It was March, a week after Art's death. Each breath since it happened felt as though my ribs were breaking my chest, the loss so enormous it was a black hole crushing me alive. He saw my sad eyes, grabbed my wrist and pulled me back when I tried to walk away.
"What's wrong?" He asked.
"Art's dead." The words hung sucking away the air between us. Every part of me wished to be swallowed by the earth. Dying could not be as terrible as this.
"Let me help," it wasn't a question. It was a demand. "I've interned with grief counseling."
We made plans.
I pasted on a smile and make-up and went to pick him up. A glimmer of excitement for the ounce of relief he offered from the pain ripping me apart, was the first touch of anything but torment I'd felt since Laura gave me the news.
He got in my truck with a bad mood that was closer to a hurricane than a storm cloud. I tried to compensate. I wanted so desperately for one person to lean on. He'd offered, hadn't he? "What do you want to do?" I asked my voice shrill with anxiety. Why was I so nervous?
"Anything." He clipped out, his jaw tightening. He folded his arms across his chest like I attacked him.
What the hell was going on? Inside a part of me was shrieking for him to get out of the old steel truck I'd just gotten. "W-want to go to a bookstore?" I grinned so wide my cheeks hurt. A crack splintered through my chest. Never in my life had I set boundaries or been able to tell anyone what I wanted. Today was no different. What did it matter though? If he grabbed the wheel and forced us into a ditch, maybe I'd be dead. The thought cheered me.
He grunted.
Unsure if that was a positive or a negative response, a few more suggestions crossed my lips, each one seeming to piss him off more. This was the worst, date or counseling or whatever it was I'd experienced bar none. Finally, after exhausting my brain, and spitting out every idea I could think of, I gave up and started driving to the bookstore.
"Um, what religion are you?" I queried seeking an opening to talk about my concerns about Art's afterlife.
"I. HATE. RELIGION." He snapped in a way that gave the impression he wanted to literally bite my head off.
Art hated religion too but he'd never seemed so angry just talking about it. Remembering Art and our fights about religion nearly broke me in half. "Oh," I whispered. "Um, do you like mythology or spiritualism?" I asked glancing at him, wishing he would strangle me with my seatbelt and get this night over with.
"NO." He was grinding his teeth now.
"I do. Have you read any Rumi?" Why was I baiting him? He was three hundred pounds of hard muscles and could tear my arms off, but how could anyone hate Rumi?
"What's that?" He asked relaxing a little.
Completely relaxed he would be handsome, no, handsome wasn't sufficient. He was too fierce and powerful to ever be handsome. His body was an architecture of perfection, the fire dwelling inside him was volcanic. Too bad he was such an asshole. The unbidden thought almost made me laugh.
This man completely revolted me in every way. He'd seemed so different in that moment when he pulled me back, his eyes filled with concern, and now I was sitting next to what seemed like a demon.
Apparently, not only had I lost the love of my life but I'd also lost my mind. "Rumi is a poet, philosopher."
He cut me off before I could finish. "You need to read Nietzsche."
"Oh. What about Kneechee do you like?" Unclear what that had to do with Art, whereas every word of Rumi could have been written about Art and I, my curiosity was peaked.
"Just read him," he said, the words sharp and clipped. I quirked an eyebrow. While the truck idled at a stop light I waited. "He's an atheist," he ground out.
How was atheism supposed to help me cope? It didn't make sense. Was there an afterlife belief in atheism I wasn't aware of? Afterlife, that hadn't helped me much since it happened. I needed Art's voice, his words, to see him smoke just one more damn cigarette.
"Is that what you believe?" I asked holding back the screams clawing my throat to get out.
He bit out something. I wasn't listening. I didn't care. I was trying to act human but Art was dead and he took my humanity with him. I wanted to destroy something make it as miserable and decrepit as losing Art made me.
Finally, the bookstore came into view and as soon as my truck was parked I jumped out of the cab eager to be away from the monster I'd stupidly picked up. One more second of sitting next to him and I might have driven us both into a concrete wall.
In the bookstore, he mellowed out a fraction. Idly I considered leaving him there as I asked what he read and which authors he liked but instead of answering or playing along with social norms. He gave one-word answers before saying he was bored and asking if we were done yet.
His rudeness was so advanced I wondered if he had a Ph.D. in asshole. "Want me to take you home?" is what I said though.
"No. It's too early to go home." He said looking everywhere but at me. He wasn't having a good time and if anything he'd only made me a slight bit more miserable than I was before picking him up.
"Is there someplace you want me to drop you off then?" I asked excited to be rid of him if for no other reason than I could cry in peace or you know find a good way to die that looked accidental. My dad would go mental if I killed myself but I would do anything to be with Art again.
The slug shrugged his shoulders. "And after you drop me off what will you do?"
I didn't want this prince of toads knowing I would be either laying in the dark of my room listening to Art's CD for the hundredth time or going to his grave. "Going home probably." What did he think I was going to do, go to some seedy club and party while Art was in the ground his body frozen?
Spring was late. Winter stayed and I was for once glad of the cold. Art wasn't rotting. Maybe there was still time for a scientific breakthrough that could bring him back to life. Maybe, but no not likely. The spark of hope withered quickly inside me.
"Let's go there then." He said as though it were an obvious solution.
Disgusted to let the creep in my house I consented thinking maybe he wanted a safe place to strangle me. Hopefully, he would strangle me or hack me to bits. Whatever was quickest would be great! I was almost giddy to get to my house the thought of being murdered deeply pleasant.
Maybe I could request he use a tarp or something. My roommates being greeted by my blood on the walls and body parts all over would be terribly disturbing for them and it would take them ages to get the blood out. They did like our apartment to be clean.
Maybe there was a better place he could kill me? Too bad my apartment didn't have a parking garage, that would have been perfect. Cement is so easy to clean.
Then we were at my apartment. This was going to be wonderful. I was going to be dead and I wouldn't have to miss Art anymore! Either we'd be together or there would be nothing. Almost a win-win. The thought of blackness, of not existing caused me to pause just for a moment. Would I miss anything? Was there anything I needed to do before I ceased to exist?
A small something niggled but I ignored it. Nothing was as important as the chance to be with Art again. Gleefully I showed him into my apartment hoping I would be dead and he would be gone before my roommates got home. I'd hate for them to die too.
Think positive. He will be gone by then. I smiled. We'd better hurry though just in case. Who knew how long he would want to draw it out or how long it would take me to die.
"What do you want to do?" I asked him again as we passed the kitchen and I glanced meaningfully at the block of knives. Those were my roommate's but she'd said I could use them. Hopefully, he knew enough anatomy he wouldn't dull them on my bones. Not that dull knives mattered in the scheme of things but it would be seriously rude of me not to replace them.
He shrugged.
Why wasn't he killing me already? We were secluded. Did he even see the knives? "Want me to make you something to eat?" I asked showing off the kitchen, my hand gesturing to the knives. He glanced in the kitchen but he continued not murdering me.
Maybe knives weren't his thing, maybe if he got me on the couch he would wrap a cord around my neck and pull it until my eyes bulged and my heart stopped. I wouldn't make a very pretty corpse with bulging eyes but morticians could work wonders. Maybe the Undertaker would just remove my eyes and stuff in some styrofoam balls. That could work and my roommates wouldn't come home to a mess.
"Want to watch a movie?" I asked wondering how long it would take for rigor mortis to reach my eyeballs.
"What do you have to watch?" he asked with contempt.
Maybe I shouldn't make my last words to him a thank you.
"Have you ever seen Serenity or Firefly?" I asked. Dying while watching my favorite movie one last time that would be nice. Joss Whedon was a true genius.
"No." He gruffed out.
This was perfect. I popped in the vid wondering at which scene I would be reunited with Art. Maybe when the teacher put the needle through River Tam's head. Ashley Needles, killed during the part with a needle. Too bad the papers wouldn't know that little detail it would make some fantastically awful headlines.
The movie started with Mal and Zoe taking fire. Less than sixty seconds in and he was rolling his eyes then he was staring at me instead of the screen.
"What's on your mind?" I asked hoping for a chilling line similar to something Hannibal Lector or The Saw might give. Maybe something like "I bet you have pretty screams when you're dying for air," as he stroked my cheek tenderly just before wrapping his hands around my throat, but then what if he didn't kill me? What if instead of being a killer he was just a sleazy jerk rapist? That would suck but Art was dead. Great movie lines and epic fatal dialogue aside that wasn't going to change. He could do what he wanted I didn't care.
He could kill me with the worst possible dialogue and it didn't matter as long as I was dead it would be a perfect death.
"I was wondering if you'll kick me out if I kiss you." This guy had been a jerk all night, obviously hated me and everything I said, why did he want to kiss me? Had he lost his damn mind?
I mean I don't expect killers to be sane but this was beyond psychotic. He hadn't asked me a single question all night, hadn't brought Art up once, and acted like he was pissed as hell at me. Now he wanted to kiss me?
"Probably not, but don't." I answered hating what a complete and total doormat I was. I'd only kicked out one guy ever and only because he was trying to rape me. This situation was completely different there was no way I would get the opportunity to paralyze this guy, he was too big and powerful I wouldn't be able to hit enough pressure points fast enough, hard enough or long enough to make his extremities go dead.
Art was the last person to kiss me and I wanted it to stay that way. I glared at the tv the realization this guy wasn't going to kill me gradually sinking in. Why had I let the jerk in my house anyway? There were plenty of parks around that would be good for a murder.
Cursing myself, my last words to Art again ringing in my head, the jerk threw me down on the couch and kissed me in a way that made every other thought fly out of my head. It was a kiss that burned through every part of me until there was nothing left but him. The guy I'd hated all night who had been a total jerk was suddenly a world of fire and brimstone that consumed me.
Instinct took over. The rational sweet girl who loved Art was gone, a primal animal remained, an animal that could not tell where it ended and the other began.
He pulled away. Why was he stopping I wanted more. Pain returned. Thought returned. What had happened? How had I forgotten even for a moment Art was dead?
Art was dead here. NO! There in that heat of fire and brimstone, there was no Art so he couldn't be dead. I grabbed onto the man who melted away thought and flesh. Trying to get back to that world, but I burped in his ear, and he raced for the door.
I hung my head in my hands despaired. I ruined the one place the pain didn't bite and claw. He paused and laughed. "Do you burp in every guy's ear?"
I shook my head trying not to cry, trying not to hope.
He came back and took my hands in his, "We have to stop or I'm going to go further than you want to."
Something in my eyes must have clued him into my emotional shock. "Do you understand?" He asked.
I nodded numbly. Sex he was talking about sex. My Mormon simple lifestyle didn't allow for that. My Mormon stupid lifestyle is why I never ran away with Art like he wanted.
It wasn't Moronism that stopped me that night. Art's death had made all that meaningless. It was Art. How could I ever be with anyone when I hadn't given that to him?
*Now you know the beginning of the inspiration for Jaze
If you want more of this chapter in my life check out: http://ashrienlives.blogspot.com/2017/12/cocoon-of-transference.html
"What's wrong?" He asked.
"Art's dead." The words hung sucking away the air between us. Every part of me wished to be swallowed by the earth. Dying could not be as terrible as this.
"Let me help," it wasn't a question. It was a demand. "I've interned with grief counseling."
We made plans.
I pasted on a smile and make-up and went to pick him up. A glimmer of excitement for the ounce of relief he offered from the pain ripping me apart, was the first touch of anything but torment I'd felt since Laura gave me the news.
He got in my truck with a bad mood that was closer to a hurricane than a storm cloud. I tried to compensate. I wanted so desperately for one person to lean on. He'd offered, hadn't he? "What do you want to do?" I asked my voice shrill with anxiety. Why was I so nervous?
"Anything." He clipped out, his jaw tightening. He folded his arms across his chest like I attacked him.
What the hell was going on? Inside a part of me was shrieking for him to get out of the old steel truck I'd just gotten. "W-want to go to a bookstore?" I grinned so wide my cheeks hurt. A crack splintered through my chest. Never in my life had I set boundaries or been able to tell anyone what I wanted. Today was no different. What did it matter though? If he grabbed the wheel and forced us into a ditch, maybe I'd be dead. The thought cheered me.
He grunted.
Unsure if that was a positive or a negative response, a few more suggestions crossed my lips, each one seeming to piss him off more. This was the worst, date or counseling or whatever it was I'd experienced bar none. Finally, after exhausting my brain, and spitting out every idea I could think of, I gave up and started driving to the bookstore.
"Um, what religion are you?" I queried seeking an opening to talk about my concerns about Art's afterlife.
"I. HATE. RELIGION." He snapped in a way that gave the impression he wanted to literally bite my head off.
Art hated religion too but he'd never seemed so angry just talking about it. Remembering Art and our fights about religion nearly broke me in half. "Oh," I whispered. "Um, do you like mythology or spiritualism?" I asked glancing at him, wishing he would strangle me with my seatbelt and get this night over with.
"NO." He was grinding his teeth now.
"I do. Have you read any Rumi?" Why was I baiting him? He was three hundred pounds of hard muscles and could tear my arms off, but how could anyone hate Rumi?
"What's that?" He asked relaxing a little.
Completely relaxed he would be handsome, no, handsome wasn't sufficient. He was too fierce and powerful to ever be handsome. His body was an architecture of perfection, the fire dwelling inside him was volcanic. Too bad he was such an asshole. The unbidden thought almost made me laugh.
This man completely revolted me in every way. He'd seemed so different in that moment when he pulled me back, his eyes filled with concern, and now I was sitting next to what seemed like a demon.
Apparently, not only had I lost the love of my life but I'd also lost my mind. "Rumi is a poet, philosopher."
He cut me off before I could finish. "You need to read Nietzsche."
"Oh. What about Kneechee do you like?" Unclear what that had to do with Art, whereas every word of Rumi could have been written about Art and I, my curiosity was peaked.
"Just read him," he said, the words sharp and clipped. I quirked an eyebrow. While the truck idled at a stop light I waited. "He's an atheist," he ground out.
How was atheism supposed to help me cope? It didn't make sense. Was there an afterlife belief in atheism I wasn't aware of? Afterlife, that hadn't helped me much since it happened. I needed Art's voice, his words, to see him smoke just one more damn cigarette.
"Is that what you believe?" I asked holding back the screams clawing my throat to get out.
He bit out something. I wasn't listening. I didn't care. I was trying to act human but Art was dead and he took my humanity with him. I wanted to destroy something make it as miserable and decrepit as losing Art made me.
Finally, the bookstore came into view and as soon as my truck was parked I jumped out of the cab eager to be away from the monster I'd stupidly picked up. One more second of sitting next to him and I might have driven us both into a concrete wall.
In the bookstore, he mellowed out a fraction. Idly I considered leaving him there as I asked what he read and which authors he liked but instead of answering or playing along with social norms. He gave one-word answers before saying he was bored and asking if we were done yet.
His rudeness was so advanced I wondered if he had a Ph.D. in asshole. "Want me to take you home?" is what I said though.
"No. It's too early to go home." He said looking everywhere but at me. He wasn't having a good time and if anything he'd only made me a slight bit more miserable than I was before picking him up.
"Is there someplace you want me to drop you off then?" I asked excited to be rid of him if for no other reason than I could cry in peace or you know find a good way to die that looked accidental. My dad would go mental if I killed myself but I would do anything to be with Art again.
The slug shrugged his shoulders. "And after you drop me off what will you do?"
I didn't want this prince of toads knowing I would be either laying in the dark of my room listening to Art's CD for the hundredth time or going to his grave. "Going home probably." What did he think I was going to do, go to some seedy club and party while Art was in the ground his body frozen?
Spring was late. Winter stayed and I was for once glad of the cold. Art wasn't rotting. Maybe there was still time for a scientific breakthrough that could bring him back to life. Maybe, but no not likely. The spark of hope withered quickly inside me.
"Let's go there then." He said as though it were an obvious solution.
Disgusted to let the creep in my house I consented thinking maybe he wanted a safe place to strangle me. Hopefully, he would strangle me or hack me to bits. Whatever was quickest would be great! I was almost giddy to get to my house the thought of being murdered deeply pleasant.
Maybe I could request he use a tarp or something. My roommates being greeted by my blood on the walls and body parts all over would be terribly disturbing for them and it would take them ages to get the blood out. They did like our apartment to be clean.
Maybe there was a better place he could kill me? Too bad my apartment didn't have a parking garage, that would have been perfect. Cement is so easy to clean.
Then we were at my apartment. This was going to be wonderful. I was going to be dead and I wouldn't have to miss Art anymore! Either we'd be together or there would be nothing. Almost a win-win. The thought of blackness, of not existing caused me to pause just for a moment. Would I miss anything? Was there anything I needed to do before I ceased to exist?
A small something niggled but I ignored it. Nothing was as important as the chance to be with Art again. Gleefully I showed him into my apartment hoping I would be dead and he would be gone before my roommates got home. I'd hate for them to die too.
Think positive. He will be gone by then. I smiled. We'd better hurry though just in case. Who knew how long he would want to draw it out or how long it would take me to die.
"What do you want to do?" I asked him again as we passed the kitchen and I glanced meaningfully at the block of knives. Those were my roommate's but she'd said I could use them. Hopefully, he knew enough anatomy he wouldn't dull them on my bones. Not that dull knives mattered in the scheme of things but it would be seriously rude of me not to replace them.
He shrugged.
Why wasn't he killing me already? We were secluded. Did he even see the knives? "Want me to make you something to eat?" I asked showing off the kitchen, my hand gesturing to the knives. He glanced in the kitchen but he continued not murdering me.
Maybe knives weren't his thing, maybe if he got me on the couch he would wrap a cord around my neck and pull it until my eyes bulged and my heart stopped. I wouldn't make a very pretty corpse with bulging eyes but morticians could work wonders. Maybe the Undertaker would just remove my eyes and stuff in some styrofoam balls. That could work and my roommates wouldn't come home to a mess.
"Want to watch a movie?" I asked wondering how long it would take for rigor mortis to reach my eyeballs.
"What do you have to watch?" he asked with contempt.
Maybe I shouldn't make my last words to him a thank you.
"Have you ever seen Serenity or Firefly?" I asked. Dying while watching my favorite movie one last time that would be nice. Joss Whedon was a true genius.
"No." He gruffed out.
This was perfect. I popped in the vid wondering at which scene I would be reunited with Art. Maybe when the teacher put the needle through River Tam's head. Ashley Needles, killed during the part with a needle. Too bad the papers wouldn't know that little detail it would make some fantastically awful headlines.
The movie started with Mal and Zoe taking fire. Less than sixty seconds in and he was rolling his eyes then he was staring at me instead of the screen.
"What's on your mind?" I asked hoping for a chilling line similar to something Hannibal Lector or The Saw might give. Maybe something like "I bet you have pretty screams when you're dying for air," as he stroked my cheek tenderly just before wrapping his hands around my throat, but then what if he didn't kill me? What if instead of being a killer he was just a sleazy jerk rapist? That would suck but Art was dead. Great movie lines and epic fatal dialogue aside that wasn't going to change. He could do what he wanted I didn't care.
He could kill me with the worst possible dialogue and it didn't matter as long as I was dead it would be a perfect death.
"I was wondering if you'll kick me out if I kiss you." This guy had been a jerk all night, obviously hated me and everything I said, why did he want to kiss me? Had he lost his damn mind?
I mean I don't expect killers to be sane but this was beyond psychotic. He hadn't asked me a single question all night, hadn't brought Art up once, and acted like he was pissed as hell at me. Now he wanted to kiss me?
"Probably not, but don't." I answered hating what a complete and total doormat I was. I'd only kicked out one guy ever and only because he was trying to rape me. This situation was completely different there was no way I would get the opportunity to paralyze this guy, he was too big and powerful I wouldn't be able to hit enough pressure points fast enough, hard enough or long enough to make his extremities go dead.
Art was the last person to kiss me and I wanted it to stay that way. I glared at the tv the realization this guy wasn't going to kill me gradually sinking in. Why had I let the jerk in my house anyway? There were plenty of parks around that would be good for a murder.
Cursing myself, my last words to Art again ringing in my head, the jerk threw me down on the couch and kissed me in a way that made every other thought fly out of my head. It was a kiss that burned through every part of me until there was nothing left but him. The guy I'd hated all night who had been a total jerk was suddenly a world of fire and brimstone that consumed me.
Instinct took over. The rational sweet girl who loved Art was gone, a primal animal remained, an animal that could not tell where it ended and the other began.
He pulled away. Why was he stopping I wanted more. Pain returned. Thought returned. What had happened? How had I forgotten even for a moment Art was dead?
Art was dead here. NO! There in that heat of fire and brimstone, there was no Art so he couldn't be dead. I grabbed onto the man who melted away thought and flesh. Trying to get back to that world, but I burped in his ear, and he raced for the door.
I hung my head in my hands despaired. I ruined the one place the pain didn't bite and claw. He paused and laughed. "Do you burp in every guy's ear?"
I shook my head trying not to cry, trying not to hope.
He came back and took my hands in his, "We have to stop or I'm going to go further than you want to."
Something in my eyes must have clued him into my emotional shock. "Do you understand?" He asked.
I nodded numbly. Sex he was talking about sex. My Mormon simple lifestyle didn't allow for that. My Mormon stupid lifestyle is why I never ran away with Art like he wanted.
It wasn't Moronism that stopped me that night. Art's death had made all that meaningless. It was Art. How could I ever be with anyone when I hadn't given that to him?
*Now you know the beginning of the inspiration for Jaze
If you want more of this chapter in my life check out: http://ashrienlives.blogspot.com/2017/12/cocoon-of-transference.html
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