Jay C. Mims's Blog, page 3

Signs of Exhaustion

“You look tired,” she said, wrapping her lips around the straw in her tea after her proclamation. She ordered it unsweet, something I can’t stand, and gulped the whole glass down in just a few swallows. Some guys may have found her quick fight with the straw alluring, but it was the fact that she drained the glass with no compunctions or pretense that turned me on.

She was right, this woman I barely knew: I was tired. Her name was Stella, but at that moment her name wasn’t important, just the truth she spoke. It wasn’t a question or an insult, but a fact that she felt like sharing, as if I was unware that I looked that way.

“What makes you say that?” My curiosity compelled me to ask.

“Bags under your eyes.” It was another statement.

I did have bags under my eyes, deep blue and purple rings that on certain days look more like bruises than anything else. I didn’t try to hide my growing smile and she smiled back. There was nothing negative in her words, nothing to indicate she had a problem with the bags, that she found them unattractive or uninviting. Still, I asked.

“Is that a problem?”

She chuckled under her breath, the way only profoundly beautiful people unaware of their beauty chuckle, a soft sort of laugh that could be confused for a whisper or a mumble but is still distinctly a laugh. Her glass made that gurgle sound that glasses make when they’re devoid of liquid and you still try for some reason to drink.

“No, it isn’t a problem. I like that you look tired.”

“Why would you like that?”

“Because,” Stella began, taking another healthy swallow of brown water after the waiter refilled her glass, “it means that you lived well today, and likely yesterday too. Maybe you didn’t get enough sleep last night after a hard day’s work, but you still got back up today, hit the gym and worked out until you could barely move, dragged your ass to work and put in a solid eight hours, and then came to have dinner with me. You could have slept in, called in sick to work, cancelled on me. You were tired after all and anyone would have found you justified in taking the time to rest. But here you, looking tired and enjoying yourself.”

“How do you know I hit the gym?” It was true; I had gone to the gym that morning, put myself through a grueling leg day filled with too many goddamned squats. But she didn’t know that.

“I uh sort of heard you and Matt talking about work outs two weeks ago, when we all went out bowling. Based on the way you guys were talking, you don’t strike me as someone who misses the gym often.”

“And you remembered that little bit of conversation?”

She laughed again, this time fuller, her smile splitting her face into two gorgeous halves. She laughed without reservation, without worry, the way someone who doesn’t give a shit what those around them thinks laughs.

“I’m extremely observant and have a fantastic memory. Kind of comes with the territory of being a writer.”

“Fair enough,” I responded, knowing that anything I said or did around Stella could easily end up in some short story or novel. That knowledge was strangely comforting, the idea that she was always watching everything around her for some incident or inspiration making me want to provide with her something wild to write about.

“So anyway, back to you looking tired. I think you don’t know how to rest, that you’re always tired because you’re always moving, always pushing forward. Am I close?”

“You’ve hit the bull’s eye.”

“Knew it!” Stella smirked in victory before continuing. “You’re a shark, aren’t you? If you slow down or stop you die?”

It was my turn to laugh, a self-deprecating kind of laugh, the kind used to cover up some negative emotion, though I couldn’t name what the negative emotion was. Stella was right, unequivocally and without much effort. I didn’t how I felt about being this easily read.

“That would be one way to describe me, I guess.”

“You probably think I’m insulting you, huh? That the bags under your eyes are a turn off?”

“It had crossed my mind.”

“Well I’m not. I think that the physical symptoms of your exhaustion are attractive. They speak to your drive, your commitment to the things you’re passionate about. They tell the story of your dedication, and I find dedication sexy. Don’t ever get enough sleep.”

She said this while smiling, probably to add credence to her argument. Though, her smile seemed so genuine, like it was just the natural set to her lips. I can’t imagine Stella’s face without a smile on it.

“Not that it’s likely, but I won’t.”

“Good.”

And the matter of my perpetual exhaustion was settled, at least in her mind. Something about the way she said “good” made the issue settled in my mind too.

Waiting Room

The waiting room hadn’t always been a waiting room, but at this point in time, it was difficult to see it as anything but that, hard to see what it had once been. Could this have been the dining room? Or a front closet? It was much too small to be a bedroom, but maybe someone had lived in it all the same. James couldn’t help but wonder as he took a seat in one of the comfortable chairs lining the stained-oak wall panels.

With a heavy breath, the kind of sigh only created out of desperation or determination, James lowered himself into the chair, the worn leather inviting and cold. He tried not to make himself too comfortable, tried to remain tense, out of some strange sense of obligation. Comfortable people didn’t find themselves seated in the waiting room of a therapist’s office after all.

So he propped his right leg on his left knee, the black slacks riding up a little, revealing the threadbare black socks underneath, and slouched forward. The starch of his shirt made his posture rigid, the red and white checkers remaining stiff and unrelenting. James smiled a small smile at the slight discomfort he felt in sitting this way. He looked the part.

That smile escaped when he heard the front door open, his eyes watching another man enter the building and then the waiting room. He didn’t really want to look, didn’t want to see as someone else entered this place, so he grabbed one of the magazines off the table in the center of the room, hoping his movements didn’t evoke a response from the newcomer. Flipping through pages without reading, he could feel more than see as the other man took a seat opposite him.

The new man looked as normal as James: black slacks, dress shoes, blue and white checkered shirt. His eyes, though, gave him away. The flesh around them was red and puffy, and the irises were spider webbed with angry veins. Tears were a sure sign that a place like this was where this man belonged. What signs gave James away?

Pretending to read still, James watched the other man fill out the new patient paperwork. So, they were both green, both new to this idea of therapy. He deflated a little in his chair, his obligatory sense of discomfort escaping his body the way his sigh had earlier. He didn’t feel as alone waiting knowing that he wasn’t the only newly broken one in the room.

Steven—the man in the blue checkered shirt—had sucked air apprehensively into his lungs the moment he had seen James sitting there with his leg propped up. He hadn’t gotten to wonder about the former nature of the waiting room in this office that had once been a house because of his own anxiety at having to share this space with another. His logical mind knew that therapy was something lots of people sought out, but his self-consciousness told him that seeking this sort of help should be kept private. There was little privacy in this room.

So he filled out his paperwork, trying to ignore the other man leafing through an old copy of Time. Had this other man had to answer these personal questions? It was a stupid question; of course he had. How did he answer them? Steven’s curiosity was tempered by his desire to not let anybody know how he was answering them, even though he knew the therapist would know. That thought suddenly terrified him, this idea that another person would look at these answers and make a snap judgement about him.

“What is he like? The doctor here?” Steven’s voice was stronger than he thought it would be, not marred by the tears he had shed just minutes before. James looked up from his magazine the way a turtle extends its head out of its shell: slowly and with a growing sense of dread.

“It’s actually my first time here,” James answered just as slowly, surprised that he was able to form words in this room. All he knew is what was on the website, what his primary care physician had said about this place. Surely this other man knew at least that much about the therapist they were both here to see.

Steven laughed—snorted really—at his god-awful luck. Of course he would be sharing this waiting room with someone else new to therapy. Any other morning, and this place was probably oozing crazies, but today it was just the two newbies. Without another word, he completed his paperwork and returned it to the flannel-wearing receptionist.

Silence took hold of the room when Steven returned, gripping both men like a python constricts prey. It was heavy and almost physical, and James was thankful for it, grateful for the return of his discomfort. That uneasy feeling that had resettled in his chest grew to near-anxiety when the door opened again. A third man entered the room, taking the chair at the far end of the table.

While Steven and James were both professionally dressed, this man looked like he’d just left a concert. His jeans were ripped, his boots were scuffed, and when he took his leather jacket off, it became known that his shirt had no sleeves. The shirt had possessed sleeves at one point, but the jagged edges encircling the man’s shoulders explained that the owner had removed them and hadn’t done the greatest of jobs.

It wasn’t just his clothes that set him apart. It was his smile. A huge grin showed off his immaculate teeth, teeth made all the whiter by his black skin. The smile looked so natural, as if his face wasn’t capable of other expressions. It cut a handsome shape into his thick beard.

“Well, gents, someone really should have given me the memo. I’d have worn my purple checkered shirt,” the third man began, his voice deep and gravelly, a voice at once friendly and intelligent. “So what are we in for?”

James looked at Steven and Steven looked at James, neither man sure of how to answer the question. Wasn’t that taboo? Wasn’t the first rule of therapy not talking about why you’re in therapy? The python squeezed and the silence got tighter. Steven swallowed hard and James sighed another heavy sigh.

“Guess I’ll go first then,” he continued, not at all perturbed by the reticence surrounding him. “I’m Rodger and I’m a recovering alcoholic who suffers from depression.”

Rodger’s honesty was both inspirational and infuriating. Steven admired the man’s bravery, his lack of fear in explaining why he was here in the waiting room of a therapist’s office. James hated it, angry that this man thought these problems should be discussed in public. Rodger didn’t seem to notice the disparate emotions settling themselves into the chairs about the room.

“You’re going to have to tell the doctor, you know?”

Aside from breathing, the silence only grew.

“Anxiety,” Steven huffed, the one word coming out like a cough. That first word is all it took to get the rest of it out though. “I’m here because I’m anxious. I’m Steven by the way.”

“Possible depression,” James spat, emboldened by Steven’s admission, though he didn’t want the others to know that. “And James.”

“Thank you for sharing,” Rodger said, clapping his hands a little. “If step one in recovery is admitting you have a problem, step two is definitely being unafraid of that truth. Saying it out loud to strangers takes courage.”

Rodger stood up then, his boots making heavy thuds on the hardwood floors. He walked around the table before turning back around, pinning James to the chair with his stare. His smile never once faltered.

“Come on back, James, let’s see if we can unpack that depression.”

He didn’t wait for a response, just left the waiting room, thumping down the hallway toward a similarly furnished room. James and Steven stared at each other again, trying to figure out if Rodger’s implied words were in fact true. Neither man could find the answer to that question in the eyes of the other, so James shook his head and stood up. The receptionist pointed him in the direction Rodger had walked, offering him a slight smile in answer to his unasked question. Reaching the open door, James shuffled in, the starch of his shirt still giving him a rigid stance. Rodger’s smile invited him in and he sat down on a couch, still puzzling over this therapist.

“It took a lot of balls to make an appointment, James, and even more to admit why you’re here to total strangers. Thank you for trusting me. Now, tell me what’s on your mind.”

The obligatory discomfort was replaced then, in that office, seated across from the clearly eccentric therapist, replaced with a sense of optimistic ease.

“I’ve been down a lot recently and don’t know why,” James began, and Rodger listened intently to what he had to say.

Lies and Other Familial Obligations

“You know, mom would flip shit if she knew we were doing this,” Lily said, acrid smoke curling out of her nose, obscuring her words like thick mist might obscure a street sign early in the morning. She handed the joint back to her father.

“You say that every time we light up,” Tyler responded, taking the joint from his daughter and inspecting it thoroughly before putting it to his lips and inhaling. “And my answer will continue being the same: what your mother doesn’t know can’t hurt her.”

They were seated in wicker chairs on the back porch, daughter and father watching the night sky and sharing some fine California grown bud. It would have hit rough and they’d both be coughing, their lungs trying to eject the smoke violently, had he not used a hollowed out cigarette. The filter made the process easier, on their breathing and on the act of smoking itself. It gave them something to hold onto between puffs.

“So…what do you think of Rick?”

“You like him and he seems to treat you right. Doesn’t much matter what I think so long as those two things are true.”

“C’mon, dad, I actually want to know.”

Tyler sucked in air as he handed the joint back, keeping his eyes on the sky and avoiding the blue eyes of his daughter. She had inherited his eyes, dark blue, the blue of a serene, fictional ocean. She had also inherited his stare, the kind that demanded attention, that bore holes through whomever found themselves in its path. Letting his breath out in a sigh, he turned back to his daughter.

“I think he’s a teenaged guy, and it might have been twenty-five years since I was a teenager, but I still remember what dating was like at that age. That being said, he really does seem to like you. A lot. And you clearly like him, or you wouldn’t be asking me. This is the first guy you’ve asked me about, so I approve. Not that you need my approval.”

“Mom doesn’t like him.”

“Of course she doesn’t. He rides a motorcycle and writes poetry. You aren’t going to get her to sign off on this one.”

“But he’s so sweet!” Lily demanded, trying to convince her mother from miles away of what her father seemed to understand. She took another hit, her lip curling into a small snarl, a frustrated look that Tyler remembered seeing his ex-wife wearing well. Lily looked too damn much like her mother. “He reminds her of you, doesn’t he?”

His daughter had always been sharp, Tyler knew, could argue with the best of them at the ripe old age of two. She may have gotten her beauty and poise from her mother, but she was his daughter when it came to puzzle solving. Hell, she had already proven to be smarter than him now. And he held a goddamned PhD!

“Probably,” the older man answered after several seconds of silence. The pot was starting to hit him, launching him right into outer fucking space, and he didn’t know how much more of this conversation he actually wanted to be a part of. The thought of stepping back inside, pouring a bowl of Coco Puffs, and sitting down to watch The Warriors or Cosmos or something fluttered through his consciousness. That sounded more appealing than dealing with old memories and the wounds that came with them.

Lily took another drag, hogging the joint the way he had taught her when nobody else seemed keen on taking it, before passing it back to her father. Tyler accepted it wordlessly, the silence as dense as the smoke swirling around them. There were questions she wanted to ask, questions he had never prepared himself to answer. She had asked before, and he had deflected before. Watching his little girl fall in love for the first time, though, had Tyler’s confidence in his lies crumbling. Who would she hate more when the truth finally came out?

“If I may,” he spoke up, his voice taking on that bubbly, dreamy quality that only marijuana can produce, “she doesn’t want to see you make the same mistakes she did.”

“Why, dad? Why does she still see you as a mistake?”

“Because, outside of creating you, our relationship, our marriage was a mistake. She may not admit it, but your mother probably felt relieved after the divorce. From my perspective, she seems much happier anyway.”

He ripped the joint, inhaling as much as his lungs would allow him. That relaxing high he had been chasing when the two of them had first sat down had gone away, leaving in its wake an anxious and dreadful one. Every stoner has experienced this, the kind of high that drags one down into the depths of one’s mind. Tyler hated this kind of high, but still he smoked.

“So she’s afraid Rick will hurt me the way you hurt her?”

“Bingo, kid.” He passed the joint back to his daughter. It was almost done, only a few more hits remaining. The eighteen year old hit it like her old man, dragging until she was physically incapable. She let the smoke out in a puff, the wind carrying it away from the porch. Their neighbors had never really cared, just quietly accepted the professor’s dope smoking. They could also accept his daughter’s dope smoking. “Your mother only wants what is best for you, Lily. Or what she thinks is best for you. If you look at it like that, her disapproval gets easier to swallow.”

“Dad, can I…” she started, her blue eyes softer than they had been earlier, imploring even. She chose not to finish the question. “There’s one hit left. You want it?”

“It’s all yours, kid. I got the munchies something fierce and don’t want to add to them.”

She smoked the last of the joint, breathing in deep until the cherry hit the filter. Lily was baked, baked like a cake. Caked. Normally she got the giggles, would laugh at anything. It didn’t matter if she was with friends, with her father, or by herself; she always giggled while high. Not tonight, though. She was in love with Rick, a boy her mom thought was too much like Tyler, a boy her father seemed to approve of. It was a wonderful, magical kind of feeling, but it was tempered by the question she had held onto since she was seven, a question her mother had answered every time she had asked, a question her father refused to acknowledge. In eleven years, he had not once answered.

“You have to tell me. I’ve heard her say it so many fucking times, but not once from you. Dad, why? Why did you leave her? You owe me this!”

Tyler had already stood up, moved over to the back door, had his hand on the door knob. He had hoped if he moved inside, poured two bowls of Coco Puffs, threw on some trippy music, this conversation would be over and he could enjoy his high. Lily usually didn’t push this hard, but he knew that he couldn’t keep lying, not now that she had tasted love. It was time and he was scared, terrified of how she might look at her mother going forward, of how she might look at him.

“Ask your mother,” he whispered, his grip tightening on the door handle. If he had been a younger man, he would have crushed the brass handle in his grasp.

“Dad!” Lily started, shooting out of her chair, eyes hard and angry again.

“No, ask her! Ask her why she wanted a divorce, why being with me had become such a burden for her, why she told you it was my fault!”

“Dad…what are you saying?”

“Fuck, I am way too high for this!” he seethed, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. “I hated that you had to grow up in two homes, couldn’t fucking stand you spending the week with me and the weekends with her! Call me old fashioned, but you needed both of us. So when you came home and asked why I walked out on her, I didn’t explain, couldn’t explain. Telling you the truth would have broken your trust with your mother, so I let you believe it was me who asked for the divorce. I thought I was protecting you, ensuring you had a relationship with her. I’m sorry!”

“What the hell!? She left you and you just let me think it was you the whole time!? I hated you as a kid!”

“I know you did. But I could handle your hatred. Your mother couldn’t.”

Something in her outburst sounded off, sounded forced. Even under the influence, Tyler could hear the actress in Lily’s words. She had been the one who wanted to smoke tonight, she had started the conversation innocuously enough by asking about Rick. His mouth became a smile as it hit him.

“How long have you known?” he asked, finally turning from the door to stare at his daughter. It was like staring back in time at a younger version of his ex-wife, if his ex-wife was capable of scowling like he was.

“I found the divorce papers last weekend. She filed, you signed. I cried so hard, dad. How could you have lied like that?”

“I just told you.”

“Dad…I…” Lily seemed incapable of speaking further, but she finally had her answer, a real answer. “Do you still love her?”

“I’ve always wondered what kind of adult you would be. Would you turn into me or your mother? Would you love like her or like me? And when one of your relationships began to fall apart which one of us would you act like? Watching you with Rick, I know you’re going to end up like me. You’re going to get hurt, and it’s going to wreck you to your core. You’re also going to do some hurting, and you’re going to have a hard time living with what you see in the mirror after breaking someone’s heart.”

Tyler opened the door then, the soft light from the kitchen pouring out of the house, bathing the two of them. He didn’t want to answer her last question, because the honest answer was no, but he could tell she wanted him to still love her mother. If he did, she could believe that real love, forever love is in fact possible.

“Do you still love her?” Lily asked again, her eyes soft once more, pleading with him.

“No, Lily, I don’t. I haven’t loved her since you came home and first asked me why I left her.”

Without a word, Lily walked past her father and into the house. Tyler followed slowly behind, not sure what other questions she might choose to ask. In the continuing silence, his daughter got two bowls out, followed by two spoons, the milk and the box of Coco Puffs.

“Go get your bong, dad. I want to watch something trippy but feel like getting higher.”

“I’ve got just the thing,” Tyler said, leaving the kitchen to grab the green glass affair. He was only gone for a couple of seconds. “Have you ever watched Enter the Void?”

“Heard of it, likely from you, but haven’t seen it,” she answered, bringing two full bowls over to the couch.

“You’re in for a treat, then.”

They settled onto the couch, Tyler loading a deep bowl, Lily devouring her chocolate cereal. He had to teach in the morning and she had to go to school, but neither said a word as the movie began and the smoke started flowing.

“Don’t ever lie to me again,” Lily said before they could get too engrossed. “I don’t care what you’re trying to spare me from.”

“Only if you agree not to hate your mother.” She thought it over, knowing her dad would say everything has a price if she tried to argue. She had forgiven him for breaking her family apart; why couldn’t she forgive her?

“Deal.”

“You know, she would hate me more than she already does if she knew this was going on,” Tyler said as he ripped the bong, coughing hard as the smoke billowed out of his mouth and nose.

“What she doesn’t know might hurt her,” Lily responded, taking the bong from her old man and hitting it the way he had taught her.

Shirley Temple

“So you want to tell me why I’m picking your ass up from jail?” I asked after we started driving. My brother seemed like he’d had a great night: disheveled hair; an aura of cigarette smoke; pink stain on his white shirt that was still a little damp. And he wore that smile, the one that informed the world he was in a great mood. Shane only ever wore that smile if he had a great story to tell.

“I broke a bartender’s jaw,” he answered, reaching inside his blazer for a smoke. He offered me one and after a moment’s debate, I accepted. “Dude’s probably going to sue for damages. But they didn’t charge given the circumstances.”

“And those circumstances would be?” I prompted, dragging deep on the Kamel. He leaned out the window, cigarette hanging from his lips, smile still plastered to his face.

“Buy me breakfast and I’ll tell you.”

I just laughed, knowing there was no way he’d elaborate without a plate of scrambled eggs covered with cheese and a pot of coffee in front of him. He blew smoke out of his nostrils, knowing I was weighing his proposition. That smile only grew the longer I kept quiet. Breakfast did sound nice…

“Fine!” I announced. “But you’re paying the $2,000 I just shelled out back. Yeah?”

“Haven’t I always?”

“Always isn’t exactly how I’d describe it.”

“Don’t be an asshole, Marc. I appreciate the bail out and will pay you back. You know that.”

“Yeah.”

We drove in relative silence, the Passion Pit song he threw on being the only sound between us aside from the barely audible hiss of burning tobacco. There was an IHOP not far from the jail and we pulled in some ten minutes after we’d walked out of the barbed wire gate. Shane made no attempt to get out of the car as I parked.

“Going to finish the song?” I asked after a few seconds. He opened his door immediately as I opened my mouth so I killed the engine and followed.

They situated us in a booth and brought a pot of coffee to us. For a Wednesday morning, IHOP was dead. Aside from the two of us I saw one other occupied booth in the whole joint. At least service wouldn’t be slow.

“Yeah, I’ll have the two by two by two,” Shane ordered. “Scrambled eggs and bacon.”

“And for you?” the waitress asked.

“I’m good with coffee,” I answered, turning my attention back to my brother as she walked away. “Do I have to wait for you to eat to hear this story or you going to start your tale?”

Shane laughed, poured himself a cup of coffee, splashed in a single half-and-half and added a packet of Sweet-n-Low. I drank my black coffee as he drank his less black, his smile curling around the edges of the mug. Clearly it was a good story.

“Okay,” he started, putting his cup and looking at the table. “So Christian and I go out last night. Started the evening off with a few games of pool West Street but we got bored really quickly. Anyway, Chris ain’t been laid in a few weeks, so I agree to play wingman. We leave West Street and head over to Dan’s. You’ve been to Dan’s?”

“You and I got thrown out of Dan’s a year ago, remember?”

“Did we?”

“Yup. I picked a fight with some frat guys. After throwing up on their table.”

“Fuck! Yeah, I remember that. Almost had to bail your ass out of jail that night.”

“Almost only counts in horse shoes and hand grenades.”

“Alright, dad, you going to let me finish now?”

“By all means.”

Shane took a swig of coffee before continuing.

“Okay, so we get to Dan’s and have a few. We are not drunk at all yet and just kind of looking around. Every chick there is with some dude and Chris is starting to get a little frustrated, wants to leave. We’re at the bar and he’s moping when these two girls walk in, a blonde and a brunette. Providence, right?

“They eye us, we eye them. Every other guy in the bar is your standard twenty-something douchebag. It was like a frat guy convention. Probably our fault for drinking in a college town, but whatever. Because now it’s working in our favor. As you can see”—and Shane indicates his clothing—“we were well dressed, the both of us in suits. We looked good.”

“I can see how that would have set you apart.”

“So these two women grab a table and Chris is definitely checking out the brunette. Leaves me the blonde. Not that I’m interested, but I agreed. We wait for them to get their drinks before heading over. Chris and the brunette immediately start flirting. Either his game was on point or she was also looking to score. So I started chatting up the blonde. Bro, her sense of humor was worse than yours but not quite as bad as mine. I’m talking dark and morbid. So we start cracking the worst kinds of jokes and just cracking the fuck up. She introduces herself as Justine and the brunette as Carly. We’ve only been at their table for about half an hour when things go south.”

Shane’s food arrived right as he was about to get to the good parts, the parts that landed him in jail for a night. Looking down at the plates of food, he gives me a puppy dog look. He doesn’t really want my permission so I just shake my head and laugh. Mouth full of eggs, he continued.

“Justine is out of drink at this point. And so am I. Being the gentleman that I am, I ask if I can get her a refill. She accepts, asking for a Shirley Temple. In case you didn’t know—and it is important—a Shirley Temple is a non-alcoholic beverage. Because I didn’t know this. So I order my Red Bull and vodka and her Shirley Temple and the bartender is a little busy. He takes a minute, you know? Whatever. I get the drinks and head back the table.

“She takes one sip before setting it back on the table. ‘This has vodka in it’ she says in this completely deadpan tone of voice. Then she gets up and walks away. I am so goddamn confused at this point so Carly explains to the issue to me: Justine is a recovering alcoholic with four years of sobriety under her belt.”

Somehow I managed to look down in time because I spit a mouthful of coffee out when Shane said that.

“Fucking hell! How did the bartender fuck that up so badly?!”

“My guess is that he heard my order and just absentmindedly added vodka to both drinks. Obviously I felt like shit after that. Like I just ruined somebody’s life. So I had to make things right. I went to the bar and asked him to remake the Shirley Temple without alcohol. My facial expression coupled with the fact he messed the order up had him shaking, man. His face just went white and he remade it.

“I take the new, non-alcoholic beverage to where Justine was now sitting. Being me, I crack a joke, saying that the whole thing is vodka and she shouldn’t touch it. I thought it was her kind of joke based on all the shit we had already been saying. She disagreed. She grabbed the drink and threw it at me.”

“You’re fucking kidding me!? You didn’t do anything wrong!”

“I know. And she knows. She stormed off, back to where Carly and Chris were still sitting. I don’t know what they said, just the two of them were leaving. Chris kind of shrugged and then followed.”

“Guess you succeeded as a wingman, then.”

“Yeah, there was a text waiting for me from him. And the cops had to call all three of them.”

“She should have thrown it at the damn bartender.”

“Oh, after they left I walked right up and said I needed to speak to him. He leaned in and I threw a right hook. He hit the floor hard.”

“And you didn’t just walk out after that?” Shane had gotten out of worse situations, so how did he get arrested?

“There happened to be an off-duty officer at the bar. I was in cuffs and being marched out before the bartender could get back up.”

“And they didn’t charge you?”

“Not after everything came out. They said they’d have to speak with Chris and Carly and Justine, but if my story checked out the punch was warranted. Since my story did check out and it was his fucking fault, they decided not to throw the book at me. And once they had gotten everyone’s statements they couldn’t stop laughing.”

“It is kind of funny…”

“It’s fucking hilarious, man. One of the best stories I have. Thanks for bailing me out. And for breakfast. I’m going to go outside for a smoke.”

I paid the check and went out to join him, bumming another cigarette.

Trust Issues

When will I trust again?

Will I ever?

What if the answer is I won’t?

What if the answer is never?

 

She’s gorgeous. Wavy brown hair, dark brown eyes, a smile that can still be seen even when she takes a sip of her coffee. It was that smile that I noticed first, the kind that could floor me from several miles away. I knew I shouldn’t ask her out, but I did, and now here we are drinking coffee and laughing and flirting more than we should be.

A first date is supposed to be something happy, joyous even. You don’t know for sure that it will lead to a second, but you honestly don’t care. It doesn’t matter if you ever see this person again, because you are so fucking in the moment that that first date becomes a lifetime, an eternity held within just a few hours.

I’m not happy as I crack a lame joke and watch her almost choke on her coffee.

 

When will I trust again?

Will I ever?

What if the answer is I won’t?

What if the answer is never?

 

It’s been four days. Four days since we got coffee, four days filled with texting and talking, four days getting to know each other. She’s perfect in every sense of the word. Has a background in speech pathology, spends her vacation time rock climbing and base jumping, is passionate about literature and film, excitedly passionate. That kind of perfect.

She slipped up, called me baby yesterday. My lips flicked briefly into a smirk, though they refused to grow into a smile. She apologized, but I told her it was cool. Even over a text, I knew she was happy. Flirtation was becoming genuine affection, lust giving ground to love in such a short amount of time.

All I feel is empty though.

 

When will I trust again?

Will I ever?

What if the answer is I won’t?

What if the answer is never?

 

We went out again. And then again and again and again. I cooked her dinner just last week. Salmon patties, mashed potatoes, and green beans. It’s a recipe I picked up from my mom, one I love. She seemed to like it too. There were no leftovers.

Cuddled on the couch after our meal, I showed her one of my favorite movies. She was interested and engaged, was blown away by the twist ending, wanted to discuss everything about it while the credits ran. It was the first time a woman had enjoyed some film I had picked.

I knew then I was going to break her heart.

 

When will I trust again?

Will I ever?

What if the answer is I can’t?

What if the answer is never?

 

She cried when I sat her down at the coffee shop where we had our first date. I can’t tell you why I picked there, but it seemed fitting. She knew why we were there, why I had been distant for a few days, why I couldn’t look at her.

Something is wrong with me, I said, something I’m trying desperately to figure out. Something that prevents me from being with you.

She didn’t argue, didn’t rage, didn’t yell or curse or scream. It would have been easier if she had. She just sat there, listened to what I had to say, mute tears marring her perfect cheeks. Then she left, as quietly as she had cried.

I finished my coffee alone.

 

When will I trust again?

WILL I EVER!?

What if the answer is I can’t?

WHAT IF THE ANSWER IS NEVER!?

 

I always expect you to sneer at me, to look at me with arrogant eyes. So when I see you and your eyes look tired like mine and your shoulders droop under the weight of your own bullshit, I can’t help but be surprised. I want so much to blame you—and you need to understand that this is your fault—but seeing you like that, I lose my nerve.

You stare at me from the mirror without an explanation. You have nothing to say for yourself, no defense worth raising, and you know it. You’ve hurt someone else, someone who could have been right for you, someone who cared about you! I want to crush your tear-stained face under my fist, destroy your features by shattering the mirror, remove you from existence by never looking at you again.

But you’re me and I’ll see you again tomorrow.

 

When will I trust you again?

Will I ever?

What if the answer is I can’t?

What if the answer is never?

The Judge

 

Starbucks is almost as prevalent as cancer, each new green-embroidered building cropping up like another tumor in a dying patient. This one isn’t so new, but it operates in the same parasitic way the one being built just up the highway will. Age doesn’t seem to slow these fuckers down.

She tries to stop thinking about it, waiting for her coffee as she is. What’s the point in complaining about something you willingly take part in? And she can’t disregard what this shitty little building has done for the patients and their families. It allows them to get out of the hospital, what with it nestled nearly in the parking lot.

Still, it feels wrong to have paid $2.99 for a cup of black coffee when she could have just poured herself a cup of sludge back inside. Even nurses have to escape that place every now and again. You don’t easily get over a shift like her last one.

“Coffee for Giselle,” the male barista announces, his call to action keeping the newly created memories from getting to her. His nametag reads Ricky. She smiles in thanks, afraid she might say everything on her mind if she opens her mouth.

Taking her caffeinated heat, she turns to leave. She wants to get out of her scrubs, wash the hospital-smell from her bones, down a bottle of wine while waiting for the fresh wounds to become scar tissue.

Another patron opens the door, bringing the chilled wind from outside in with him. It blows her brown hair into her face, and she turns back around, swiping the strands away from her forehead. That’s when she notices the man staring at her. Not the surgeon who just walked inside, but a man seated at the table closest to the bar.

He’s wearing a dark suit, a black shirt under a black vest, with a slate grey tie wrapped around his pale neck. One foot is crossed over the other, scuffed dress shoes hiding near-translucent socks. There’s almost no hair on his scalp, just a silver halo clinging to the sides and back of his head. His sunken-in face is clean shaven, and the scowl plastered to it looks to be as much a part of his suit as his tie.

The details of his appearance are of secondary concern to Giselle, however. It’s his eyes that have her pinned to the floor, unable to flee back into the world. They’re as grey as his tie, hateful steel set into his gaunt face. Liquid rings the edges of those eyes, though, softening that hard stare.

He’s too thin, she notices, as he stands, pulling his suit jacket from off the back of his chair, sliding into it with subdued grace. She watches him slip a black leather notebook into the inside pocket of the jacket, knocking his full coffee cup over in the process. He rushes passed her, aiming for the still open door, the storms of his eyes only looking away from her when he reaches the exit.

Nobody comes to clean up the spilled coffee.

 

The weekend didn’t help. Several bottles of wine, a sad book, her favorite album—nothing eased her pain. She had cried until there was nothing left after leaving Starbucks, her face awkwardly scrunched even though were eyes were now dry. Giselle hadn’t even been able to sleep, to rest at all. It normally didn’t hurt this much to lose a patient.

“How are you today, Giselle?” Dr. Hale asks. The doctor is a little heavier than Giselle, with kind brown eyes and a smile that assures even the most terminal patient that they have a fighting chance. Still, the nurse knows her boss is just making small talk and doesn’t really give a damn how she is.

“I’m fine,” she lies to the other woman. “How are you?”

Hale begins to explain everything going on in her life, a torrent of details Giselle can’t even begin to listen to. Something about a bad PTA meeting and her husband’s extended hunting trip in Washington. All the while, the doctor is scanning patient charts, sporadically giving orders to Giselle in between her stories. She just couldn’t handle this. Not today.

“Katie, I’m going to go ahead and get to work,” Giselle says, knowing her tone is haughty and short. She doesn’t wait for Hale’s response before grabbing the charts and leaving the nurse’s station.

Her work is mechanical, her bedside manner is stiff, her mood is some mixture of stressed and angry with enough depressed sprinkled in that tears prick her eyes more than once. She makes sure her patients are alive, but only stays in their rooms or next to their beds long enough to administer necessary care. Conversation is not a priority.

She sees him halfway through her day, checking the IV of an elderly woman who is almost out the door. Would she cry when this patient kicked it too? This woman, Mrs. Corrigan, has a bacterial infection in her brain. She came to the hospital, to Dr. Hale, to Giselle for help. Some help she’s gotten.

He’s watching her work in the room, staring in through the window. Giselle knows it’s the same guy from Starbucks, recognizes that dark suit. Maybe he gets off on women in scrubs. Pervert. She must have missed his flushed face, the stretched-too-thin skin red from exertion, or the deep tear lines. Her pervert has been crying, baby-snot-bubble kind of crying. Focused as she is on Mrs. Corrigan’s stubborn IV, she can’t see the acute pain in his stormy eyes, the same pain lurking deep in her own eyes.

Jotting some notes down in his book, the man leaves with Giselle still fiddling with the dying woman.

 

Death is a daily part of working in a hospital. It isn’t some skulking beast, some monster hiding around the corner. It’s a permanent fixture, like the sanitary smell and crying relatives. There are moments of joy, people that beat their early expiration dates, families becoming whole because a new child has been sentenced to life on this planet. Giselle can’t find those moments, hasn’t been able to in a long time. All she sees is death.

Mrs. Corrigan stopped breathing less than an hour ago. One second she was asleep, chest rising and falling; the next there was nothing but a flatlined tone in her room. Dr. Hale called it a minute later, not even bothering to try to resuscitate the old woman.

Giselle had sleepwalked through the rest of her shift, counting down seconds till she is off more than working with her patients. First that little boy—Sam—two days ago, now Mrs. Corrigan. Wasn’t her job to save lives?

Closing time came and went, and she leaves the hospital no stronger than when she had entered it. Crying wouldn’t help so her tear ducts clock out when she does. Her pervert is waiting outside the building, a cigarette between his fingers. She doesn’t like having a stalker, so she walks right up to him, needing to let loose on something.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” she begins, intending to take the moral high ground before letting the bastard have it. He takes a drag, exhaling the smoke out of his nostrils, seeming to ignore her. When he doesn’t respond, Giselle shakes her head, giving up. “Would you mind leaving me the fuck alone?”

She storms off, knowing he’s probably staring at her ass. Hopefully all he does is stare. She doesn’t make it far before his words stop her more assuredly than his eyes had before the weekend.

“You shouldn’t be able to see me,” those words say, his voice higher pitched than she expected and gravelly. He takes another drag, savoring the smoke.

“What-what did you say?” she asks after turning back around, reaching into her purse discreetly for her can of pepper spray. He turns those steel eyes onto her finally. They’re cold, but not frozen. She sees the pain, the sorrow and agony, there.

“You aren’t supposed to see me,” smoke comes with his words, making them even rougher. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

Clutching the can, hand still in her bag, she nods her head.

 

The same male barista is working the till at Starbucks. He takes Giselle’s order of black coffee, but fails to acknowledge the man in the dark suit next to her. The man doesn’t seem to mind, his eyes never leaving Giselle.

“It’s on the house, ma’am,” Ricky says, getting her drink to her much quicker than a few days ago.

They sit at the same table he had been sitting at when she first saw him. There’s a cup of coffee in his hand. She hadn’t seen him order anything, but his eyes tell her she won’t like the answer to that question. Somehow, Giselle knows he knows.

“What’s your name?” she asks instead, looking away from the storms in his face. She doesn’t expect an answer and takes a sip of coffee to avoid the silence.

“Tom,” he replies, much to her surprise. He looks like a Doug to her. “My name is Tom.”

“Tom, why am I not supposed to see you?”

“Ask me what I do.” He looks away from her, neglecting his coffee. She breathes deep, not wanting to show signs of fear. His words were insistent, a command. It’s that urgency that makes her ask.

“What do you do, Tom?”

“I’m a judge, Giselle,” he says, turning those eyes back on her. “I’m sorry about the kid, Sam. And Ursula Corrigan, the old woman from today.”

“What? How do you—“ is all she’s able to say before her voice cuts out, suddenly mute. Giselle’s head lands on the table hard, the rupturing aneurysm ending her ability to speak. The stroke kills her instantly.

“And you,” Tom whispers, pulling his notebook out of his jacket. He crosses out another name on the page, Giselle Monaghan, trying to ignore the next name in line before getting up and leaving the Starbucks.

The barista is yelling for help, running out from behind the counter, as the judge walks away. Tom turns around once, getting a better look at Ricardo Martinez. He’ll have to be back in three days for Ricky.

The Next Round

There was no crowd in the stands, no legion of screaming of fans anywhere in the auditorium. Nobody was jostling or munching on hotdogs or nachos; nobody was spilling beer and slurring cheers for their chosen champion. There was nobody in the building outside of the ring.

It was just a seventeen by seventeen box, three black ropes indicating the boundaries, and a handful of individuals. There was an old man working the bell, his wrinkled face so close to the timer that his jowls shook every time he rang the damn thing. There was a referee dancing around the mat, silver-haired yet nimble, the black and white of his uniform bouncing from one part of the ring to the next. He was a strange mixture of young and old, the kind of man who had seen many years but still had youth radiating from his eyes and his smile. His smile was big and bright as he officiated the match, his pristine black shoes always managing to dodge the blood staining the mat.

And, of course, there were the boxers.

Fighting out of the red corner was a fucking wall of muscle. This guy had to be at least eight feet tall and weigh several hundred pounds. His left jabs felt like shotgun blasts and his right hooks impacted with the force of ant-aircraft fire. The chorded muscles of his shoulders and chest looked like woven iron and the way he moved could only be described as beautiful, his feet like those of a classically trained ballet dancer. Shadows obscured his face, but his eyes shone out of the darkness. They weren’t a man’s eyes. They were animal, beastly, the kind of eyes one would imagine a hurricane or a tornado might have: angry, hateful, destructive. Hungry.

Fighting out of the blue corner was a dead man. He was decently muscled, the way a runner might be, and he wore it well on his sub six foot frame. Easily, he was several feet shorter and at least two hundred pounds lighter than his opponent. At this point, he was barely able to hold his gloves up and shambling was the only way to describe his footwork. His nose had been broken and was plastered awkwardly to his left cheek, blood drip-dripping from both nostrils onto his split lips; his right eyes was black and swollen shut, a gash open just under it; sight from the left eye wasn’t much better what with the sweat and blood getting in it. Two of his ribs were broken and breathing was as difficult a task as throwing punches. There was no way he could stay on his feet much longer.

The big guy struck, a nasty haymaker from the right, the kind of punch that starts at the hip and just pulls all the fighter’s weight to bear. It was a crushing blue and it rocked the smaller man something fierce, dislodging on his bottom molars. That should have been it, the ref should have called it, but he managed to stay standing. The wall of muscle threw a body shot, but the short fighter blocked, though he still sucked air through his teeth as if it had hurt. It probably did.

The bell dinged then and the referee sent both combatants back to their corners.

Slumping onto his stool, the small man knew that this had been a stupid decision. He could think of only a handful of fighters who had stuck around this long against his opponent, who hadn’t thrown in the towel after so many rounds, and he was hard pressed to think of a reason to keep plugging along. He had less than a minute to make up his mind—keep fighting or quit—and he wished that he knew what to do, wished he had someone in the corner to ask. Taking a deep, painful breath, he turned his gaze to the towel knowing it would be the best decision. His opponent was strong and fast, but hadn’t been completely untouched. The small boxer had even managed to win a few rounds. This last one, though, had definitely gone to the fucking force of nature just across the ring. How could he keep this going?

Closing his one good eye, the short fighter thought about why he was here, why he had picked this goddamned fight in the first place. It wasn’t for glory or for a belt or for money. No, this match was about survival. He had challenged the world to a fight and the world was winning, would ultimately win. He knew that, knew that in the end his opponent would break him completely, knew that there was no hope of victory. Sure, he could win a few rounds, but the world would win more. He was so rocked, so bruised and bloodied, so tired.

He reached for the towel.

“Really?” asked a voice in his head, a voice that was both his and not his. It was a voice that didn’t belong to him but it was still somehow his. “This is where you quit?”

“He’s too strong, too fast. What can I do?”

“You ball your fucking fists, raise your goddamned gloves, and you fight the way you have always fought.” The voice was someone else’s in his head, the voice of a fighter that stood in this ring before, fought this same opponent. He had been at that match, had been in her corner. “You don’t quit because you had a bad round! Don’t you touch that towel.”

“Do you see me!? I can’t keep this up…”

“Did you let me quit?” It was a mocking question, the kind she liked to use when she wanted to show his hypocrisy.

“You aren’t here!”

“And whose fault is that?”

It was his he knew, his fault that he was alone in this corner. But as he heard her scream at him in his head, he knew he wasn’t alone, not really. She was still here, this boxer who took on the world and lived to tell about it, and he could feel her. His gloves weren’t as heavy the more she yelled, breathing didn’t hurt nearly as much. His cracked lips formed a brutal smile.

“Now get your ass up.”

The bell dinged again and he jumped off his stool, smashing his gloves together, ready as hell for the next round.

Skin Eater Now Available for Purchase

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My first novel, Skin Eater, is now available for purchase. You can find it on Amazon and on CreateSpace. It should also be available on Amazon Europe and other online retailers that carry CreateSpace published books. If you have enjoyed the short fiction found on this blog, then you would probably enjoy this book. Aside from the price of purchase, I do ask that you share your thoughts, Leave me a review at any of the retailers, good or bad. To everyone that has put up with me for the last year and a half during the writing process, thank you. Your patience and encouragement has been more than appreciated.

 

Photograph by Abby Jones

Lung Cancer

I know that when I light this cigarette a potent cocktail of chemicals and toxins will be released into my mouth, travel down my esophagus, and ultimately take up residence within my lungs. This knowledge should probably stop me from flicking my lighter to life, but the flame ignites into existence and the smoke rushes into my body like a river finally mighty enough to knock down the dam that’s been holding it back. That first drag is always the sweetest.

“You shouldn’t smoke these,” Eric says in the back of my head in a voice that is both playful and ominous. “They’ll kill you.”

That’s part of the point. There are days, days like today, when I pray for lung cancer, for an inoperable malignant tumor to grow, days that I wish for a death sentence. There are days when things aren’t good and things aren’t bad, things just are, and I am left to my own devices to figure out how things should be. There are days like today.

Perception is reality, or at least that’s what people say. Right now my perception is nervous neutrality, a kind of energetic anxiety, because my reality is neither right nor wrong. There is no crisis that needs handling and there is nothing that needs to be celebrated. There is just life, in all its awful banality, and I am stuck somewhere in limbo. I am poised on this cliff, the one that could either spell disaster or freedom, but I don’t feel ready to swan dive off. The rocks under my feet could give out any moment and I could plummet without having made a choice. It’s on days like today that I sit on the steps and invite tar and death into my lungs.

On days like today, I am afraid that the monster I was yesterday is finally slain, but the better me of tomorrow is a pipe dream that I will never actually get to be. I fear that I will forever be this little boy trapped inside a twenty-something body, a child play acting as an adult. Has evolution passed me by? Am I stuck in my present form, unable to grow?

Ash reaches the butt, the too-hot filter burning the tips of my fingers. My disgusting moment of self-pity ends with my cigarette and I have to get up. It’s time to be everyone’s rock again, to tell those around me I’m okay even though I’m drowning, to square my shoulders and set my jaw until it threatens to break against everything and nothing. I’m not allowed to shatter, not allowed to be anything but bulletproof, so I put the cigarette out on the concrete before heading inside to my shitty little apartment, trying to shut the door on my shitty little thoughts.

It’s on days like today that I can’t escape my own head, can’t run from the abyss of depression that wants nothing more than to swallow me up. But you won’t see that, won’t see the weakness in me, because I can’t show anybody that, least of all you. I’ll go on pretending that I’m a badass until the charade becomes unsustainable, which hopefully won’t be until I’ve reached my expiration date.

On that day, a day that will probably be like today, they’ll lower me into the dirt. Will that dash between the birth and death dates on my gravestone have meant something? It’s on days like today that I feel like it won’t.

Keeper of the Birds

Sometimes there is no good place to begin a tale, no easy way to introduce what needs said. Looking over the wounded cottage, I can’t help but know that this is one of those times. The front door has been caved in, the wood mangled beyond recognition. The kitchen window—which used to always be open—has been shattered, glass shrapnel littering the ground below. Before I even set foot inside I know there will be a similar amount of destruction.

The small cabin is still inviting despite the fact that its two rooms have been ransacked. Scraps of food, debris, fluttering slips of paper, and too many feathers dominate the dirt floor, the depressing confetti all that’s left of the violence. That, and the blood. There is too much blood and I know that she’s gone as soon as I find her.

She’s situated in her rocking chair the way she normally is. Her short hair is green today, though its roots have already begun to grey, the magic working its way out of her scalp at a rate steady with the blood flowing out of her neck. It’s a neat line on her delicate throat, one made with precision and care. The cut wasn’t caused by something as barbaric as a sword and was likely done too quickly for her to scream or call out. Not that she would have; had she seen the attack coming, she would have torn the intruder asunder. This was recent, this was clean, and I was too late.

I had never worried about her, not once. Watching the color drain fully from her face, seeing death walk her away from me, maybe I should have. The smile splitting my lips is a hollow one. No, she wasn’t one to be trifled with and the rules had protected her for more years than I had been here. She couldn’t outrun her ending, though.

Removing her from the chair wasn’t physically demanding, but emotionally it was crippling. I cradled her body in my arms—a body deteriorating much faster than any body I had ever dealt with before—as I carried it to the bed. The dead were not something I would normally handle; I’m a gardener after all, not a hero. With her gone, there would be no need to tend to the plants anymore.

“You always complained about being heavy,” I whisper as I lay her onto her bed, her bright blood clinging to my shirt like a frightened child holds tightly a blanket in the dark. “But you are light as a feather.”

The croak of a crow from somewhere behind me keeps the tears from spilling out of my eyes. It’s here to take her away from here—from me—I know. The crow is one of the few birds I ever bothered to remember.

“Is it time?” I ask, my voice cracking as I stare down at the black bird. It hops from foot to foot before flying to the head board, its dark eyes both looking in my direction and down at her. “Were you one of hers?”

It doesn’t move from its newfound perch, just cocks its head to the left. If it had been one of hers, it would have recognized me. With only the three of us in the cottage, the quiet finally sets in. There were over a hundred different kinds of bird here yesterday, and now they are all gone, the feathers mixing with her blood on the floor.

“Who would have killed her?” I ask the crow, knowing it won’t give me an answer. “Who would have attacked a keeper?”

Heroes, rogues, adventurers of all types had sought her out for counsel. They came needing an answer, a solution to a riddle, a clue to start their journey. And she had provided each and every one of them with what they came to her for. She would give them their answer in the form of a bird, a feathered message that helped them with whatever quest they were on. And they knew that this cabin was neutral ground, that the keeper of the birds wasn’t to be harmed. It was the rules. At least I thought it was.

“Who would have broken the rules!?” The crow’s presence didn’t stop the tears this time. They were angry and hot, bitterness in liquid form, streaming down my face like the blood still dripping from her torn throat. I wish her bleeding would stop, knew that it should have stopped based on my limited understanding of anatomy, but magic often works in contradictory ways. If she had taught me anything, it was that.

In my despair, I watch the crow move, hopping away from the headboard to land at my feet. The squawking noise it makes is obstructed, as if something is stuck in its throat. I should be more surprised than I am when it vomits a rolled up slip of paper, but I’m not. Reaching down, I unroll it, revealing a script that I recognize. She wrote it.

Gardener, it reads, her lyrical voice echoing in my head, the crow is not for me, but for you. My time has come, just as yours will one day come. But until that time, you are now responsible for the cottage. And the birds. This crow is your first. Collect them, cherish them, protect them. You are now the keeper of the birds. Bury me in the part of the garden I told you not to set foot in.

I sit down, rocking in what was her rocking chair. The crow lands on the arm, squawking at me impatiently. I will have to bury her, no doubt in the spot where she buried the last keeper of the birds. Then I will need to clean the cottage. Getting out of the rocking chair is impossible, though.

“Who broke the rules?” I whisper, still needing to know. The crow pecks my arm, its thin beak surprisingly sharp. Looking down, I see the blood on its tip, her blood. “You will also be my last bird, huh?”

The crow squawks again, its voice the only thing I hear as I move out of my chair and around my cottage.