“Jake, don’t,” I plead just above a whisper. My eyes dart back and forth between the men. Tears build in my eyes, goosebumps spreading across my skin. This isn’t going to end well. The intruder’s gun hand begins to tremble and he raises his other hand to stabilize himself. He’s edgy. “Jake,” I whisper, closing my eyes tightly, instinctively preparing for what’s to come. I can feel it all around me. I can feel something bad closing in on us. I’m scared. I’m so scared.
Without warning, shots ring out. I’m not sure how many. I fall to the floor in a heap then roll to my stomach, immediately scrambling face down for safety. It’s a feeble effort on my part. The side of my head lands on the tile, hard, sending a sharp pain ricocheting through my skull. I’m immobile and utterly helpless. I can’t open my eyes no matter how hard I try. My lungs burn. I need to take a breath. My brain is screaming at me to breathe, but I can’t.
Warmth covers my chest. It spreads down my ribs to my side. Immediately following the warmth is a cold that I’ve never felt. It’s a frigid type of cold that seems to emanate from the inside out. Confusion sets in and my train of thought is centered on Jake. I can’t hear him. I can’t see him.
Without regard for anything else, I will my body to move and my eyes to open. A searing hot pain causes me to cry out as I force myself onto my side. With my temple pressed to the cool tile, my eyes widen, offering me the first glimpse of Jake. He’s only feet from me. The low light provides just enough for me to see. He’s lying on the floor facing me, a mirror image. Blood has covered his neck and chest. The rose red pool around him keeps growing, spilling life out with it. An unearthly shrill fills the space around us. A long moment passes before I realize that the unnatural noise is coming from me. It’s worse than a wounded animal. It’s what I imagine a dying person sounds like.
My love. My sweet love. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.
Chapter One
Stupid Ant
Two years later
April 16, 2013
My cursor blinks rhythmically on the screen, causing me to blurt out a noise that comes out sounding like a sob and a sarcastic chuckle procreated and that’s what they spawned. Half snort, half whimper, but purely insane. I’ve been thinking that a lot lately.
Insane Sadie. Insadie.
It does have a ring to it. No doubt about that. My eyes leave the screen and peer out my living room window. I stare out as cars cruise idly down my street. My grass is freshly cut. My driveway is neatly edged. You’d think that someone who actually gives a damn lives here at 803 Chestnut Lane.
Not so much. Not even close.
Dad is to thank for the pristine yard. Mom is responsible for the freezer full of ready-made meals that require next to no effort to prepare. There’s a pink sticky note taped to the lid of each plastic dish saying the same thing.
3 minutes on high in the microwave.
Stir.
2 more minutes.
XO-Mom
She’s taken the time to write the same damn thing on each note and instead of thinking about how lucky I am to have a mom who cares so damn much, I think that she’s wasted her time. Who writes the same thing on a sticky note at least 20, 30, hell, 40 times or so? I’m not a moron. She’s stocked me with enough food to take on a zombie apocalypse and I never eat any of it. It’s the Southern belle mentality. Food is love and Southern mamas love. A lot. It’s also the “whole starve a cold, feed a fever” approach, except in this situation, it’s more aptly, “engorge a widow.”
Another half snort/half whimper escapes my throat and a part of me, somewhere inside, is disgusted that I am the way I am. I imagine the long lost version of myself, the one deep inside, behind bars, is shaking her head in condescension at the new me. You’d think that I’d be ashamed of my mental status these days, but I’m not. I’m fucking sick of life and I haven’t made a single effort at hiding it. I’m callous with just about everyone, including myself, but somehow…somehow I’m not inclined to be that way with him. I don’t know why and I kind of hate that I feel like playing favorites with this man, but who can blame me? On some level…I love him. I love him and hate him simultaneously. See?
Insane.
I read the first email I received from him one more time even though my impassive eyes have scanned the words so many times that I could probably recite what he’s typed.
To: [email protected] From: [email protected] Subject: Hi April, 16, 2013
4:08 pm
One week from now? Tuesday, April 23rd? 9am is a good time. There’s a breakfast place called The Red Rooster on Main. I’ll meet you there. I’ve included my cell phone number in case your plans change.
Regards,
Alexander McBride
No apologies. No condolences. No sympathy or questions about how I’m dealing.
I don’t know why, but something about the short and to the point theme of his email feels relatable. I’m the same way. I’ve been short and snappy with everyone since Jake. And despite knowing that I shouldn’t want to know why he seems so short, I do want to know. I know why I’m short and abrasive. Why is he?
***