"You don't have to do this."
She put her hand on his forearm and squeezed it gently. She knew how terrified he was, and couldn't help but feel powerless to assuage his trepidation.
He knew she loved him. He couldn't stand the thought of embarrassing her, or worse, losing her altogether, but he knew that it was something he had to do. No ifs, ands, or buts.
"I have to."
"Baby, you know I love you no matter what, right?"
She was as sincere as she could be, and he knew he could take her at her word, but there was still that familiar nuance in her tone; that little hint that implied drastic consequences should he consider taking a recess from honor and integrity.
"I know you do. And you know I love you," he paused, unwittingly implying a silent conjunction.
"But you're scared. I know."
The car suddenly felt quite a bit smaller inside.
He was always taken aback at how much she could say with just a few words.
She was patient, but her patience had its limits. She loved him unconditionally, but there were still things that she was unwilling to tolerate from him.
He knew she was right too. Her strength of character and unwavering integrity were some of the main reasons he had fallen in love with her in the first place; well, that and her mesmerizing smile, which she had graced him with when she had caught him admiring her figure at the gym.
He knew he'd never be able to recover from disappointing her. He had to do the right thing. He had to be a man, for once!
"I know how much this means to you. I'll do it. I will."
She smiled, acknowledging his courage.
"You can do it, baby. I believe in you!"
She always had a way of making him feel like he could do anything, but he knew that she expected him to act like it.
She glanced at the clock on the dashboard.
"Ooh! I have to run or I'm going to be late."
"Oh yeah, you'd better get going," he said, knowing that it was primarily his fault that she was running behind, "Let me get the door for you."
He quickly jumped out of the car and ran over to the passenger side to open her door.
As he helped her up he didn't bother hiding his appreciation for her office attire. His raised eyebrow and suggestive smile hinted at visions of her playing the role of his secretary in a sordid office affair.
He was almost jealous of the senior partners in her firm, always getting to see her in those sexy corporate skirt suits, those dark stockings, those expensive high heeled shoes that made her stand almost eye to eye with him, and those glasses that said, "I'm not just sexier than you, but smarter too!"
Almost.
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it gently.
"Milady."
She feigned a timid curtesy.
"Always the gentleman," she said in a perfectly regal accent. "Would that I could tarry further with my love, but alas!"
"Alas!" He laughed and as he did he felt some of his tension subside.
"I'd better go," she said, returning to her own Midwestern voice.
"Me too. I have a bit of a drive."
She smiled again.
"Kiss me!"
It took him by surprise. Once she was made up and ready for work she usually didn't like to risk smudging her lipstick. She had to look her best in the court room so he couldn't exactly blame her for it.
She kissed him passionately, running her fingers through the hair on the back of his head. He loved that and she knew it.
Once she knew she had rendered him speechless she looked him in the eyes and said, "You go get 'em, baby!"
He smiled knowing he could die a happy man, if he could make it through the day.
As he turned to get back in the car, she slapped him on the backside. Before her could turn around and say anything she was already scurrying up the stairs to the building's entrance.
He wondered at her ability to make a gesture both literal and figurative at the same time. She was out of his league and he knew it.
He certainly hadn't been looking forward to the drive, let alone having something like feelings of inadequacy added to the emotional stew that would be brewing the whole way there.
Regardless, he knew that he could not put it off any longer. His future depended on the next few hours.
As he pulled away he turned on the radio to try and find some music to calm his nerves. His favorite station was broadcasting some mindless call-in talk show thing about the latest pop star scandal. Apparently the little girl's father had shot her manager for getting a little too intimate with his protege.
He grunted in disgust and switched to the next preset station.
Love Hurts, by Nazareth was playing on what was supposed to have been a rock station. He hated that waste of vinyl. To his ears it was like fingernails on a blackboard. His face almost instinctively contorted into a grimace.
"More like this song hurts!"
The R&B station was playing Marvin Gaye's Sexual Healing.
"God, no!" he said aloud as he quickly turned the radio off.
The last thing he needed on his mind while heading into the grinder was that weekend in Cancun when the two of them had barely left the hotel room for two whole days after dancing to that song.
He couldn't afford to be distracted. Not today. Everything was riding on this.
He was about to take the business to the next level, but he had had to reinvest all of the profits back into it to keep it afloat during the development phases, and even though the market was primed for it, including some extremely interested and well funded investors, he didn't have anything tangible yet to show for all of his efforts.
The mange was going to see had followed his progress, sure, but he was a real hard ass; a retired marine colonel who had made his fortune by designing a lighter, more effective material than Kevlar for body armor and then selling the patent to the highest bidder; with a royalty clause in the deal.
A "bullets for breakfast" genius.
This was going to be the toughest sell of his life.
His life hinged on the success of a glorified concept: a web-based network security and virtualization tool that performed a lot of the same tasks as the other major competitors, only much, much more reliably. Of course, explaining the improvements to an IT layman was no small task, and much of the marketing plan consisted of convincing investors that there was a lot of money to be made by providing the service free of charge to the end user. The rest of it hinged on preaching the value of a free product to users who are used to overpaying for software.
He was a dreamer, and knew that no one likes dreamers, especially not in the business world. No one but Sarah, of course, who always encouraged him to pursue his passion. He hated having to lean on the income from her practice even though she had told him on countless occasions that it was what she wanted him to do until the business took off.
"Sarah," he thought aloud.
She had seen him at his worst. Inconsolably grief stricken, he had turned to alcohol after he lost his sister to leukemia. Sarah, never left his bedside after he wrapped his car around that old oak tree on Thornbush Trail. She had held his hand the entire time, and even helped him with his physical therapy.
She had been there for his most embarrassing moments too. He laughed under his breath as he remembered that stupid baby blue tux he wore when he picked her up for the senior prom. With all of the preparations and adjustments he had forgotten to zip up his fly. He could still hear her father's voice when he greeted him at the door.
"Can I help you, son? Or did you already help yourself on the way over here?"
She had stood by him when he quit his job to start his own business. She always told him that she believed in him, and after hearing it enough from her had finally started to believe it himself.
He couldn't remember a time before he loved her. Sure, he had dated a few girls, had enough experiences before they met to know the difference between good sex and great sex, but none of them had ever made him want to be a better man; to aspire to become something greater than his own expectations.
He wanted nothing more than to make her proud of him. Sure, she told him every chance she got that she was proud of him no matter what he did with his life, but he wanted her as speechless as she made him.
About an hour into the drive his nerves had finally settled to a manageable level.
He knew he had what it takes to run a successful business, an empire, even, and that the climate was ideal for his upcoming launch. He knew his product would revolutionize the market, and that with the right investment of time, effort, and capital, he and Sarah, hell, their grandchildren, would be set for life.
He knew that in every venture there were pivotal moments; events that test a man's character and resolve.
He knew that this was one of those key moments.
There was only one thing standing between him and his dreams: that hard ass old marine, who just happened to be filthy, stinking rich.
As he approached the highway exit he had to fight to suppress that butterflies in the stomach feeling.
"You can do this!"
If Sarah said it, it had to be true.
He repeated it to himself as he turned into the gated community where the old bastard lived; and again as he pulled up to his driveway.
He sat motionless for a moment after turning off the engine.
He whispered, "You can do this!"
He had to hear himself say it.
It was too late to back down. The old jarhead knew he was coming anyway.
The doorbell rang loud enough to startle the dogs he kept in the back yard. One of them, the oldest by the sound of its bark, started baying uncontrollably.
From inside he heard a gruff voice yell out as it neared the door, "Shut the hell up, Bear!"
"Great..." he thought to himself.
The door opened.
There stood 6'2", 180 pounds, and 65 years of straight-faced, battle hardened, cold as ice, full metal jacket, meanness. The man looked like he pressed his briefs before sunrise every morning.
In a voice that would make old Clint Eastwood wet his pants, he stated dreadfully matter-of-factly, "Jesse."
"Sir." The judge who had temporarily revoked his license after the accident couldn't have been a tenth as imposing.
"Well, are you going to come in or do I have to ask politely?"
He never knew how to answer him and figured it would be best if he just made his way inside.
"Have a seat," he grunted, motioning toward the living room couch.
Jesse complied without a sound, though he had to fight the urge to blurt out, "Sir, yes sir!"
The old hard ass walked past him and sat in what, by the collection of coasters and remote controls on the table next to it, must have been his favorite chair.
As he did, his adorable little doll of a wife came in from the kitchen.
"You boys want something to drink?"
She didn't look a day over 45, but knew that she had been with that man for over 40 years. Even the old coot couldn't help but soften up around her.
"Sure, honey, a couple of ambers from the last batch, please!"
It was almost cute. Almost.
"So how's business, son?"
He didn't mince words, that was certain.
Jesse, swallowed hard and did his best to put on his business face.
"Well, sir," he paused momentarily, collecting his foggy thoughts, "almost everything is on track for the September launch."
"Almost?" He folded his hands together, clearly expecting an explanation.
"Well, sir," he started again, feeling like he should probably be saluting or standing at attention, "we're presenting to our major investors next month, and if all goes according to plan we'll be right on target."
"That's a big 'if' there, son," he said raising an eyebrow in what Jesse was convinced was something closely related to condescension.
He almost choked, but breathed a sigh of relief as Mary walked in with two very large frosted mugs full of some of the most delicious looking beer he had ever laid eyes on.
"Thank you, sweetheart," the old hard ass said to her with a sly wink that said, "I'll deal with you later."
"Thank you, ma'am," Jesse said as he lifted the mug to his lips.
"Now, don't you call me that, Jesse," she scolded, "I'm no marine!"
"Could have fooled me, Mare!" chuckled the colonel.
"Oh, pff!" she scoffed as she headed back out to the kitchen.
There was a brief moment of silence while the two men sipped their beers.
"How do you like it, son?"
"Oh, the beer," stuttered Jesse, "it's great, sir!"
It was the best beer he had ever tasted. He vowed to remind himself to ask where he bought it after he took care of business.
"Brewed it myself!"
He nearly spat it out all over the hardwood floor.
"Best beer, ever, sir!" He knew he sounded like a suck up but he was already looking forward to round two.
"Damn right!" the old colonel announced with a look of confident satisfaction.
He continued almost without hesitation, "So, about this big 'if', what if," he emphasized, "those investors back out of the deal?"
Jesse knew that there was always that chance, that at the last minute they might back down and leave him high and dry; that he'd have to start looking for backers again. Anything could happen, especially in fluid intellectual property markets. But there was that little trivial fact that Sarah's firm represented the investors and they loved her for all that she had done for them in the past two years that she had handled their case load.
Sure, the old marine was rich, and hell if it hadn't crossed Jesse's mind on more than one occasion. He hated to think that he might have to ask the man for help. And yet here he was, sitting on his couch, sipping his beer, trying his very best to look him square in the eyes when he talked to him.
"Sir, I'm confident that we'll get past this hurdle."
"That's good, son," he started, "but you know, if you need help all you gotta do is ask."
He couldn't believe his ears. His heart almost skipped a beat, knowing that he just might be able to muster up the courage to ask him what he came to ask him.
"Sir, I appreciate it, but," he paused for what felt like an eternity, "that's not why I came to talk to you today."
"What is it, son?" he asked sounding almost concerned.
He could barely think, let alone speak. It had all come down to this moment. The most important, most pivotal moment in his life. He had to set his beer down just to be sure he wouldn't drop the damn thing from shaking so hard. This was his moment. He could not screw this up.
He put his hands on his knees and straightened himself up in to what he imagined would be the seated marine position of attention.
"Well, sir," he started, knowing it was too late to back down, "I came to ask your daughter's hand in marriage."
The old hardened marine set his mug down on the table beside him and looked Jesse square in the eyes.
"Son," he stated almost emphatically, "what took you so damn long?"
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Daddy's Little Angel
"Such a beautiful sunset, don't you think, Dave?"
As the sun slowly fell behind the jagged peaks that framed the horizon across the lake, the mountains appeared silhouetted in light; a kaleidoscope of living colors refracted off of the ice and snow.
The serene waters mirrored the landscape with such undisturbed clarity that earth and sky appeared indistinguishable. Only the occasional ripple interrupted the living portrait, as gentle breezes caressed the surface.
The light of distant stars began to sneak through the darkest parts of the sky as it faded from blue to red.
Dave looked up at Sean for a moment, but quickly averted his gaze.
"I know, I know," started Sean, as he tossed another dry log onto the fire, "this isn't really your thing."
Glowing embers burst out of the rising flames as the burning pieces of wood shifted to accommodate Sean's addition; some extinguishing mid air, and others landing on the stones surrounding the freshly roaring camp fire.
"But I appreciate you coming up here with me."
"My father used to bring me up here," he continued, "I can't even remember the first time. I must have been about three or four."
"'Teach a man to fish,' he used to say," he said smiling as he reminisced. "He didn't like the whole, 'feed him for a lifetime' part. He always said he couldn't survive too long without a good t-bone steak."
The crackling and popping sounds of the fire reverberated off of the lake. As Sean looked out in the distance he caught a glimpse of an eagle soaring toward one of the foothills to the west.
He recalled how he and his father had seen one on one of their fishing trips. His old man had put his hand on his shoulder and said something that had stuck with him ever since that day.
"Son, some things are just too beautiful to kill."
He watched it until it had flown out of sight, knowing how privileged he was to see such majesty in its purest form.
"Those were good times, Dave."
He smiled and chuckled out loud.
"There was this one time, back when I was sixteen," he said laughing and shaking his head, "I forgot to put the bait in the truck before we left out and we didn't even realize it until we had already pitched the tent."
"Pop didn't even bat an eye, 'Well,' he says, 'sometimes it's best not to open a can of worms.'"
"We ended up just roasting marshmallows and wieners for the next two days. We shared a few cold ones and talked more that weekend than we ever had before. From that day on he wasn't just my old man. He was my best friend."
"'What happens at the lake stays at the lake,' he said when mom asked us if we had a good time."
"'Best trip yet, mom!' I'd said, keeping the whole beer with dad thing to myself."
"Good times, man, good times."
He leaned back in his folding chair, admiring the night sky. There was only a faint hint of fading sunlight peering over the distant peaks. Straight overhead countless stars pierced the black veil of space, bathing the treetops in living light.
"God," he mused, "A man could die happy after a night like this."
Again he stirred the fire, inspiring a cacophonous outburst of cracks and pops; tiny explosions, breathing life into dying flames.
The last light of day had faded behind the horizon. Myriad stars in all of their luminous glory pierced through the black canvas of heaven. Not even the glow of the freshly revived flames could conceal their brightness.
"Look Dave, over there," Sean started, "a shooting star!"
He chuckled remembering how his father had elaborated, at great length, on the irony of making a wish after watching something burn up in the atmosphere.
"I know it's stupid," he said, smiling almost timidly and shaking his head, "but it's fun to dream, you know?"
He leaned forward in his chair, arms folded over his knees.
"I made the same wish every time I saw one. I wished that some day I would be able to come back here with a son of my own."
Resting his chin on his fist he breathed out a long melancholy sigh.
"But you know as well as I do that life sometimes doesn't turn out the way you want it to."
Dave looked at him momentarily but quickly returned his gaze to the fire.
Sean continued, "I've never told anyone this, but Lissie and I tried to have kids for almost ten years before she got sick."
"It wasn't for lack of trying, either," he said emphatically, "that girl used to wear me out!"
Dave shifted uncomfortably.
"TMI?" Sean continued with a half-cocked smile. "What can I say? I was young too at one point, and so was she."
"We had names picked out, schools, even a college fund, but all of our hopes died out when Lissie's health went downhill. Ovarian cancer."
He picked up a stick from the ground by his feet and threw it in the fire.
"Her surgery and treatments wiped us out. When our savings ran dry we had to sell the house and one of the cars. We found a cheap apartment in a neighborhood close to her hospital. I ended up working as a contractor so I could earn enough to make ends meet and still be with her when she needed me most."
He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as he slumped back in his chair.
"Man, it was hell."
"The thing is," he continued, sitting up again and facing Dave, "she always kept a smile on her face, always tried to keep me cheered up. The only time she ever really cried was when the doctors told her that she would have to undergo a hysterectomy."
"Goddamn cancer," he muttered as he threw another stick at the fire.
He watched the fire slowly overtake the newly added kindling. He had always found it mesmerizing; so deadly and destructive, yet so essential to the preservation of life. A force to be reckoned with; just like Lissie.
"It was that positive attitude of hers that got both of us through the darkest of times. That stubborn girl," he shook his head, "nothing could stop her. She faced death head on and told it to take a hike."
"As soon as she was able to work again she went right back to it, and soon enough we had more in our savings account than we ever had before. We had learned to live without a lot of things so it was all gravy."
Again, he leaned back in his chair, looking up at the sky.
"I remember the day she suggested that we adopt. It was the morning of the 10th of August, 1993; my birthday. She had set up an appointment with a counselor for that day. She was so excited that I couldn't dare let her down, even though I had all but given up on having kids."
"Hell, man, I was already pushing forty!"
"For the next two years we learned the hard way that we couldn't just pick and choose whatever we wanted out of some kid catalog. Doors kept closing for us left and right; it looked like we'd never be able to adopt a baby, boy or girl. I almost gave up, man."
He stood up and stretched, arms open wide, embracing the night sky.
"Beer?"
Dave looked at him for a moment, but quickly averted his gaze.
"Your loss, man."
Sean walked over to the edge of the lake and crouched down near a grouping of large stones. Pulling up his sleeve he reached into the frigid water and fished up a couple of Heinekens he had left there to chill.
"You sure?" he asked, holding one out to Dave who didn't look up.
"More for me then," he said, as he slumped back down in his chair, setting Dave's beer down on the ground beside him.
"Not very talkative, eh?" he continued. "Well, I do appreciate you listening. It means a lot."
He popped the top off of his beer and took a nice, long sip.
"Damn, that's good!"
He hadn't meant it as a taunt, but he smiled and chuckled to himself at how timely and appropriate it had been.
"Now where were we?"
He rubbed his chin pensively.
"Oh, yeah, adoption."
He sat back and continued.
"The agency called us in September of '95. Our case worker had a child she wanted us to meet. She told us she knew that we wanted a boy, but that she wanted us to trust her and just show up."
"On our way to the agency's office we stopped at a toy store so we could pick up a gift. We looked around for a bit but nothing really stuck out until Lissie spotted a sad little pink stuffed bear on the sale rack. It had a t-shirt on it with a picture of musical notes. I thought it was goofy looking, but she had to have it."
"When we got to the office our caseworker met us at the front desk. She did her best to convince us to keep an open mind about meeting a five year old girl, but also warned us that we should not go through with it unless we were certain that we were ready to change our plans."
"The look on Lissie's face was priceless. She had wanted a girl all along, but had kept it to herself knowing how much I wanted a son. All I wanted was for her to be happy."
"It was a no-brainer."
"The caseworker led us to one of their playrooms and walked us inside. There, sitting at the table, coloring her heart out, was the most adorable little Asian girl I had ever seen."
"As soon as she noticed us she set her crayon down neatly and got up from the table. She walked right up to my wife, looked her straight in the eyes, and, with the cutest smile either of us had ever seen, said, 'Hi, I'm Melody. You must be Alyssa.'"
"It was love at first sight. She and Lissie were instant best friends. They played, they sang, they told each other stories, and the whole time all I could do was sit there holding the gift bag and watch them as they bonded. It was the happiest I had ever seen my wife. She didn't want to leave, and frankly neither did I."
"When it was time to leave Melody held her hand all the way to the door and would not let go. Lissie hugged her as if their lives depended on it. I'll never forget what she said to the little angel as she handed her that funny looking stuffed bear, 'I was thinking about you before I met you. I was going to call her Melody.'"
"I've never seen a kid smile so big man," he said shaking his head and smiling. "You would have thought the thing was a gift from God."
"It took a while to get everything in order. Her birth mother died of an overdose shortly after giving up her parental rights but it took a while to get through all of the red tape. The adoption was finalized on Melody's seventh birthday."
He paused, again looking up at the stars and admiring their beauty.
"That little girl, man," he continued, "she was just amazing. Everywhere she went she brought love and happiness and joy. Even when my dad passed back in March of '01, she knew how much I loved to come up here every summer, and told me that I shouldn't cancel my plans."
"She came with me, Dave, and every year after that."
"My angel."
He smiled the way only a proud father can and sipped at his beer.
After a few quiet moments he sat down his beer and turned to face Dave.
"See man," he began in a somber tone, "here's what I don't understand. How can a grown man look at a child, an innocent little girl, and even consider doing anything to hurt her?"
"I mean," he continued, his voice raising in intensity, "how can an adult justify abusing an innocent little girl?"
He stood up and began to walk toward Dave.
"How can an adult become aroused at the sight of a child?"
He bared his teeth at Dave, his voice almost in a roar.
"Tell me Dave, what makes a man rape and kill an innocent little girl?"
He leaned over Dave and wrapped his left hand around his throat and squeezed as hard as he could. With his right he ripped the duct tape off of his mouth, tearing away chunks of his facial hair.
Dave opened his mouth to scream but the pressure on his throat kept him from uttering a sound. He was bound and propped up against a log, naked, and shivering from the cold night air.
Sean pulled his hunting knife out of its sheath and pressed the razor sharp tip of the blade against Dave's abdomen. He looked him straight in the eyes, and with a ferocity that would send a chill down the devil's spine, growled, "Tell me!"
Dave's mouth moved but again no sound issued forth. He began to weep and shake uncontrollably. He winced in agony as the blade pierced his skin.
Sean roared, "David Lee Shackleford, why should I let you live?"
He loosened his grip on Dave's throat just enough to allow him to whisper.
"I never touched your daughter," he whimpered in a barely audible rasp.
Sean's hand clamped down on his throat like a vice. Dave tried in vain to scream as Sean thrust his knife through his rolls of fat and into his side. Blood gushed out onto Sean's hand, covering Dave's legs and drenching the dry ground surrounding the fire.
Slowly Sean dragged the blade across Dave's mid section, tearing him wide open and causing his intestines to spill out onto his lap. The stench of bile and partially digested food filled the air. With a final thrust, Sean twisted the blade and buried it in his stomach. As he did he leaned in to whisper in Dave's ear.
"I never said you did."
As the sun slowly fell behind the jagged peaks that framed the horizon across the lake, the mountains appeared silhouetted in light; a kaleidoscope of living colors refracted off of the ice and snow.
The serene waters mirrored the landscape with such undisturbed clarity that earth and sky appeared indistinguishable. Only the occasional ripple interrupted the living portrait, as gentle breezes caressed the surface.
The light of distant stars began to sneak through the darkest parts of the sky as it faded from blue to red.
Dave looked up at Sean for a moment, but quickly averted his gaze.
"I know, I know," started Sean, as he tossed another dry log onto the fire, "this isn't really your thing."
Glowing embers burst out of the rising flames as the burning pieces of wood shifted to accommodate Sean's addition; some extinguishing mid air, and others landing on the stones surrounding the freshly roaring camp fire.
"But I appreciate you coming up here with me."
"My father used to bring me up here," he continued, "I can't even remember the first time. I must have been about three or four."
"'Teach a man to fish,' he used to say," he said smiling as he reminisced. "He didn't like the whole, 'feed him for a lifetime' part. He always said he couldn't survive too long without a good t-bone steak."
The crackling and popping sounds of the fire reverberated off of the lake. As Sean looked out in the distance he caught a glimpse of an eagle soaring toward one of the foothills to the west.
He recalled how he and his father had seen one on one of their fishing trips. His old man had put his hand on his shoulder and said something that had stuck with him ever since that day.
"Son, some things are just too beautiful to kill."
He watched it until it had flown out of sight, knowing how privileged he was to see such majesty in its purest form.
"Those were good times, Dave."
He smiled and chuckled out loud.
"There was this one time, back when I was sixteen," he said laughing and shaking his head, "I forgot to put the bait in the truck before we left out and we didn't even realize it until we had already pitched the tent."
"Pop didn't even bat an eye, 'Well,' he says, 'sometimes it's best not to open a can of worms.'"
"We ended up just roasting marshmallows and wieners for the next two days. We shared a few cold ones and talked more that weekend than we ever had before. From that day on he wasn't just my old man. He was my best friend."
"'What happens at the lake stays at the lake,' he said when mom asked us if we had a good time."
"'Best trip yet, mom!' I'd said, keeping the whole beer with dad thing to myself."
"Good times, man, good times."
He leaned back in his folding chair, admiring the night sky. There was only a faint hint of fading sunlight peering over the distant peaks. Straight overhead countless stars pierced the black veil of space, bathing the treetops in living light.
"God," he mused, "A man could die happy after a night like this."
Again he stirred the fire, inspiring a cacophonous outburst of cracks and pops; tiny explosions, breathing life into dying flames.
The last light of day had faded behind the horizon. Myriad stars in all of their luminous glory pierced through the black canvas of heaven. Not even the glow of the freshly revived flames could conceal their brightness.
"Look Dave, over there," Sean started, "a shooting star!"
He chuckled remembering how his father had elaborated, at great length, on the irony of making a wish after watching something burn up in the atmosphere.
"I know it's stupid," he said, smiling almost timidly and shaking his head, "but it's fun to dream, you know?"
He leaned forward in his chair, arms folded over his knees.
"I made the same wish every time I saw one. I wished that some day I would be able to come back here with a son of my own."
Resting his chin on his fist he breathed out a long melancholy sigh.
"But you know as well as I do that life sometimes doesn't turn out the way you want it to."
Dave looked at him momentarily but quickly returned his gaze to the fire.
Sean continued, "I've never told anyone this, but Lissie and I tried to have kids for almost ten years before she got sick."
"It wasn't for lack of trying, either," he said emphatically, "that girl used to wear me out!"
Dave shifted uncomfortably.
"TMI?" Sean continued with a half-cocked smile. "What can I say? I was young too at one point, and so was she."
"We had names picked out, schools, even a college fund, but all of our hopes died out when Lissie's health went downhill. Ovarian cancer."
He picked up a stick from the ground by his feet and threw it in the fire.
"Her surgery and treatments wiped us out. When our savings ran dry we had to sell the house and one of the cars. We found a cheap apartment in a neighborhood close to her hospital. I ended up working as a contractor so I could earn enough to make ends meet and still be with her when she needed me most."
He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as he slumped back in his chair.
"Man, it was hell."
"The thing is," he continued, sitting up again and facing Dave, "she always kept a smile on her face, always tried to keep me cheered up. The only time she ever really cried was when the doctors told her that she would have to undergo a hysterectomy."
"Goddamn cancer," he muttered as he threw another stick at the fire.
He watched the fire slowly overtake the newly added kindling. He had always found it mesmerizing; so deadly and destructive, yet so essential to the preservation of life. A force to be reckoned with; just like Lissie.
"It was that positive attitude of hers that got both of us through the darkest of times. That stubborn girl," he shook his head, "nothing could stop her. She faced death head on and told it to take a hike."
"As soon as she was able to work again she went right back to it, and soon enough we had more in our savings account than we ever had before. We had learned to live without a lot of things so it was all gravy."
Again, he leaned back in his chair, looking up at the sky.
"I remember the day she suggested that we adopt. It was the morning of the 10th of August, 1993; my birthday. She had set up an appointment with a counselor for that day. She was so excited that I couldn't dare let her down, even though I had all but given up on having kids."
"Hell, man, I was already pushing forty!"
"For the next two years we learned the hard way that we couldn't just pick and choose whatever we wanted out of some kid catalog. Doors kept closing for us left and right; it looked like we'd never be able to adopt a baby, boy or girl. I almost gave up, man."
He stood up and stretched, arms open wide, embracing the night sky.
"Beer?"
Dave looked at him for a moment, but quickly averted his gaze.
"Your loss, man."
Sean walked over to the edge of the lake and crouched down near a grouping of large stones. Pulling up his sleeve he reached into the frigid water and fished up a couple of Heinekens he had left there to chill.
"You sure?" he asked, holding one out to Dave who didn't look up.
"More for me then," he said, as he slumped back down in his chair, setting Dave's beer down on the ground beside him.
"Not very talkative, eh?" he continued. "Well, I do appreciate you listening. It means a lot."
He popped the top off of his beer and took a nice, long sip.
"Damn, that's good!"
He hadn't meant it as a taunt, but he smiled and chuckled to himself at how timely and appropriate it had been.
"Now where were we?"
He rubbed his chin pensively.
"Oh, yeah, adoption."
He sat back and continued.
"The agency called us in September of '95. Our case worker had a child she wanted us to meet. She told us she knew that we wanted a boy, but that she wanted us to trust her and just show up."
"On our way to the agency's office we stopped at a toy store so we could pick up a gift. We looked around for a bit but nothing really stuck out until Lissie spotted a sad little pink stuffed bear on the sale rack. It had a t-shirt on it with a picture of musical notes. I thought it was goofy looking, but she had to have it."
"When we got to the office our caseworker met us at the front desk. She did her best to convince us to keep an open mind about meeting a five year old girl, but also warned us that we should not go through with it unless we were certain that we were ready to change our plans."
"The look on Lissie's face was priceless. She had wanted a girl all along, but had kept it to herself knowing how much I wanted a son. All I wanted was for her to be happy."
"It was a no-brainer."
"The caseworker led us to one of their playrooms and walked us inside. There, sitting at the table, coloring her heart out, was the most adorable little Asian girl I had ever seen."
"As soon as she noticed us she set her crayon down neatly and got up from the table. She walked right up to my wife, looked her straight in the eyes, and, with the cutest smile either of us had ever seen, said, 'Hi, I'm Melody. You must be Alyssa.'"
"It was love at first sight. She and Lissie were instant best friends. They played, they sang, they told each other stories, and the whole time all I could do was sit there holding the gift bag and watch them as they bonded. It was the happiest I had ever seen my wife. She didn't want to leave, and frankly neither did I."
"When it was time to leave Melody held her hand all the way to the door and would not let go. Lissie hugged her as if their lives depended on it. I'll never forget what she said to the little angel as she handed her that funny looking stuffed bear, 'I was thinking about you before I met you. I was going to call her Melody.'"
"I've never seen a kid smile so big man," he said shaking his head and smiling. "You would have thought the thing was a gift from God."
"It took a while to get everything in order. Her birth mother died of an overdose shortly after giving up her parental rights but it took a while to get through all of the red tape. The adoption was finalized on Melody's seventh birthday."
He paused, again looking up at the stars and admiring their beauty.
"That little girl, man," he continued, "she was just amazing. Everywhere she went she brought love and happiness and joy. Even when my dad passed back in March of '01, she knew how much I loved to come up here every summer, and told me that I shouldn't cancel my plans."
"She came with me, Dave, and every year after that."
"My angel."
He smiled the way only a proud father can and sipped at his beer.
After a few quiet moments he sat down his beer and turned to face Dave.
"See man," he began in a somber tone, "here's what I don't understand. How can a grown man look at a child, an innocent little girl, and even consider doing anything to hurt her?"
"I mean," he continued, his voice raising in intensity, "how can an adult justify abusing an innocent little girl?"
He stood up and began to walk toward Dave.
"How can an adult become aroused at the sight of a child?"
He bared his teeth at Dave, his voice almost in a roar.
"Tell me Dave, what makes a man rape and kill an innocent little girl?"
He leaned over Dave and wrapped his left hand around his throat and squeezed as hard as he could. With his right he ripped the duct tape off of his mouth, tearing away chunks of his facial hair.
Dave opened his mouth to scream but the pressure on his throat kept him from uttering a sound. He was bound and propped up against a log, naked, and shivering from the cold night air.
Sean pulled his hunting knife out of its sheath and pressed the razor sharp tip of the blade against Dave's abdomen. He looked him straight in the eyes, and with a ferocity that would send a chill down the devil's spine, growled, "Tell me!"
Dave's mouth moved but again no sound issued forth. He began to weep and shake uncontrollably. He winced in agony as the blade pierced his skin.
Sean roared, "David Lee Shackleford, why should I let you live?"
He loosened his grip on Dave's throat just enough to allow him to whisper.
"I never touched your daughter," he whimpered in a barely audible rasp.
Sean's hand clamped down on his throat like a vice. Dave tried in vain to scream as Sean thrust his knife through his rolls of fat and into his side. Blood gushed out onto Sean's hand, covering Dave's legs and drenching the dry ground surrounding the fire.
Slowly Sean dragged the blade across Dave's mid section, tearing him wide open and causing his intestines to spill out onto his lap. The stench of bile and partially digested food filled the air. With a final thrust, Sean twisted the blade and buried it in his stomach. As he did he leaned in to whisper in Dave's ear.
"I never said you did."
Hell Hath No Fury
She wasn't going to let him get by with it again. He had taken her for granted for the last time.
She couldn't take another word out of him.
The embarrassment, the humiliation, the stress he caused her; it had finally reached a boiling point.
She couldn't remember a time when he did not do anything and everything in his power to make her miserable.
What she could remember, however, was how much she had given up because of him. She used to have a life; friends, career prospects, dates with real men, but he had seen fit to put an end to all of that.
It was as though his sole purpose in life was to make hers a living hell.
She couldn't just ditch him if she wanted to. What would everybody say? She couldn't tear down that perfect facade she had built to shield everyone around her from the truth. What would happen if they knew she had been deceiving them all along?
After all, he had them all fooled. His charm was undeniable. He had one of those smiles that could melt your heart. It was one of the things that drew her to him in the first place, but she knew now that it was just his way of manipulating her and everyone around him to get whatever he wanted.
Everyone thought he was the perfect gentleman, but no one would ever guess how horrible it was to live with him; how much he demanded of her, and how little he offered in return.
She had given it all up for him, but all he did was make her feel worthless and insignificant. It angered her even more to think that she had once considered ending her own life because of him. She could scarcely fathom how one person could have such a devastating impact on her psyche.
He was an insult to her intelligence. His annoying little habits would have been cute if he could just keep them under control, or maybe learn to live without them. But no. He was never going to change.
He was never going to look at her when she talked to him. He was never going to stop correcting her when she spoke. He was never going to stop obsessing over his stupid games. He was never going to grow up.
She cursed herself for not walking away when she had the chance. She was stuck. She would never be able to get away from him. She knew that if she let him he'd bleed her soul dry like a life sucking leech. She could not let it go on any longer.
She had to do something. The consequences didn't matter. How could her life possibly be any worse?
She caught a glimpse of her knife stand in the corner of her eye and felt a rush of guilt. She couldn't believe he had driven her to such depths.
She closed her eyes and steadied herself with both hands on the counter next to the sink. Her chest felt tight; her heart was racing. She could feel the heat rising up the back of her neck. Her scalp tingled and then began to itch as if she were about to break a sweat.
She tried to control her breathing. She had almost forgotten how to relax because of him. She couldn't let him control her like this. She had to fight it, sure, but she had to try to get calm first.
She almost wished she could gulp down a whole bottle of wine to dull her senses, but she wasn't about to relax her principles because of him. She had sworn to never be like her father; that old, uneducated, alcoholic bastard.
She shuddered to think about him. This wasn't helping.
She tried to remember a time before she felt so depressed. She couldn't.
She tried to think of something, anything, that might relax her nerves.
There was that cute guy in her college French class. She didn't really care that he couldn't score higher than an 85. He had smiled at her. She knew he had wanted to ask her out, but had ended up getting snatched up by that brain dead cheerleader bimbo. His loss.
It wasn't helping.
French. France. She had always wanted to go to France. She had dreamed about it since she was a little girl. The Eiffel Tower, the Champs Élysées, Versailles. But she knew she'd never see them in person. He would see to it that she'd never be able to fulfill any of her dreams.
All that time studying foreign languages. For what? To become someone's maid? The top student in all of her classes, a housewife?
Her arms began to ache. She had unknowingly clamped down so hard on the counter that her knuckles had turned white. This was definitely not helping.
She had to think of something calming.
Puppies? He'd probably never feed one.
Ice cream sundaes? He was allergic to dairy so she had stopped eating her favorite dessert because of him.
Romance? Not a chance.
Peaceful meadows? Nature? Walks in the park? Sunrises? Sunsets? All things she no longer enjoyed because of him.
She clenched her jaw. Nothing was helping.
She could hear the sound of the television in the living room. He was playing that stupid video game again. It was all he ever did.
The ungrateful jerk barely acknowledged her at all. He never once thanked her for all the work she did around the house; all the meals she prepared, all the laundry she did, all of the ironing, the vacuuming, the dusting, the mopping, the scraping, the scrubbing, the windows... she hated doing the windows.
He just sat there, staring at the screen, solving puzzles and shooting at bad guys as if his life depended on it; muttering, mumbling all the time.
He'd never amount to anything, and she hated herself for letting this happen to her, for being so stupid.
She balled up her fists and pounded the counter. The dirty glasses in the sink rattled loudly, and the coffee maker bubbled as if it had been startled.
She had forgotten to turn it off after her third cup.
Decaf. She loathed decaf, but she had tried to switch to it to calm her nerves. Of course it never worked, how could it? Switching to decaf didn't make him go away!
She could hear him talking to the screen. The freak. It was as if he thought it would help him play better. Angles, trajectories, ranges, endless statistics, details that no one could or should have known, besides possibly the complete losers who designed the stupid games, constantly spewing out of his mouth in that enraging monotonous voice of his.
She had tried to shut it off before, but he had completely lost his mind.
She hated him for making her bend to his will.
The sounds became more pronounced in her mind, as if he had turned up the volume, knowing how much it would upset her.
She couldn't take it any more. He was never going to leave and her life was always going to be a living hell as long as he was there.
She looked at the knives. Too messy. She didn't exactly like the sight of blood either.
Her apron strings. She couldn't be sure if she was strong enough to strangle him with them, or if they'd just snap.
There was rat poison under the sink, but she didn't know if it would make him sick enough, and besides, she wanted a solution now!
The iron frying pan. That had to be the ticket. He could have slipped in the bath tub and cracked his head.
She rehearsed her speech to the 911 operator in her mind.
"He was just lying there like that when I found him! There was nothing I could do!"
She knew she could be convincing. All she'd have to do is turn on those tears.
She opened the cabinet and pulled out the frying pan. She knew she'd have to make it quick; one hit was all it could take or they'd know she did it.
She slowly walked into the living room, holding the pan behind her back, trying her best to keep him from noticing her. As if he would break his concentration enough to do that anyway.
He was sitting on the couch, leaning forward, as he always did, as if he were trying to get into the screen. He'd never know what, or who hit him.
As she stood behind him she focused all of her anger, all of her shame, and all of her hatred on the back of his head.
She gripped the pan handle tightly with both hands and raised it up to her shoulder level.
This was it. She'd finally be free of him. She'd never have to wait on him hand and foot again. She'd never have to put up with his attitude, his moods, his incessant rambling, his allergies, his maddening idiosyncrasies, or his stupid video games ever again.
She'd be able to get back to living her life again.
One hit. That's all it was going to take. One hit, and then a quick move to the bathtub. She knew she was strong enough to drag him there. Undressing him would be easy, and all she'd have to do to make it look good was run the water and spill out some shampoo.
Too easy.
She lifted the pan and tensed her muscles like a baseball player about to hit a home run. She took a deep breath and focused every fiber of her being on the back of his head.
He didn't even know she was there. He couldn't look up from his game long enough to notice that she was right behind him, ready to end his life.
She smiled, knowing that she was doing the world a favor, and twisted her waist to get the most out of her swing.
Suddenly she heard the sound of keys turning in the front door lock. She froze, utterly terrified.
He turned away from the screen and looked at her with an innocent smile on his five year old face.
"Daddy's home, mommy."
She couldn't take another word out of him.
The embarrassment, the humiliation, the stress he caused her; it had finally reached a boiling point.
She couldn't remember a time when he did not do anything and everything in his power to make her miserable.
What she could remember, however, was how much she had given up because of him. She used to have a life; friends, career prospects, dates with real men, but he had seen fit to put an end to all of that.
It was as though his sole purpose in life was to make hers a living hell.
She couldn't just ditch him if she wanted to. What would everybody say? She couldn't tear down that perfect facade she had built to shield everyone around her from the truth. What would happen if they knew she had been deceiving them all along?
After all, he had them all fooled. His charm was undeniable. He had one of those smiles that could melt your heart. It was one of the things that drew her to him in the first place, but she knew now that it was just his way of manipulating her and everyone around him to get whatever he wanted.
Everyone thought he was the perfect gentleman, but no one would ever guess how horrible it was to live with him; how much he demanded of her, and how little he offered in return.
She had given it all up for him, but all he did was make her feel worthless and insignificant. It angered her even more to think that she had once considered ending her own life because of him. She could scarcely fathom how one person could have such a devastating impact on her psyche.
He was an insult to her intelligence. His annoying little habits would have been cute if he could just keep them under control, or maybe learn to live without them. But no. He was never going to change.
He was never going to look at her when she talked to him. He was never going to stop correcting her when she spoke. He was never going to stop obsessing over his stupid games. He was never going to grow up.
She cursed herself for not walking away when she had the chance. She was stuck. She would never be able to get away from him. She knew that if she let him he'd bleed her soul dry like a life sucking leech. She could not let it go on any longer.
She had to do something. The consequences didn't matter. How could her life possibly be any worse?
She caught a glimpse of her knife stand in the corner of her eye and felt a rush of guilt. She couldn't believe he had driven her to such depths.
She closed her eyes and steadied herself with both hands on the counter next to the sink. Her chest felt tight; her heart was racing. She could feel the heat rising up the back of her neck. Her scalp tingled and then began to itch as if she were about to break a sweat.
She tried to control her breathing. She had almost forgotten how to relax because of him. She couldn't let him control her like this. She had to fight it, sure, but she had to try to get calm first.
She almost wished she could gulp down a whole bottle of wine to dull her senses, but she wasn't about to relax her principles because of him. She had sworn to never be like her father; that old, uneducated, alcoholic bastard.
She shuddered to think about him. This wasn't helping.
She tried to remember a time before she felt so depressed. She couldn't.
She tried to think of something, anything, that might relax her nerves.
There was that cute guy in her college French class. She didn't really care that he couldn't score higher than an 85. He had smiled at her. She knew he had wanted to ask her out, but had ended up getting snatched up by that brain dead cheerleader bimbo. His loss.
It wasn't helping.
French. France. She had always wanted to go to France. She had dreamed about it since she was a little girl. The Eiffel Tower, the Champs Élysées, Versailles. But she knew she'd never see them in person. He would see to it that she'd never be able to fulfill any of her dreams.
All that time studying foreign languages. For what? To become someone's maid? The top student in all of her classes, a housewife?
Her arms began to ache. She had unknowingly clamped down so hard on the counter that her knuckles had turned white. This was definitely not helping.
She had to think of something calming.
Puppies? He'd probably never feed one.
Ice cream sundaes? He was allergic to dairy so she had stopped eating her favorite dessert because of him.
Romance? Not a chance.
Peaceful meadows? Nature? Walks in the park? Sunrises? Sunsets? All things she no longer enjoyed because of him.
She clenched her jaw. Nothing was helping.
She could hear the sound of the television in the living room. He was playing that stupid video game again. It was all he ever did.
The ungrateful jerk barely acknowledged her at all. He never once thanked her for all the work she did around the house; all the meals she prepared, all the laundry she did, all of the ironing, the vacuuming, the dusting, the mopping, the scraping, the scrubbing, the windows... she hated doing the windows.
He just sat there, staring at the screen, solving puzzles and shooting at bad guys as if his life depended on it; muttering, mumbling all the time.
He'd never amount to anything, and she hated herself for letting this happen to her, for being so stupid.
She balled up her fists and pounded the counter. The dirty glasses in the sink rattled loudly, and the coffee maker bubbled as if it had been startled.
She had forgotten to turn it off after her third cup.
Decaf. She loathed decaf, but she had tried to switch to it to calm her nerves. Of course it never worked, how could it? Switching to decaf didn't make him go away!
She could hear him talking to the screen. The freak. It was as if he thought it would help him play better. Angles, trajectories, ranges, endless statistics, details that no one could or should have known, besides possibly the complete losers who designed the stupid games, constantly spewing out of his mouth in that enraging monotonous voice of his.
She had tried to shut it off before, but he had completely lost his mind.
She hated him for making her bend to his will.
The sounds became more pronounced in her mind, as if he had turned up the volume, knowing how much it would upset her.
She couldn't take it any more. He was never going to leave and her life was always going to be a living hell as long as he was there.
She looked at the knives. Too messy. She didn't exactly like the sight of blood either.
Her apron strings. She couldn't be sure if she was strong enough to strangle him with them, or if they'd just snap.
There was rat poison under the sink, but she didn't know if it would make him sick enough, and besides, she wanted a solution now!
The iron frying pan. That had to be the ticket. He could have slipped in the bath tub and cracked his head.
She rehearsed her speech to the 911 operator in her mind.
"He was just lying there like that when I found him! There was nothing I could do!"
She knew she could be convincing. All she'd have to do is turn on those tears.
She opened the cabinet and pulled out the frying pan. She knew she'd have to make it quick; one hit was all it could take or they'd know she did it.
She slowly walked into the living room, holding the pan behind her back, trying her best to keep him from noticing her. As if he would break his concentration enough to do that anyway.
He was sitting on the couch, leaning forward, as he always did, as if he were trying to get into the screen. He'd never know what, or who hit him.
As she stood behind him she focused all of her anger, all of her shame, and all of her hatred on the back of his head.
She gripped the pan handle tightly with both hands and raised it up to her shoulder level.
This was it. She'd finally be free of him. She'd never have to wait on him hand and foot again. She'd never have to put up with his attitude, his moods, his incessant rambling, his allergies, his maddening idiosyncrasies, or his stupid video games ever again.
She'd be able to get back to living her life again.
One hit. That's all it was going to take. One hit, and then a quick move to the bathtub. She knew she was strong enough to drag him there. Undressing him would be easy, and all she'd have to do to make it look good was run the water and spill out some shampoo.
Too easy.
She lifted the pan and tensed her muscles like a baseball player about to hit a home run. She took a deep breath and focused every fiber of her being on the back of his head.
He didn't even know she was there. He couldn't look up from his game long enough to notice that she was right behind him, ready to end his life.
She smiled, knowing that she was doing the world a favor, and twisted her waist to get the most out of her swing.
Suddenly she heard the sound of keys turning in the front door lock. She froze, utterly terrified.
He turned away from the screen and looked at her with an innocent smile on his five year old face.
"Daddy's home, mommy."
May I
It wasn't the first time he'd seen her abruptly turn away when their gazes met.
She had been avoiding him ever since that day in English class. She'd lean in to whisper to her friends when he passed by her in the hall. Sometimes he could hear them giggling.
She was rarely alone, but when she was she would scurry past him hugging her books like a life vest.
He knew why. He couldn't blame her either.
He hadn't meant to stare at her that day. It had just happened. He couldn't go back and fix it.
He had tried to rationalize it; after all, it was that bird's fault that he was looking in that direction in the first place. Anyone who appreciated beauty at all would have been just as mesmerized by that cardinal as he was.
It wasn't his fault that her desk was between his and the window that offered such an unobstructed view of the tree that beautiful bird had chosen as its perch.
It wasn't his fault that the natural auburn highlights of her hair shined like polished copper in the sunlight; that her eyes glowed like precious emeralds; that her smile was more contagious than the black plague.
But he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that had he stopped admiring her one second earlier the seed of disgust would not have been planted in her mind.
Sure, she smiled at him that day, but it was a momentary fluke, an accident, a product of her discomfort.
She turned away that day, and had done it every time their eyes met since.
He had been watching her ever since she walked in the door. She had picked up her food and turned toward the seating area to find a table. He couldn't help but notice her, but yet again, just like every time before, he had looked at her that one second too long.
She had caught him again.
His table of choice, the one in the back of the room closest to the exit that hardly anyone ever used, suddenly felt as though it were under a spotlight. He tried to hide behind the pages of his book but he knew that the damage was already done.
The heat welled up from his stomach to his chest. His hands and forearms began to tingle, and his scalp began to itch profusely. His ears began to burn as if he had a hair dryer pointed at them for too long. He knew without a doubt that they were as red as a lobster's carapace.
He cursed himself for leaving his knitted hat in his locker but knew that it would only draw more attention to him if he were to wear it indoors.
Remembering that he had at least had the presence of mind to wear an undershirt that day, he breathed a momentary sigh of relief, but his elation evaporated as he felt a bead of sweat roll down his side.
He knew that if he didn't get to the restroom quickly he would not be able to dry himself off in time to keep his sweat from seeping through to his buttoned shirt; but he also knew that lunchtime was the time that all of the so-called cool guys hung out in there so they could harass anyone they deemed inferior.
"Antiperspirant, my ass," he murmured under his breath.
He shifted in his seat in a vain attempt to wipe away the sweat with his undershirt. As he did he felt a puff of hot air escape from his collar. He knew he couldn't sit there much longer if he wanted to retain enough composure to get up from his seat and make it to the door unnoticed.
It was already too late. He knew that all eyes were already on him, picking apart his myriad flaws and hating him for each and every one. Every laugh in the room was at his expense. Every whisper, every gesture, every expression of loathing and contempt, they were all directed at him.
He could barely breathe.
He couldn't even make out the words on the pages of his book. He didn't even know if he was holding it right any more.
He tried to focus, but kept reading the same line over and over, unable to move on. As disjointed as the words were his mind treated them as though they were coherent and had context, until they finally lost all meaning and he had no idea what language was written on the pages.
He balled up his toes as if making a fist with his foot. He knew it was the only way he could force himself back into reality without encouraging any of his onlookers to hate him any more than they already did.
"Breathe," he thought to himself.
Attempting to regain some semblance of composure, he quickly looked up from his book to scan the faces of his fellow students. To his surprise none of the ones in his immediate purview was looking his way. He strained to listen in on a conversation, reading the lips of one of the guys facing toward him.
They were talking about some new multi-player shooter game for the xbox.
A group of girls was talking about some of the guys on the football team.
A few of the guys on the football team were talking about girls.
He was just about to let out a sigh of relief when he saw her again, walking toward him with without her tray.
It was as if someone had set a fire in his chest. His throat tightened; his stomach tensed almost to the point of nausea. He was overwhelmed with the urge to weep. It took every ounce of strength he had left to keep the tears form flowing freely.
Nothing his parents ever told him prepared him for feelings like this. On those rare occasions when he was able to glean anything about his father's childhood he had just been left wondering if he had being given the whole story.
His mom couldn't possibly understand. Besides, he knew that if he talked to her about anything intimate she would get a little bit too affectionate which always left him feeling quite creeped out.
But this wasn't discomfort. This was agony.
She was still headed his way.
He could feel his heartbeat in his throat. It was choking him. He tried to swallow but couldn't.
"You'll know it when you're in love..."
He had heard that cliche so many times, but had dismissed it like most of the other old wives' tales that had no meaning in our modern culture.
He'd heard it called the "warm fuzzies", but this felt more like steaming pricklies, or worse, whatever that meant.
His sanity was now on the line. He questioned himself, "How can one girl I barely know have so much power over me? How can she render me so completely useless? Why does it hurt so bad? Is this what love feels like?"
Only one or two more tables and she'd be right there.
He knew there was no way she would be coming to sit by him. He couldn't see any of her friends at those tables, just a few of the more popular guys.
Boyfriend. He was sure of it.
One of the guys greeted her and she stopped to talk to him confirming his suspicions.
He was both elated and devastated.
Choking on his shame he quickly gathered up his tray and nearly ran to the exit. It wasn't until he was out in the hallway that he realized he had forgotten his book at the table.
It was too late to go back.
He headed toward the nearest restroom and locked himself in one of the stalls.
He couldn't take the pain any more and let out a silent scream. It didn't help. He began beating his forearms to try and relieve some of the physical restlessness in them. It didn't help either. He pulled at his hair. Nothing. He hit himself in the face. Still nothing.
He pulled up his sleeve and began scratching his arm as hard as he could. His fingernails were too short from being bitten off.
He pulled out his pocket knife and opened it. He held the tip of the blade to his skin. He pressed harder and savored the pain. Turning the tip sideways so that he wouldn't cut himself wide open he began scraping his arm; lightly at first, allowing himself to grow accustomed to the feeling, then harder, as he realized that the pain in his skin was taking away the one in his chest.
Droplets of blood began to form over his deepest scrape. It was reassuring. It was something he could control.
He scraped harder, this time drawing blood almost instantly.
Before he knew it he had seven or eight open scrape marks on his arm, all bright red with blood.
The class bell rang.
He quickly dabbed up the excess blood with toilet paper, drew his sleeve down over the scratches, and pulled himself together.
At least he knew he could hide in the crowd on the way back to class.
His arm began to sting, exacerbated by his elevated temperature, but as it increased it began to dial down the intensity of his emotional turmoil.
By the time he got to class he was almost feeling good enough to function.
It was biology lab, and his desk was in the back. He knew he could hide there unnoticed for the better part of the afternoon.
He avoided eye contact with everyone as he made his way to the back of the class. It wasn't until he sat down that he noticed his book, the one he had left in in the cafeteria during his panic flight, sitting on his desk.
Incredulous, he picked it up to make sure he wasn't imagining it. There was a piece of paper sticking out from inside the cover; there was a note on it.
"This is a really good book. I didn't want you to miss the ending!"
He looked across the classroom and his heart nearly stopped. She was looking right back at him, smiling acknowledgingly.
He smiled sheepishly back at her and mouthed a silent thank you.
She mouthed back, "You're welcome!"
The bell rang.
The teacher walked in a few moments later and told the class to break up in to pairs for the lab projects.
He usually partnered up with Ralph, the nerdy smart kid, but this time, once he had gathered up all of his stuff, his feet carried him in a different direction.
Somehow he found himself standing by the empty chair next to hers, and before he had the chance to analyze how many different ways he could screw it up he said, "May I?"
She had been avoiding him ever since that day in English class. She'd lean in to whisper to her friends when he passed by her in the hall. Sometimes he could hear them giggling.
She was rarely alone, but when she was she would scurry past him hugging her books like a life vest.
He knew why. He couldn't blame her either.
He hadn't meant to stare at her that day. It had just happened. He couldn't go back and fix it.
He had tried to rationalize it; after all, it was that bird's fault that he was looking in that direction in the first place. Anyone who appreciated beauty at all would have been just as mesmerized by that cardinal as he was.
It wasn't his fault that her desk was between his and the window that offered such an unobstructed view of the tree that beautiful bird had chosen as its perch.
It wasn't his fault that the natural auburn highlights of her hair shined like polished copper in the sunlight; that her eyes glowed like precious emeralds; that her smile was more contagious than the black plague.
But he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that had he stopped admiring her one second earlier the seed of disgust would not have been planted in her mind.
Sure, she smiled at him that day, but it was a momentary fluke, an accident, a product of her discomfort.
She turned away that day, and had done it every time their eyes met since.
He had been watching her ever since she walked in the door. She had picked up her food and turned toward the seating area to find a table. He couldn't help but notice her, but yet again, just like every time before, he had looked at her that one second too long.
She had caught him again.
His table of choice, the one in the back of the room closest to the exit that hardly anyone ever used, suddenly felt as though it were under a spotlight. He tried to hide behind the pages of his book but he knew that the damage was already done.
The heat welled up from his stomach to his chest. His hands and forearms began to tingle, and his scalp began to itch profusely. His ears began to burn as if he had a hair dryer pointed at them for too long. He knew without a doubt that they were as red as a lobster's carapace.
He cursed himself for leaving his knitted hat in his locker but knew that it would only draw more attention to him if he were to wear it indoors.
Remembering that he had at least had the presence of mind to wear an undershirt that day, he breathed a momentary sigh of relief, but his elation evaporated as he felt a bead of sweat roll down his side.
He knew that if he didn't get to the restroom quickly he would not be able to dry himself off in time to keep his sweat from seeping through to his buttoned shirt; but he also knew that lunchtime was the time that all of the so-called cool guys hung out in there so they could harass anyone they deemed inferior.
"Antiperspirant, my ass," he murmured under his breath.
He shifted in his seat in a vain attempt to wipe away the sweat with his undershirt. As he did he felt a puff of hot air escape from his collar. He knew he couldn't sit there much longer if he wanted to retain enough composure to get up from his seat and make it to the door unnoticed.
It was already too late. He knew that all eyes were already on him, picking apart his myriad flaws and hating him for each and every one. Every laugh in the room was at his expense. Every whisper, every gesture, every expression of loathing and contempt, they were all directed at him.
He could barely breathe.
He couldn't even make out the words on the pages of his book. He didn't even know if he was holding it right any more.
He tried to focus, but kept reading the same line over and over, unable to move on. As disjointed as the words were his mind treated them as though they were coherent and had context, until they finally lost all meaning and he had no idea what language was written on the pages.
He balled up his toes as if making a fist with his foot. He knew it was the only way he could force himself back into reality without encouraging any of his onlookers to hate him any more than they already did.
"Breathe," he thought to himself.
Attempting to regain some semblance of composure, he quickly looked up from his book to scan the faces of his fellow students. To his surprise none of the ones in his immediate purview was looking his way. He strained to listen in on a conversation, reading the lips of one of the guys facing toward him.
They were talking about some new multi-player shooter game for the xbox.
A group of girls was talking about some of the guys on the football team.
A few of the guys on the football team were talking about girls.
He was just about to let out a sigh of relief when he saw her again, walking toward him with without her tray.
It was as if someone had set a fire in his chest. His throat tightened; his stomach tensed almost to the point of nausea. He was overwhelmed with the urge to weep. It took every ounce of strength he had left to keep the tears form flowing freely.
Nothing his parents ever told him prepared him for feelings like this. On those rare occasions when he was able to glean anything about his father's childhood he had just been left wondering if he had being given the whole story.
His mom couldn't possibly understand. Besides, he knew that if he talked to her about anything intimate she would get a little bit too affectionate which always left him feeling quite creeped out.
But this wasn't discomfort. This was agony.
She was still headed his way.
He could feel his heartbeat in his throat. It was choking him. He tried to swallow but couldn't.
"You'll know it when you're in love..."
He had heard that cliche so many times, but had dismissed it like most of the other old wives' tales that had no meaning in our modern culture.
He'd heard it called the "warm fuzzies", but this felt more like steaming pricklies, or worse, whatever that meant.
His sanity was now on the line. He questioned himself, "How can one girl I barely know have so much power over me? How can she render me so completely useless? Why does it hurt so bad? Is this what love feels like?"
Only one or two more tables and she'd be right there.
He knew there was no way she would be coming to sit by him. He couldn't see any of her friends at those tables, just a few of the more popular guys.
Boyfriend. He was sure of it.
One of the guys greeted her and she stopped to talk to him confirming his suspicions.
He was both elated and devastated.
Choking on his shame he quickly gathered up his tray and nearly ran to the exit. It wasn't until he was out in the hallway that he realized he had forgotten his book at the table.
It was too late to go back.
He headed toward the nearest restroom and locked himself in one of the stalls.
He couldn't take the pain any more and let out a silent scream. It didn't help. He began beating his forearms to try and relieve some of the physical restlessness in them. It didn't help either. He pulled at his hair. Nothing. He hit himself in the face. Still nothing.
He pulled up his sleeve and began scratching his arm as hard as he could. His fingernails were too short from being bitten off.
He pulled out his pocket knife and opened it. He held the tip of the blade to his skin. He pressed harder and savored the pain. Turning the tip sideways so that he wouldn't cut himself wide open he began scraping his arm; lightly at first, allowing himself to grow accustomed to the feeling, then harder, as he realized that the pain in his skin was taking away the one in his chest.
Droplets of blood began to form over his deepest scrape. It was reassuring. It was something he could control.
He scraped harder, this time drawing blood almost instantly.
Before he knew it he had seven or eight open scrape marks on his arm, all bright red with blood.
The class bell rang.
He quickly dabbed up the excess blood with toilet paper, drew his sleeve down over the scratches, and pulled himself together.
At least he knew he could hide in the crowd on the way back to class.
His arm began to sting, exacerbated by his elevated temperature, but as it increased it began to dial down the intensity of his emotional turmoil.
By the time he got to class he was almost feeling good enough to function.
It was biology lab, and his desk was in the back. He knew he could hide there unnoticed for the better part of the afternoon.
He avoided eye contact with everyone as he made his way to the back of the class. It wasn't until he sat down that he noticed his book, the one he had left in in the cafeteria during his panic flight, sitting on his desk.
Incredulous, he picked it up to make sure he wasn't imagining it. There was a piece of paper sticking out from inside the cover; there was a note on it.
"This is a really good book. I didn't want you to miss the ending!"
He looked across the classroom and his heart nearly stopped. She was looking right back at him, smiling acknowledgingly.
He smiled sheepishly back at her and mouthed a silent thank you.
She mouthed back, "You're welcome!"
The bell rang.
The teacher walked in a few moments later and told the class to break up in to pairs for the lab projects.
He usually partnered up with Ralph, the nerdy smart kid, but this time, once he had gathered up all of his stuff, his feet carried him in a different direction.
Somehow he found himself standing by the empty chair next to hers, and before he had the chance to analyze how many different ways he could screw it up he said, "May I?"
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