Two Freaks

The talented Bella slips another one in under the wire. Before you choose to be offended, keep in mind that I love wearing cloaks on an average day, referring to myself in the third person, and dressing up in costume for no reason at all. Enjoy!

Two freaks met and fell in love. How many love stories start like that?

Ours did. I ended a short-lived relationship with yet another man who thought he owned me. Had he thought of it, I would have signed a paper signing away the rights to all my thoughts and feelings. He wanted to possess me that much. It drove him crazy that he couldn’t, so he forced the issue. He started trying to destroy my relationships with everyone around me.

That’s why I ran away. I left my hometown, my friends, my job, and my broken heart behind just to be free of him. I stayed under the radar for a year. I never went out with people from my new job. I lived in fear of making new friends. I barely even left my apartment to pick up food and other essentials.

When a year passed without hearing from my ex, I loosened up a little. I decided to celebrate. I didn’t need a big party. After all, I didn’t have anyone to party with. But I wanted to do something that signified moving on and returning to some semblance of a normal life.

I remembered seeing a coffee shop on the corner. I would be close enough to dash home if I lost my nerve. Besides, a cup of hot chocolate always heals my woes. As I pawed through the few items of jewelry that I brought with me, a spiked collar caught my eye. The words “I thought you’d need a new collar now that you’re free” had been carefully written in my best friend’s handwriting along the inside of the soft, supple leather.

My mother remained the only person I trusted enough to have my address. Occasionally, she sent a care package. She included this gift from Edi in the first shipment though I doubt she knew she’d sent such a thing. Wrapped tightly in shimmering gold foil and silver ribbons, she had no clue. Of course, I reached for the shimmering gift first when I cut open the box.

My smile returned as it had when I ripped off the paper and pulled back the box top. I fumbled with the small buckle, as I wrapped it around my neck. The leather seemed to mold to my skin. I found a black baby tee and black jeans with red flowers painted along the hem. A few swift passes of the brush left my hair smooth and shiny. I grabbed my purse and rushed myself out the door before I could change my mind.

When I reached the coffee shop, I almost didn’t go in. A soft glow came from a single candle on each table, but it looked too gloomy to be open. I checked the sign to make sure. Reassured, I stepped toward the door as a tall man with curly dark hair put his hand on the handle. He wore wrinkled black slacks and a black button-down shirt with the top three buttons undone. Dark eyes met mine as he smiled down at me.

“Nice collar.”

Distracted by his smile, I nodded my head and mumbled. “Thank you.”

“You alone?” His eyes looked up and down the street, looking for anyone else.

I glanced over my shoulder. “Um…yes.”

“Sometimes it gets crowded this late. Want to sit together?”

“Umm…”

“My name is Aaron. I promise not to bite you…” He looked deep into my wide eyes as he paused and leaned closer to whisper. “…unless you beg me to.”

I laughed and the tense bubble around me broke a little. “Okay.”

“I’ll buy if you find us a table.” He offered as he held the door open.

“Sounds good.” I started to walk toward the nearest empty table.

He placed a hand on my shoulder gently. As I turned to him, he shook his head. “Sadly, my ESP is broken. You need to tell me what you want.”

A warm blush colored my cheeks as I said. “Hot cocoa.”

 When he joined me with two cups of foam-topped delight, the look on his face aroused my suspicions. “What did you do to my cocoa?”

“Nothing you won’t like. We can switch if you like.” He reached for my cup.

“No. I’ll trust you.” My heart disagreed as my chest tightened, but I slowly brought to cup to my lips.

I sipped gently, allowing the warm liquid to flow over my tongue. He watched me anxiously.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes. It’s different. What’s in it?”

“Raspberry Italian syrup.” He beamed. “It’s their specialty.”

“It’s delicious.” I took a longer sip, closing my eyes as raspberry and chocolate mingled to create a sweet sensation.

“I should probably answer a few more of your questions.” The table shifted as he leaned closer.

I opened my eyes and gazed into his face. “Such as?”

“I don’t normally hit on girls that I see at the coffee shop. I work as an accountant by day, but I love to play the drums at night.”

I couldn’t think of anything interesting to say in reply. Clearly, he felt differently. He encouraged me with questions. I fired a few back at him, discovering that he had talked to me because I was wearing the collar. Otherwise, he said he’d have been afraid to scare me off by being so forward. I even explained why I chose to wear it. I felt comfortable talking to Dylan. I hadn’t felt so free and so close to anyone in over a year. I didn’t want it to end. By the time we finished talking, my neglected cocoa actually had grown cold. I finished it anyway as he held out his hand to walk me home.

Twenty years and two kids later, I still wear my studded collar from time to time. Edi visits us often. After all, without her, we would never have met. My possessive ex did try to reconnect, but my lack of interest finally convinced him to find another victim. My husband still makes me want to talk for hours, loves my studded necklace, and introducing me to new things, freaky or otherwise. He still plays the drums and, sometimes, I sing along.

I’m glad I found the right freak to fall in love with. I’m even more glad that he loves me back.

Bride's Lament

I've been obsessively cleaning this week, so I unearthed another old flash fiction for your reading pleasure. Enjoy.

I rest here, waiting for the blood to fall again. It slips slowly down my fingers from somewhere near the realm of my heart. It drips again, splashing against the whiteness of my wedding dress.

On my wedding day, I should be smiling. Looking across the room at my husband, I see only emptiness. The void lingers until he turns his eyes upon me. I see myself in those eyes. I see the woman he wanted to marry—the adoring wife he thinks I am returning his gaze with my own blood dripping from my fingers. He doesn't see the blood though, just the veil falling back from long golden hair.

He crosses the room and takes me in his arms. He has no need to be gentle anymore. Though he cannot see the blood welling up and pouring from me, he knows that no harm he inflicts will be worse than my surrender to him has been. Luckily, his knowledge is not conscious and he enjoys melding with me as snaps and hooks come undone and leave me, simply me, for him to behold.

He still doesn't see me. Even with no veils or skirts to hide my nakedness, he can't see me. He doesn't recognize the pain behind my eyes as I smile and make all the right sounds and then wait in the dimming light for him to sleep with me cradled in his arms. He is so gentle now, caressing my cheek with his fingers, gazing into my eyes without seeing into their depths.

At last his eyes close. Dark, untamed lashes come together to conceal grey eyes. Now my own dark eyes are free. The teardrops slip down my cheeks. I regret that I will hurt him someday when he learns to see beyond the face I put on for him and them. For a time though, they're all happy, even if I am bleeding away in obscurity.

For this is all I was born to, this marriage where I can finally die without anyone ever having seen that I existed without a man to give me his name.

Screams of the Heart

The submission I was working on for today needs a little more research, consideration, and editing. I discovered this old flash fiction and punched it up for you. What do you think?

The brunette screams. She screams so loud that her very heart will burst. These screams will never penetrate thick strong walls. Her mournful tones shall never reverberate through his ears and make his heart echo the ache of her own. She will never be free. The sun shall never lighten her dark tresses again.

It seems only moments since he last held her. It felt as if his lips still pressed hers. Yet her heart shattered in a single moment from his words, so soft and then so harsh, all in an instant.

"I love you, but the kingdom must never know."

He pushed her away and whistled softly. As she protested, two guards appeared and grabbed her wrists. They wrapped her in a dark cloth and rode with her to this place. She does not know this place. She looks but sees no means of escape. Does it matter? She does not know which direction leads home. No, none of this matters at all. All that matters is that she can still scream.

She can scream and forget to try to understand. She can scream and forget she was ever loved. She can scream into eternity with no one to hear. She can scream and let those screams drown out all else including the sorrowful patter of her heartbeat. Thus she screams as her dark hair falls to cover her face. Thick stone walls cover her screams until blood seeps up from her raw throat and silences her at last.

Grandmother Knows

Those were the sweet summers of our youth. My cousin always sheltered from the summer heat in the shaded home of our grandparents. Images flashing across the tiny screen of an old television expanded our world on hot, muggy days. Unfazed by the sounds of laughter as we wrestled, grandfather lazed in his big chair in the living room. We’d listen to him snore as the afternoon heat finally penetrated the defenses of the house’s thin walls. He often fell asleep with a lit wicker pipe dangling from his mouth, causing grandmother to awaken him.

“Jacob, you’re tryin’ to kill us, ain’t ya?”

“Myrtle, you worry too much. I ain’t burned down this house in all our years…”

“That’s right. ‘Cause I’m always here to wake you up.”

“Well, I admit I need ya as much as I ever did. Come here and give us a kiss.”

Sometimes Joyce and I would creep out into the hallway to watch them. Grandmother never gave him that kiss that we could see. We always thought it was because she knew we were watching. That was one thing you could count on. Grandmother knew everything.

She knew about the candy we snuck in under our loose tops. She knew how we’d fight over who was going to grow up and marry our favorite actor in whatever movie we were watching that day. She knew to fill our bellies with blueberry pancakes and sausage every morning. She knew we’d need plenty of lemonade for our evenings on the porch as we waited for twilight and the chance to chase lightning bugs.

That’s probably why none of us knew what to do when we found the one thing that grandmother didn’t know all about. It was another of those lazy summer days. Joyce and I had finally found a movie where each of us fell for a different character, so we hadn’t fought all day. Our conversation as we slipped lemonade mirrored the stillness of the growing dusk. Our excitement grew as it neared the time to collect lightning bugs. If we collected enough, we could tell stories by their glow before we fell asleep to the gentle sound of the wind in the trees outside the window.

It was as we slowly rose from the porch swing that we realized something was wrong. Somehow standing up made it easier to hear the voices we had only vaguely noticed as we lounged in the last rays of the sun. I looked at Joyce, unable to identify exactly what I was hearing. Her face assured me that she shared my confusion. As I opened my mouth to voice our question, she raised a finger to her lips and shook her head. She took a couple of slow, careful steps toward the open window, leaning in to listen. I followed her lead, leaning in until I could make out the words.

“…forty years?”

“I told you that I didn’t know, woman. I only just found out.”

“But we were married…”

“…a year later. It was one night with her. I’ve devoted my life to you.” Grandfather pleaded.

“I won’t forgive you for this. You know I can’t…” Tears softened my grandmother’s strong voice.

My mouth opened to form a slack oval. Joyce frowned as her brow furrowed. We raced off into the meadow, not to look for fireflies as we had planned but to get away from the sounds of discord echoing from the house. When we finally returned to the house, grandmother sat alone in the living room with her knitting across her lap. She didn’t look up as we tiptoed down the stairs. I know she heard us, but she didn’t want us to see her tears.

A few weeks later, my aunt Christina moved in with my grandparents. Born to a woman who knew grandfather before he met our grandmother, she favored him in appearance. We accepted her into the family, everyone but grandmother. She knew that this woman’s arrival would change our family. At first, Joyce and I thought she changed it for the better.

Aunt Chris knew how to have fun. She laughed and joked with us. She even included us in practical jokes on grandfather. We tried pranking our grandmother once, but rediscovered how much she knows when she chased us through the house with a broom before we got a chance to switch the powdered sugar for flour.

 While Aunt Chris brought a certain sense of carefree abandonment, her levity came at a price. As the summer drew to a close, her disposition changed. Lethargy overtook her. An aroma of stale alcohol accompanied her from room to room. She demanded quiet to sleep off her latest round of drinking. More and more, the television remained dark. Either Aunt Chris would stumble out to turn it off or curse at us until we did.

Grandmother’s anger flared up more often and fell on Joyce and I. Grandfather no longer took his naps on his favorite chair. Instead he sought the solitude of a small copse of trees behind the house. Distracted by her own concerns, grandmother stopped making fresh lemonade. Joyce mixed up the powder a few times, but we found it wanting and stopped trying.

One night, Aunt Chris’s snoring kept me awake, so I tiptoed down the stairs. I figured I could get a few hours of sleep on the couch. As my padded feet neared the lowest stairs, I became aware of the soft sound of hushed voices.

“I know that she is your daughter. That’s why she is staying.” Grandmother hissed.

“But I love having the girls here for the summer, Myrtle.”

“I won’t have them here with her any longer. I’ve already called their mothers.”

“It’s not like she’s going to turn them into alcoholics. Come on…” Grandfather reassured her in a hushed voice.

“I would hope not. My girls are smarter than that.”

As my grandmother defended us, my cheeks burned. A faint hint of whiskey still tinged my breath. Aunt Chris shared her libations with us on more than one occasion that summer. I gave in more often than my cousin. I guess I wasn’t as smart.

That’s just one more thing grandmother didn’t know.