All of Her: Chapter Twenty-Two

I don't go back to the apartment. Not even to pack everything when I find someone to take over my lease. I move in with Clark for a short time, unable to face the sympathy in my mother's face or the overwhelming sadness when I'm alone.

"Until you get back on your feet." he says, as he helps Noah and Kevin carry my stuff into his spare room. I sit in the middle of a pile of boxes, my knees pulled up to my chest and staring out the window. I stay like this for several days before Clark drags me out of the apartment for dinner. I have taken up smoking French cigarettes since Annabelle's death. Before we eat, I insist on standing outside the restaurant for a little while swallowing lungfuls of poison. Clark doesn't try to stop me, though he clearly wants to. Maybe he believes I'll stop on my own. Maybe he doesn't think it is his place to tell me what I should and shouldn't do.

I eat sparingly, much to his chagrin. When he thinks I'm not looking he slips an extra spoonful of whatever onto my plate. I, in turn, pretend not to notice this growing mound of uneaten food and continue to push it around my plate. He tries to engage me in conversation, but I have nothing to say. Nothing that I want to say. Nothing that I could bear to say. He eventually gives up and takes me back to his apartment.

Once we are inside I kiss him. He resists at first, but I know he hasn't had a steady girlfriend since me. I need the contact. And, in the end, he doesn't refuse. He is as gentle as he has ever been, but it doesn't really matter. I am too numb to really feel the difference between gentle and violent. I don't even orgasm, though I fake it splendidly. I didn't want to, I just wanted to feel something, skin on skin. Feel someone inside of me, a part of me.

While Clark is at work, I visit her grave. I lie beside her, watching the clouds chase the sun across the sky. I talk to her as though she was alive. I smoke. I watch mourners and lollygaggers march like ants through the cemetery. Loud wails and badly sung hymns become normality to me. I don't eat or even cry anymore. I just sit and smoke. I strain my ears for anything that may come from the corpse lying beside me. I have lost all sense of reason.

It is on one such day that Jae finds me. I don't see him, puffing on my cigarette completely zoned out. It isn't until he is next to me that I realize someone is there. He sits down and rests his elbows on his knees.

"When did you take that up?" he asks, nodding toward my cigarette.

"Maybe I've always smoked." I reply, taking another drag.

"You have never smelled like smoke and you never take a break to smoke when you are at the bar."

"You are observant." I say, mockingly. I stub out my cigarette and lay back on the grass. He lays back as well, propping his head up with his hands. "But maybe I am just really good at hiding it."

He just shakes his head, then turns to look at me. His eyes search my face, for what I'm not sure.

"Why are you here?" he asks.

"Because I have no where else to go." I say, simply. I have lost my job at the book store, though my boss said she would gladly take me back once my life gets "straightened out." I have lost Annabelle. I have lost my sanity. I have lost my self-respect. I have lost my hope.

"You could come with me." he says, sitting back up. His back has grass clinging to it and he runs a hand through his hair to dislodge the tiny pieces stuck there. He never seems to smile anymore, I wonder if I have destroyed him like I seem to be destroying everything else. He stands up, dusts off his backside and turns to me, one hand outstretched to help me up.

I don't take his hand, in fact I lie there and pretend to not see him. I stare into the endless sky, pretending I am on a cloud drifting away from everything here. This doesn't stop him. He continues to stand there, one hand outstretched. He looks like God reaching out to mankind, but I am too lazy to reach back. Isn't that the way of religion?

I don't know how long he stays there, waiting for me to acknowledge him. I don't sit up until he has given up and walking away. I stand then thinking I might follow him, maybe try to take back everything. Maybe I could make the attempt. He stops, as if he senses my conundrum, turns and looks at me. He let's a small smile float upon his Cupid's bow lips.

I turn away, though. I know the smile has faded as quickly as it appeared and I can't stand to think that it is my fault. I run to my car, careening like a drunkard on roller-skates. I go to a tiny bar a couple miles from the cemetery. The owners are capitalists, profiting from grief. They have a small dance floor, flashing lights and eclectic taste in music. I drink a shot of tequila to quiet the storm inside me and then I dance until my heart threatens to burst. I feel as though I was buried alive, though I am too tired to fight for air.

I drive slowly back to Clark's apartment. I feel like I am a wound rubbed with salt until I am raw. I park the car in the lot of the complex and I sit there, my cheek resting against the steering wheel. I stare out the window and wonder why I even wanted Annabelle. I wonder why she has such a hold on me, even though she is gone. It doesn't matter, because I can't ever have her. She has been eternally lost to me. I couldn't save her. I can't even save myself, what made me think I should try?

I pull myself from the car, feeling like I'm crawling away from the wreck of my life. I don't go into the apartment. Instead I wander the streets, chain smoking my fancy cigarettes, looking for something, anything. I don't even know what I'm looking for. I catch a glimpse of myself in a window, it makes me stop. I hardly recognize this reflection of myself, she is so different from the girl I used to be. A cigarette hangs from her mouth, her shoulders are hunched as though she were curling into herself. Her hands are stuffed into the pockets of her jacket and her hair is a dull blonde  in a mess of a chignon. Her eyes hold so much sorrow that I can't look her full in the face. It is hard to believe that this woman is me. We are nothing alike.

She looks worn from all the self-imposed tragedies, all the self-inflicted wounds. They aren't visible on the surface, but we both know they are there. I shake my head at her, she does the same. I pull the cigarette from my mouth and watch as she does the same. I touch the glass, but immediately recoil from her and begin to run. For a moment it was Annabelle in the glass and Abra had disappeared completely.

I run until I am too out of breath to continue. When I stop, I collapse to the sidewalk and cry. No one notices, no one stops to ask what is wrong. Its like I've already disappeared. I've become an invisible speed bump on a sidewalk.

He grabs my hands from my face and pulls me up and into his arms. I don't even have to look up. I know who it is. I just cry, two invisible people adrift in a sea of endless faces. He takes me to a cafe and orders a white chocolate mocha for me. He looks terrified as he presses the cup into my shaking hands. Its like he has seen a ghost or maybe he has seen what I've really become.

"Why is it," I say, once I have stopped sobbing and have taken a sip of my drink. "that you always know where to find me? Always know when I need rescuing?"

He smiles, a watery one compared to when we first met. He takes a sip of his drink and reaches across the table to hold one of my hands. His eyes dart across my face, searching for something.

"I don't know where to find you." He says, simply. He shrugs slightly and takes another sip of his drink. "Have you ever heard Plato's explanation of soul mates?"

"That we were once multi-limbed and Zeus split us in half?"

"Yes. Maybe it is that you and I are soul mates. My ability to find you again and again is because you draw me to you. Because you are my other face, the other half that makes me whole."

"Do you honestly believe that?" I ask, looking at our entwined hands.

"You asked for an explanation."

"You could be stalking me." I say, maliciously. I don't believe he is, but I am beginning to feel like a rabid dog, attacking anything near me. He is quiet, not defending himself. I'm not sure if that should make me nervous or not. After a few moments I mumble an apology for being so rude. He still doesn't say anything, his hand still holding mine.

We are quiet for a while, him still holding my hand. I don't resist, I don't try to pull away.

"Sometimes," he says, quietly, not looking at me. "when I run into you, I think I have found my other face. I think I've been lead to you by the half of my soul that begs to be whole. You won't let me in, however and then I begin to think that I am just in a dream. Dreams can be so deceiving when you believe you are awake."

He pauses a moment and then looks up at me, his eyes sparkling and dancing to some music I do not hear.

"I so want you to be my other face, Abra. The little time that I have spent with you has only made me want to spend more with you. I don't want to just sleep with you and then let you go. I couldn't. I want you to be with me, I want us to be whole, be one, and not broken anymore. I want you. I want to help you. Help you save yourself from this spiral you are in."

"I'm not worth saving. You should save yourself the pain and get out now, while you still can."

"I'm too far in to escape now." he says, taking a sip of his drink. He looks at me then, staring into my eyes until I am forced to look away. He grabs my other hand and holds them, gently, on the table. "Let me decide whether the pain I may or may not experience is worth it. You are worth saving, stop saying you aren't. Let me in, Abra."

"You'll be sorry you even tried." I say, pulling my hands out of his grasp. I stand up, thank him for the coffee and walk out of the cafe. I light a cigarette and puff angrily, determined to make us both as miserable as possible.

I return to the apartment to find it empty. There is a note from Clark that I don't read. I dress up and even use make-up. I style my hair for the first time in a long time. I stare at the girl I've become with a grim determination, a grim appreciation. She tries to smile at me, but I turn before she can. If I see her smile, I will break down, because it will be a broken smile. I am determined. It is too late to turn back from what I've become. I'm in too deep now.

I sleep with the first man that flirts with me at the bar. I don't resist as he leads me to his car. We go twice before he leaves me, standing in front of the bar and waiting for the next one. I drink until I can't see straight. I have sex with two more men and a cute girl with small breasts. I go home with her.

When I wake up in the morning it feels as if I have melted, like the Wicked Witch in Oz. I look over and cannot, for the life of me, remember the girl's name. She is pretty, her hair in tiny spirals, in varying colors, all over her head. Her skin is the color of dark chocolate and I feel terribly pale comparatively. I strain, but my brain refuses to remember anything about her or the other three I slept with last night. I can't even remember what the men looked like.

She stirs and I pretend I am asleep. She snuggles closer to me and sighs, softly.

"I know you're awake." she mumbles into my breast. I open one eye and glance down at her. She nuzzles me and looks up.

"You can't remember my name can you?" she says. I shake my head slowly.

"I'm sorry," I say.

"Don't be," she says. "I wasn't expecting you to remember it anyway. You were quite wasted last night. So was I, now that I think about it. As it is, I barely remember your's."

"Abra." I say.

"Niya Bin." she says. "Short, and slightly distorted, for Vanilla Bean."

"Your parents named you Vanilla Bean?" I ask, stifling a giggle.

"Well, my mother loved the scent of vanilla and the way the word felt on her tongue. And my father thought it would be hilarious because of our last name being Bean. I have two sisters, so my father had a grand time naming us."

"What are their names?" I ask, my hand curling around one of her breasts.

"Coffee and Greene. Greene is the only one who can go by her first name in public. No one laughs until she says her full name. Coffee is like me and goes by a shortened, and slightly distorted, version." She laughs and mimics my hand movements, a hand curling around one of my breasts. She kisses me then, tasting like lavender and ginger.

We kiss for awhile, hands fluttering up and down each other's skin. Exploration begins in earnest and before we know it we are entangled. As we writhe, I think of Jae and having two faces. I look deep into Niya's amber eyes, searching her face as though I should recognize it as my own. Does Jae recognize me as part of him? Does he really believe that I could be his other face?

I thought David was my other half, the piece of a puzzle that made me whole. Without him, what was the point? He was my soul mate, my other face as Jae put it. At least, I thought so. But we can see where my thinking has gotten me, so far. I want to let Jae in, but I'm afraid. I'm afraid of being hurt again, afraid of being used again. Afraid of being in love with someone who sees me as a want not a need.

This whole situation, everything with Annabelle and my subsequent decent into madness, has shown me something. What was the point of all this? A revenge taken against my body, though my body wasn't the one at fault. A revenge against myself for being deceived? I haven't hurt David at all. I may have hurt Alice, the once, with my sleeping with her husband. Otherwise I haven't hurt anyone but myself. I realize that isn't true either. I have hurt all those around me, that love me and have tried to help me. You can't hold a knife to your own skin without cutting everyone around you.

I want to stop now. I want to find Abra again. I want to find out who I am after all this mess.

I finish with Niya, but I don't stay long. I kiss her goodbye and thank her for everything, before hailing a cab and returning to Clark's.

When I get there Clark is pacing. When he looks up he let's out a small sigh of relief and hugs me.

"What's wrong?" I say, slightly muffled by his chest.

"I was worried." he says, simply. Gently, I push away so that I can look at him.

"I'll be fine, now." I smile, kiss his cheek and collapse on the couch to sleep.

Instead of sleeping, however, I begin to think. Jae is drawn to me, but how am I to find him when I don't know if I'm drawn to him or not? He seemed so sure that we were meant to be together, at least for a time, but will my insecurities make it harder to find him?

Can you fall in love with someone just because you want to? It seemed so effortless when I loved David or Annabelle. There was no thought, nothing. I was in love. Is wanting to be in love with someone enough? Is wanting Jae enough to erase all the feelings still left in me for others?

Looking back on it, I remember how David and I began to forget the little things in our relationship. We didn't talk like we used to. We stopped randomly smiling at one another. We stopped communicating. We talked, but it was all bubblegum pop, nothing substantial, nothing real. I wonder if he ever thinks about those times when we genuinely seemed to love each other. I wonder if he ever misses those times, if any of them were even real. Its terrifying, actually, to even begin to think of trusting someone that much again, of putting myself out there like that again.

Is it worth it?

The Hungry Ghost

I stood alone. Drifting, dreamily sleeping, careening.
A hungry ghost asked me to dance, taking my hand in his.
He kissed me. Softly, hungrily tasting, touching.
A hungry ghost asked for my heart, touching my chest.
I gasped. A pretty face, twirling in a crowded place.
A hungry ghost asked me to love him, enchanting me.
He kissed me. Longingly, slowly taking, everything.
I did not deny him. I let him in. I gave what I could to him.
A hungry ghost devoured me, so lovingly and with care.
And so I became a hungry ghost, caught in sweet oblivion.

Burned

You burned the bridge. You stood there holding the torch.
How dare you blame this on me?
You love me still. You love me.
But you stood there, smiling, as the wood crackled with rose flame.

How dare you try to pin this on me?
You were my father, my friend. You were even a lover, of sorts.
You make me so sick. I want to throw up. I want to scream.
You burned the bridge, but I should be the one to re-build it.

You told me God is a gentleman. God loves everyone.
But you tried to teach me to hate.
You tried to cut me to fit the circles you had planned.
You loved me, but you tried to beat the depression out.

You loved us, but you starved us. Starved us for food,
love, attention. You forced your God down my throat.
You said that God loves me. You told me you were proud of me.
You are such a liar. And you burned everything down.

You abandoned us.
You abused us.
Your love was a rip-off, a ploy and a trap.
You made me wish I was dead.

I tried so many times to cut out the feelings,
vomit up the self-disgust because of what I felt, still feel.
And I hate having to identify myself by your last name,
because you tried to erase my real identity.

No one knows me by my true name.
No one knows me by any other mark than yours.
I am nothing.
I am just as much yours now as I ever was, because I can't escape.

You burned a bridge and I am left grasping the ashes,
trying to make sense of what you've done.
God is a gentleman. God knows everything.
God loves everyone. God loves me. You are so proud.

If God is a gentleman, I wish he would leave me alone.
If God knows everything, I wish He had used that power.
If God loves everyone, why can't He love them as they are?
If God loves me, why can't He love me as I am?

I gave you the matches. I didn't know who I was.
I can't stay in the cage you built around me.
I simply am.
And you burned the bridge, so I have to let you go.

Perfectly Empty

I am perfectly empty when I am in your arms.
Weightless and daring; undaunted and soaring.
Empty of imperfections, anger and jealousy.
I am not a mess. I am together and perfect, in your arms.

I am perfectly empty headed in the mirror.
My thoughts give no comfort. They spill out like yolk
from a broken egg. I am too empty to hold them.
I am a disaster in a pink dress. An empty headed dunce.

I am frothing at the mouth, perfectly angry, writhing
in my hatred for self and others. I try to empty these
emotions into the toilet, to flush them all away.
I am only numb now, blocking myself from feeling.

I am perfectly empty, a vase to be filled with what you will.
I have no soul, no mind, no spirit. I am a lifeless doll,
a mannequin, a toy. I am so perfect for your reasons,
for your games, for your loves and your hates.

I am perfectly empty when I am in your arms.
Its just my imagination that makes me believe I could
ever be weightless or perfect or happy. I am not a mess.
Just a doll, happy to be whatever you manipulate me into being.

All of Her: Chapter Twenty-One

It becomes obvious that I am not the only one in a spiral of self-destruction about half way through my second week with Annabelle. I come home to find her lying in my bed with bloody arms and an empty bottle of vodka. The razor she used is still sticking out of her skin. I try not to panic, but it is hard seeing her arms slit to ribbons and a bloody straight razor still planted in her flesh. She has so little flesh as it is. She begs me not to call 911, promises to never do it again and we bandage her up.

Once we have cleaned her up with rubbing alcohol and cloth bandages, she kisses me. The next thing I know we are back in my bed, blood and all. I never understand how we get to this point.

One night, I wake up and see her sitting on the windowsill, the window open and a cigarette in her mouth. She takes a slow drag and just stares.

"Bellie, what are you doing?" I ask, sleepily.

"Thinking about jumping." she says, nonchalantly.

"Jumping where?" I ask, sitting up slowly.

"Into the wide open blue of the sky. I'm so tired of it all." She takes another drag off of her cigarette before flicking the butt out the window.

I get up and go to her, holding her in the waning moonlight. She never looks at me, always staring into the night sky.

"Come back to bed, love." I say, softly. I gently pull her away from the window. "Come back to bed."

She comes off of the windowsill and obediently lies down. She lets me pull the covers over her and tuck her in, before ensconcing myself as well. She lets me hold her tightly, she doesn't resist, but she isn't there. Not mentally. She is thinking. Always far away from me, no matter how hard I try to keep her near.

I wonder sometimes if she is thinking of her dead son, the one she gave birth to when she was still a child herself. She hasn't spoken of it since that day in the kitchen. She never speaks of herself. She never seems to want more from me than my body and my incessant rambling. For the first time, in a long time, I want more than just sex from someone. I want to be able to talk with her on more than just which positions we've tried or me just talking to fill the silence. I realize I'm falling in love with a broken porcelain doll. Against my will and she doesn't even notice.

We are sitting on the floor, playing chess on the coffee table. Snuggles is curled up on the couch watching our battle of wits. She moves slowly, decidedly. I move too quickly and without thought. She laughs, easily and without pain, when she wins. I don't see her happy like this often, her eyes sparkling like diamonds. I smile and reset the board.

When she loses, she is furious and she wipes all the pieces off the board in a fit. The cat, frightened by her erratic behaviour, leaps off the couch and runs off. She throws the board on the floor and storms out of the apartment. I follow her, not even bothering to put on shoes.

"It's just a game, Bellie! What the hell are you doing?" I shout, slamming the door behind me and tripping down the stairs after her.

"It's never just a game!" She shouts over her shoulder. She keeps walking, barefoot and trying to light her cigarette.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I cry, trying to catch up. She pulls up short, abruptly stopping, and staring at me, her eyes wide in fear and anguish.

"My mind is slipping." she says, a tear rolling down her face and blue smoke drifting up and away from her mouth.

"Honey, come back inside. Your mind isn't slipping. Its just a game. A game, honey. We don't have to play anymore if you don't want to." I finally reach her and wrap my arms around her shoulders. She is trembling, even though it isn't cold, and her cigarette dangles from her fingers. She allows me to lead her back to the apartment, but we don't talk for the rest of the day.

She drifts in and out of this world only she sees. I watch her light another cigarette, but she quickly puts it out again. She hates smoking, she says. Its a dirty habit that she can't quite get rid of. She's not even sure why she started it in the first place. Then she looks off into the distance, a horizon only she knows.

I know this isn't going to end well, but I want it to work. I want to help her, though I can't even help myself. I care about her, enough to try harder than I ever did with Jahan or Adam or even David.

"I love you." I blurt, one day after we have finished having sex. She smiles at me, a wistful glance at my face, and lights a cigarette.

"I will love you too." she says, quietly, and takes a drag of smoke. We don't talk about it again.

We go to the theatre often. We sit through three different versions of the same Shakespeare play, just for the hell of it. We never eat at our apartments. We always go out to eat. We never talk on the phone or really talk at all for that matter. Sometimes she screams in her sleep and I can't wake her. All I can do is hold her closely, rocking her gently. What happened to her?

We are almost complete strangers even after a month and a half of dating.

"My son was named Sebastian Alexandre. A rather austere name for a malformed and deceased infant. It almost sounds as if he was a prince in some beautiful European country long ago. I suppose that is what I wanted for him. Of course, what does a thirteen year old child know about babies?"

I blink, once, twice. She hasn't spoken of her son since that first day in the kitchen, it feels so long ago now. I don't press her to speak further. She is staring through space. It is as if I don't exist and she is merely speaking to the air or herself. She comes out of it after a moment, a sad smile spreading across her face.

"Do you want to talk about him? Or anything in particular?" I say, a little hesitantly.

"No. Yes. Someday, maybe." She smiles that sad smile again, kisses me and lights another cigarette. She sits with her arms resting on her knees, smoking. Her hair is pulled back into a messy ponytail, her lavender tank top and white boy shorts hiding nothing. I know that we won't speak further about Sebastian. She may never speak of him again for all I know.

Some days she is fine. We make love, we slow dance in the kitchen, we go out to the movies and read bad web comics. We cook, but we never eat what we make, and play with the cat. We play scrabble. Sometimes she knits while I play air cello to a Metallica cover. On these days she practically lives at my place and I don't care. We hold hands everywhere we go and its a sweeter romance than I've ever had.

On her bad days I usually can't get a hold of her. She locks herself up in her apartment. I worry because she won't answer her phone. If she does come over, she is withdrawn. We have sex, but it is frenzied. Like she is trying to exorcise a demon with every orgasm. If she even has an orgasm. Half the time she dissolves into tears before we can finish and I hold her, shaking and sobbing.

Her nightmares start to come every night. On nights that she has these nightmares, if she wakes up from screaming, she will curl up in the bathtub until I am able to coax her back to bed. Once back in bed she tries to seduce me. This never works. As soon as I begin to give in she will break down and begin to cry again.

I try to encourage her to get counseling. But I feel hypocritical doing so. I am not as self-destructive, but I could probably use a therapist myself.

We have been together three months now. Her spiral dipping deeper and deeper below a range I can handle. I don't know her, I can't figure her out. I try and all I do is make things worse. We stop having sex after one incident where she began screaming as if I was raping her. This seems to help for a while, but then she begins pushing for it.

I come home from the book store late. I don't even think about why the door is locked when I find I have to unlock it. When I come in, I set my bag on the couch and kick off my shoes. Annabelle and Snuggles are nowhere to be found.

"Bellie?" I call. "I'm home, honey. Where are you?"

I pull off my shirt, depositing it in the washer as I pass it. Maybe Annabelle had a moment and decided to leave? Sometimes I come home and she is gone. Often she has returned to her place to water her plants or to just get away. I usually don't question it. Its just that everything is eerily quiet and I am still unnerved by the lack of cat and girlfriend.

"Annabelle? Are you here babe?"

I hear a slight scratching noise coming from the bathroom and a distressed meowing. I open the door and Snuggles rushes out. When I look over I see that Annabelle has hung herself in the shower. I hesitate only a moment before I am struggling to lift her while trying to loosen the noose around her pale throat. I can't get her down. I panic and try to find a pair of scissors or anything that I can use to cut the rope. I eventually get her down and begin CPR. I don't get any response. I call 911 and continue trying CPR. All to no avail really.

The paramedics arrive and they take her in a body bag, pronounced dead at the scene.

I sit, slumped in the bathtub, staring at the frayed pieces of rope. The EMTs ask if I am okay, they take my blood pressure and try to coax me out of the tub. The police try to be kind as they ask me questions. I am catatonic. I can't think, let alone speak. They ask if I noticed a suicide note somewhere. They ask if they need to escort me to the hospital. Is there someone they can call?

They find a note. All it says is "You're pretty damn good as you are."

Once I have assured them that I am fine, once I have gone down to the station to answer questions, once I have come home to my empty apartment, I find more notes. There are notes tucked into my pajama drawer. The majority of them say "I love you. I'm sorry." There is a longer one, folded in half with a small red heart on it. In her spidery handwriting is my name.

"You said you loved me once," it says. "I said I would love you. And I do. More than I suppose I was willing to admit. I can't continue. So many times I think of jumping from the tallest building and all my, so-called, beauty being splashed against the pavement like copious amounts of red paint. I can't live without Sebastian. I can't live without that poor deformed infant that never saw the sunshine. I can't live with how he was conceived. Don't cry for me. Don't worry. Don't change. You're pretty damn good as you are. I love you. I'm sorry."

Against her wishes, I cry. I cry for this girl that I never got a real chance to know. A young woman that I was slowly falling in love with. A young woman that took her life for reasons that I will never fully understand.

When no family comes to claim her, I dip way into my savings to give her a proper funeral. My mother and Brad help me pay and plan it, not knowing all the details. They don't ask me any questions, out of respect I think. A few people come, no one that I know. She is buried in a small cemetery just outside of town with no real ceremony. The funeral home reverend says a few words regarding shepherds and the valley of Death. He speaks of not being afraid. He speaks of the arms of God wrapping about her to cradle her close.

Once everyone is gone, and I am left standing by her freshly filled grave, I collapse. I cry like I've never cried before. Not as I cried at my father's funeral or my grandparents'. Not when David left me. Not when Liam practically raped me. Not when I ruined everything with Jahan. I cry because I have let her down. I couldn't save her, no matter how I might've tried. I can't save myself, why would I ever think I could save her?

I'm not sure how long I kneel by her grave, wishing I could've done more than I did. A hand suddenly, gently, rests on my shoulder. I look up and into the eyes of my Korean gentleman. Jae, I think.

"Do you need a ride home?" he asks. He doesn't try to flirt and he doesn't smile. He is wearing a three piece suit and a vivid tie. I don't even wonder why he is there. Though part of me suspects that I should wonder how he always shows up when I need him most.

"Yes." I say, wiping away a few stray tears and holding the rest in. He helps me stand up, I wipe off the dirt and grass from my knees. He puts an arm around my shoulders as he leads me to his car.

We don't talk during the car ride back to my apartment. I don't even ask how he knows where I live. I just stare out the window, watching the scenery blur and blend like fruit in a blender. Some of the blurring is from tears. Every once in a while, Jae will reach out and pat my knee. I don't look at him, I can't look at him.

When we get to my apartment, he walks me to the door. I unlock the door and stare into the emptiness. I can't cross the threshold. I am afraid that I will find Annabelle dead in my shower. Or her ghost wandering about the house, smoking her cigarettes. In fact, I haven't spent the night here since she died. I have stayed mostly with Mom and Noah, twice with Clark, once with Anna and once with Kevin. Snuggles isn't even here to welcome me. After I was steady enough to drive I took him with me to my mother's. He is probably busy catching a plump mouse or bird now that he is able to frolic outside.

"What's wrong?" asks Jae, gently placing a hand on the small of my back.

"I can't go in." I say, still staring straight ahead. "What if she is in there? What if her ghost is wandering in her tank top and boy shorts, smoking those fancy French cigarettes she loves so much? What if her final thoughts are written out in my pajamas? What if she blue in the bathtub? I can't face her."

I pull the door closed and re-lock it. I turn to Jae and drop the key in his hand. His hand closes on it, briefly, before slipping it into his trouser pocket. He holds his hand out to me and I take it. I allow him to lead me back down the stairs and back to his car. When we get to his car I stop so that he stops as well, turning to look at me. I kiss him, impetuously. This is how I've learned to deal with my problems. With sex and a new boy/girlfriend. With alcohol and random strangers who become lovers who become nothing.

I try to undo his trouser button, but he stops me. He doesn't shove me off, instead trying to gently disentangle me. I resist and kiss him harder. He has no recourse but to push me away.

"This isn't going to help." he says, quietly, as I collapse against him. "Sex isn't a magic medicine you can use to cure every ailment."

"What does it matter?" I ask, getting mascara and snot on his black jacket. "Nothing matters now. I just need it. I'm a whore, after all."

He grabs my shoulders and pushes me back so that I am looking into his eyes.

"You are not a whore. You are confused and lost. You can't keep doing this to yourself. When are you going to realize you can't keep doing this?"

"When I'm dead, like the young woman I buried today." I shake him off and begin walking toward a bus stop. He follows me, like I knew he would. He hasn't figured out that I am not worth the saving yet. He will.

"Will you just listen, for just a moment?" he calls. I stop and turn to face him.

"What do you want to say?"

"Talk to me. Let me in, for just a moment. What can it hurt if you reveal something of yourself to a stranger?"

"There is nothing to talk about."

"There is so much to talk about, you are just in denial." I watch him clench and un-clench his fists. I wonder, momentarily, if he wants to hit me.

"I can't." I leave him standing there. I don't look back, but get on the bus and stare out the window, crying for a dead girl.

A Statement

I'm sorry. I can't vote for someone who believes that I don't deserve equal pay for equal work, who believes that women who have been raped deserved it, who believes that I don't deserve the right to birth control, who believes that I don't deserve to be in love with who I am in love with.

I can't. I can't because, no matter how down I may get on myself I know a few basic truths:
I don't deserve to be raped. No one does. EVER. No matter what I wear or what I do.

I deserve equal pay for equal work.

I have the right to LIFE, therefore I deserve to have access to what makes me healthy.

I have the right to LIBERTY, therefore I deserve to be able to live my life free of fear.

I have the right to HAPPINESS, therefore I deserve to be happy with whomever I choose.

So, when the time comes, you can say what you want, hate who you hate, I will stand by who I will stand by and I will still support who I support. And if you wonder why, you can look over what I've said and you will either understand or you won't.

All of Her: Chapter Twenty

About a week after the cute Asian guy and the coffee confessions, I wake up in a cold sweat realizing who that cute guy was. Wasn't his name Jae or something like that? I know it was monosyllabic,  I think. He was the one who rescued me from that brute with the bad pick-up lines, the one I vaguely remember dancing with my first time at "Alice's Wonderland." How could I not recognize him? I must have been drunker than I thought I was.

Suddenly I have to go out. I am itching to go to "Alice's Wonderland" and see if he is there. Of course he wouldn't be, this time of day. I have too many things to do today anyway. Like, sit around the house and do nothing. Okay, who am I kidding? I have nothing to really do today. I'll call my boss at "The Wilde" and see if she needs anyone to pick up a shift today. Its not like I have anything else pressing to do. Or any other work that needs done.

If she won't let me work, I could always visit my mother or my sisters. I could even, heaven forbid, call up my brother and see what he is doing. Maybe hang out with Noah or Clark. Do something! Anything, really. I just need out of the house for a little while. I just have to waste enough time so that I can try to "accidentally" bump into Jae or whatever his name was at the bar.

Luckily for me, my boss calls, before I do, asking if I can take a five hour shift. Apparently one of my co-workers had to bail. Good for me, though. I don't even hesitate in my answer. I throw on some suitable "work" clothes, slip into a pair of flip-flops and kiss my cat goodbye. He stands on the counter and meows at me as I close the door.

I don't rush to work, but I don't exactly drive like I'm behind a herd of turtles either.

Once I am settled behind the counter, and boiling water for tea; I begin to think of something I could do after this to kill time. I go through a small list of possibilities. The first being actually paying attention to my cat. The second being visiting my family. My excuse to kill a little more time arrives in the form of a petite young woman with gorgeously hued honey-blonde hair. Not that I actually see her when she comes in. I'm too busy pondering my visit to the bar tonight and an open book in my lap.

"Excuse me, do you happen to have 'Tiger, Tiger' by Margaux Fragoso?" says a soft and lilting voice. I look up, startled from my reading, into her iridescent eyes. They shift subtly from blue-green to emerald to cobalt. For a moment I am mesmerized and she gently repeats the question.

"Fragoso, you say? I think I've seen that name before." I come out from behind the counter and escort the young lady over to the letter F section. After a moment of book shuffling, I discover what I believe to be the volume she is looking for. "Is this what you were looking for?"

She smiles timidly and accepts the book from my hands. I note a sadness to her features as she looks over the cover and skims through a few pages. I wonder if she has read this book before and that is why she seems so sad. We don't move for a few moments, she seems lost in a dream and I don't know what to say.

"This book is about child abuse, did you know?" she asks, holding the book like a shield over her heart.

"I did not." I say, honestly. My realm of literature does not usual tread such grounds. "Is that why you seem so forlorn?"

She shrugs. A careless gesture made lovely by her. My attraction to this girl is fairly overwhelming at this point. It feels odd to me. I haven't felt such a strong attraction to a woman since I was with Jahan. If I was a braver woman I would kiss her now, kiss away the sadness I can feel seeping out of her bones. But I am not that brave. After a few more moments of awkwardness she smiles and motions for me to lead her to the counter.

"It comes to ten dollars and thirty-five cents, miss." I say, ringing up the total and placing her purchase in a re-usable cloth bag. She nods and counts out her money to the cent before pushing it toward me. I re-count it, if only to keep her a little longer. She doesn't seem to mind and, once I have handed her the bag and her receipt, she lingers.

"Your water is boiling." she says, simply.

"Oh shit! I forgot all about it." I run to turn off the kettle, which has started shrieking. Once I have poured a steaming cup of tea and re-situated myself on my stool, I notice that she hasn't moved at all. Instead she is staring at me, intently.

"Do you believe in fate?" she asks, quietly.

"I suppose I believe in some modicum of fate. Why do you ask?" I pour another cup of tea and gently push it toward her.

"No reason, I suppose. Just romantic fancy on my part. I'm Annabelle." she reaches out a very pale hand and I take it in a handshake.

"I'm Abra," I say. "would you like to pull up a seat? Have some tea with me? Its a rather slow day."

"I'd love to." She smiles, another slightly sad smile, and I pull up another stool for her to sit on.

We don't discuss the book she purchased. We don't discuss tea or books at all. Instead, she quietly sips her tea and watches me intently. Under all the attention, I blush. I am too embarrassed to even try flirting with her. It all seems very strange; she buys a book about child abuse and stares at me. She asks me questions about fate, yet, once she has an opportunity to ask any question she wants, she is silent.

"So, what made you choose that particular book?" I ask, nodding toward the brown cloth bag in her lap. At first she just stares at it, as though it has suddenly grown tentacles or something equally disturbing.

"It was on a list of disturbing books. I couldn't resist." She looks up at me, sips at her tea and then shrugs.

"You enjoy disturbing literature?" I ask, slightly baffled.

"I'd rather not discuss it." she says, suddenly. "I'd much rather discuss where it is that you would like to get dinner tonight. With me."

I am even more baffled. She has, up to this point, seemed to be very shy and quiet. Suddenly she is presuming that I am going to go to dinner with her. Which, I am, but that is beside the point.

"Excuse me?" I say, allowing some of my confusion to bleed through.

"I suppose I should ask, rather than tell." she says. "Would you like to go out to dinner with me?"

Quite suddenly I experience a blanking of my mind. All thoughts of going to the bar tonight, all thoughts of Jae or whatever his name was, vanish. She is suddenly all I can think about. I smile, a lopsided grin with no brain behind it at all. She responds with an equally lopsided grin and stands up. She reaches into her pocket for a stray piece of paper and grabs a stray pen off of the counter. She writes down her number, a place and a time. She even signs her name in a flourish, in the corner of the paper. She winks at me, takes her book and just like that she is gone.

The paper says Viperia Tearoom, ten-thirty.

I float through the rest of my work, dreamily wondering how I got a beautiful girl to ask me out with no real effort. As I lock up I think about the delicious things I'd like to do to her and wondering if this is what she meant by fate. At home I layer a burnt orange lace panel top over a creamy colored tank top, matching the lace paneling. I slip into a pair of black skinny jeans and raid my shoe cupboard for a pretty pair of flats. I eventually settle for a pair of burnt orange heels with a slight ruffle  and an ankle strap. I take a long look at myself in the mirror and realize I've become a lot more interested in dressing up since David.

I wonder, briefly, if this because I am trying to attract attention now. And, just as briefly, I worry about this. I note a few dark circles under my eyes and pass it off as allergies, even though I know that isn't it. I confessed everything to Noah so that I would stop this behaviour. So that I might come back to the light side of the Force. Instead I seem to have confessed only to revert back to the darkness of this downward spiral. And, admittedly, I kind of enjoy the spiral. In a sick, twisted way, I really enjoy all this self-inflicted pain and torture. I feel like I deserve it, so may as well enjoy it, right?

I realize this type of thinking is extremely unhealthy, but I choose to ignore it and finish getting ready for my date. I fill up Snuggles' water and food bowls, rest my butt against my ankles while I pet him, lovingly. I then head out again, despite more protesting meows from him.

I arrive at the Viperia Tearoom at a quarter after ten. I am pleased to discover that Annabelle is already there. She waves me over to her table, stands and hugs me before we sit down. I, stealthily, take note of how beautiful she looks in her sleek turquoise mini dress with cross-back straps and her white leggings. She smiles and signals the waitress over. She orders a Thai Quinoa Salad, whatever that may be, and a peach martini. I order potato blossom dumplings, French fried green beans and a cherry-rose tea margarita. She laughs at my food choices, but doesn't say anything else.

I begin to get very nervous as we say nothing. Absolute silence. I don't know where to start, what topic to discuss, what to say? I smile, awkwardly, but she doesn't seem to notice. Just as I feel like I might be brave enough to pick a topic our food arrives and immediately begin to eat. Contended munching at least, temporarily, replaces the awful silence. Instead of focusing, I let my mind wander to what it would be like to be in bed with Annabelle. I imagine several interesting fantasies, before settling on a particularly steamy one.

"What are you thinking about?" asks Annabelle. I nearly jump out of my skin, startled by the sudden break in silence and a little bit of shame for what I was thinking. She looks at me curiously and I have the horrible feeling that she has been watching me the entire time. I gulp, guiltily.

"Nothing particularly interesting." I say, trying to laugh off these feelings. "You?"

"I was thinking about what you would be like in bed." she says, laughing. "Weren't you thinking the same thing? I can tell from your blushing that you were."

"I... Well, I mean... I would... Yes." I stammer. "I suppose I am rather transparent."

"Its only natural you know, we're sexually active young women and obviously mutually attracted to one another or we wouldn't be here. Why not think about it?" She says this all so calmly, more like it was scientific fact.

"Is this what you meant by fate? The attraction?" I ask, mulling over the oddness of the conversation.

"Partly. Partly because I feel as though we are meant to be together, at least for a time. You do find me attractive, don't you?"

"Of course I do!" I exclaim, dropping my fork with a bit of a clatter. I smile apologetically and carefully pick it back up. "Yes, I do. I find you quite attractive."

"In that case, let's call it fate for now and skip dessert. We can go back to my place, if you like. Its just a block or so away from here."

I bite my lip, trying not to acquiesce too quickly, but I find that I am already nodding in agreement. She laughs again, a melodic sound, and I find I am laughing too. We hold each other's hands as we head toward my car. When we get to the car, I find that I can't resist any longer and I press her to my car, kissing her as passionately as I have ever kissed anyone. I hold her hands, our fingers entwined, just like fate. Our fingers fit so perfectly together, our lips feel so right and our bodies pressed against my car feels like perfection.

While we kiss, a thought occurs to me. I could fall in love with this girl. Its so crazy, so insane. I pull away from her a moment, her lips glistening and slightly swollen from my kisses. I feel the breath escape my lungs. I just met this girl and I'm already thinking about breaking my rule of not falling in love. She has me so mixed up in this "fate" business that I'm actually beginning to believe it. What kind of girl is she?

Before I can take another breath she pulls my face back to hers. We kiss slowly, painfully slow. We kiss until neither one of us can breathe. I open the passenger side door and help her get in. We drive the block and a half to her apartment slowly, still holding hands. Maybe this instant attraction is fate. Could this be love at first sight? I try to shake the thought from my head. I thought David was my love at first sight too. I glance at our entwined fingers and feel a whimsical smile creep around the corners of my mouth.

She leads me upstairs to her apartment. She opens the door slowly and ushers me inside. The inside of her apartment smells sweet, with a tinge of bitterness. I wonder, for a moment, if this is a sign. But then I remember that I no longer believe in signs or metaphors or anything like that. I try to remind myself that I also no longer believe in fate, but I am quickly losing that battle. She has the windows draped with light cancelling curtains, so for a moment all I can sense is her beside me and the sweet smell of her and the room. She flicks on a light and, smiling beguilingly, pulls her turquoise top over her head, exposing a lacy white bra.

She motions me to follow her and I barely have time to slip out of my heels. I pull my shirt up and over my head and let it slip to the floor beside hers. My eyes caress her as she slips out of the rest of her clothes and lies down on the bed. She presents herself to me like a beautiful doll to play with and explore. I finish removing my own clothing and sink down beside her.

I kiss the hollow of her throat, the skin above her heart and down to her stomach. On her stomach, there is a long white scar from her belly button to the edge of her pubic region. I kiss it gingerly, feeling as though I am seeing a secret I wasn't meant to pay too much attention to. I sink lower with my kisses until I am completely distracted by the overwhelming beauty of her and the smell of her is all I can think of.

We stay like this for most of the night. We fall asleep curled into each other, our fingers entwined, and feeling like puzzle pieces finding their other piece.

I wake up slightly confused. I feel her fingers tangled with mine, I feel her pressed against me, snuggled as close as possible. It feels too right, too perfect. Hence the confusion. I keep reminding myself that I only just met her yesterday and that I'm not allowed to fall in any way, shape or form in love with her.

Except, when she opens her eyes and kisses me, I feel a little of my resolve being swept away by ridiculous emotions.

"Stay with me," she whispers. "don't go."

"I wasn't planning on it." I mutter into her honey-gold hair. She whimpers a little and I look at her. She has a tear running down her cheek and, concerned, I wipe it away. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I've just been by myself too long and I can't stand to think about it." She kisses me, touching and caressing until what she said has completely been wiped from my mind.

We spend most of the day in her bed, making love, making believe that we have all the time in the world to be together. When we finally emerge from the bedroom, for sustenance other than each other, I ask a question that has been scratching at the back of my brain.

"How did you get that scar on your stomach, if you don't mind my asking?" I say, as nonchalantly as possible. At first I don't think she heard me, but then she sighs and turns to look at me.

"When I was thirteen I gave birth to a stillborn baby boy. The scar is from the emergency Cesarean section." She looks at me, as if to measure my reaction on internal scale. I am stunned, but do my best not to show it. I think of my sisters at thirteen, or myself at that age. And I can't imagine giving birth to a dead child. I can't find anything to say, so I settle for saying nothing at all.

"Thank you," she says. Turning back toward the toaster, she catches the emerging toast and begins to butter it.

"Why are you thanking me?" I ask, coming up next to her. She turns and looks me in the eyes, her shifting eye color both beguiling and frightening.

"Thank you for not prying further." She kisses me and hands me a piece of toast, before heading back toward the bedroom.

The Asthma Attack (WIP)

We arrive on this scene to find it in disarray. There seems to be an interesting battle taking place and the whole of the battlefield is a set of heaving lungs. The lungs seem to be in some kind of stand off with the immune system, all weapons aimed and primed for the battle.

Left Lung: Sir, I ask you to kindly holster your weapons. We are of one body, YOUR body. We are a part of this system and it is quite silly of you to be attacking us in this manner.

A Bronchial Tube: *he is clearly contracted and struggling to maintain airflow* I think I may explode, sir. I can't take much more. Where is our back up?

Immune System Sargent 1: I'm very sorry, but I'm afraid you don't have the proper clearance to be a part of this system. I'm going to have to ask you to cease and desist all operation immediately or we will have to resume our attacks.

Right Lung: *into a tiny radio* Where the fuck is our back-up?! We can't take much more and they aren't backing down! Requesting immediate back-up!

There is a loud whistling and wheezing that can be heard throughout the set of lungs, a warning siren trying to contact their back-up.

Immune System Sargent 2: Fuck this, its a trap! FIRE!

The Immune System begins an all out assault upon the lungs and bronchial tubes, which have full constricted, restricting air flow. The wheezing gets louder with every attempted intake of oxygen.

Right Lung: We are running low on O2, Commander. Where is our back-up?!

Voice Over: We're deploying as fast as possible, hold your positions!

Left Lung: Things are starting to look a little hazy, Sir. I'm beginning to feel a little blue-ish.

Voice Over: Maintain your positions! We are all apart of this same body, we can't let them destroy it!

Another Bronchial Tube: Intake valves completely blocked. O2... cannot... be... taken. *He quickly passes out*

Immune System Sargent 1: Keep firing men! Destroy the interlopers!

Immune System Sargent 2: For the love of Body, where the hell is all this haze coming from?

Left Lung: That's because we can't get to our reserves of O2, you idiots! Without it everything looks hazy. You have to hold your fire so we can reopen the conduits!

Immune System Sargent 2: NEVER! ITS A TRAP!

Right Lung: YOU WATCH TOO MUCH FUCKING STAR WARS! For the love of Body, hold your fucking fire!

Just as everything seems lost, the area above the lungs and immune system fills with a soft mist. Steroidal Paratroopers drop in and begin spraying the area. The Immune System retreats and the Bronchial tubes are revived.

Immune System Sargent 2: *clearly high* Why were we fighting again? Everything is too pretty to fight.

Immune System Sargent 1: *quickly losing to the effects of the steroids* I know right? Everything is so... red. Such a pretty red. I wanted to be red once.

Immune System Sargent 2: Dude, those lungs look like water balloons. Did you notice?

Immune System Sargent 1: I think you are drunk, Sargent. They most definitely look like heaving red petals, barely hanging on to the flower stems.

Right Lung: Man, that stuff works fast.

A Steroidal Paratrooper: That's what you wanted right? Fast back-up?

Left Lung: Not complaining. Just in awe of how fast your fast is.

A Steroidal Paratrooper: That should keep them occupied for a while. *the Paratroopers retreat further up leaving the lungs and bronchial tubes to assess and reverse any damage*

Right Lung: Its too bad that this peace can't last.

Left Lung: There is no way to convince them that we are part of them is there?

Right Lung: Unfortunately, no. This immune system is too damaged to realize the truth. We just have to continue maintaining our ground.

Left Lung: In a never-ending civil war. Sounds almost poetic, don't you think?

Dear Memere

Dear Memere,

It has been almost thirteen years since you left us. Thirteen years since I heard your voice, heard you tell me you loved me. Thirteen years since you told me about all the crazy animal adventures that you were having so far away from me. Thirteen years of wishing you were still here and knowing you will never be here again. I suppose I shouldn't wish you were still here, because I know that you would be hurting. I don't want you to hurt, Memere. I just don't want to keep missing you like I do.

I can barely remember your voice. I watch those videos Dad made to keep you alive in my mind. I look through the pictures to keep your face fresh in my soul. Its hard, though, knowing I will never see you again. That I had only such a short time to be loved by you. To get to know you. I wish I had gotten to know you better.

Though, a part of me is terrified that if you were here you wouldn't love me anymore. You wouldn't be proud of me. That is more terrifying than any nightmare I could ever have. The thought that you wouldn't love me if you were still here makes me work harder to be a person you might be proud of. A person you would always love, in spite of my many, many, faults. And I have so many, Memere. More than I can count, even.

I wonder, sometimes, when I look in the mirror and see my reflection staring back at me, if you would like the person I am today. Would I still be someone you enjoyed talking to? Would I have ever sent Dad a hateful letter? Would we all still be clinging to some semblance of a family?

I can't remember how you smell, or what it felt like to be in your arms. I can't remember those little things that would make you still real in my world. I would give anything to talk to you again. Anything to hear your soft accent. Anything to hear you tell me again about the bear in the neighbor's swimming pool or the lizard in your trash can.

I'd give anything to have had you there when I got married. I don't think I've ever missed you as much as I did that day. It was beautiful, even though it was just a courthouse ceremony. I think you would've liked it. I hope you would've liked it.

Its unfair, Memere. Its unfair that you left me when I was so young. I've spent my entire growing up wishing you were here. Praying that somehow the dead could come back, even for a few minutes. Just so I could say goodbye. I never got to say goodbye. I didn't get to go to your funeral. I don't even know where you are buried. Are you near Pepere? Are you somewhere beautiful?

Its such a strange feeling, really. To be so young and have no grandparents left. Pepere first, you, Grandpa and finally Grandma Bobbi. It seems impossible really. Impossible that I have lost you all. Implausible. Improbable. Insane.

I suppose, simply put, I miss you. It only gets worse as I grow older. With each passing year I feel your absence more keenly. I think, "I wish Memere was here so I could tell her about this." But maybe you are here. Maybe you already know. Maybe you are still with me, even when I feel that I have lost all hold I thought I had on your memory. You are such a beautiful memory. Something I never want to lose. Where would I be without even a memory of you?

I love you.
I miss you.
I wish you were somehow here, just for a little while. Just so I could tell you everything I've been wanting to tell you for thirteen years. Just so I could tell you that I love you and I miss playing piano with you. I miss talking to you at night. I miss hearing your voice. I miss that most of all, just hearing you speak always made me feel better. I wish that wishing would give me something besides a throb of pain in my chest and in my throat from holding back the tears.

Dear Memere, I love you.

Love,
Sarai.

The Hanging Garden: Prologue

I do not remember when I first discovered the meaning of the Hanging Garden, though I had known of its existence for years. Nor do I remember when I first discovered the fate of those called to be its keeper. I had known that I would one day take the place of my mother as the queen of those grounds, though I had no idea the meaning behind its name nor the horrors that were to await me upon succession. I knew, only as a child knows of places they are forbidden to go.

In my mind I had greatly romanticized the Hanging Garden. Many an hour was spent daydreaming of the day that I would take my mother's throne and be the solo heiress of those haunted landscapes. I imagined tea in lavish gardens filled with fragrant roses and graceful willows. I pictured court suitors and lords desirous of my hand in marriage pleading with me beside small pools of crystal clear water. I imagined them proposing with white honeysuckle and purple hyacinths plucked from those very gardens, for where else would there be flowers as sweet?

I did not then know that my only suitors would be the ageless scarecrow, hung upon his decaying cross, and the merman prince, forever drowning in his pools of blood. I knew not that the only flowers in my care would be those that sprang from the viscera of wicked and innocent men, spilled in those gardens for generations before my own existence was realized. I did not know that upon taking my mother's crown, my mother's throne, that she would join the hanging bodies in that cursed garden. A forever feast for the carrion birds that flourished in that sweltering bubble of decay.

And now, in my age of dying, I begin to write these words to my daughter. She may read of her fate in them after I have gone to take my place aside my mother. A fate suffered by myself, my mother and countless generations of first born daughters to the cursed queens of the Hanging Garden. A fate that each generation has tried so desperately to record in the annals of a history censored by destiny. She may never read these words before she has met the ageless scarecrow or the drowning merman prince.

She may never read them, as I never read those of my mother. It is only now, in my age of dying, that I have found the words my mother recorded to warn me. How little I understood has now been made plain. Mayhaps my daughter will be wiser than I. Mayhaps she will do what I did not and read the words written as warning. I can only hope and pray to the pagan gods of this land that she does.

Though I do not know the use of these words of mine. Had I read my mother's words would I have been able to escape her fate? Would the line drawn by destiny have wavered? Would I have been able to change the course of time? I suppose it no longer matters as I am too old now to prove useful to anyone but the starving grounds to which I am promised.

So it is that in this, my dying age, I, Aubra of Jarron, do take up my quill and ink to write to my only child, Selene, of the Hanging Garden.

~~~

It has been said that once, many years hence, there lived a beautiful queen. She is said to have been a witch, marked so by her unnatural white hair and piercing lilac eyes. Though she was queen she was not safe from man's lusts nor his suspicious nature.

A day arrived when the queen was called to name her king, for she would need an heir once she had gone. She refused all that sought her hand. And though, they pressed, she refused to name a man as her king. This infuriated her advisers and those that sought to make themselves higher in status than was their station. So much so that they conspired against the queen, seeking to overthrow her and name one of their own as king of the land.

One night, not long after refusing yet another suitor's advances, the queen was walking through her garden. The garden was famed throughout the land for the lushness of its grasses, the grace of its trees and the fragrance of its flowers. Though those against the queen whispered quietly that it was only so beautiful because of sorcery and innocent blood spilled. Flowers that beautiful could only be grown by the spilling of innocent blood upon the earth. Trees that strong must only grow from the bones of honest men buried. Grasses that soft could only thrive from the tears of the mighty felled by wickedness.

While she walked through her garden, the queen was ambushed by her advisers and rejected suitors. She was bound and hung, naked, from the tallest tree in her garden. As she struggled for air she placed a curse upon the men that bound her there.

"This day," she gasped. "I curse thee and all that may come after thee. Thy wife shall rise above thee and all thy daughters will be sworn to follow me. This garden, thou shalt not enjoy, for when I die all shall die with me. A beautiful garden no longer to be, a Hanging garden shall be the last thy eyes shall see."

Her last breath came out as a sigh and as it floated away the men marked a strangeness growing within them. Each man found himself rooted to the ground, vines pushing out from within them. Their screams were terrible to hear and the earth quaked with fear. Thunder crashed and lightning struck as each one of them became a part of the garden. Once beautiful, as the queen had said, now the garden had become a place of death.

From each man's eyes grew venomous flowers, stained with the lust and envy of the heart. From their mouths grew spiked grasses, sharp as razors. From their bones grew haunted trees, bound to the earth by wickedness. From their hearts burst flowers and vines, until they had been choked to death by them.

In the garden it is not hard to find them, they stand as a monument to the curse. Forever rooted before their betrayed queen, her body clothed only in vines and rotting flowers.

~~~

My daughter, Selene, today you are seventeen. The day that you will take my throne and bear my crown. Today is my dying day. The day that all mankind must one day meet. I do not yet know if all my writing will be for naught or if you shall heed the warnings herein. I suppose that only time will tell and my time is quickly running out. As my successor, and only child, I hope you do.

When you take your first steps as queen, they will be to follow me to the garden. A garden you have heard of many times. A garden you have known for years would one day be yours. A garden in which you shall watch me die as I watched my mother die. And as she watched her own mother die before me. It is only once I have joined my mother, her mother and all the generations of women before me, that you shall be completely bound to the garden. I wish it was not so, but wishes mean nothing in the light of reality.

After you have watched me die, you will be compelled to wander the landscape. In your coronation gown, stained with my blood, you will find yourself standing before the first queen to die in the garden. You will be surrounded by her betrayers, her monuments. You will feel sick and overwhelmed, but you are not done yet.

There are more horrors in this garden. It is a testament to the madness flowing rampant through our veins, your veins. I will not speak of all that there is within this cursed ground. Though I know them better than the skin that covers my bones. You will learn in time, what I have learned.

You will have no suitors, no men to call upon your hand. You will have no lovers, besides those that may be found in the garden. You will be alone until the day that you, too, bear a daughter. Have no doubt that you will bear nothing but daughters no matter how hard you wish for a son. No matter how you may try, you cannot escape that part of the curse.

The first man with whom you speak will be the scarecrow. He stands, crucified to a dying tree, in the center of the garden. He is never to be removed from his post. I know not how he came to be there. He only speaks in rhymes and is timeless within time, ageless within age. He is the only beautiful thing within the walls of the garden, though he has tattered with time and age. He will ask from whence you come and whence you came. You must never answer him. I know not why.

The second man you will encounter in the garden is the merman prince. He is secluded in the furthest corner of the garden, drowning in a pool of blood. He will never leave his pool and he will never drown. He will give you a gift, which you must not open until your dying day. His words will sound like honey in your ears, but their meaning will turn your hair white as snow. You will fall in love with him, as many generations before you have, but beware his love.

I do not know how he came to be imprisoned within those pools of blood or how the scarecrow came to be crucified on his dying tree. Perhaps you will read the volumes left behind by previous generations and within them find the answers. I do not know why I was so foolish as to believe I could find them without help. I pray you do not fall prey to the same arrogance as I.

These are the last words I write, darling. I leave my words behind hoping that you will be the undoing of this curse and that you will be a better queen than I. You may find all the writings of your ancestors within the libraries buried beneath the garden. You will know how to find them, though you may not know their use until it is too late. You will be brave, because you are stronger than those that have gone before.

These are the last words I, Aubra of Jarron, last queen of the Hanging Garden, leave my only daughter, Selene of Jarron, newest queen of the Hanging Garden.

All of Her: Chapter Nineteen

I am single for far longer than I should be. I just can't seem to get my head back into the game. I am a mess. I have finally come to the point where I can admit that. I am more of a mess than I thought I would be. I am falling apart at the seams. Especially after everything with Liam. I am too afraid to go to a bar where men might want me. And I can't seem to convince myself to seduce another woman.

I realize a terrifying truth, as I am sitting at my desk at work. At some point this spiral of self-destruction has stopped being about David and Alice. It has stopped being revenge against them for ruining my life. It has become all about the revenge I have taken on my body, on my soul. It has become nothing more than self-destruction for the sole purpose of destruction. I have grown so accustomed to the spiral I no longer hesitate. I have been using sex as a weapon against myself.

My own twisted version of cutting. Sex is the blade and with each slice, I make it sharper. There is no healing. No redemption. No coming back from this. In the end I deserve whatever happens.

Right?

Except there is a still small voice screaming at me. It screams out that I am wrong, that I've completely lost touch with who and what I am. I don't know how much longer I can ignore that inner voice. How much longer I can ignore the truth, is like a new test to me. A newer version of tearing myself down. I am discovering new ways of tearing myself apart. And this hatred for myself is becoming all consuming.

My boss comes up to my desk while I am deep in these thoughts. He clears his throat to gain my attention and motions me to his office. I follow, my stomach suddenly twisting into a vicious knot. He pulls out a chair for me and then seats himself behind his desk.

"Abra, you've been with us for quite some time, yes?" He asks, steepling his fingers.

"Yes, sir." I murmur.

"You were an intern for almost a year, right?" He asks. He waits for me to nod, before continuing.

"And you've been a paid employee for a few months now. In these few months, I've noticed you slowly slipping downward in your attendance, your performance, your attitude, et cetera. During your internship, you were the model employee. I had no complaints whatsoever. It was not a matter of 'if' you were hired, it was a matter of when."

"Sir," I begin, but he silences me with a gesture.

"I hate to do this, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to clear your desk. Perhaps, in the future, when you have regained your drive, we can speak further on your employment with this company. In the meantime, I'm afraid I'm going to have to terminate your employment with us."

During his speech, I feel the tears welling up and spilling over.

"Please," I begin, again. He stands up, as if to dismiss me. I don't say anything else and silently go to my desk. I don't have much here. A family photo, a vase of fake flowers. I ask one of my co-workers for a blank CD and I copy all of my files from the computer to the disc. I don't even have enough to put in a box.

I give the vase and flowers to another girl who started off as an intern. She smiles, graciously, though she looks mildly confused. I put the photo in my purse, along with the disc. I don't say goodbye or even make a scene. I simply walk out. Away from the only job I've ever truly wanted, away from everything I went to school for.

I pass my car in a daze. I don't even stop to put my purse inside. It is pouring and I am quickly soaked. I don't care. I just walk. I don't ponder my mistakes or berate myself for being so stupid. I don't have anything to say to myself at this point. I just walk. I've brought it all on myself. My foolish endeavour to destroy myself has finally come full circle, if you think about it.

I finally stop. I don't know where I am and I am soaked to the bone. I wave down a taxi. It is still pouring and I have absolutely no clue where the hell I'm going. I've just been walking aimlessly for what feels like years. The cabby pulls up to the curb and waits for me to get in. Once I'm in, he hands me something in pink wrapping paper. I look at him for a minute before he motions for me to open it.

Inside is a fluffy pink beach towel. It is huge and warm. I am shocked into utter silence by this simple act of kindness.

"Do you always carry pretty pink towels wrapped in pink wrapping paper?" I ask, after a moment of patting myself to a dryer status.

"Sometimes. And sometimes it is a blue towel in the pink wrapping paper." He smiles and begins to drive. He hasn't asked where I want to go and I notice the meter isn't running just yet.

"Why do you carry towels?" I lean over the front seat and see six identical packages lying neatly wrapped on the floor of the front passenger side.

"For days when it is pouring and someone has forgotten an umbrella. They come in handy sometimes."

"Where are you taking me?" I ask, lowering myself back into my seat.

"I don't know. Where do you want to go?" He pulls up to a stop sign and looks back at me. He smiles. I can't help but smile back.

"Anywhere but here."

Without a word he starts driving again. He heads toward down town and just keeps driving. The rain continues to come down in torrential spurts and I think of the world being washed away like a chalk drawing on a sidewalk. I suppose life is kind of like a chalk drawing. Could I start over? Change things? Or am I really as far gone as I believe?

"What's your name?" asks the cab driver.

"Abra." I say, simply, still staring outside the windows at the rain. "You?"

"Aidan." he says. "Nice to meet you."

We are quiet for a little bit, the edges of the world blurring with my tears and the incessant rain. I should be trying to seduce this guy. It would be very easy. He can tell I've been crying. He can tell that I am very vulnerable right now. I just really don't have the heart for it, or so I think.

It is then that my stubborn side takes over, and I find myself flirting, in spite of my myriad of feelings.

"Would you like to take me somewhere with food and alcohol?" I ask, batting my lashes at his rearview mirror.

"I suppose I am due for a lunch break." He says, smiling at my mirror self. There is a small crack in his mirror, right at the top of my head. I pretend that it isn't symbolic, because it isn't, and continue.

"I know a great spot." I say. I give him directions and before I know it, we are inside eating. We order some fried calamari dumplings and baked sweet potatoes. He doesn't order any alcohol, for obvious reasons, but I order a raspberry vodka on ice. At first, we don't say anything, just eat our food. I recall another awkward date, somewhat like this one.

"How long have you driven a taxi?" I ask, sipping my drink and thanking God for it.

"About a year or so, now." he says, smiling. "What do you do?"

"I'm an accountant." I say, though I am flooded with an overwhelming feeling of loss as I say the words. I am still an accountant. I am just no longer an accountant for that company.

"Really?" he says. "That sounds interesting. Do you help people with their taxes and what not?"

"Sometimes. It depends on the person."

"I have some things that could stand some taxing." He says. He winks at me and takes another bite of his sweet potato. I blush and take another sip of my drink, but I don't say no. The more liquid courage the better, I suppose.

After we are done eating, I am surprised that he picks up the bill. He then ushers me back to his taxi and takes me down the street to a motel. I have a moment of panic, recalling Liam. This man is not Liam. However, it takes me several moments to remind myself of that. He doesn't try to take me inside. Instead, he gets out and comes to sit with me in the backseat. I must look nervous, because he speaks very softly and reassuringly. He is gentle as he inches his hand up and underneath my skirt. I try not to resist and just let myself melt into the sensations.

It doesn't work, but I don't stop him. We never actually go into the motel. When we are done, he drives me back to my office. Well, what used to be my office. I thank him for everything, give him a tip and get in my car. I wait for him to leave before I lean against the steering wheel and burst into tears. Several months ago, if you had asked me where I would be today, I would've said happily married and working at my dream job. Instead, I am slumped against my steering wheel, in front of what used to be my job and completely alone.

I go home, after an hour or so of sitting in my car crying. I feel disgusting. I wonder, briefly, if I am the first woman he has had sex with in the back of his cab. To help counter this feeling I take a hot shower and change into some nice dry clothes. Just as I am settling in to a good book and a cup of cocoa on the couch, my phone rings.

"Abra, come out for coffee with me." says Noah. I sigh, but I don't refuse.

"Where do you want to meet up?" I ask. We decide on where to go and hang up. I kiss Snuggles goodbye and head over to the cafe.

Once I am there I confess everything to Noah, before we have even ordered. I am almost giddy as I tell him. Not because I think the situation is funny, but because I am so relieved to tell someone, anyone. It probably helps that I am so numbed to it that I have no more tears to cry. Instead I reach an eerie level of serene as I tell him about my plans and the lovers. I even tell him about what happened in the parking lot of the motel a few hours ago. He is stunned, but he doesn't say anything. We are silent for a few moments. I try to think of something to brighten the mood and find that I am beginning to feel genuinely better.

"Maybe I'll write a shitty romance novel about vampire watermelons, make a shit ton of money and leave the country on a boat made of gold and tears. Wouldn't that be nice?" I say, after a few moments of contemplation.

"Clearly you have lost your mind and I'm going to have to have you put in a haunted insane asylum for your own protection."

"Or, maybe, I could just give up and become a lesbian." I put my head in my hands and sigh.

"Or maybe you could stop this madness and use your brain for once." Noah crosses his arms and looks at me over those cute little John Lennon glasses he has an affinity for wearing.

"When have you ever known me to use my brain?" I mumble into my hands.

"Not at all since this madness began. You're starting to remind me of a Shakespeare character with all this insanity."

"Maybe," I say. "you could be a little more supportive of your BFF and her life choices."

"Well, if my BFF wasn't trying to ruin her life by being overly skanky and self-destructive over a boy who happens to be a huge douche, I might be. But seeing as how you are insistant on this stupidity, I can't. I'm still here for you, of course. Though, I am still judging."

"I would expect nothing less than your judgement. Ugh, this is ridiculous."

"I agree. Let's order some coffee and discuss how we can get you back on the right track."

"No, no. Not that," I say. "it's ridiculous that I'm not talking to that cutie over there." I point at a really cute Asian guy standing with a friend at the counter. His shoulder length black hair looks so soft and silky that I just want to run my fingers through it. And I just might, depending on how this goes.

The look on Noah's face is hilarious. He genuinely thought I'd stop my plans. Of course, I thought I would too for a moment, but I can't let Noah be right, even though I know he is. I am being self-destructive and attempting to ruin my life. To be contrary, to both myself and Noah, I go over toward the cute Asian. Upon closer inspection he has an inch thick section of his black hair dyed this gorgeous shade of red. Somehow that makes him hotter and more familiar.

"Hi," I say. I vainly wish I had put on a little more make-up, but I'll work with what I've got for now. "would you like to be my boyfriend for a few weeks, cheat on me and set me up for a sad break-up song?"

"Excuse me?" He looks incredulous and I am not surprised. Usually I wouldn't confess my entire plan in the first conversation, but I'm tired of pretending like the relationship is going to go anywhere when I know it isn't. And the only guy who actually cheated on me was Adam, beside the point of course. Why not just let him know what he is getting into now? We can play boyfriend and girlfriend for a short time, he can sleep with whoever and I can pretend to be outraged. It will end in a flaming plane crash of a break-up. With the possibility of sweet, angry, break-up sex. Even though I am beginning to think I may be too messed up to have any kind of "sweet" sex ever again.

"How about a pizza and a fuck." I say. I can hear Noah's jaw hitting the floor behind me.

The guy gets a kind of cocky smile and just looks at me. I look up in a flirty way, looking through my lashes like Scarlett O'Hara at her best.

"I'm not hungry." He says, coyly.

I put a hand on one lightly muscled arm, still smoldering in a Gone with the Wind way, and lean in close. He can see down my shirt right now and Noah is attempting to pick up his jaw. He is about to lose it again.

"We can skip the pizza." I say. I give a saucy wink and walk back over towards Noah, whose jaw never made it off the floor. I hear him follow behind me. He taps on my shoulder.

When I turn around he kisses me. That kiss is so familiar, so strange and warm. He kisses me as if we have been dating for weeks or have been secretly in love for years. He kisses me as if he knows all my secrets, knows every inch of my skin or knows all of my fears. He kisses me for so long that I am literally melting into his arms. After what must've been forever, or a few seconds of forever, he let's me go and walks away.

I slump into my chair, staring at his disappearing figure. Noah has given up on trying to pick up his jaw and he just looks at me.

"What just happened?" He finally asks.

"I don't know, but I wish it would happen again."

All of Her: Chapter Eighteen

In my first week dating Adam I discover three things. One, he is a suicide risk whilst intoxicated. Two, he is a chronic cheater. Three, he is an amazing lover. When we finally fulfill his "Star Wars" fantasy, I discover, too both my delight and utter astonishment, that he is an even better lover than Clark. I didn't think such a thing was possible, until it happened. Beside the point of course. The chronic cheating and suicidal tendencies are not something I think I can handle.

Partially because I would feel eternally guilty if he died. Partially because he is even more disturbed than I am. And partially because I don't know what I could catch if we weren't using protection. Which frightens me. I don't like being afraid of sex because of what I could catch. Every time we are supposed to meet up he is late and smells of French perfume. A dab of lipstick is always marking his shirt or his cheek. It surprises me sometimes how soon he can go for another round after finding round one elsewhere.

I suppose, as far as the cheating goes, two can play at that game. I can cheat just as easily as he can. Probably even a little easier, being a moderately attractive and sexually available female.

In my second week dating Adam, I discover a problem. The problem is he really is a sweetheart and, as aforementioned, a fantastic lover. When we just hang out, its fabulous. We are best buddies and I enjoy that so much. We go to the adult store and play "Star Wars" dildo fights, with our own sound effects, until they kick us out. He helps do the dishes after dinner, even when I insist that he doesn't have to.

He's actually rather intelligent and he almost always beats me at Scrabble. He's a great guy except for the incessant cheating and a drunken suicide risk. It always comes back to that, of course. Mostly because its a big issue. Okay, its a really big issue.

On nights that I am not with him, I go to the gay bar and flirt with the girls. I strike up a tentative relationship with Julia, one of the cute bartenders. She always wears her vibrant red hair up in a ponytail and she isn't afraid to wear neon colors. She has a distinct affinity for "girly" drinks and this knee-length, orange, pencil skirt with a vibrant white and green rose snaking up the side. She is a great conversationalist and is not afraid to touch on controversial topics. She loves talking about politics and the supernatural.

"Did you know that the 'Bell Witch' is considered to be the only ghost to actually murder someone?" she says one night, pouring me another dirty martini.

"Really?" I say, sipping. "I thought that wasn't actually proven."

"Of course not. How could you prove a ghost killed someone? There aren't any ghostly fingerprints or ghostly DNA to test or look for. But its an interesting theory."

"I suppose if you enjoy that type of thing, yes."

"You don't believe in the supernatural?" she asks, stopping mid-pour.

"I never said that," I say. "I just don't know how 'interesting' this case is because I am not overly familiar with it."

"Its very interesting!" She says and then proceeds to tell me everything there is to know about this particular legend. She insists that she is going to go to the "Bell Witch" cave someday to see it for herself.

When we hang out she is always wanting to play her collection of Estonian rock music for me. Not that I genuinely mind, but it is a bit of a turn off when I'm trying to seduce her. When we finally get down to the naughty bits I discover that she is not very good at it. She tries, valiantly, of course, but fails miserably. I "date" her for only two weeks before we call it quits. Of course we end it amicably so I don't feel awkward whenever I go back to the bar and she is working.

In the meantime, I've still been dating Adam. We go through mood swings like a young girl going through puberty. One day we are fine and the next we are screaming at each other. One day he is fine and the next he is trying to slice his throat in my kitchen. One day we are passionate and the next we can't stand to even look at each other. After three weeks of this, I've had enough.

"Adam, we need to talk." I say, after we have finished eating.

"Okay, what do you want to talk about?" he asks, helping me clear off the table.

"I don't think we should see each other anymore."

"As in dating?"

"Yes." I run the water and start sponging off the dishes. At first he doesn't say anything and just places what I have rinsed off in the dishwasher.

"If that is really what you want." He finally says.

"I think it is for the best, don't you?" I say, turning toward him. Again he doesn't say anything. He just nods in acquiescence. I pat his arm and try to smile. I'm surprised that this kind of hurts me too. He attempts a smile and we finish the dishes together before he leaves. After he is gone, I wonder if I should've tried harder. If we should've tried harder. Even though I know that it would've never worked out.

He cheats, he drinks until he is suicidal, he breaks my heart and I'm not even in love with him. Clearly it was time to let go. At least he was kind enough to let go without a fight. On to the next victim. I mean, lover. And this doesn't take me very long at all.

I am out on the town, drinking it up at another bar on the south side of town. I feel even more at home at "The Walrus and the Carpenter" than I do at "Alice's Wonderland." It is here that I meet my next boyfriend, Liam.

Liam is a Scotch-Irish CEO of a major company. His hair is so black it is almost black-blue. He has a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose and ethereal blue eyes. He looks almost like a young Pierce Brosnan. He even has a slight accent, making him even more irresistible. In short, he is gorgeous, in every sense of the word. We meet during an 80's throwback dance night. We end up making out on the dance floor while a song about dancing with somebody who loves you plays. It doesn't take us long to seek some solitude and we adjourn to his green Mercedes Benz.

That is our first night together. He isn't very impressive as a lover. In fact, he is rather selfish and refuses to let me achieve any satisfaction until he is completely finished. After, as he is buckling his pants back up and I am pulling my skirt back down to my knees, he smiles and gives me a saucy kiss.

"Let's do it again sometime, darling." He says, opening the door for me. I refrain from saying that I'd rather not have sex with him again. Especially not any time soon, but I smile and don't refuse his kisses. I give him my number and we agree to meet up again, this time for lunch.

We meet up at two at a little French restaurant along a man-made canal. He orders duck in a plum-whisky sauce with a Caesar salad. I order a small salad and a braised beef stew. He is very well dressed as he has just come from work on his lunch break. I am less well dressed in bell bottom jeans, a pink polo shirt and white flip-flops. He doesn't seem to mind, but I keep catching him frown at me.

"Is there a problem?" I ask, glancing down to see if I've spilled something on myself.

"No." He says, adjusting his face. "I was just wishing you'd worn that skirt you wore last time. It was easier to get access quickly."

I blush, though I inwardly scold myself for doing so.

"You only have an hour for lunch and it will take too long to eat." I say, taking a bite of my baguette.

"We could've skipped lunch." He winks and takes a bite of his duck. I smile, a little un-easily. I'd really rather not, but I suppose I have no choice.

"Would you like to meet up when you get off work, then? I could make it worth your while."

"I can't tonight. Tomorrow." He says it as though I have no choice but to say yes, without even looking at me. I frown and take another bite of my food.

"What time?" I say, nonchalantly.

"Two. Wear a skirt and no panties. Wear some better shoes too." He never looks up, just bosses me around whilst chewing on his duck. I try to grin, placidly, but find that I am grinding my teeth. It is one thing to assume I have nothing going on tomorrow, but another to tell me what to wear. I don't say a word and we finish eating in silence. This seems to suit him. As we leave the restaurant he pushes me up against his car and kisses me. I kiss him back, because he isn't bad at that, but shy away from his hands scooting down my pants.

"You don't have time." I say, trying not to sound like I'm pleading.

"Don't tell me what I do and do not have time for." he says, rather harshly. He kisses me harder and forces his hand all the way down my pants. I don't resist him, though my skin crawls as he rubs against me. He doesn't do anything except touch me, rather roughly. As I said, he doesn't have time to do more. With a hand still in my pants, he glances at his watch and then puts a hand in his own pants.

Embarrassed, I pray that he is quick with his hand. We aren't even in the car, though we are slightly blocked by it. I expect at any moment we will be caught and my stomach threatens to relieve itself of the braised beef and salad. Luckily for us, he is fast and I try not to lose my lunch. He wipes a little drool from his lips and kisses me again. He smudges some semen on my face, which I take, but do not appreciate. He doesn't even say goodbye, but gets in his car and drives off toward his office.

I don't know what to think or feel as I get into my car. I feel slightly violated. As if I had been forced to stand naked in front of a crowd that inspected me in detail. I go home feeling like I need a shower. I do so, before heading back to the book store.

The next day I don't wear a skirt, though I don't wear any panties. I wear a different pair of sandals, but they aren't that different from what I wore yesterday. I meet him in the parking garage of his office building. As he comes toward my car, I see him slipping something shiny into his pocket. I suspect it might be a wedding ring.

"We're taking my car." He says, flatly. He opens my door for me, but he quickly becomes irked when he sees that I am not wearing a skirt. He takes a little anger out on my car door, shutting it a little harder than necessary and, when we get to his car, he does not open the door for me again. He doesn't say a word as he drives us to a motel a couple blocks down the street.

"I could've met you here." I say, quietly.

"It won't hurt you to walk back, its only a couple blocks." He says, matter-of-factly. I keep quiet.

He pays for the room and takes my hand, leading me to it. Once we are inside his displeasure at my choice of clothing is made evident.

"I told you to wear a skirt." he says, pushing me back onto the bed. At least he unbuttons my pants before yanking them down. I hear a small ripping sound and begin to protest, but he covers my mouth. I think about biting him for a moment, but I am then thoroughly distracted as he enters without any kind of foreplay and I am completely unprepared. I make a small noise of disapproval, because it isn't exactly pleasant for me, but he ignores me. He takes what he wants and then, when he is done, he buttons his pants up and kisses me goodbye. He doesn't say a word before he leaves the room.

I sit up to assess the damage to my pants and to my person. There is a little blood, but not any worse than when I lost my virginity. There is a small tear just under the back pocket of my pants, but other than that they are not the worse for wear. I don't know what to do, except sit there. I think for a moment to call my mother and Brad, but I can't bring myself to. I am too ashamed to do that. I think to call Clark, but I don't want to bring him into this mess. So I call Noah.

"This is Noah." he says, brightly.

"Noah, can you come get me." I say, trying not to cry.

"Abe? What's wrong?"

"I just, I don't know what happened. Please, come get me." I give him the address to where I am and manage to pull my pants up. I keep telling myself that I wasn't actually assaulted. I came here for sex. That was the point. But I can't stop the feeling that I have been severely violated. I get up and sit in a chair provided. I sit there, frozen, until Noah shows up.

"What happened?" he says, as soon as he opens the door. He sees me, sitting in the chair, positioned as far away from the bed as possible and doesn't say another word. He helps me stand and leads me to his car. Once we are there he holds me as I sob, uncontrollably. I don't cry because it happened or even because of the pain. I cry because a part of me feels as though I deserved this. I have been whoring it up, this is what happens. I tell myself I won't see Liam again, but I know I will. I know I can't end it just yet.

Noah takes me to my car and then follows me home. When we get there he makes me something to eat and cuddles with me on the couch. I don't tell him what happened. I don't tell him anything. I just sit quietly, curled into myself, even shying away from his touch somewhat. He stays with me all day and even all night. He doesn't leave me until I ask him to go home the next day. Even then he hesitates.

"What's going on, Abra?" he asks. "You call me and ask me to come and get you from some motel on the south side of town. No explanations. Your car is a couple blocks away in a parking garage. You are practically catatonic, you shy away from my touch. What the hell happened?"

"I had a fight with a boyfriend, that's all." I say, not daring to look at him for fear he'll see through the lie. If he knows that I'm lying he doesn't say anything. He just hugs me tightly and goes home.

That night I go out to "The Walrus and the Carpenter" and I dance with a cute stranger. We make out in a corner for a little while before we take each other's hands and begin to head out of the bar. I shove all my fears down deep and act like nothing has happened. I even manage a smile until I see Liam come in. He sees me, sees me holding hands with another guy and I can practically see the anger rolling off of him in waves.

He comes up, grabs my free hand and tries to yank me toward the door. The other guy keeps hold for a moment and then I tear free of both of them.

"Whore," he says, venomously.

"What does it matter, you are married anyway." I say. "Why should you care what I do?"

He grabs me again and pulls me out the door. He shoves me toward his car and I stumble.

"How dare you?" he says. He pulls back and slaps me as hard as he can. My head jerks to the side and I taste blood in my mouth. It takes a moment for my vision to clear. I shake my head and hold a hand to my lip. He pulls back to hit me again, but a familiar hand stops him. He turns and gets punched in the mouth by Adam. Adam punches him again and shoves him to the ground. Once he is on the ground he kicks him in the ribs and grabs my hand. He pulls me away and we run to his car, before Liam even has a chance to catch his breath.

We drive off, but we don't go far. Adam pulls over and before I realize what is happening I am in his arms, crying.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" he asks, brushing a loose strand of hair out of my face. He lifts my chin and examines my lip. I have a cut from biting it when Liam slapped me. He kisses it gently and wipes away a stray tear.

"What were you doing there?" I ask. He already knows I'm not okay, why answer that question when I have so many myself.

"Drinking, like you." he says, smiling. "I saw you heading toward the door and then saw that asshole drag you out. I decided to follow, in case he tried to do something. I'm just sorry I didn't get there quick enough to stop him from getting the first hit off. I'm sorry, Abra, I tried."

I don't say anything, I just curl into his arms and cry some more. I am shaking.

"Don't leave me." I say. "Please don't leave me."

"I won't." He says, quietly. He kisses my hair and drives me home. When we get to my apartment, he carries me up, like a bride on her wedding night. He helps me change into pajamas, though I hate for him to see me. I have bruises from my last encounter with Liam along my sides and hips. He doesn't say anything, but I can see him getting angry.

Once I am changed, he turns on a movie and makes me a cup of cocoa. He holds me tightly, but gently. He doesn't leave, though I can tell that he'd like to go and continue beating the shit out of Liam. He stays with me all night, like Noah did the night before. He makes arrangements for a friend of his to bring my car home the next day. He stays with me the next day and the day after that. He leaves me for a short while to get a change of clothes from his place, but he returns within an hour. Total, he stays with me four days.

On the fourth day, I kiss him. I kiss him until he is as eager as I am. I can't stand it, I have to purge myself of Liam. I have to. I kiss him until he can't stand it anymore and he carries me to my bedroom. Instead of just sex, for the first time in a long time, we make love. He is tender, only too aware of the horrific bruising that patterned my body for a short time. He takes his time and kisses me, whispering sweet nothings to me. We aren't meant to be together forever, but for the moment we are perfectly imperfect and for a few moments I can be in love with him.

He leaves that night, to go home and change. I tell him that I will be fine. I never let Liam know where I lived and that was the last time I would go to "The Walrus and the Carpenter." I will just stay close to home from now on.

"I'll come check on you later, then." He kisses me goodbye. We don't say anything about what happened at the bar or what happened between us. I know he felt what I did, but we don't mention it. We don't ever speak of it, actually. It is as though it never happened, though it is a moment I will cherish for the rest of my life. When I needed him, he was there.

We decide to date again, even though we both know that it won't last. We end up being a couple for another week before Adam asks me to forget him. Even though he says that we will still be friends, that is the last time I see him. He becomes a beautiful memory, just somebody I used to know.