fact that I hadn’t called him ‘Daddy’ in years. We drove off in the direction of the church, my father humming bits of tunes in place of conversation.
I settled my bags and boxes on the seat of the Bride’s Room’s solitary armchair, glad to have some place to put them. A table in the corner held a portable lighted makeup mirror and a few bottles of water. Two mismatched dining chairs were tucked beneath the table. The long mirrors fitted to the opposite wall made the room feel more light and larger than it really was.
In this compacted space, the opportunity to dress while I was still alone seemed like the best plan. I wiggled out of my old clothes and drew the bridesmaid’s dress from its garment bag. The gown slithered deliciously over me. I loved the texture of the satin against my legs and the sheen of the fabric at my bust. My complexion seemed truly porcelain contrasted against the deep blue of my dress as I watched my own transformation in the long mirror before me. I loved the way I looked.
Cathy’s gown hung from the high rack near the table. It was much like mine: the same luxurious satin, ice blue, higher at the neckline and more sophisticated in style. As I rummaged through one of the boxes, I conceded to a grudging admiration of her taste in clothing. In much the same way, I felt obligated to tolerate Cathy, herself. I drew some comfort from knowing that I was moving out as she moved into Dad’s house. At least I would never need to live with her.
I located the poster board and the marker that I had packed, and sat down at the table to compose some appropriate decoration for the back of Dad’s car. I suppose my attitude had kept me from starting this project earlier, although I told myself that I was hoping for a more creative idea than “Just Married” in black block letters on white cardboard. The marker’s top flipped out of my hand as I uncapped it, and it rolled across the floor. As I clenched the barrel between my teeth and bent to retrieve it, I felt the marker pull against my lips. I knew before I looked that it had to have touched Cathy’s gown.
A black track nearly two inches long displayed itself across the side of the dress. I felt my heart pound. My hands grew cold and damp. Cathy would never believe that this was an accident. And Dad—would he side with her? I strained to think of any way to make it right: acetone. Fingernail polish remover. Maybe she would never need to know. I snatched my makeup bag from the armchair; in it, I found two foil wrapped pads. I tore one open and began to work on the dress. The black seemed to fade, and the mark began to feather into a wider but more subtle defacement. I was earnest and intent when the door flew open behind me.
“Dana!” Cathy said. “What happened here?” She stood in the doorway, her arms filled with our bouquets. When I turned to face her, I knew that she had seen what I had done by the look on her face. Her lips seemed thin; her color paled; the flesh around her mouth was drawn tight. Her eyes were direct and unavoidable. The silence in the moment that I took to form an answer screamed with accusation.
“I swear it was an accident,” I said, my voice thin and barely a whisper. “I- uh, I was trying . . .” Coherent thoughts just would not form. “Oh, my God, Cathy, I’m so sorry.” I started to tremble.
Somehow, the flowers found their way to the table and I found myself crying and embraced in Cathy’s arms. Words describing what I had done stammered from my lips while Cathy gently calmed me. “You must be totally disgusted with me,” I finally finished.
“Oh, Dana,” she began. She stepped away from me and took my hands in hers. “It was an accident. Of course I wish that it hadn’t happened. Of course I wish that it could be repaired. But disgusted?” She shook my hands just a little as she spoke. “We’re becoming family today. Of course I forgive you.” She smiled gently and lightly squeezed my fingers. “Now, would you help me get dressed?”
I wasn’t sure I should believe her, even as I watched her unfasten the clothes she wore. I was sure that the gown would look hideous, as I unzipped the dress, removed it from its hanger and handed it to her. I worried that I had ruined her wedding, while I watched her slip into the garment that I was responsible for marring. She took up her bouquet, stepped into her shoes and twirled before me, asking what I thought. I thought she was beautiful. I didn’t notice a single flaw.

Sunset was beginning to wash the sky as I finished my story. Michael had sat perfectly still as I spoke, his hands unusually motionless in his lap. He turned to look at me; I thought for a moment that he was smiling. “You were a renegade, Mom,” he said. “I never knew that stuff about you and Grandma Cathy.”
“Yeah, well, you can’t go around thinking that I don’t understand things.”
“Does this mean that you and Mark are getting married?”
“God, no,” I replied. “I don’t know what might happen with Mark. We’ve only been seeing each other for a few weeks, and we’re not even close to thinking about anything more. Look: See, the thing is; I like Mark. I think he likes us. It seems like we have a choice to enjoy people around us instead of just living in a hole.”
Michael had become quiet again.
“I don’t think I like holes very much,” I said.
“Yeah,” he answered. “Don’t you think we’re going to be late for dinner?”

Mother like Daughter

Mother Like Daughter
I never realized how independent I was until I started dating a guy named Clyde. I found myself in a serous situation trying to change the type of person that I was and that I have been for years since my mother had passed. But realizing that I had a good man on my side, that never knew my personal issues and always tried helping me out when I am in need for help. But so that I am a very independent woman it is hard for me to receive anything from anyone. But see that’s the whole problem here, Clyde makes this a very big issue in our relationship. So that I do care and love him dearly I feel the best thing to do is explain to him what I once went through that makes me this way. Then maybe we would have some type of understanding and our relationship would be a little better than it already is.
“Heaven… Sweetie, what is the problem with you? I realized since we have been together I have tried and tried to help you out when you get in financial debt problems.
“Clyde I just… I don’t know.”
“I think that you do know what the problem is, but just don’t know how to get it off of your chest. I think that you have a chip on your shoulder and need to sit down and talk about it. I am your man, been your man now for nine months and a half. I feel that it is my responsibility to look out for you when you are in need, and not only when you’re in need. But when I’m willing to help you out I should be able to, without you not wanting to accept anything from me. I love you and everything about you, so let’s talk, and let me know how you are feeling and what’s going on, or at least tell me if there is something in your past that makes you this way.”
The two of them were standing in Heaven’s living room, next to the fire place. “It’s really nothing that important Clyde; I am 25 years old and am just a very independent woman that can hold up my own, regardless of what the situation is. I never look for anyone to hold out a gifting hand for me, because that is something that I never had before. Mainly, after dealing with the situation five years ago with my mother Belinda and my little sister Goddess; we once fell down but got back up. But it was a struggle for us all, mainly for me and Goddess”
Clyde and Heaven stood in the middle of her lovely cherry wood floors in her living room. Holding hands and staring one another into their brown compelling eyes. “Ok…Come over here baby. I want you to sit down on this coach, relax, and talk to me. Tell me the struggle you once experienced, because I will work with you and make you a changed woman. Maybe I can make you feel better about what happened in the past, and we move forward as one together. Talk to me Heaven.”


My father never was around just because he was a dead beat; he missed out on all the good things in life when it came to me and Goddess. I guess he thought my mother just wasn’t good enough for him. My mother said he cheated on her several times throughout their relationship. Once she had Goddess he continued on with his same old bull shit. My mother moved on with her life, which he gave five fucks about. My mother raised us all on her own, and did a great job because Goddess and I both are two beautiful women who are strong just like our mother. We never had all the things that we wanted. My mother made sure we had what it was that we needed the most. Goddess and I had always shared rooms because my mom couldn’t afford a three bedroom apartment, only two at the most and she struggled trying to keep a roof over our heads. My mom was an employee at Jergens Lotion Company, where she had got laid off several times when work slowed down.
“But Clyde my mother always made a way.”
At the time Goddess was only 14 years old and I was 18 soon going on 19. Since I was the oldest I held up most of the responsibility during this point of time, mainly that I had a little part time job working at McDonalds and still was in school. No family was around. Everyone had moved back down south where my mom and her brothers and sisters are from. Mom just had some wealthy friends, well better I say associates; because my mother didn’t really comment her self to anyone as being their friend. She was fucked over so many times by different people and being the good person that she is she trust people too quick. After so many experiences with several people she dealt with, she eventually decided to just associate with people and keep her distance from a far. My mom had started missing lots of days of work. I didn’t know why and never attempted to question my mother about anything because I knew there was a reason for everything that my mother had done, mainly when she was missing days of work. Every morning I got Goddess together for school. We both had to be at school at the same time and out at the same time which was good for the both of us. One afternoon after school Goddess and I walked through the door and saw our mother lying on the floor crying.
“Mom, Mom, Mom. What’s wrong are you ok, are you ok?” I said, with tears in my eyes.
Mom looked terrible. Face was as red as a apple, and she was holding her stomach with her pale hands. “No Heaven… Call 911. Right now. Hurry!”
“Goddess stay here, don’t you move. Stay right next to her. I will be right back.”
We didn’t have a house phone because it had got cut off because mom hadn’t been to work to get any bills paid. So I rushed next door to the neighbors’ house to use the phone and called 911. When I ran back to the house my mom’s skin looked like snake skin. Her eyes were as puffy as an air balloon with dark circles around them, and she kept saying that she could hardly see. She felt as if she was going blind. I was afraid, and I had to be strong and keep Goddess calm and positive about everything. The ambulance arrived. They took my mother’s blood pressure it was extremely high, and by the looks of her face they rushed her to the hospital. Me and Goddess came along. We had no other choice. The nurse came into the room saw my mother and they admitted her right away.
“Mamm, excuse me. Can you tell me what the problem with my mother is? Why are you all keeping her?” I said, crying my heart out, afraid, more than anything.
“Young lady please calm down. We are not sure what is wrong with your mother; this is why we are admitting her. As of right now her blood pressure is too high we will admit her and run test’s as soon as we can,” the nurse explained, rapping her arm around my shoulders.
All I kept thinking was that I was going to lose my mother. Goddess had to go to school the next morning, so we didn’t sleep over at the hospital. I had a couple of dollars in my purse so we got the metro home. All I could think was my mother wasn’t going to make it and was going to leave me and Goddess behind. Where were me and Goddess going to end up? I didn’t know, I was stunned and afraid. When Goddess and I walked through the door, I went to hit the light switch and it wouldn’t turn on, and the food in the refrigerator was spoiled. Good thing we had several candles around the house. I had to light some candles till the next morning. I decided to let Goddess stay with me and we both missed school and of course I had to miss another day of work. We went up to the hospital the next day to see our mother and before walking out the door I saw that the landlord had slipped an eviction notice up under our door, giving my mom a heads up that she was a month behind on rent so she had to be out in two weeks. I left the paper on the floor and headed up to the hospital. Goddess was hungry. I was, too, but, I only had so much money, and I had to stretch it. My little sister came first at all times. We stopped by the nearest restaurant and got Goddess something to eat.
When Goddess and I got to the hospital they had moved my mother to the ICU. They said that she was doing a little worse than she was when she first arrived. I walked into the room where three of her friends were, Ms. Lavern and Mr. and Mrs. Phillips. I don’t know how they found out about my mother being there, nor were I really concerned because that was the last thing on my mind. My mother looked terrible. She was hooked to all types of machines, tubes down her throat, IV’s in her arms, the side of her neck, and oxygen in her nose I guess to help her breathe since she wasn’t doing it on her own.
I grabbed my mother’s hand and rubbed them softly to see if she could possible wake up and talk to me just for a few seconds and she did.
“Hi mom,” I said kissing her on her check. She smiled softly.
“Hi Heaven baby, I miss you and Goddess both. I am feeling so terrible. Feel even worse when I realize I am in this place and have to be away from my babies.”
“Yeah Mom I understand. But when you get well we will be perfectly fine and back to the way we were before.”
“Ha. Yeah you got that right. I want you both to behave and be respectful to Mrs.Phillips. I want you to be strong for me regardless of what the situation turns out to be. Positive actions and thinkers is the key to life and that’s what I want to do and be. Make sure Goddess have a understanding of everything and tell her keep the grades up in school, and that I understand she doesn’t want to see her mother this way.”
I was a lilt afraid but I knew that my mother would only want to see the best and know that I was going to be all right. I knew letting her see me down and crying will only make her more worried and weaker about everything so I held up pretty good.
“Hello Girls!” Said Mrs. Phillips hugging me and Goddess. Your mother gave me a call last night when they admitted her into the hospital, after you two left. I will be taking you two home with me until your mother get better and get settled. I will not see you two out on the streets.”
“Yes! Thank God. I am so glad that you showed up. I didn’t think anyone would have found out are shown up.”
“Well your mother was already aware of all that, from what she told me last night. She has been sick for several days now just was afraid of the outcome and didn’t want to have you worried about her so she stayed home and didn’t want to go to the hospital. Then all of a sudden early this morning she turned for the worse, and they still have not found out what is wrong with her. Tests are still in progress.”
Mrs. Phillips was this very wealthy friend of my mom’s. There were times she tried helping my mother out, but my mom being the person that she was she always held her own. That was the first time I knew for her to ever call her friend for anything, which told me something wasn’t right. I then knew and had funny feelings mainly after seeing my mother laying in that bed looking the way she did. Mrs. Phillips didn’t have any children of her own. It was just her and her husband living in a very big nice house, a glass house at that. It felt like my life was golden when we moved with them. The house was too big for just two people to live in. She had a maid and everything. I mean it was lovely, I never knew are seen anything like it except for on the cribs television show. But so that I was old enough to make my own decisions, I decided to just work and to not attend school. My whole focus was to work full time and save up some money, take care of Goddess, and make sure she attended school every day.
Mrs. Phillips was very nice to me and my sister; she knew what type of situation we were in and just let me go with what I had to do, and at the time working and taking care of Goddess was important to me. Every day, for six months straight it was the same routine. I got up took Goddess to the bus stop, and I headed to work, worked eight hours a day, got Goddess off of the school bus, made sure Goddess ate dinner and finished any homework that needed to be done, and we headed to the hospital to see our mother. She was still sick and trying to get well. This was a lot on me but I guess it just was a part of my mother that was inside of me. I knew that God wouldn’t put too much on me that I couldn’t bare. He was the angel beside me that gave me the strength and the positive power to get through all this the way that I did. Thank God for the extra help from Mrs. Phillips to give us a place to lay our heads.
After Six months being the mother and sister to Goddess and praying for my mother, one evening I went to the hospital alone. I left Goddess back at the house to do some studying and things like that. She wasn’t really able to handle seeing our mother like that anyway. Most of the time she waited in the waiting area. I walked into the ICU room that my mother had been in for six months. They had her in the room for such long time because they had to keep a close eye on her heart rate and blood pressure and things of that nature and she still really wasn’t breathing on her own. I realized that my mother’s eyes were open, and was on one less machine which made me happy.
“Hi Baby! I am so happy to see you,” My mother said, with a dry mouth, and a cracking voice.
“Hello mom, I am so happy to see that you are off one machine. Just want to let you know I have been handling things to the best of my ability. Goddess is still doing great in school. Mrs. Phillips been very nice. I don’t ask her for anything but she always offers. We miss you and love you so much; we want you to get better so that we can all be back together again. In the house playing cards, watching our favorite TV shows together, and the most important eating your wonderful cooking”
“I’m trying…Stay strong baby. Mommy will look over you two, I’m tired Heaven. The doctors finally figured out that I have a blood disorder disease called Lupus. I kept having different reactions to different medications and really haven’t made too much progress to do anything on my own so that’s why I been in ICU the whole time. It bothers people in many different ways like your bones, skin, and our immune system is as low as a new born baby. I sat around too long which caused it to trigger and also stress is what caused mine to trigger and they couldn’t…”
My mother’s eyes then shut. With all the machines beeping loud, heart rate dropped, thousand of doctors charging into her room. I felt it coming; I knew my mother was going to leave me and Goddess behind. My mother was tired. It felt wonderful to have those last words with my mother. I walked out of the room with calm intentions. Didn’t know how I was going to explain this to Goddess. We did a lot with our mother. She loved us like no one else would. She was my best friend, soul sister, and my mother.
Sitting in Heaven’s living room, Heaven sheds tears on Clyde’s shoulders. While Clyde holds and comforts her and kisses her on her forehead. “Clyde, I went from there. I had to be strong and continue on with my life. But receiving anything from anyone wasn’t never available for me, and that was what turned me out to be more and more like my mother, an independent woman. I kept my job, kept Goddess in school; she’ll be now entering college at College of Mount St. Joseph for Nursing. I’m so proud of her! I got a low budget apartment that went by my income; Goddess and I were back on track with our lives. We still keep in touch with Mrs. Phillips. She was a very big help and support group for us two. She helped furnish our place, and still helped me support Goddess in college. Here I am today nice apartment, nice car, and of course a wonderful job working for P&G.”
“Well… Baby I understand your pain and the struggle you went through. But remember Heaven… We are in this together. I am here for you, and I see why you are such a independent women which is a good thing. But never be afraid to receive help from someone that is willing to help you. I love you Heaven!”
“I love you too Clyde, and really appreciate your support. This is something I am just used to doing things all on my own, you know. Not having any family around to call on, no support system period. You will probably be this way also. Thank God for sending Mrs. Phillips to me and my sister, and giving us a place to eat and sleep! Baby this just the way I am, and I will try to overcome being this way just for you.”
“No problem, I just want you to get out the shell thinking you’re on your own with no one by your side, because I’m here and I am going to always be by your side. So take my hand and let’s ride down to the park and chill and relax in the shade,” Clyde, said sweetly kissing me on my forehead.
I then knew that change had to be made, and from the time Clyde and I had a wonderful talk I have changed. I have opened up a lot more and become a better person and it made Clyde happy also overall. I have come to realize that a helping hand is not too bad to receive. Our relationship has gotten so much better and I love Clyde with all my heart!