I SIT AGAINST the door and eat apple pie. It doesn’t really taste like an apple pie. It tastes like an apple Pop-Tart warmed in the microwave, with sprinkles of bland crunch on top. But I’m bored and not ready for bed, so what the hell. I chew, the consistency soggy as it is pushed around by my tongue and ground into nothing by my teeth. I chew and stare, my eyes glued to the window as they’ve been for the last seven minutes. I don’t know why I find it so appealing. Appealing: wrong word. Tempting: better. I have survived, for three years, by not focusing on this window. I avoid it most days. Alternate between covering it with paper and ripping it bare and staring outside. Back when I moved in, when I was idealistic and scared, and doing everything in my power to restrain my urges, I painted it shut. Added a fresh coat when I went rose-petal-pink crazy on my cam bedroom a year later. Tug on that window, and it doesn’t matter how many push-ups I do, it isn’t budging. But suddenly, swallowing a thick glob of apple, I want it open. I want the scent of night, to stick my head through and see stars.
That night, when I drove to Annie, I saw stars. A blanket of them stretched carelessly across the sky, as if their existence was no fucking big deal. For nine hours I got to see them. And now, as I crunch my way through stale apple substitute, I suddenly want, even have, to see them again.
I toss the paper plate to the side and stand. Walk to the kitchen counter and open the drawer. Grab the only knife I keep readily available, a butter knife. Wild woman I am. I grip the knife in my fist and walk to the window. Slide the edge down the jamb and start to scrape the paint.
Scrape. I don’t focus on the task, or the growing pain in my hand from the effort. I sit on a stool by the window and scrape at the dried pink paint. Wonder, with each dig of metal into pink, if I will regret this. Is seeing stars worth the temptation of fresh air? Worth the removal of a barrier? I break through the final piece of paint and set the knife down. Move the stool aside and flip the window’s latch, placing my hands on the wooden frame. Pause for a beat as I analyze this poor decision.
Yes, this is wrong.
But my sanity is worth a little risk.
I need this step. I need to prove I can handle this step.
I yank, the window sticking an inch up, the crisp night air sneaking through the crack. I tug harder, the whistle of air blowing stronger as the wood behaves underneath my palms and slides all the way up. I smile despite my better judgment, and lean through the dark hole.
Stars. A galaxy of them, stretching above me. I stare, my breath gone for one moment, stolen by the awesomeness of our galaxy. Wonder at the view from the heavens. Wonder whether my family is up there, watching me, watching this step. Wonder if they are proud, or if they are screaming at me to get the hell back inside. That is the issue with being my own police, the responsibility to decide if the decisions I make are right. Annie was right. I know that, I have to believe that. I return inside for a brief, depressing moment and grab a blanket, gingerly sliding a foot through the open window and sitting on the ledge, the blanket around me, my forefinger running over a small blister on my thumb. I opened the window and it is okay. It is night; I am, in a small way, free. My reward: the stars, stars I have missed, stars I’ve spent three years imagining on the ceiling above me. I lean my head back against wood and look up.
And here, under this sky of impossibility, I feel the first slice of understanding at the enormity of things out of my control. I am one of thousands underneath this sky, not someone particularly special or unique.
Yes, I’ve killed. Yes, I still want to kill. But, looking up at thousands of lights that could harbor unknown galaxies and universes, could hold my missing family, I feel a bit, there, somewhere… yes… a flicker of hope.
There has to be a plan. I have to have a purpose. I am, despite all that rots in my core, a good person.
I sit, my head resting on the frame, a pile of pink paint shavings beneath my dangling foot, and stare until my eyes become heavy and I finally move to bed, leaving the window open, the fresh air my excuse.
Star light. Star bright.
First star I see tonight.
I wish I may, wish I might.
Not kill those whom my heart holds tight.
CHAPTER 9
“I WANT TO see you naked.”
I fight a yawn. Shocker. This guy is original. With a name like PluckTheBirds I would have expected more. But that’s what I get for a guy whose webcam is turned on, yet facing a blank wall, his need to speak versus type indicating a desire for full hands-on masturbation. I smile, shimmy out of my teddy and step closer to the cam, slowly pulling off my shelf bra as my eyes watch the cam clock. It’s a delicate balance, stretching out the minutes without pissing off the clients. But it’s something that I, in my online persona as JessReilly19, have mastered. I turn, my back to the cam, and crawl onto the bed, bending over before the cam and sliding my panties over my ass when he speaks, the words giving me pause.
“You like pain?”
I pause. PluckTheBirds better not be wanting to pluck my hairs, or watch me scrape on nipple clamps and tug my girly points to bloody bits. There are other girls on this site for that. Girls that get wetter the more pain that rips through their body. Girls that rival me in craziness. “In what way?” I almost stop my panty removal process, ready to sit up, lean back and press the “End Chat” button.
“I like pain. I’d like you to tie me up. Hurt me, cause me pain.”
I relax, kicking my leg to the side, watching my panties fly across the room.
Yeah. Yeah, I like pain.