Anointing of the Sick (cont.)

2. First Confession: The Whipping Boy

Childhood: The period of human life intermediate between the idiocy of infancy and the folly of youth -- two removes from the sin of manhood and three from the remorse of age. ~Ambrose Bierce

There was blood on the floor beneath the shards of glass.

Pink carnations lay scattered about the blood tinged water and the pieces of the vase. Light from the noonday sun struck the floor, creating tiny spectrums across the pale, marble flooring. My bare feet were dampened by the water and blood; I had cut the tender flesh of my feet on small pieces of the glass when I had walked back to stare down at the disaster I had created. Since my foot was already injured, I did not hesitate to nudge a larger piece of glass with my toe, and I blankly watched as blood bubbled from a small, jagged cut.
Soft footsteps broke the silence about me, and a slender, pale hand came to rest quietly against my shoulder. Long, straight blonde hair tumbled against my cheek, and I closed my eyes as I took in the calming presence of my brother.

“Its as if the flowers are bleeding.” The voice was quiet; it reminded me of how God’s voice was described: a still, small voice.

My twin’s name was Shepherd.

The both of us had long, beautiful blonde hair that reached to our shoulders and eyes as blue and clear as the ocean. Shepherd’s eyes were slightly wider than mine, however, and looked far more innocent than my narrow, hard ones. I remember that that day he was wearing white; it was a long white, button down shirt and loose white pants. He had been ill for a few days, and had taken to wearing his pajamas all day. I had a similar pair, but mine were red like blood.

I didn’t see him look, but just after he spoke of the bleeding flowers, he began to run his little fingers through my hair tenderly with one hand while his other laid against my neck, and he drew me against him. “You’ve hurt yourself now, haven’t you?” He whispered against my temple. I can still feel his slightly chilled touch, the warmth of his breath that smelled faintly of cherries from the medicine he had obediently been downing, and the faint beating of his heart as he pressed my chest against his own.

“Climb onto my back, I’ll take you to the bathroom.” He gently pulled away, turning his head to softly cough after he had spoken. The thought that he was still weak from his illness did not cross my mind, and I immediately moved around him and climbed onto his back. He hesitated a moment, doubled beneath my weight, then he straightened and started to walk.

My feet stung when he cleaned them, and I complained to him loudly while he knelt in front of me, patiently taking my complaints and softly whispering back to me that I would be alright. When he had finished putting the bandages on my cuts, he placed his hands on my knees and tilted his head back, looking into my eyes with an expression that instantly quieted me. His smile was angelic as he parted his lips. “There you are, if they hurt when you walk, just remember that the Lord was beaten to the brink of death and yet He still was able to walk and carry His cross most of the way. When I’m sick, or I’m hurt, the thought that our God patiently bore pain for us, it makes what little pain I feel not so bad. I know I can bear what I have to for Him, just as He bore that for us.”

…

I shuddered as I recalled that day, and my voice broke; the words shattered on my lips and collapsed onto the floor almost audibly in the heavy silence that now hung in the room. My fingers found my lips and splayed about them as a sob tore through my chest.

“Did your mother find out?”

I barely heard his voice through my soft cries, but somehow I managed to answer. “Yes, but…” I found that I could not readily finish, and it took several moments for me to regain my composure. The priest waited patiently then touched my shoulder once my cries had died down.

“Perhaps I should come back tomorrow,” He began, but I quickly grabbed the edge of his sleeve, tightly clenching my trembling fingers about the dark fabric.

“No, it has to be today,” I croaked, my voice scratchy and hoarse from crying. “I have to tell you now… I have to tell you what happened…”

…

My mother always smelled of coffee.

Her fiery red hair was always pulled back into a ponytail at the back of her head; the thick, wavy strands of hair would shift in the band and while most fell like a waterfall, spilling in obedient, glistening currents to her shoulder blades, a few defiant curls would fall across her ear and tap against her full, freckled cheeks. Two pairs of earrings always dotted her pale earlobes; one pair would be simple silver hoops, and the other pair would be diamond studs framed in the same, shimmering silver. Her eyelids were always colored a soft grey, her mascara was always perfect and unclamped and her lashes would flutter like agitated butterflies over her round, emerald eyes whenever she was angry. Her attire was a two piece suit: a double breasted grey jacket with black buttons and a snug, straight skirt that ended just above her knees. Her feet were always pressed into black heeled shoes with rounded toes; her curving legs were always darkened slightly by stockings.

Also when she was angry, she would sit in her favorite chair, a black leather monster that rested on a small ebony pillar that branched off in four directions to house four small wheels, and while she sat in this chair, she would cross her legs at the knees and rest her hands in her lap, tapping an erratic tune on the face of her Fossil watch with a perfect, false onyx nail.

Her room was an office; a piece of her work away from the tall building where she spent the majority of her time. To this day, I have never seen her wearing anything but that suit or something similar to it; I swear she sleeps in it, assuming she does sleep.

The black chair sat behind a black desk; the walls were white like the rest of the house, but the desk and chair were black. They were the blotches of sinful neglect in a house of purity.

Shepherd stood at my side that day when after viewing the disaster at the end of the hall, after seeing the droplets of blood, after hearing the crunch of glass beneath her heeled shoes, after noticing the absence of the vase, when my mother summoned us to the office. He stood with one hand on the stiff arm of the oaken chair that I had settled into.

Court was in session.

All rise; the judge is entering.

We both stood when she passed us by, her heels tapping against the white floors. She sank into the embrace of the chair, and I sat down in my small seat. Shepherd remained standing like a good lawyer.

Oh, holy one, intercede on my behalf.

My mother looked down at me, her eyes peering over the thin rims of her glasses before they were plucked from the thin bridge of her nose and laid onto the surface of the desk. She muttered my name as if it were the name of one of the criminals she read about in the paper; her tone was always judgmental, always critical. She hated me; she tolerated Shepherd.

“It was expensive, and now there is blood on the floor, Severin.”

“Ma’am,” I whispered. “I want to explain.”

“I want the blood off my floor. I want the vase to be made new, and I want the flowers alive. Do you think I care what you have to say? It was you that destroyed the last thing of beauty in this house. I can’t keep anything because of you.” Her words were punctuated by the rhythmic tapping against the watch face.

I hated her back, and in that moment, as she continued to diplomatically explain to me that I was a useless waste, in that moment my fingers clenched so tightly that I felt my nails break the skin of my palms. I wanted more than anything for her to be wrong, for all of her words to be proven false. How was she so certain it was me? I wanted to ask her. I had a brother of my same age; he was perfectly capable of breaking the vase.

“It was Shepherd.” I hissed below my breath during a pause between her words. I hadn’t expected her hear me, but to my surprise, she quieted and her nails hovered just over the scratched face of her watch. In unison, our eyes turned toward the boy at my side who had been silent during my mother’s seemingly endless speech. Shepherd’s expression had not changed much. Mother did not notice any change at all; I noticed that his eyes were dull and growing moist. I lifted my hand and grasped the white sleeve of his pajamas, leaving a smear of my blood on the fabric.

“It was me, ma’am.” He softly agreed, lowering his eyes to the floor. “I got out of bed to get some water and nearly fell as I stepped out of the hallway. I grabbed the table with the vase to try to catch myself, and I knocked over the vase. Severin heard the noise and came to see what had happened, and he cut his feet on the glass.”

I looked back to mother, releasing my brother’s sleeve, unaware that I had tainted its purity. I was sent from the room while Shepherd’s trembling fingers worked free the knot that held his pants about his small waist. They had fallen down about his ankles when my hand touched the door handle.

I did not look back.

Even when I heard the slap of leather against flesh, I did not turn. I simply and calmly shut the door behind of me and moved to the bathroom to get a bandage for my hand.

The blood stain never came out of my brother’s pajamas.

By your stripes, I am healed.

By your destruction, I am rebuilt.

His skin was dotted in red welts from the belt that he had been beaten with. The belt was hidden among files and papers in one of the large drawers of our mother’s desk. As soon as the door had opened and he had limped out, I had rushed to Shepherd’s side and guided him back to our bathroom, eager to see the marks of punishment he bore. I wasn’t disappointed and neither was I ashamed when I saw the welts. I prodded one of them lightly, and was rewarded with the soft sound of tears splashing against the floor.

“Is that all?” Mother’s punishments usually traveled in pairs.

“Yes,” He breathed, bending to grasp the edge of his pants and pulling them back up to cover himself. Somehow I felt cheated. “Lets go outside, Severin.” Shepherd had turned to face me, his eyes sparkling with gathering tears. The droplets scampered down his cheeks and dropped to the floor about his bare toes. I watched them for a moment before I shook my head.

“You should go back to bed, Shepherd. You’re still sick aren’t you?”

His shoulders slumped, his hair fell in front of his face as he cast his eyes to the floor; beneath the pale strands I could see more tears rushing down his cheeks in shimmering rivers. “Yes,” He whispered, turning his back to me to hide his disappointment. He twisted the door handle and stepped into the hall, offering no other word for me as he drifted obediently into his room.

I felt a brief flicker of surprise as he slipped away to his room. For the first time, I was old enough to understand that I had been obeyed. When I took a moment to look back into the hazy six years of my life, I could not recall a time when my brother had denied me anything. He had always hung on my every word and had done all that I asked no matter how trivial.

I stood immobile for several moments, lingering between the hall and the bathroom as I turned these thoughts over in my mind. Perhaps he was just being a good brother this time; surely Shepherd would not obey everything I said. I felt the need to test his loyalty, his obedience.

And I did.

Once he became well, I began my little experiment. I asked him to do my chores, asked him to give me his candy when mother felt generous enough to buy us some, I even asked him to destroy his favorite toy- a worn, limp teddy bear that he had had since we were both sharing a crib together- but no matter what I said or asked him to do, he did it without question. Soon he was doing all of the chores; mother, believing Shepherd hated chocolate, stopped buying him candy; and not a minute after I had spoken the command, Thistle the Bear’s ashes were being scooped out of the fireplace.

Years passed in this fashion, and I grew more and more controlling over little Shepherd. He became my whipping boy, taking all the blame for anything that went wrong though he never took part in my mischievous games, and his backside was forever scorched a flaming crimson from the lashes of the belt. Never once did he complain or utter a word of defiance. He never spoke a bad word against me, and he never denied me anything.

He never did until we reached eleven.

The day after our eleventh birthday was the day I will always remember as the day Shepherd said, ‘No.’

3. Second Confession: No.

Be not angry that you cannot make others as you wish them to be, since you cannot make yourself as you wish to be. ~Thomas A. Kempis

Behind our house there was a garden.

It was surrounded by a stone wall with pointed iron arrows lining the top that were always laden with thorny vines that curled and writhed among the arrows like some form of ancient barbed wire. Rosebushes, nestled tenderly in black, moist soil bordered the wall, tilting their faces toward the sky in content and their petals daily peeling like old skin and falling away until they crumpled and died, their heads hanging like the countenances of elderly women. It was just the ending of spring now so that the roses were in their prime, dancing in the cool breezes and waving their green, prickly hands like children.

Anointing of the Sick (cont.)

There were footsteps in the hallway now, just behind my door. I lifted my eyes as I saw the knob turn, and then he stepped inside. He was wearing a long black robe that just barely fell over his dark shoes. He was just as I had imagined him to be; an elderly man with tufts of silvery white hair covering his head. My vision blurred a moment, and my eyes stung with weariness. I closed them for a moment and released a soft breath, nearly dozing as I listened to the sound of a chair’s legs scraping across the floor. The room quieted only for a moment before the seat creaked slightly beneath the good Father’s weight and I heard him place something on the table by my bed.

“Son?” His voice was soft and seemed too young of a voice to be spilling from between those thin lips surrounded by wrinkles and chalky skin. I felt his warm, smooth hand touch the back of mine, and I forced my heavy eyelids open. His eyes were bright and intelligent and colored a lovely shade of green; his pale lashes partially curtained the emerald orbs like snow on evergreen leaves. “Are you ready, son?”

At one time I would have said something facetious in response to this; I was too weak for sarcasm now. I simply nodded and stretched my thin legs, turning to lay flat on my back so that I would no longer be facing away from him. My eyes rose to the ceiling, and I opened my mouth, tried to force words from my dry throat, and I choked, breaking into soft, weary coughs that jarred my slender frame. Spots danced in front of my eyes as I felt his grip on my hand tighten. His other hand slid behind my neck, and he leaned me against his chest as he reached to the table, picking up my small paper cup and pressing it to my lips. Cool water rushed down my throat, and I sank against him as I calmed. Carefully, he laid me down, and I watched as he made the sign of the cross then he whispered a prayer before he looked to me.

“If there is anything you need to confess before me and the Lord, now would be the opportune time to do so,” He informed me gently as a kind smile softened his features.

This was what I had been waiting for; I felt tears gather in my eyes as I nodded and hoarsely murmured.

“Father,” I began, so softly that he had to lean forward to hear me. “B-bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Go on, son, tell me everything.”

“It started when I was seven and I broke my mother’s vase…”



2. First Confession
Childhood: The period of human life intermediate between the idiocy of infancy and the folly of youth -- two removes from the sin of manhood and three from the remorse of age. ~Ambrose Bierce

There was blood on the floor beneath the shards of glass.

Pink carnations lay scattered about the blood tinged water and the pieces of the vase. Light from the noonday sun struck the floor, creating tiny spectrums across the pale, marble flooring. My bare feet were dampened by the water and blood; I had cut the tender flesh of my feet on small pieces of the glass when I had walked back to stare down at the disaster I had created. Since my foot was already injured, I did not hesitate to nudge a larger piece of glass with my toe, and I blankly watched as blood bubbled from a small, jagged cut.

Soft footsteps broke the silence about me, and a slender, pale hand came to rest quietly against my shoulder. Long, straight blonde hair tumbled against my cheek, and I closed my eyes as I took in the calming presence of my brother.

“Its as if the flowers are bleeding.” The voice was quiet; it reminded me of how God’s voice was described: a still, small voice.

My twin’s name was Shepherd.

The both of us had long, beautiful blonde hair that reached to our shoulders and eyes as blue and clear as the ocean. Shepherd’s eyes were slightly wider than mine, however, and looked far more innocent than my narrower, hard ones. I remember that that day he was wearing white; it was a long white, button down shirt and loose white pants. He had been ill for a few days, and had taken to wearing his pajamas all day. I had a similar pair, but mine were red like blood.

I didn’t see him look, but just after he spoke of the bleeding flowers, he began to run his little fingers through my hair tenderly with one hand while his other laid against my neck, and he drew me against him. “You’ve hurt yourself now, haven’t you?” He whispered against my temple. I can still feel his slightly chilled touch, the warmth of his breath that smelled faintly of cherries from the medicine he had obediently been downing.

Anointing of the Sick- story for a friend part one

The sound of the heart monitor pervaded my dreams.

The dismal, all encompassing darkness that I had drifted in slowly began to fade away, and I was aware first of the flat stack of pillows supporting my neck and head. The soft beeping of the monitor seemed to echo through the quiet room, bouncing off the pale yellow walls and the chocolate floor. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was the ceiling; it was white and speckled, and the specks seemed to wriggle and dance in my blurred vision like thousands of dark maggots. I felt my toes next as I was drawn from my deep slumber. They were cool, and I shifted a little, trying to push them beneath the heavy blanket that was folded at the end of the bed. Thin, cool sheets were draped over my emaciated form like virgin snow. My knees were tiny hills on the white landscape; my bony hands, the color of the sheets, were folded neatly at my ribs. The mattress felt hard beneath me, and I imagined that a coffin would probably be more comfortable. This line of thought brought painful memories to my hazed mind as in the background I could hear the wheels of a cart as it rolled passed my door down the hallway. By my bed was an IV bag dangling from its metal stem; the liquid within was dripping almost in time with the steady beeping of the monitor. I noticed flowers by one of the two long windows that stood side by side on the wall to the right of my bed. The red, blue and yellow striped curtains had been pulled back sometime while I had slept to allow the sun to spill into the room. A light hung from the ceiling by a thin cord, dangling motionlessly over a tan and white table that rested against the small space between the windows. Two chairs sat across from each other, facing each other, on each side of the table; the wood of the chairs matched the tan coloring of the table’s legs. The cushions of the chairs were a strange, dark honey color. I could just see the tips of the trees from the windows; the green leaves dancing in a gentle breeze. The leaves, they were beginning to change, and I cringed, forcing myself to move my leaden arms so that I might turn my back to those windows, to the fading spring.

I drew my legs up to my chest and draped one arm around the stirring sheets, my fingertips pressed against the prominent bones of my shin that laid beneath the sheets. My other hand I lifted to my head, brushing my trembling fingers against the bare skin where my hair was beginning to grow back. The growing hairs felt soft and fuzzy; I could remember once when it had been long, at least to my shoulders, and how it danced in the wind and fell before my eyes like a pale, flaxen curtain. Shivering, I lowered my eyes to look down at the needle and tube that was attached to my hand. The tube ran back to the IV bag; it was pumping sustenance into my veins. I dared not eat. I told them I would not eat, and they had done this to force me. I could not understand why they wanted to prolong my life.

My other hand lowered from my head to touch the tube and I caressed it with the tips of my pale fingers. My eyes lifted, looking at the bed across from me. The curtain that had separated my bed from the other had been drawn back. There were balloons on loose, curling strings hanging on a little table by the bed. Light from the windows danced on the colors of the balloons, scattering shards of purple, pink, yellow and blue light onto the neatly folded sheets of the bed. Cards hung by colored tacks on a bulletin board. They begged for a miracle, these cards; they begged and pleaded despite their bright colors and happy smiles. There was a deep, unfathomable pain behind them, but they brought a small smile to my face nonetheless. That person there, the one whose bed was now empty, that person had been loved and had loved.

RED HOLE excerpt

They have not wanted peace at all; they have wanted to be spared war -- as though the absence of war was the same as peace. -Dorothy Thompson

They were all dead.

His bloodied and calloused hands wove the last emerald stem between the mud caked laces of the boots he had recovered from the field. With a small sniff, he sat back on his heels, turning his head slowly to look about the rectangular room. A row of empty boots bordered the wall, each with their laces tangled about the stem of a drooping wildflower.

Altogether there were close to thirty pairs of mud and blood stained boots. The boy lifted his hand and brushed his dirty fingers beneath his lower eyelid wearily, grimacing as his broken nail scratched the puffy, irritated skin. Slowly, he pressed his palms to the floor beneath him and he rose to his feet, his eyes traveling over the tables and chairs that cluttered the small space.

On one of the tables pressed against the wall was littered with yellowy, dusty pages stained with ebony ink and faint, fading pencil scratches. They were all letters and notes from family and lovers and friends. A few photos laid across the letters, but they were crinkled and folded and the places and people printed on the paper were barely distinguishable now. Silently, the boy moved from the room through a little hallway that had been dug into the side of the main room’s dirt wall. The underground base had always made him feel claustrophobic, but now, now that he was alone, it felt too big… too empty.

Like a tomb.

He made a sharp turn to the right and stopped as he reached the small nook that had been dug to store supplies. Sinking to one knee, he touched the warm canteens, lifting them one by one and shaking them by his ear for any sound of moisture. Once he was sure they were all empty, he rose again and brushed off the knees of his pants, succeeding only in smearing blood and mud from his fingers onto the weary cloth. Among the empty canteens were crushed, empty cigarette boxes, empty packets of food; everything was empty now.

The boy wandered aimlessly back to the large room, his eyes again falling on the boots before he looked to the metal ladder that stood in the center of the room that led to the trapdoor that opened to the world of the living.

After a moment’s pause, he moved to the ladder and stretched his hands above his head to curl his fingers about one of the cool, metal rungs. Wearily, the boy ascended, his breath escaping from his lungs in soft gasps. He soon reached the topmost rung and tilted his head back to look up at the dusty trapdoor that was stained with bloody fingerprints.

Lifting one hand from the cool rung, he lifted the latch and ducked beneath the door as it swung inward. He lingered there a moment between the hole and the surface, listening for sounds of footsteps or the thunderous rumblings of vehicles. Both would be immediately apparent in the thick silence that hung over the sandy, barren land above him.

Hearing nothing, he slid his hand out of the door, his fingers dancing across the hot sand until their tips found the rough bark of the roots of a tall, plump, twisted tree. His other hand followed, and both tightened about the root as the boy pulled his upper half out of the hole, collapsing onto the burning sand with a heavy sigh. His legs followed, and soon he was sprawled next to the arching, twisting roots that rose from the sand about the edges of the hole.

After laying there a moment motionless, listening to the emptiness about him, he rose to his feet and lifted one hand to brush it awkwardly through his tangled, blonde hair. Blinking in the harsh light of the sun reflecting against the hard sand, he stepped forward and began to walk.

Bombs and grenades had long destroyed the landscape, leaving it a vast, desolate desert. The boy, as he walked, could not remember how the area had looked before the war; he could not even recall the area’s name. He knew it had once been a great city, and it had had vibrant, green trees and grass. Perhaps it had been a park. He nodded to himself, pressing the side of his wrist against his forehead to try to block the sun from his eyes; a park sounded nice.

He could almost imagine the creaking of swings and the squeaks of a seesaw. It was almost as if he could see their hazy outlines on the horizon just ahead: a bumpy, glistening slide; a bright red swing set; a yellow merry-go-round; and children. He could hear their laughter just over the crunching of the sand beneath his boots.

For a moment, he let himself believe that if he continued he would reach that peaceful place. The illusion was torn away from him too soon; a bead of sweat trickled down into his eyes, causing them to sting terribly. By the time his tears had risen to cleanse his eyes of the painful substance, the image was gone and with it, the laughter.

Out there away from the memories of his fallen comrades, the boy felt the weight of his situation crashing down on his shoulders. His throat was dry, and his tongue clung to the roof of his mouth painfully as he tried to swallow. His saliva had turned to grains of sand, and he coughed, scattering dust from his dirty uniform. The particles immediately rushed to fill his nostrils as he tried to take a deep breath to steady himself, and he sneezed, shuddering softly as blood sprinkled the ground from his nose.

Sniffling, he forced his tongue down and began to heavily breathe, bending and resting his hands on his knees. Tilting up his head, he saw his destination just ahead, and he took an awkward step forward in the same position before standing straight again. His destination was the carcass of a vehicle that had been bringing the enemy supplies. The boy and those with him had somehow managed to take it down and kill is occupants. They had left the bodies and taken most of the supplies back to the base with the intention of returning the next day to retrieve the rest.

They had never gotten the chance.

That night was the night that the resistance was destroyed except for the single boy who was now stepping over a disintegrating ribcage. He paused, looking down at a crumbling skull warily as he approached the vehicle and knelt down beside of it. He pushed back the heavy tarp that had covered the supplies, and he peered into the shaded space a moment then reached inside and pulled free a canteen. Turning, he plopped down onto the hard, dry ground, leaning his back against the skeleton of the vehicle as he unscrewed the top of the canteen and lifted it to his lips. The burning liquid stung his tongue and lips, but he swallowed anyway, grimacing in pain. The second drink was easier, and soon he had drained the canteen. He dropped the canteen to the ground and laid still for a moment to allow the liquid to settle in his stomach before he glanced beneath the tarp again, looking for any sign of food. His eyes caught the dull glint of a wrapper, and his hand shot inside like a striking snake, his fingers immediately closing around the package as he tugged it out. It was a candy bar, melted and flat and one with the wrapper, but to the boy it was like manna from heaven.

Bad Day

Going through the mall I found you, my fiancé,
Entangled in the arms of another, lips pressed
Together and tongues locked in a deceitful dance.
Wasn’t it just the day before that you dropped
Down on one knee to propose to me? The ring
That brightens my finger, isn’t it yours
That you gave as a token of your love?
So indignant I strode to you and tore you
From her embrace and while you plead to me
I drove my fist into her face before turning on you
And striking you across that lying cheek.
I was thrown out of the mall, of course, but
If you wish, you can find the ring among the dead
Bushes that border the front of the mall.
I have no need of such a token anymore.
In fury and slightly embarrassed from being thrown
Out of the mall for causing a disturbance, I got back
To my job where I was being trained in the art of tattooing.
When I arrived, I was told I was late.
Promptly I was fired and sent back to my car. I was
In such a fury that I was nearly weeping as I drove.
My distress hindered my best judgment, and
I ran through the yellow light without pausing to look.
A drunk driver sped through the still red light,
Impaled my chair, destroying in the passenger seat
Beyond recognition and repair. My new car
Totaled in an instant. Now I’m car-less, job-less,
And boyfriend-less. True story.
I should write a country song.

Final Draft: Short Story

SHERBET

It was a typical Monday morning.

Rain was falling softly against the flat roof of the decrepit school building and dripping down like tears against the dusty windows of the cafeteria. A bus pulled up behind the windows, and from my position I could watch as the students scrambled in with books and half opened umbrellas hovering over their heads to block out the cold droplets.

I was sitting at one of the long, chronically dirty tables that filled the vast emptiness that was the cafeteria. The masses of students that surrounded my tiny, personal bubble were all chattering amongst themselves over the latest break up or other such trivial drama that mean everything in high school. Ten years later I wouldn’t remember the words that were floating through that thin atmosphere. It wouldn’t matter that the book I was reading to keep myself from feeling awkward without someone to talk to was A Separate Peace by John Knowles. What I would always remember about that seemingly normal Monday morning, was the soft tap of his shoes as he walked toward me and the abrupt and casual way that he said my name.

My eyes drifted from the pages of my book just as Phineas was about to jump into the water, and I blinked as I stared at the boy in front of me. He was tall and lanky; and his messy, light brown hair was swept back from his eyes. His eyes were hazel, and they peered at me in obvious familiarity. My hand nervously lifted to toy with a lock of my blonde hair.

“Hi?” I replied vaguely, wondering who he was and why he had decided to grace me with his presence.

“Don’t you remember me?” He lifted a hand and ran his long fingers through his hair.

My mind went to work, processing his features and his movements as quickly as possible to try to match him up with the handful of people I knew. I had been home schooled until tenth grade and had been blessed with a strict Christian family that drastically limited my social life. I was sure I had no idea who the handsome boy sitting in front of me was.

“No, I’m sorry,” I finally admitted with a shrug of my shoulders. “I don’t.”

“Robert. Its me Robert.” He replied absently as he looked down at his lap and fumbled with an mp3 player. I was very glad he wasn’t looking at me when he said this. My mouth dropped open, and I began to remember his eyes and his voice. He had changed so much since the last time I saw him, which was when I was eleven. He had lived in the house across from mine, and on my eleventh birthday, he had picked up and left without as much as a goodbye. Back then he had been a little on the heavy side and very awkward with his long arms and big feet.

“Robert, I don’t believe it. You look so different.”

“Is that a good thing?” he looked up again at me, raising one of his brows.

“Oh, of course!” I stammered nervously, feeling a blush creeping into my cheeks.

The bell rang, and I cursed its terrible timing as I stood up and leaned down to grab the straps of my abnormally heavy book bag. He continued to talk while I wrestled my hair from the straps of my bag.

“… so I can call sometime.”

I slung my purse over my shoulder and turned back to him in confusion. “What?”

“Your number?” he repeated patiently, glancing over his shoulder to look out of the windows toward the buses.

“Oh, yes!” I fumbled into my purse for a pen as he held out his hand to me. For a moment I was unsure as to what he wanted me to do, but all of those teenage romance movies saved me. I found myself scribbling down the numbers awkwardly onto his palm before pushing the pen back down into my purse. Once he had gotten the string of numbers, he drifted away from the table where I still stood, dumbfounded.

It turned out that I didn’t have to wait very long for that first phone call, and before I could catch my breath, I was his girlfriend.

Our first date, he was thirty minutes late.

We had planned on going to the movies then out to eat afterwards, but he was hungry so we changed our plans and went to eat before hand. The restaurant was a quite pizza parlor on a street corner right across from the little theatre. There were small booths around the edges of the restaurant and round tables in the middle. He chose one of the booths by a window, and we sat down on opposite sides of the table. The waitress took our order then left us alone in silence.

As sad as it may seem, this was my first date ever. Up until this point, I was not allowed to even speak of the opposite sex, and if I did slip up and mention them, my father would quickly end the conversation with one of his trademark glares. Plus, it was hard to meet people when you spend most of your time at home.

The food arrived and we thanked the waitress quietly before beginning to eat. Conversation between us was slightly awkward and filled with many awkward pauses in which I tried to keep my eyes focused out of the window by our table or fill the void in activity by shoving food down my throat. During one of those lulls in conversation, I caught Robert staring out of the window with a strange look on his face. Blinking, I realized that that goofy grin was the same kind I saw when the guys at my high school were checking out the cheerleaders. As this train of thought was rumbling through the stations of my mind, I immediately turned to follow his gaze to the sidewalk outside.

I was met with the sight of a tall, hourglass shaped female wearing black slacks and stilettos strutting away, swinging her hips slowly as if she were crossing a runway instead of sidewalk. When I looked back at him, his eyes were still fixed on her and those swaying hips. I discreetly cleared my throat and that brought his eyes back to me for a moment before they glanced back outside. When he looked at me again, he smiled and went back to eating as if nothing had happened.

“I love pants like that. They look so sexy.” He said with a chuckle as he took a sip of his soda. I was still staring at him with a kind of blank expression; I wasn’t sure what to do or say to convey how I was feeling. He must have noticed my expression, because after a pause to examine my eyes, he quickly added that he had been imagining me in those pants instead of really paying attention to that girl.

Strangely enough, I took him at his word.

In retrospect it probably wasn’t the best idea to believe such an obviously untrue story, but I cared for him though I wouldn’t have called it love. We said that we loved each other, sure, but it didn’t feel that way. We barely saw each other outside of school, and we never kissed. One day at school when we were sitting in the cafeteria before classes, he did something that to this day, I still cannot fully believe.

His hand had been resting on my thigh, and we were talking about something inconsequential such as our jobs. I was so wrapped up in complaining about the evils of fast food employment that I didn’t really notice when his hand moved. I did, however, notice when he began to run his hand along my inner thigh. “Can I touch you?” He was asking me, but even as he spoke, he was already touching me.

I can’t even begin to describe how it felt, but I was glad when the bell finally rung for class to start. I hadn’t been able to answer him, and when I hurriedly stood and gathered my things, all I could do was stammer a good-bye and a promise that I’d call him after school.

The rest of that day, all I could think about was what had happened that morning. It might sound childish, but I was raised in a strict, sheltered Christian family. This kind of thing happening to me was shocking. I was naïve and the thought that guys were not the sweet, noble creatures that lived in the world of ink and paper was devastating for me. So that day, I couldn’t pay attention to the lessons.

Instead, I listened to the rain pattering outside on the windows, and I kept my legs crossed.

This turned out to not just be a one time thing with him.

Everyday, he asked the same thing as he touched me. Of course, I would object to this, but he would keep pestering me until I finally grumbled a ‘yes’ just to get him to stop talking about it.

Afterwards I always felt as if I had done something wrong. As stupid as it may sound, I felt like I had been raped even though he was touching me through my clothes. I hated it, and I knew that I couldn’t keep this up.

So I talked to him about it, but that didn’t do any good. He would not stop, no matter what I said. No matter how much I begged and cried, he didn’t want to stop. “Its my favorite spot,” He’d say. After three months of dealing and trying to get him to stop, I broke up with him.

That night after the break up was the first night the orange sherbet appeared in my freezer.

It had always been my favorite ice cream, and I was so depressed about our break up that I went to the store and grabbed two cases of it from the chilly containers at the grocery store. Robert had told me that I would not find a guy better than him. “At least this is all I do.” He would tell me when I expressed my extreme displeasure with his touching habits.

The next morning, my mother found a spoon and a bowl with traces of the melted orange treat in the sink.

I wandered through life alone for a month or two, recuperating from the relationship with Robert. It was him that first put that small seed of fear in me. I didn’t feel the same way about guys, and I was almost afraid that if I had another boyfriend, he would do the same thing Robert had. That’s when I met Jacob.

Jacob was in French class with my best friend Annette. I had only seen him a few times when I was standing outside of the door waiting on Annette to come from class. He would walk by and glance my way with those round, blue eyes of his before continuing on his way. One day, I asked Annette about him, and I found out that me and him had a whole lot in common.

“He likes to draw, just like you do,” She told me one day as she sat across from me at the picnic tables outside. She went on and on, and the list of things we both liked grew longer and longer. I thought about him that night after school, and the next day when I was waiting for my friend Annette, I actually looked at him for the first time when he passed by.

He had shaggy black hair, those blue eyes, and he was only a few inches taller than me. He wore lots of black and reds like I did; he had a slender build and he was altogether a perfect example of my perfect guy. I had always wanted someone like him. So I did something I had never done up to that point.

I approached him first.

The next morning when he walked by, I stepped up to him and gave him a hug. When I pulled away, he laughed and smiled at me. “What was that for?” He asked as he ran a hand through his hair.

“Today is random hug day,” I explained with a shrug, feeling a blush painting my cheeks.

“Do you have an instant messenger?” He went on to ask as he pulled out a small piece of paper and a mechanical pencil. I nodded dumbly and watched as he scribbled down his screen name and handed the paper to me. “Message me later.”

When I got home that night, I immediately messaged him and we talked for a long while about the most random things. We properly introduced ourselves, and soon we were talking everyday at and after school.

It was during one of those times after school when we were talking on the instant messenger that he asked me to the senior prom. I agreed immediately, and the next day we sealed our arrangement with our first kiss.

The prom was the next weekend, so we had to scramble to get things together. He didn’t have his tuxedo and I didn‘t have a dress, but we had the tickets and each other and for a while that was all that mattered.

I ended up buying a black and white dress. The dress was perfect, it was in my size, and it was on sale. God was with me, and He wanted this to work out. The thought gave me a light feeling, and I felt like I could fly. I had been praying so much lately about everything. About Jacob and my life and what I was going to do, and now it seemed like I was getting the answer to my prayers.

Jacob was the answer.

Jacob was my happily ever after.

Instead of spending time and money on a professional, my mother fixed up my hair and makeup. Surprisingly, that was the first time I ever wore makeup. I had never thought I had needed it. Not that I thought I was so beautiful as to not require makeup, but I saw makeup as a kind of mask. I liked being honest about my looks. Prom night, however, was a different story. I wanted to look perfect.

We picked Jacob up at his house, and my mother drove us to a buffet for our before prom dinner. The conversation was casual, and we had to talk a little loud because we were in a room with a large group of older people. One couple coming into the room paused when they saw us and smiled knowingly; the woman touched my shoulder. “Newlyweds?” They asked us with beaming smiles.

We glanced at each other then shook our heads, smiling nervously as we replied that no, we were not married, we were just going to the prom. The elderly couple nodded, still smiling, and waddled over to the other table to sit with the rest of the group.

Despite such a weird beginning, the night went by like a dream.

We arrived at the Country Club where our prom was to be held, and my mother pulled away, leaving us to stand at the doors alone. I don’t think I have ever felt as free as I did when her car was gone.

Inside, there was a large, open dance floor with a cluster of tables at one side and the DJ’s table on the other. There were two doorways and a hall that led from the dance floor. One door led to a sitting room with ornate couches and a loveseat; the other door led to a room with more tables; the hallway led to a small, open area with a long table holding food and a bar. Obviously the bar did not serving alcohol to us, but most of my friends wished they had.

Me and Jacob sat down at one of the tables on the dance floor and began to talk. While we were there, Robert and his fiancé showed up and sat down across from us. After a few moments of tense conversation, they left and wandered off, leaving me and Jacob alone again.

"What’s wrong?" Jacob finally asked, slipping his arm around my shoulders and tugging me close.

“That was my ex.” I said with a frown, looking down into the water that was swirling around in my plastic goblet.

"Oh, I wish I had known that sooner." He grumbled, looking in the direction Robert and the female had gone. I must have looked a little worried that he would start something, because he then laughed and lifted his hands in surrender. "I’ll be a good boy, don’t worry."

And he was. We didn’t speak badly or ignore my ex and his new girl. In fact, we spoke pleasantly and took a picture of them together.

Then we danced.

I must admit, for the fast paced rap songs, I was lost and just stood with Jacob’s arms around my waist, watching the others. I gave in to the pleadings of my friends and tried to dance to one of the songs. I failed miserably, but it was fun to try, and the friend I was dancing with, who was female, danced just as poorly as I.

Annette and her boyfriend we naturals. They both swayed and rocked their hips to the music. She had told me before that dancing at prom was like clothed sex, and, watching the two of them, I understood what she meant. It was amazing to watch, and soon others were joining in. Annette had always been a trend setter.

I danced the slow songs with Jacob.

I had been told that there were hardly any slow songs played at the junior prom, which I had not attended, and I had worried that I would not be able to dance at all. My worries were groundless, however, the DJ played several slow songs for the poor souls like me who could not ‘pop, lock, and drop it.’

It was like heaven.

The music drifting around us like clouds; the lights traveling soothingly about the floor and casting shades of blues, greens, and reds on our faces; the gentle, swaying motions; his arms around me; it was heaven. Pure heaven.

For the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to feel as if you were walking on air. It seemed to me that the ground had dropped away. Pink and white, fluffy clouds had replaced the dark floor, and a sunny, blue sky had taken the spot of the ceiling above us. There were no other dancers, only birds that sang the melodies and words that were drifting like sweet, nurturing lullabies into our ears.

We kissed.

For the first time, I was really kissed. His tongue slipped into my mouth, and mine responded. Another, private dance occupied our attention, and then the kiss ended, and we fell back into our gentle swaying. After a few dances, we went into the sitting room and sat down on one of the couches.

I was nestled against him with his arm was around my shoulders. I rested my head against his shoulder and smiled a little, closing my eyes as he held me under the soft lights that brightened the area.

The rest of the night passed like a dream, and like dreams, it ended far too soon. I came home exhausted, but nearly dying with happiness. I thought that my troubles were over, and that I had finally found what I needed in a guy.

I went to bed thinking that one day, I would marry Jacob.

Summer came. We graduated, and I hugged Jacob and kissed him as we went to our cars in our caps and gowns. I went on a small vacation with my mother, it was my graduation present, then came home to relax.

We went out a lot. We spoke online as well, not to mention he called. I was suddenly getting a whole lot of attention, and I wasn’t quite sure if I liked it. Our favorite place for a date was behind a park in the woods. There was a large, smooth rock at the edge of these woods by a creek. Jacob carved our initials into one of the tree trunks.

We would lay together on the rock and kiss, nothing more, nothing less.

Until that one day.

It was just like any other park date. We stepped off of the paved trail and trekked off into the woods to our rock, pausing only to look at the markings he had made on the tree. We laid down on the rock like we always do, and true to routine, we began to kiss. This time was different.

This time, he shifted and flung one leg over mine and nearly laid himself on top of me. This made me a little nervous, because I couldn’t get up. I was mildly claustrophobic, and having no area of escape made me uneasy. I pushed the thoughts aside and concentrated on kissing him, forgetting everything else until I felt his hand slide up my shirt.

His hand continued until his fingers were brushing against my bare breast. A shockwave of alarm broke through my thoughts of his lips against mine. I pulled away slightly and told him in a quite but firm voice to please stop. My repeated pleas fell upon deaf ears, however, and he continued, whispering to me that I had nothing to fear. He wouldn’t hurt me. He loved me.

It was the time that saved me.

I heard the alarm on my phone, and he pulled away and got off of me, allowing me to sit up. “I have to go, dad is expecting me,” I said as I looked at the digital numbers.

He shrugged and nodded and walked me to my car.

We broke up a week after that, and two used spoons and bowls, still marred with melted orange liquid, appeared in the sink for mother to wash.

I cried until I fell asleep. This is how I was able to sleep those next few days. I never could think of guys the same way. I was nervous around all of them because I felt that they all wanted what my ex-boyfriends had wanted.

It wasn’t so bad, being single. I could hang out with my female friends and flirt with my guy friends without the pressures of having a boyfriend. My guy friends didn’t like me, though I must admit I had a crush on one or two of them. They all loved Annette, but for a while that was fine with me. Even though I liked some of my guy friends, I didn’t feel ready for another relationship. I was too afraid to love someone the way I had loved Jacob. I was afraid I would be disappointed all over again. Annette had been there through it all and helped me to recover; me and her became as close as sisters.

I remember once when she and I were talking about our futures and what kind of husbands we would have. I told her that I could see her as a famous actress with a business man as a husband. They’d both make a great deal of money, obviously, and they would live in a big, ritzy mansion in New York or some other large city. She’d have two kids, a gothic, rebellious son, and an older, preppy daughter. Annette told me that that is exactly what she wanted, and I honestly told her I could see it happening. When she asked what I saw for myself, I responded that I could see myself in an two story, old farmhouse out in the country with a dog and a computer.

Yes, I was going to be alone, and I was beginning to feel it wouldn’t be so bad.

Then I met Abel.

Abel was tall, slightly pale, black haired and blue eyed, and had just the right amount of muscles. He wasn’t bulky, and he wasn’t skinny. He was perfection in human form. I had dreamed once that I had a guardian angel, and in the dream, that angel had looked exactly like Abel did.

By this time, I was well into my first year at college. When I saw him, he took my breath away. I nearly leapt out of my seat and yelled at him from across the room that he was my angel and mine alone. Turned out that I didn’t need to do that at all. He had seen me around the college even though I hadn’t seen him before, and we soon started to talk to each other.

We seemed to click right off the bat, and we soon were dating.

Days became weeks, weeks turned to months, and months to a year. We were inseparable. After a happy year together, I felt secure and safe in the belief that he was really the one. I could imagine no other. He never touched me in a disrespectful way, he held open doors, he pulled out chairs, he was a singer, and he wrote songs for me. Everything was like a dream.

I let my guard down, and I let myself fall madly in love with him.

Naturally, as we got closer, I began to bring him along when me and my family and friends went on outings together. Annette and him immediately became friends, and exchanged numbers. They talked and hung out almost as much as me and him did, and all of us together were the happiest group there ever was.

Then it happened.

It was a normal Friday night at the mall with Annette, Abel hadn’t been able to come because he was babysitting his younger sister while his parents went out for their anniversary. I had offered to stay with him and little Kristen, but he had told me to go ahead and go out with Annette and to have a good time.

Annette and I were sitting in the food court, finishing up our pizza when she sighed softly and sadly. I glanced up at her, immediately concerned about her. She was always so wild and energetic, but that night she had been very quiet and thoughtful. I knew something big had to be going on, so it was with great trepidation that I asked. “What’s up, Annette?”

She didn’t look up at me when she answered that nothing was up, and I was not fooled. It took several minutes of nagging for me to finally get her to talk and what she said when she did talk took my breath away.

“I’m afraid if I tell you, you’ll get mad,” She said with a shrug, her eyes locked onto mine.

I shook my head in disagreement. “I promise, I won’t get mad no matter what it is.”

"Leslie, I think… I think I’m in love with Abel!” She blurted out then covered her mouth with both of her hands as if she hadn’t really meant to tell me.

Everything faded away, and in place of the open food court and Annette sitting in front of me with a blaring orange sherbet ad hanging behind her, in its place was Abel. It was as if I were watching one of those Lifetime movies, only I couldn’t change the channel or cut it off. I had to sit and watch helplessly as the memories rolled in front of my eyes like a montage.

How could I have not seen it before?

Those looks they shared. The casual touches, the smiles, the laughs, the hugs, even the occasional kiss on the cheek that I had brushed off. I might have missed it then, but I was sure seeing it all now. I felt my eyes beginning to burn as I was struck with a wretched epiphany.

"Leslie!" She yelled, and I was brought back to the present, to Annette. I blinked. It was all I could do not to burst into tears then and there. "Is everything okay? I’m sorry, this is why I didn’t want to say anything." She murmured guiltily.

“No, I’m fine! I just felt a little dizzy. I always get that way during my period.” I lied. I hadn’t even started my period that month, but a small lie was the least of my worries. God would forgive me. He would understand. “In fact, Annette. I’m feeling kind of sick. I think I should call it a night.” I could feel my dinner rushing back up my throat even as I choked out the words.

"Oh, that’s fine!" She said nodding. "Are you sure it wasn’t because of what I said?"

“I promise! Don’t worry so much!” I laughed, though to this day I really don’t know how I managed it.

"Okay, well. I think I’m going to hang out here for a little while, is that okay?" Annette said with a nervous smile as she glanced down at the face of her watch.

“Don’t you need a ride home?” I asked with a frown. After all, I had driven her up there and it was getting pretty late.

"Nah, its okay. I can get a ride. You just go home and feel better! Get some ice cream, maybe that’ll help." She advised as she pulled out her cell phone and began punching in numbers rapidly.

I felt like I was going to vomit.

Even though I was out of high school, I was still living with my parents, so I received a bunch of questions when I got home. Did I have a good time? How was Annette? I answered the questions as quickly as I could then rushed into my room and locked the door.

For a minute, I stood there, leaning against the door in silence. When I finally moved, I trudged over to my nightstand and grabbed my cell phone, dialing Abel’s number. I wanted to talk to him and to hear him say that he loved me and not Annette. I ended up talking to just his voicemail. I asked him to call when he got the chance, but for some reason, I knew he wouldn’t be calling that night.

We had been dating for a year and a half when he made the phone call that dreary Sunday, two days after I had left him the message, and he asked me to meet him at the old Fisherman Park that night. He said he had something to talk to me about.

It had been raining that afternoon, the grass was still damp, but the air was warm. The moon was full and beautiful, and the stars were winking at me as they whispered secrets to one another. I was wearing faded American Eagle blue jeans and a black, zip up hooded sweatshirt that I had purposefully gotten in a size or two too big. I liked them to fit big. My blonde hair was hanging in waves against my shoulders. My dark, brown eyes were fixed on the sky.

As I walked beneath one of the trees in the abandoned, old park, it sprinkled raindrops on my face. They ran down like tears across my cheeks.

I found him sitting on a picnic table in the middle of the park, and I stopped. He hadn’t seen me yet, and I wanted to prolong what I was sure was to be a dreadful conversation for as long as I could. I let my eyes wonder numbly over the rusted merry-go-round and the forlorn slide. Gray puddles had formed in the sandbox, and the swings were eerily swinging to and fro without occupants.

"Leslie?" I heard him call to me, and it broke me from my thoughts. I looked up, but I did not move. He walked to me, that beautiful smile brightening his face so that he seemed to shine like the very stars above us.

He truly was an angel.

I felt like dying.

“Leslie, the reason I brought you out here, is because I have something very important to talk to you about.” He said as he lead me to a dry bench that was resting inside of a small gazebo that was located just beyond the swing set.

“Yeah, just… what did you want to talk to me about?” I asked shakily as I sat down.

The small box in his hand answered that for me. I began to cry with joy as he sat beside of me and opened the box, the ring glistening in the dim light.

He did love me! I wasn’t going to lose him after all. Quite the opposite, I was getting him forever. I was sure this was going to be the happiest night of my life. That is, until he began to talk.

“I got this for Annette.” He whispered, his eyes fixed on the small diamond. My smile slowly vanished, and I stared at him for a moment in disbelief before I asked him to repeat what he had said.

“Excuse me?” I whispered, not trusting myself to try to say anything more.

“Me and Annette have gotten really close, Leslie. I know this is hard to hear, but I think I love her. I want her to marry me.” He continued talking, but I didn’t hear anymore after that. I couldn’t breathe. I stood up and walked from the bench, outside of the gazebo and stepped onto the squishy, damp grass.

I was trembling, and I couldn’t stop the tears from pouring down my face like rivers. Oh, God. I thought to myself. Why did You create the heart? Why did You allow such pain? Why couldn’t this just be a dream?

“I’m really sorry, Leslie. I hope we can still be friends.” He had stepped up behind me while I was crying, and I felt his hand against my shoulder. His words shattered me, and I felt a physical pain tear through my chest as I fought back another sob.

It was during those few moments of silence before he apologized again that I somehow forced a smile. “I love you, Abel, and I love Annette. I want you both to be happy.” My voice was thick from tears, but he seemed to think that I was telling the truth. That I was really okay with what he was doing. He tilted my face up and kissed me. My whole body was shaking when the kiss ended, and I watched him as he walked away.

I stood in the park until I couldn’t hear the hum of his car anymore. Then, and only then, did I go back to my car and drive back to my house.

I didn’t hear from either Abel or Annette again until they called to announce their wedding.

The months of preparation passed by in a hazy blur.

I was a bridesmaid at the wedding, and I smiled and congratulated them like a good friend should. I could see in Abel’s eyes a happiness and love that I had never been able to spark in him, and Annette was indescribable. She cried, she laughed, she never let go of Abel. I immediately knew that this was how things were meant to be, but it didn’t make it any easier.

It all brought me to this point.

Rain was falling that night. It was a soft, whispering sort of rain. The kind of rain that reminded me of that day in the park.

I was sitting on the couch in my living room, wearing my Snoopy pajama pants, a tank-top, and a black jacket that was slipping loosely down my shoulder. A blanket was draped over my bent legs, and a container of orange sherbet ice cream was nestled in my lap, a spoon protruding from its open top. In front of me, scampering across the television screen, was a happy couple.

I switched the channels, but the story was the same no matter what I watched. People always got happy endings; they always ended up with a significant other.

Flicking the television set off in annoyance, I flung the remote control to the coffee table and watched as it skidded across the surface and knocked into the pot of a small plant that ornamented the table. For several moments, I just stared at the remote as if it was the reason for my unhappiness. Fumbling blindly for my spoon, I glanced to the portrait on my entertainment center in a shelf above my television. It was picture of Annette, Abel, and their kid.

It had been about a year or two since they had been married. Abel had gone into business, and Annette had been discovered by a vacationing movie director on her and Abel’s honeymoon to California. She was now filming in Australia for her role in a new adventure movie. She had a little girl resting in her arms in the picture. That girl was named Paige, and she, even as a baby, was wearing designer clothes. I had just gotten a call earlier that day that had informed me that Annette was pregnant again, and it was a boy.

When she wasn’t filming, Annette and Abel and their gorgeous little girl lived in a huge house in New York. So, Annette had gotten what she wanted. What I had predicted she would get.

As for me, a month after that cold, lonely, rainy night, I moved into my current house. An old, two story farmhouse that sat nestled among fields of golden wheat and tall grass. Abel and Annette had given me a collie as a house warming gift.

I named her Faith.

That night, sitting alone on the couch and staring at the picture of Annette and her family, I made a decision.

The next morning the orange sherbet lay in the trash can

You Know Who You Are

Its not surprising that when I look at my room I see you
I see you in the bed sheets and the rug, you know who you are
There’s a turtle at the head of my bed that you held
A stuffed dog that you made out with, you know who you are
Its not surprising that I can hear your voice when I’m listening
To the songs that repeat from my computer’s speakers
There’s a spot in my room where we both sat, its not surprising
That when I see my mirror, you’re there too, you know who you are
I suppose I should have expected this when we parted, that
When I’d go through my files, there you’d be dancing
We taped a fake make out session on my bed and bought
For the first time cigarettes that we never smoked
Its not surprising at all, you know who you are
There’s a place in the mall that was our place, you recall
You shared a space on my bed one night, as well
Because your back was aching, it always was, you remember
I’m sure no one else will understand, you know who you are
We have seen each other rise and fall, soar and hit rock bottom
Laughs and tears and joy and fear and guys at restaurants
Its not surprising that I miss you still, though all was for the best
I still want to see your wedding, though we won’t have a double
As we had planned, I still believe you’re destined for greatness
Maybe, as we fancied, I’ll still be your black clad maid
I hope our paths will cross again, I still look back on the bridge I burned
Someday maybe we’ll swim the gap and found our society after all
Until that day, if it does come, when it does come, forget me not
Its not surprising that I don’t have to say who its for, if you read this
You know who you are.