u/IWriteOkay-ish

What a wonderfully luscious little day. A morning nap in Samantha’s arms, sunlight pouring through that big store window and casting a warm amber glow across every book. Absolutely delightful.

I lean my head against hers as we continue to read her book at the counter. Well, she reads; I’m just enjoying her and looking out the window as someone small comes into view on the sidewalk. She looks sweet, a bit like Samantha when she was younger. Wait now… What’s this?... Could she be a NEW customer? Oh, we love NEW customers!

The ring of the bell startles Samantha back to Earth as the young girl steps inside. She laughs with a hand over her chest, still collecting herself from the surprise.

“Hi, I’m Sam! Welcome to Andie’s Books and Records. Well, you’re a new face around here, aren’t you?” Samantha’s words are so kind, but the girl looks struck by them. It’s a fair question; I don’t think we’ve had a new customer in years. Maybe she’s a hoodlum, a criminal on the lam. What other reason would there be to react that way? Something nefarious is afoot.

“Hi, I’m Caroline… I just moved here.” The girl shifts uncomfortably on her feet, hiding something; I’m sure of it. Behind those hazel eyes and that hair clip hides a secret, and I will discover it! The girl's eyes turn to me as her brow furrows. “Your cat is looking at me weird.”

How dare you! I will claw-

“Eh, he’s a weird cat.” Samantha! How could you! “Simon’s a sweetheart, though.”

Well yes, I am very lovable. I won’t be forgetting the weird comment, though. We will be discussing that later. The girl begins an exquisite round of scratchies while I’m lost in thought, pulling the hum straight from my chest.

“He’s pretty, I like his eyes.” Yes, he is. Yours aren’t as pretty as Samantha's, but they are nice. “But yeah, I just moved here. I had some family stuff happen, so I moved out here with my uncles.”

“Oh, okay! Who are your uncles? It’s a pretty small town, so if they’re around my age, there’s a good chance I can tell you an embarrassing story about them…” Samantha whispers loudly past a hand held beside her mouth. Her smile is infectious, and soon Caroline has it too.

“I’ll tell you their names if you help me find a good book.” The girls lean over the counter together and link their little fingers. Completely ignoring me, but my attention has been drawn elsewhere anyway. My tall young friend steps through the door and interrupts the girls with the bell above.

“My bad, my bad, don’t let me interrupt.” His face pulls into an apologetic grimace as he drops his head and shuffles away down one of the aisles. That was a new look. Why are all the small ones being weird today? Very interesting developments for a Sunday. Very interesting indeed.

“No, you’re fine, Otis! This is Caroline; she just moved here!” The little one's face is flushed, and neither of them answers her for a moment. I cock my head at Samantha and see her look between the two of them. Caroline at the counter and Otis, cowering among the aisles. She looks at me, and instantly I know. She needs my help. Don’t worry, I will handle him, man to man.

I jump down from the counter, the picture of grace, and weave between the crates of records on the floor. She’ll organize them soon; she’s just so busy, poor thing. I come around the corner, smooth as a panther on the prowl, ready to take down my prey. And there he is, reading and totally unaware that I could down him with a single well-placed bite. Pitiful. I successfully stalk my way directly behind him and clear my throat to get his attention.

“Hey Simon.”

Hello Otis. Nice to see you again. Pick me up so that we may speak eye to eye.

“God, you’re so weird, man.” Otis. Don’t you ever. Say that aga-

He bends down and scoops me up with a huff as I paw my way up his shoulder and rest my head next to his. Much better. The view from up here is wonderful, compliments to your mother. I hum to myself and watch him read as the girls talk. Or maybe he’s just pretending to read. What is he looking at? And if it’s not that book, why isn’t it me?

“Wow… Simon, did you see her?... Do you think she’s here for books or records?...” His voice is barely a whisper, and as I crane my neck, I can finally see what he sees: the girls laughing by the counter.

Otis, why are we watching them?... Are we hunting?... Don’t hunt Samantha; I love her…

“I know, buddy. I wonder what she likes to read…” He begins to scratch my head, and it takes every ounce of control I have to keep up the conversation. Otis, that is enough. Now Samantha wants to know why you’re being weird. We have new company, and you are not behaving the way we expect. Otis? Otis, I am- Oh, for the love of god.

I crane my neck again and this time see something that shatters my heart. Samantha catches Otis looking through the shelves, raises her eyebrows at him, and gives him a wink. I turn quickly back to Otis and catch him trying not to smile, his eyes wide… Oh God, they’re in love... I’m gonna have to live with a boy again. I can’t live with a boy again; I’m her special boy! Otis, how could you! You were my best friend!

“Ow, ow, ow fucker. Jesus. You got claws, not fingers. Be careful.” Otis takes a moment to remember the extent of my power and of my mercy before looking back between the shelves. But this time there are four eyes there to meet him. He drops to a crouch and holds me tight to his chest in a way that I can’t say wasn’t mildly enjoyable. “I should just leave, right?... I’m making it weird for everyone; I’m being weird. I should just go.”

That may be for the best, Otis; get you and your charms away from my Samantha. You should just go. Besides, I believe there may be a criminal in the building. I can’t protect you both, and I will be choosing Samantha.

“Otis, your book came in, by the way! I’ve got it on the counter for you when you want it!” Samantha’s voice is a songbird in this wasteland of a predicament. Otis starts down the aisle toward the counter at a pace that makes me uneasy.

“Thanks. I’ll, uh- yeah. Thanks, Sam.” He jostles me between his arms, trying to find a way to grab his new book before Caroline extends her arms toward us.

“Here, I’ll take him.” They rudely pass me between themselves with all the care they show their babies. The disrespect of the moment is palpable. “Oh, is that The Bazaar of Bad Dreams?!”

“Yeah, I asked Sam to order it for me so I didn’t have to drive to Augusta to get it from the big bookstore. Did you want it?” Otis’s eyes are wide and confused, and Samantha is smiling into her hands as she pretends to read her book. What is happening in this damnable shop this morning?

“You want to give me the book before you read it?...” Caroline’s fingers find every sweet spot under my fur as I lose the conversation for a moment.

“Uh, yeah. Sure? I don’t-um-” Sam loudly flips the page of her book and clears her throat with a small laugh that only I catch because we’re soulmates.

“You guys can go read it together at the table back there if you want… I think I’ve got some snacks back there too…” The room grows unusually quiet as I climb out of Caroline’s arms and back onto the counter where Samantha still leans, her hand poorly covering a wonderful smile. Now both customers stand wide-eyed and uneasy, refusing to meet each other's gaze. I lay down flat on the counter and let my chest hum the way they all like until all eyes turn to me. Their faces all soften into smiles as they soak in the majesty of my performance.

“I like snacks.” Caroline's face flushes again as she runs her fingers over me.

“Me too.” Otis rubs a finger over my head before turning away with Caroline and heading to the back of the shop to read their stories and eat their snacks.

Samantha giggles to herself, but I’m just glad they’re gone. I need a nap. That was absolutely exhausting.

He stands up and walks across the room, dripping with shame that’s shaped like sweat. He has to wash his hands, wash this moment off. His chest is still heaving and his skin still flushed as he looks into the motel mirror. He can see the girl sprawled out behind him, a shell of what walked into that room hours ago. Laid bare to the glow of a television in the dark, under an unimpressive painting of three small trees on the wall behind her. 

He washes the mess from his hands. Over and over, scrubbing at his knuckles until he can feel tears creep to the edges of his eyes. He doesn’t need clean hands; he needs a baptism. With one final look at the girl in the mirror, he steps inside the bathroom, ready to repent.

The shower sputters to life, and steam begins to billow as he cranks the handle right. He wants it to hurt. He deserves it to hurt. What just happened in that room will stain him until the day he dies. There is no saying I’m sorry for this. He holds his face under the water and tries to scrub hard enough to find a new one beneath it. A new life. But all he finds is pain as the water burns at the flesh rubbed raw.

“H-hail, Mary, full of grace.” He pulls his face from the water as the words fight their way through clenched teeth. He brings his hands to his chest as he turns his fingers inward, clawing at the filth. 

“Blessed art thou amongst women.” His words become hurried, and his hands become blurs. “And blessed is the fruit of thy womb-”

“Don’t be a drama queen.” The words shatter his thoughts, his safety torn away with the shower curtain. 

“Jesus! What are you-” The woman steps into the shower behind him. The sight of their naked bodies, a monument to their shared sin. 

“Calm down, it was fun. You were fun. No one needs to know about the things that happen in this room tonight. We can just enjoy it. Enjoy each other.” She steps closer to him. The water burns at his back while her skin burns against his chest in an entirely different way. Her eyes follow the trace of her fingers down his body as the flame of weakness reignites. “There’s nothing to pray for here, honey. But there is something to worship.” 

The woman steps back and brings herself into full view of the man. Both Adam and Eve, the serpent and the apple. She encompasses his entire world in that moment as his family is cast aside. He feels like a victim to her charm as he collides with her in a second moment of release that had been building for years. But he wasn’t the victim, and she wasn’t the cause. They were a decision standing in the steam together in the throes of passion. 

Dirty, nasty little thing. Debaucherous in mind and action.

“Finish your prayer.” The woman’s words come between pants as she drops to her knees in the yellowing motel shower, grinning up at him, almost obscured by the water in the air. “Pretend I’m a nun without a habit.”

“Holy M-Mary… M-mother of God.” His words labor against her efforts as he tries to finish this corrupted moment of absolution. This affront to everything above and below his world. “Pray for us sinners, now.”

His words catch in his throat as her resolve steels below him. 

Finish the prayer.

“W-what? Who said that? Did you hear that?” His head swings around, searching for a voice that isn't there, as he finally finds the strength to push his desires away.

“Hey! What the fuck, you psycho?” Her words are contemptuous and angry, rightly so, as she falls back onto the unforgiving ground. But she isn’t the focus of this moment. The man who refused to finish his prayer is. So we said again, for all to hear. Finish your prayer.

“Can you fucking hear that? Who is that?” The man steps quickly from the shower and begins searching for the voice. He puts his ear to the wall, desperate to find a culprit for his anger, his shame, and embarrassment. The woman, finally listening, holds her hands over her mouth as tears begin to fill her eyes. But the man, oh, he speaks with venom in his voice. “Where are you, you fucking creep?”

He speaks to us as if he knows what this really is. What’s really happening. He should speak more politely in the face of judgment.

“Wait, what are you talking about? Who are you?” He spins in the middle of the room and looks for an anchor in his reality as the woman hits her knees again. This time in repentance.

“I-I am so sorry. For everything, for this, for-” She stops talking and listens as the voice explains her situation. She looks around, wondering if the words were only describing what she did, or dictating what she would do before it happened. But she knows the answer. She did nothing wrong. There was no lie in what she wanted. No transgression in giving it freely. 

The man stands frozen, towel on the ground. Adam before the apple but racked with fear as his sense of control slips away. He has no repentance in his heart, and it can be felt. He knows what he did, and he is going to tell her what it is.

“I lied on purpose to sleep with you. I’m married; I have a wife and a child who adore me.” His sinful flesh begins to peel from his hands. Thin layers at first, then chunks sliding onto the carpet below. “I think they’re a drag on the life I could have.”

The wicked man has more to confess. He knows the truth; he knows how deep it truly goes. The skin on his back begins to burn and boil, slowly sliding free under the weight of itself. So now the man will talk while his skin drips to the ground. 

 Drip. Drip. Drip.

“I met you last year when I started at the company and decided that I wanted to sleep with you. I kept my family a secret on purpose, from you and everyone else just so I could fuck you.” The dirty, nasty man begins to shrink, little by little, but his bones remain the same size. They strain against his skin, trying to find room that isn’t there. Making us wonder what will give out first. But before we get to find out, the man must continue. His next confession comes loud enough to be heard over the sound of his bones grinding together. “I found out that you were a romantic and that the only way I could get what I wanted was by making you fall in love.” 

The woman barely notices the gore in front of her as she looks the abuser of her love in the eye. She knows the question she has. She knows we are going to let her ask it.

“D-did you love me?... Do you?... I th-” We understand. But now is not the time for many words. Just words that matter. Honest words. The man leans down at an impossible angle, his feet barely on the ground and his nose only inches from hers. The bubbling meat of his back sloughs off on either side as he looks into her eyes and speaks his last truthful words.

“No. I don’t even really like you. It was for the sex. I wanted the accomplishment. To know I still got it. That I have options.”

The man rises into the air, arms outstretched like his savior on the cross, having finally answered deceit with truth. His fingers begin to curl back with strained pops as she looks at the painting on the wall behind him. She gazes between the three small trees and whispers. She tells the painting what she wants.

“I-I just want to leave. I don’t care. I can’t-” And so the woman rises. She slides her dress back on and collects her things. She will not remember this room, or the man, or what she thought he meant to her. She will find a love deserving of her. She steps around the broken man, suspended in the air, and looks to the painting on the wall. When she speaks, the words are entirely her own. 

“Thank you.”

So the woman leaves, leaving only the scent of her perfume on the sheets and her lipstick on the man's neck. The man spins, now facing the painting himself. He wonders what they could really be. Why they are here. Why they chose him. What he did to deserve such a grim fate. He thinks of his God as his teeth begin to rot and his jaw begins to chew. He wonders how God could be so cruel. He wonders if we are God.

God is a name. We have no name, only a purpose.

 

We collect lies. This place is rich with them. 

He feels his stomach split and his guts spill forth, weaving themselves around him as his flesh catches fire. They wrap around his eyes as he finishes his last earthly task, blind to the majesty of three small trees.

Finish your prayer.

I remember the time before our son. When the smile on your face was the only thing I could see behind closed eyes. When our hands were happiest together. When we were happiest together. I still can’t believe we found each other. Out of everyone I could have ever ended up with, it was you. You were perfect.

When I looked into your eyes, I saw the future. Lazy Sundays and weekend trips set to the tune of our favorite song. My fingertips against your lips when the heat between us warmed the cool night air. Your breath on my neck, slow and even; a metronome for my sleep every night until we left this coil together.

The time before I opened that door.

You had spent nine months despondent and broken. Keeping a child you never wanted for the reputation of a family you hated. You would smile and chatter with excitement at every party, every conversation, every outstretched hand that reached for your swollen belly. But when we returned home, I could see you. Standing in the kitchen alone, weeping for the future you would never get.

But I knew what the real reason was. You couldn’t just be happy with me. You wanted it to be different. Not the house, the car, the job. Just me, the father of your child. The dye that colored the dress you lived in every day. It didn’t matter how good the stitching or the fit. Because deep down you just hated the color.

I had to sit and watch every wonderful part of you rot under the weight of life growing in your belly. The inevitable product of a dead love that you prayed would die and flush from your body every single day. You thought I couldn’t hear, and I thought you would be a good mother. 

Now I look into your eyes, and a doll stares back. I see the echo of a woman who doesn’t care if our son cries. Doesn’t mind if he sits there in his diaper, soiled for hours while I’m at work toiling, providing for you both. I come home and feed you both because you’re too sad to do it before I get done. You just sit there staring at the wall as he screams in your lap. 

You’re truly a disgrace of a mother. I would never tell you to your face, but I will write it in this journal. My mother was a wonderful mother; she always smiled for me. My father made sure of it. So now I brush your hair and rub your feet just like he used to; I even got the kind of brush he used to use. But you don’t care; you just wallow in your own mind. You don’t care how much money I spend on fancy perfumes or new clothes. You just want to sit there and judge me like it’s my fault your life is ruined.

But I know what love is; I could see it in your eyes across the bar, I could feel it on your breath, I could taste it on your kiss. We both absolutely loved the same song that played over the speakers. We talked about what made it special to us for hours. It was just meant to be. I can’t remember the name of that song or why I said I loved it, but I know that I loved you the second you sat down. The whole night you kept your hand on me. On my hand, my arm, my thigh. That’s how I know you really do want all of this. You called it a hookup, but I know it was love. It was real.

That’s why I slipped the condom off that night. Because you wanted me to. You just didn’t know how to say it.

I thought you’d thank me one day, that you’d be happy. I still do.

I thought you would be happy when we got home, but you just held him across your chest in the bathtub. Trying to love him. Trying to find the warmth in your heart for the life that you created. You created him with me because you wanted this, and now I have to stand inside and make sure you don’t let him slip under the water. Because you’re a bad mother. 

You became a bad mother the day I opened the door and saw your bag. The day you decided to shatter a family for personal greed. The trailer is too small, the place is too dirty, the plumbing doesn’t work, it isn’t safe for a child, I’m not safe for a child, I disappear at night, I watch you sleep. Nothing but complaints and lies from a brain destroyed by postpartum. 

I don’t remember what you did, just the sound of your back against the corner of the nightstand. That pop bounced around the walls for what felt like hours. I still don’t know what it was, but you got so sad after it happened. You won’t move, you won’t talk, you won’t even play with your son. 

All you do is cry. Not even with your whole face, just your eyes. 

You cry when I carry you from room to room, when I feed you, when I change your panties after you’ve made a mess. You cry when I brush your hair with your special brush or rub your feet. You cry when we make love every night. You even cry when you hold our son; well, when he holds you. I don’t know why you cry. Maybe in a few months I’ll be able to save up and buy us a TV so you two have something to watch while I’m at work. Maybe that new swell in your belly will be the thing to finally make you talk to me again. But until then, we have everything we need: the routine, the babies, and my undying love for you.