Flowers at Funerals

By Nancy Reaume

Five characters go through the ups(flowers) and downs(funerals) of life. Cameron is an artist, who later disappears after many domestic violence incidents. Charlie losses his wife in a tragic accident which leads him to Cameron. After his secret love Cameron leaves the state with her abuser, he finds love in a lovely model/private detective, unt

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beautiful Nightmare
• Release date: Jun 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798330228164

Book preview

Flowers at Funerals

Nancy Reaume

Copyright © 2024 Nancy Reaume

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.

Beautiful Nightmare—Fort Collins, CO

ISBN: 979-8-9907200-0-8

Library of Congress Control Number: 2024911432

Title: Flowers at Funerals

Author: Nancy Reaume

Digital distribution | 2024

Paperback | 2024

This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as accurate.

Dedication

I dedicate this book to my brother, Daniel. Whenever I see Sunflowers, I think of you. I remember the last time that I would ever gaze at your body. When they closed your casket, it became real. You were never coming back. Walking out the door, the last thing I saw was your flowers at your funeral. They are forever etched in my mind. I hope you enjoy this book.

I also dedicate this book to domestic abuse survivors. I want to add that in this book, many of the domestic violence situations were real life for me. Part of writing this book is my attempt to heal. So my message is, If you know about it, please do something. The longer you wait, the worse someone will be; they may not even make it out alive. I hope my story encourages people to be forceful in assisting someone who cannot help themselves. I truly do. Hopefully, we can avoid any more flowers at funerals for women in domestic violence situations.

Contents

Flowers at Funerals

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

About the Author

Chapter 1

NANSEA

T

here are some things in life you can’t un-know. Not only do you carry the memory, but the memories cause unbearable pain.

That pain manifests itself, and I would like to say for the better or the worse, but if you know actual pain, you know it’s almost always for the worse. The last time I saw Cam, she was upset but calm. I helped her out, and she invited me to the new home she shared with a cold man. This place was not her at all. Her previous place was all her own. It had a purple velvet loveseat that we would spend hours on, dreaming about our futures.

Only some things matched or were cohesive. Since our domiciles speak to who we are as people, her domicile always said she doesn’t settle on one thing or experience. Her previous apartment, which I can best describe as she got four drag queens to decorate and said, Go crazy, made me realize how disorder and separation can somehow be the cohesive you never thought it was. It made no sense, and it made all of the sense. Nothing matched in the traditional sense, yet you could see the connections if you looked around and opened your mind. I loved the mystery of trying to figure it all out, like a living and ever-evolving puzzle.

When first getting to know her, I thought she was delusional and odd. However, the more time we spent together, the more I realized she was magical. We met years ago at her art show that she held with another artist that I knew by chance. My wife had convinced me to fly across the country to support one of her dear friends. Cameron had always channeled her pain into her art. Skateboarding is how I worked out my sadness; it was my escape. Before it, I didn’t know how I survived, or maybe I didn’t. I remember the first time I found my first skateboard resting by a dumpster many years ago.

That day, I hadn’t cleaned my room to my stepfather’s satisfaction, so he threw out all my books as a punishment. Then he grabbed some copper piping he was working with and beat me; never anywhere where someone would see it so they could get me out of that hell hole. I remember the first blows were just a shock, not that he didn’t do it regularly, but it’s always shocking. He knocked me to the ground, swinging and hitting. Get up, Nansea, stand up, don’t be a pussy… If you don’t get up right now, I’m going for your mom. She can take the punishment that you are too afraid to take yourself.

I started crying, so he spit on me. True to his word, he started for my mom. So I stood up and said, I’m up now. I can take my punishment. I’m sorry for being weak, sir. I should have never laid down. Only cowards do that. Please don’t go easy on me. I deserve this.

I was saying, whatever, to keep him away from my mom. I can’t tell you how hard it is to say, I deserve this, please don’t hold back, and then to get beaten and verbally battered, all while knowing whatever infraction you may have made didn’t warrant being called, disgusting, bratty, good for nothing, lazy, stupid, or taking a grown man’s beating.

But I knew it had to be done. If I took the abuse and if I intentionally caused the problems, then it would be I who wore him down. That means he’s tired; he drinks more and passes out, saving my little brother and my mother from the worst of it. I usually cut myself after this. I would have to wait till he fell asleep because if he heard my tears, the punishment would begin again. But more than that, if my brother or mother heard me, they would comfort me, and this would mean having to watch them be beaten for my weakness. I wanted to protect them. That became my life’s purpose. The more protection I provided, the more I mutilated myself. Always in a place, no one would see and always in the same place to prevent me from being sent away and leaving my family in that hell. I wanted to be the man of the family. Even though I was born female, I wanted to be a positive male role model for Jimmy.

After the devil himself fell asleep, I was about to go to the bathroom, where I would turn the shower on and softly sob and cut into myself. However, this time, I decided to sneak out and walk. I stuffed my bed, even though it was still pretty early. I left my Calculus book open on the bed to appear that I had drifted to sleep while studying. While walking to clear my head, I noticed this odd little thing by the dumpster. Upon closer inspection, I saw it was a skateboard. It was a Zero Board with this attractive, abstract design. It added bright pops of color to a black-and-white design with reflective gold and silver woven in. Upon further inspection, it was smoke-stained. Something had set fire, close enough to show the effects of smoke damage. But it wasn’t much at all. It was noticeable, but all I could see was the awe-inspiring allure of the board, not despite but because of its current state. I love a great story. I love imperfection. My first thought was, This board will not be operational. Surely someone wouldn’t completely discard it because of some smoke damage.

At the time, I didn’t know how to ride, but I pushed it around and found it was just cosmetic damage. There was nothing wrong with the board other than the offense that its previous owner took to it being stained and, as a result, imperfect in their eyes. I tried a few times to ride. I would go a foot and fall, on repeat. I was not a professional, but it made me feel free.

Since my stepdad moved in when I was three, I didn’t know freedom. I didn’t have the freedom to be safe or express myself. For years, he chipped away at me until I felt like nothing but his punching bag. My life’s purpose was to absorb his anger with no expression, no reaction. I was an excellent little rodeo clown, and sometimes that felt like all I was suitable for. But I got used to it, I guess.

But this was freedom. Even going one foot at a time, I felt powerful, safe, and happy for the first time in a long time. I felt like the board was absorbing my pain. This unspoken conversation was about how afraid I am and how badly I feel. The board comforted me and said, You’re safe now.

Looking at the time, I realized I was pushing my luck and flirting with disaster. Now, I had to figure out a way to hide this. He always had a sixth sense of other’s happiness. He would ensure I never had that or had anything that would give me confidence. If I had confidence, he knew he would lose control. I never got that; he could have it all the right way: children who loved him and a wife who would gladly serve him, all in exchange for his kindness. Instead, he used fear. Maybe his past experiences made him so afraid to lose what he had that he felt the only proper way to control someone was to break and never reassemble them. Quite honestly, in many ways, he was right. We were entirely under his control, yet we all hated him. We prayed he would die, sooner than later, from his chain smoking and ugliness. I frequently imagined getting his insurance money and riding off into the sunset.

I quietly sneaked the skateboard through the basement's storm doors and placed it under my mattress. That night, I lay on my bed, looking at my glow-in-the-dark ceiling stars, replaying the past hour. My board, under me, was secretly encouraging me to dream. I had lived my entire life in darkness and with actual dangers, and I now had a light. Even dim lighting is electrifying when things have been pitch black. The high quickly wore off, and the fear set in. After a taste of being let out of my cage, the thought of being put back in is indescribable. I also worried that he would realize I was changing, as I had something now, and I may appear happy. I was concerned my confidence would cause me to react and not just take it. This could make things turn deadly. The higher I am, the harder the beating to bring me down. It’s hard to justify getting off the ground, knowing what will happen and how much worse it will be. Then I just worried until I fell asleep.

My new loved and hope gave me the will to find a way to keep it, and so over the next several years, I started to mix my mother’s Valium and Ever-clear into whatever cheap ass liquor he was dining on for the night. Well, let’s be honest; the only time he wasn’t drinking was when he was sleeping. I couldn’t believe that I had pulled it off. The interesting fact about the brain is that it can understand logically but still trick itself into believing something else to be true. It’s an illusion. I told myself that he was calmer when awake and so peaceful sleeping. But the best part was the time I spent with my mom and brother, granted very carefully, but it was time. In dosing Daddy Dearest, I was always thorough in the concealment so this deed would never be discovered.

What I realize now about illusions is they end. I should have known. I thought about it a lot at first and often. I thought about the consequences, my soul, and what would happen if they locked me up. But as the weeks turned to months, things continued going along nicely. I was sneaking out constantly to skateboard, emboldened by the fact that the violent giant was in deep slumber. I became great at skateboarding, but more importantly, I felt excellent.

So I continued to deliver Roy his Come to Jesus in an exceptionally large beer mug that was ironically laser etched with a family photograph from the only vacation we ever went on to Coney Island. You could see our faces clearly when the glass was full, and as it emptied, it was harder to see our faces. When the glass was empty, our faces disappeared. If you want to know what living with a violent drunk is like, it’s just like that. It’s fitting that he could only finish half of the new concoction these days, leaving some of the etch visible, as with our lives. Every time I passed by the mug, I smiled inside and out. I didn’t save us entirely but kept us as much as possible. Sometimes, that’s all you can do.

The night of the incident started like a dream. Everything. Was. Perfect. I was landing nearly all my new tricks and even met another skateboarder. She was much more skilled than me, which I loved, and she was accommodating. I was very attracted to her. I boarded home with the most joy that I had ever felt in my entire existence. But this would soon all come crashing down with a sickness.

Chapter 2

EMILY

There’s a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased this line.

-Oscar Levant-

I

remember being reasonably happy once and the exact time that changed for me. He was everything to me. I remember our childhood, and Damon was a nearly perfect human being. He was devoted to me and my mastery. He was an outright genius who took me under his wing. I never had a father or much of a mother, to be honest. When I was four and Damon was twelve, my father finally left us for his side relationship, which we discovered spanned our entire relationship with our mother.

My mother used to be striking; I looked at photographs of her as a young adult, and you would not believe it was the same person. Ironically, my favorite pictures of her are from her wedding day. She has these beautiful eyes, as though God took a palette of different browns and blues and didn’t mix them but instead carefully placed them. That placement reminded me of looking at Earth from space; I have never seen anyone with eyes remotely like hers. And her hair was just lovely in its uniqueness. It has this gradient effect from a beautiful chocolate brown to a beautiful golden blonde and into the palest blonde.

She started with pale blonde hair, as she has in her wedding photos, as she has always loved Marilyn Monroe and Janes Mansfield, and then, at some point, she stopped coloring it. My mother once had glittering dreams and pale blonde hair, but some time with my father, her hair grew out, and I suppose the change in her hair reflected the pain that he would cause her as she moved away from her dream.

My mother, Carlotta, was born in abject poverty to devout Catholic parents, not the new, improved version, but the older one—the one where her parents drilled into her these strict lines and unattainable ideals. One is that divorce was wrong to them, no matter what was happening in the relationship. My mother was originally from El Salvador. Her father was active in the church and got to America from those connections and his growing popularity as an artist. They started with nothing and never gained more than that, but they were in America, where anything is possible; you can be a regular person one day and a superstar the next. They enjoyed the people from their new country, which helped with the transition. Their friends were mainly from the church and were accommodating and helpful. They were generous to her family; it wasn’t an act but genuine. That is why what happened next is hard to think of.

Life was fantastic for several years, and they learned the language more quickly than most. It was her and her younger sister and brother, Ellie and Elvis. My mother was the oldest by some years, while Ellie and Elvis were only ten months apart. They always helped each other through navigating a foreign land with different customs. The family began by adopting certain practices and keeping their culture, but the more people outside the church made them feel different, the more they lost their culture piece by piece. Her father, now named Elijah, refused anything that wasn’t American. They were punished if they spoke their language or engaged in anything that would give away that they didn’t start in America. However, this never made sense to them, as they could lose the culture completely, but that wouldn’t magically change their appearance. My mother would complain to her father and ask for money for this or that, and the answer was always no. He wanted people to believe they were born into the home of the brave, yet any help to assimilate was out of the question. He would scold her and tell her about his childhood; he would explain they went without eating for days, and the children worked full-time and never received an education. He said she had it great by comparison.

When her father was in his teens, a church came on a mission trip, and they invited the local population to help with their mission. They were helping to create a system to help provide easily accessible drinking water. They also assisted with a sewer type of system. This was much needed, as these were causing several health issues in the area. While working long hours, they were continuously fed. They were also given volunteer clothing, the only new clothing he had ever had. After a hard day’s work, they would all retreat to base camp, where there was this extremely large tent where they would have fellowship, which was given in Spanish and English. Her father saw that these people had the comforts of life, things that we would disregard these days as nothing big but were tremendous from the eyes of a person who didn’t have anything. He didn’t believe in religion. He would not focus on the Bible but on the American dream. He thought, Americans are doing so well they can come here to help. They have meals with meat. They have lots of clothes and possessions.

At that time, he knew his biggest dream was to come to America. Each night, he would lie down in a room with four of his nine siblings and daydream; the American flag would blow in the wind, blissfully, Lady Liberty’s torch illuminating the dark and allowing everyone to see. He imagined going to school and making money. He would pretend to travel to the exquisite places he saw in the picture books that the church brought. Then, one day, he came across a book called Amazing Grace, which had pictures from all over the United States, and all of the photographs of the different places were awe-inspiring to him. Even though he could not read the words or understand the locations of these places, he loved them. He would return to that book and sit there, burning the photographs into his memory. He even stole a page labeled Montana and another labeled New York; the pages were filled front and back with the black and white photographs of the time. Wanting to give the photos life, he used different natural materials, making a mix of pastel and watercolor, and painted them. Her father had ingenuity and skill, and his pictures came to life. My mother still has them in the lockbox hidden away under her bed. After what happened, she said that she hated him, but she must have been conflicted, considering she could have thrown every trace of him away, the way he threw their lives down the drain, but she didn’t. Unfortunately, even with horrible relationships, you can’t erase them; in family matters, it is always so convoluted when something goes wrong or someone does bad.

He knew then he would do anything to get there, and later he did. The church had been there for three of the six-month mission when my grandfather, at that time named Hector, started working diligently to learn the language and about the Bible. He was incredible in his cunning and could mimic well without completely understanding; he would listen and repeat. He stood up and sang the loudest, smiled, gave extra help, and worked extra hard; he made sure people knew his name. But while he knew he would do what it took, he didn’t know how to achieve this, so he decided to go and speak with Deacon Merlin.

While the deacon was not Latin American, he was bilingual; not all volunteers and church leaders were bilingual, so it was nice to have someone who could speak to him. He started by asking questions about how to improve as a worker, then more about the Bible. The deacon was so impressed with the young man he decided to take him under his tutelage. They would spend hours together, and it seemed he was on his way. When you dream big and are stuck for the longest time, then even small steps are exciting; steps to former stillness are powerful. In the following three months, he grew incredibly. He was learning the language and understanding the customs. When the deacon left, he promised my grandfather that he would help him realize his dream. The deacon was excited to have someone to mold in his image, and my grandfather was easy to mold, given his devotion to his desire.

Coming to America from another country is like winning the lottery here, as the chances are so slim, but the reward is great. If it happens to you, your whole life can change drastically. The deacon’s mission continued to come once a year, and Hector would be right there to meet him. The deacon would bring enough learning materials and art supplies to last a year. My grandfather read voraciously; he then taught his siblings, and they all practiced together. He also improved his artistic skills as he had materials to work with. As his artwork improved dramatically, people from all over came to view it. In his paintings, his use of texture was innovative; he would use different materials to build up other parts of the canvas, so from far away, it would look like a traditional painting, but the closer you got, the more realistic it became, as the dimensions came to life. They were beautiful but unattainable at a distance, but as you got closer, they became more dynamic and more real, feeling tangible; it was within reach, just as my grandfather felt the American dream was within reach.

During the five years since my grandfather first volunteered with the mission, he created a massive amount of different art, which the deacon would take back a couple of trunks at a time. The first few trips and displays garnered interest. The art made you feel; it told a story without ever speaking a word. Most people couldn’t believe how many mediums my grandfather used and excelledat. He also covered a variety of subjects, instead of just landscapes and portraits, although he did those exceptionally well. After those first few trips, he had a following from his dreamland. But behind the curtains, the deacon was exploiting his mentee’s situation. He sold it as this poor savant who only needed a savior, and if you thought he was speaking of God, you would be incorrect. The deacon capitalized on this, but the art critics can always cut through the overselling and over-dramatics; none of that mattered because my grandfather's art stood by itself and needed no sob story attached to it, regardless of how true it was.

It was highly apparent by this point that my grandfather had withdrawn in the most extreme ways. Everyone was sure it was him wanting to seriously focus on his art or believing the art was driving him mad. Some even thought that given his skill, he had sold his soul to the devil for his gift. After some time, he gained enough interest for the deacon to show a large exhibition at a local art gallery. It was not surprising to anyone that the art show would succeed, but the amount of success was shocking. And while the deacon pocketed most of the money, he did promise my grandfather that he would get him to America. He also gave my grandfather a little money, which was a tremendous amount for him. Later, in his late teens, my grandfather met my grandmother. They married, and life and their marriage started like a fairy tale. He treated her well and provided her with things she had never had the luxury of. All the while, the deacon was working on getting my grandfather a working visa, which was frustrating and felt impossible. However, my grandfather’s work was now very popular, and he was gaining support and momentum. It was presented that he could produce his magic in mass quantities and contribute greatly to the economy and the culture. During this long process, my mother was first born, then her brother, and finally her sister. The happiest moments of my grandmother’s life were when he sat with her while she worked on the odd jobs she took in. He would work on his art or lay in bed, staring into each other’s eyes. Many times, he would read her stories from the books, as he could now read very well; he would take her mind to places, better places, and the dream he sold was so beautiful that she wondered, How did I get so lucky? She felt like she was in heaven, even if they never reached America. She loved this tender, intelligent, artistic, and ambitious man and would pray every night in thanks for him. The early times were like something out of a movie, making his later change in behavior even more confusing. After my grandmother got pregnant, he became more withdrawn and colder.

As he started disappearing, mentally and physically, she felt like she had done something wrong. She just couldn’t figure out what it was. The cruelty only increased the harder she tried to please him. She went to her family with her concerns only once, and they told her to be brave and accept it; she and her children had a shot at coming to America. She was advised to devote herself to her children and realize that she still had it much better than everyone else, so she did just that; she ultimately accepted the probable affairs, emotional distance, blatant lying, and the destruction of herself. Then, right when my aunt was born, they found out they got their green cards. This was unbelievable and a huge deal for the community, as people watched Hector go from a child laborer to someone going to live in America. His dream was never more than this minute sliver of hope, so they never expected it to happen, and then they got to see it all ahead of them. So they moved to America.

They settled into their lives and hoped that America would solve all of their issues; they would arrive, and then Hector would become a loving parent; they would get excellent educations and have lots of money, enough to send back home. Unfortunately, when they got to America, it was not a dream but a nightmare.

Once he had the family away from their community, he became a constant terrorist to their self-esteem and safety. My grandmother had it the worst, as she became a ghost and was barely visible any longer. She went about doing what she needed to do to give her children love and a happy life, but the more he wore her down, the harder it was for her to provide that love. She was not recognizable to the point that my young mother started to pray to God, Please, God, save mom. Please, God, make my mom happy again.

The thing about prayers is that they may be answered, but how is entirely out of your control. At 3 AM on a warm Tuesday, my mother thought she saw these lights flashing outside. She would see the golden light for a moment, and then it would disappear. It piqued her curiously enough that she got out of bed and heard audible rustling. Then, seconds later, she heard the door being rammed in and officers screaming for everyone to put their hands on their heads and lay face down on the floor, or there was the threat of deadly force. Then more lights…Lights shone directly in their faces. My mother was in between her little brother and sister, and they were all crying and terrified.

Chapter 3

LEIGHA

I

started dancing when I was young. I remember when I was pure, young, unmarred, and bright. I lived by signs and signals and loved symbolism and living poetry. I wish my past were clean and not murky. Then again, purity isn’t realistic. Even truly good people go through life, which for most is difficult until they are no longer a blank canvas but colored by experience. I haven’t had any relationship for a long time. I’m a loner, except for my job, which I love. I am a dancer. I love changing who you are from one moment to the next. For my time on my stage, I can pretend that my life was different before and that I am different than I am now. They say that all that glitter isn’t gold, as you can throw glitter on horrible things to try to make them shine, but at the end of the day, it is just an awful circumstance that is now also glistening. But even some glimmer is better than none.

I started in ballet when I was very young. I loved to dance and would convince my mother to enroll me in any and every dance class. She spent so much time shuffling me from one activity to the next. She believed in me, which made me believe in myself. By the time I was in my early teens, I was well-versed in almost every form of dance and proficient in most of them.

When I was 16, I went to New York with the Atlanta Ballet CO. I met James there, but everyone called him Skip. Later, I understood where he got that nickname. He would skip out on anything expected of the rest of the world: the bill, his children, other people's feelings, but most importantly, consequences.

I was young, though, and he was charming. The summer program was two months, and he took me to all the sites and the local nightlife. He was a perfect gentleman, making me feel unique, powerful, sexy even. The night before I was ready to fly back home, he made his big move, but I wasn’t prepared, so I rebuffed him. I had a bad experience, so now the fear has been an effective form of birth control. He seemed like he was taking it well and being understanding up until he pinned me to the floor.

What are you doing? Skip, get off me, I yelled and fought with the type of fight of someone who has already been through it.

He brushed my tears away and said, Just stay still, and it will all be over soon.

Once he got up, he returned to being the other Skip, making it seem like what had happened was entirely in my mind. He approached me, held my head, and said, Oh, Leigha. You’re not very pretty when you cry.

At that moment, I felt my empowerment dissipate and my self-esteem disintegrate. From then on, I went numb. I got on the plane, and then I stayed that way. I started using drugs to try to forget. I couldn’t seem to be able to forget it. I dropped out of ballet and school. I started working at QuickMart, and that was my life. My life was a vicious cycle of feeling violated and terrified, then numbing myself to get through that. I had been back for almost three months when I realized I was pregnant. I was pregnant by "Skip out of accountability, Skip."

Not only that, but it wasn’t even my choice. I didn’t look into his eyes and see my forever; I barely saw my entire summer.

Now, I was terrified. I had just turned 18 years old at this point, and I had graduated from pain pills to shooting heroin. I may have looked like the person you knew, but inside, I was a shell. I struggled with depression to the point that I had to continually talk myself into just going through the motions. I did not know what to do, and I pushed my mother away because I was ashamed. I left during a heated argument. Then, once I got deep into drugs, I couldn’t let her see me. I couldn’t let her see the track marks that covered every imaginable place on my body. My face was gaunt, and at an astonishing 87 pounds, I looked so fragile, like I could fall over any moment and die. I suppose that is why I did not know I was pregnant until three months in; the extra weight made me look more normal.

Now I had a problem, a big problem. I couldn’t ask my mom for help because I didn’t want to discuss it. So, I decided I would go to New York. I didn’t know who else to ask for money except for my cousin Catherine, whom everyone called Cinnamon Roll or Cinny to commemorate her addiction to the treat. It took me a while to build up the courage, and I only did that with some prior reassurance.

I called her and asked, I need a favor, but you have to promise me, on our relationship, that you will not disclose anything we speak about or anything you see to anyone in the family. She agreed.

Once the meet day came, I pulled up beside her in my inherited Impala and rolled down the window, signaling her to get in. Once she got in, you could see the shock on her face. Like she just saw a ghost, as if I had died and returned to haunt the streets in my Impala. The shock then turned to tears… streaming tears. She would wipe them, only to have the flood resume.

I immediately replied, I knew you would react like this…This was a mistake. I had become a heartless asshole at this point. And I immediately threatened that we would part ways if she didn’t pull it together. I need money. I need like $3000. I need it now. It is crucial.

She considered this and said, Leigha, I don’t have that money. I couldn’t give you money in this condition; I’d be terrified you would use it for drugs and overdose. I can’t have a hand in this. What is going on? Are you in some trouble?

I turned away and said, I guess you could say that. You see, or maybe you can’t see, that I am three and a half months pregnant with the child of the man who raped me.

She paused for a moment. She looked like she was going to have a nervous breakdown. It was all so much and so intense. Whattttttttttt? What the hell is going on? You have to fill me in. Everyone has been worried sick about you. Your mother blames herself. She can’t figure out if she did something wrong. She wonders how you could hate her so much that you would put her through this. She never seems to rest these days; she isn’t in good shape. Let’s see her, and she can help you. She can help you get an abortion. You’re going to need support afterward. Shit, you need support now. The way you look now is scary. You look bad. Shit. I’m scared. I’m scared for you. How did this happen?

Now, she was trying so hard to hold in her tears that she appeared to be violently shivering.

My more human side came out when I saw how terrified she was because she loved me. I filled her in on everything, and she just sat there, her face resting on her hand. Then she said, Why didn’t you tell me? No one knew what the hell was wrong with you. Quite honestly, we all thought you were a selfish teenager who was running with the wrong crowd. We didn’t know what to do. The more we tried to help, the more you pushed us away. We thought you would get even wilder if we continued to pry and control. That seemed to be your pattern. We hoped it would run its course and you would return. It was too late when we realized that was not the case, and you had withdrawn. You made your stand. We had no choice but to wait patiently for you and let you know we love you and are here for you. I am starting to feel like that was a mistake. Shit. I feel like if I don’t call the cops and get you to help right now, you won’t make it through the night. Fuck. What do I do?

I told her, You don’t need to do anything but help me get some cash so I can take care of this.

She looked incredulous and said, I told you, I don’t have the cash, Leigha; I am barely scraping by. Let’s see your mom. She loves you, and she is not going to judge you.

I took a moment and said, I just can’t Cinnamon. I tried to sell this old thing, but the most I can get is $700, and I need transportation right now.

She replied, "Leigha, just hold on. I am going to my car to get my cellphone, ok?

I will call my friend Christina; she has some money."

She exited my car, and I knew she was going to call the police. I knew this could be the last time I ever saw her. Now tears streamed down my face, and they were hot and the kind that makes your heart feel like it’s skipping so many beats as your gut wrenches in sorrow. As I sped away, I saw the look on Cinny’s face, which was burned into my mind. She looked betrayed at first, but then she looked terrified. In my rearview mirror, I could see her drop to the ground, wailing, No… No. You need help. You’re going to die.

I took back streets to the highway. I was going back to New York, and then figure it out.

Chapter 4

CHARLES

H

ave you ever felt like life has ever become lackluster? Life once had color, but now it’s a dull, fuzzy, black-and-white substitution. My life is in that state, and it’s been in this state for a while now. The truth is, I don’t think even having my deepest desires realized could bring the color back. I think you can push your mind past the point of no return; I’m past the point of no return. The pain from the past several years is indescribable. Maybe it was that I never had time to heal between heartbreak, or perhaps it was too much heartbreak overall; either way, I broke. So I go home, turn on the TV, and sit there like a zombie until it's time to go to bed, and then I do it all over. Sometimes, it feels like things are moving at lightning speed around me while I sit still. Very much here, very much not here. Sometimes, I look at old photographs to remember that I can feel; I just don’t.

My life wasn’t always like this. I used to be happy. I used to be ok. Around six years ago, I met my late wife, and we married a few months later. When you know, you know. I had what I had always wanted: a pregnant wife, a decent job, and a lovely home. It’s funny how life waits until things are perfect to pull the rug out from underneath you. My happiness was shattered when, one night, my late wife came in crying, and she said, We need to talk, Charlie.

I smiled and said, Of course. What’s up, buttercup?

She looked me straight in the eyes and said, Charlie, I’ve been having an affair, and I’m pretty sure he’s the father of my child.

I laughed. I thought she had terrible news so she said that first to make whatever was coming next seem foolish. Maybe she hit something with her car again. But nothing came next but silence.

No. No. No. God no. Please, God, no. I just put my head in my hands, and I cried.

Then, my hurt turned to rage. I stood up and told her, You are just a leech; you grab on till the person’s bled dry, then onto the next. Your own damn family warned me, and I would not listen.

I ran out of the house, disgusted at myself. I had never said such awful words, and the anger with which I said them scared me. My world was crumbling around me. Why wasn’t I good enough? Why am I ever not good enough? I loved her. I did everything for her. My mind couldn’t comprehend how you could be so good to someone and still have them leave you. In my mind, you only leave if the relationship is abusive or there is infidelity. I cherished her.

I had felt pain before, but nothing like that. I needed it to end. So, I headed to the local dive bar. I got drunk, drunker than I had ever been before. At some point, I fell over and hit my head. My wife’s brother-in-law, one of the two attendees from her side of the family at our reception, happened to be at the same bar and saw me in that condition. He called my wife, and she told him what had happened. He called her a complete moron.

See, Mark was a fan of mine. He had seen my wife go about life with little regard for anything but her happiness. She had lived a callous life, primarily by her design, but then she found me; I was everything she had ever wanted. I would’ve fought to the death for her. Looking back, I feel like I never loved her, but instead, I loved the idea of her.

I didn’t know Mark was even there. I’m surprised by how much they served me. I believe that some people enjoy watching someone self-destruct; it makes them feel more secure. The rest, understand the kind of pain that you must extinguish immediately, or the flames will consume everything.

Maybe Karen thought everyone would accept this, like, Oh Karen, she’s a ‘free spirit’; she is immune from the consequences of destroying someone. And how could she and the new paramour ever trust each other when the relationship started with both of them cheating, cowardly? Mark didn’t think it was cute and demanded that Karen come and pick me up.

After falling, I entered a booth, looked at the ceiling, and played the memories. What was real, and what was an illusion? Was she cheating the whole time? What could I have done differently? If I weren’t doing what she wanted, I would have fixed it. Why couldn’t she have ended it before having an affair? It would have hurt, but this feels lethal. I then drifted off to sleep and dreamed that a beautiful angel whispered in my ear, Hang on, Charlie. The best has yet to come.

On the way to pick me up, Karen drove like a maniac, as she was now riddled with shame and guilt. She could barely see through her tears and was incredibly distracted. As she blew through a red traffic light, the last thing she saw must have been terrifying. There was no time to react as a semi-truck, coming from her left driver's side, T-boned her. She had only a few seconds before she realized what was happening before the impact. The semi hit her so hard it nearly split the car in two. The damage to her person was so horrible that her wealthy parents could not pay enough to have her put back together. When I identified her, she looked like a mangled body dipped in glitter, as the many tiny glass particles became embedded in her skin; it made her glisten in the light, with the light reflection sometimes changing colors. That image is something I wish could be wiped from my mind entirely.

When Karen never showed up for me, everybody thought that she just said, Fuck it. I’m not picking him up. I don’t even love him anymore.

So Mark and another man loaded me up into his SUV, and he drove me home. I don’t remember the ride home at all, but I got home around 230 AM, and they propped me on my side so I wouldn’t choke on my vomit. I woke up once to get sick, but I thought I felt Karen crawl in bed with me right before that. She tucked my hair behind my ear and kissed my forehead. I love you, Stoney. At first, I started out feeling intense hatred, but when she called me her pet name for me, that softened me. I remember thinking, Shit… Maybe we could fix this, and everything would be alright. I wanted to wake up and have it all been a terrible nightmare, and my living dreams would be intact.

That all ended when, at 7 AM, I heard a knock on the door. I ignored it, thinking Karen would surely answer it. But the knocking did not cease; it only increased in frequency and intensity. Then the doorbell joined in, and I finally got up. I opened the door, and there were two uniformed police officers and a grief counselor. The officer asked, Sir. Do you own a 1990 Chevelle?

I replied, I don’t, but my wife does. Why? What’s going on?

There was a brief pause, then, Sir. There has been an accident. We’re going to need you to identify your wife.

I could not comprehend this, so I asked, What do you mean by identity? The officer looked saddened and said, It was a fatal car accident. I am so sorry, sir. I dropped to my knees and prayed, No. God, no. Please, God, no.

Then I sat there for a few minutes wielding all my power to change the present, and then finally, I realized I was going to have to stand up to at least see; I told myself, This could be anyone. People make mistakes. So I got into the back of the cop car, and my extreme sadness turned to shock.

Once we got there, they led me to her, and I identified her body. I’ve been to open-casket funerals; I’ve seen countless friends and family be laid out for the last time. It’s their body, but their spirit is gone. It’s hard to see someone who was once living no longer alive; it makes you realize that anything can happen at any time, and then you are gone; all the life lived, now only in other people's memories, all their dreams now ended. It all makes you feel highly mortal. You cannot escape death. It’s inevitable.

After that, I went numb. I watched as my friend's children grew and people evolved while I remained suspended in this middle life. I started excessively drinking at home; I would go to work and then come home and immediately make myself a drink with the cheapest bourbon that I could find. I couldn’t get home fast enough or drink fast enough. I have found that if I am still for too long, my mind allows the ghosts the ability to speak. If my mind isn’t kept wholly occupied, then it becomes haunted. I think of that night often. I wonder what her last thoughts were and if there was life after death. As soon as I finished the first drink, with a quickness, then I would pour another. I repeat this until my mind forgets what happened. I drink until I forget I was once happy. I drink until I forget I was once in love. I drink until I forget the betrayal and how it has torn my heart into shreds.

The problem with drinking that much is that once you have nearly forgotten, you are black-out drunk. I was black-out drunk seven nights a week. There was no living anymore, and it was not even surviving; it was existing. My drinking escalated pretty quickly, and I showed up to work drunk. They got me a ride home, and because I’d been there for a while, they swept the incident under the rug. I got my shit together, at least at work, for a couple of weeks, then I just started again. I needed something to dull the intense pain my heart felt. I wanted absolution.

The next time I showed up to work drunk was the last. They let me go. I packed up my stuff, and they had police escort me through the process. There were several of my coworkers who looked almost in tears. Shoot, we were kind of like family. I had once been this successful, cheerful, friendly man, but now I was wearing clothes I can’t remember the last time I changed and smelling like I took a shower in Gin; it was seeping out of my pores. It was a fall from grace. I think the coworkers I had been close with were panicking and wondering what I would do now that I had lost my job. Would this last thing sink me in the depths of madness? So now I had no job, and I could not get one because who hires people who show up to the interview drunk? If you find a job that does, you should worry. That should be a red flag.

I had some equity, so I lived off that for a while. Just until I got my head straight. I got up each morning, drank, and continued all day. My money was depleting rapidly. When I realized I had enough money to survive only one month, I started to evaluate what I needed to do to return to work. I thought, What will make you better? How can you get back to being yourself again?

I worked it out repeatedly, each thought with branches of other thoughts, and I realized that what I was asking for was impossible. I wouldn’t magically get better on a specific date and time. The truth is, I believed I would never get better; I would continue to be this way forever. While I knew a month was such a short time, I kept pushing it off. I couldn’t be bothered with it, and my drinking had reached a level where I wasn’t a functioning alcoholic.

A few friends tried to snap me out of it with shame. Saying, Stop throwing a pity party and get your shit together… Everyone has issues… That’s just life. This just further isolated me. This emotional pain was too much. I couldn’t snap out of it. I suppose it is just life, but life affects you. Some people can go on with the pain of loss, regret, and unfinished business and sometimes even turn it into something good. I just couldn’t. This was dark. The human mind is capable of darkness beyond any horror movie. I was living my very own horror story; I created my hell.

On the unobtainable quest for closure, I got the witness’s contact information from the police report. I eventually decided to call her. I don’t know if she knew I was wasted, but we talked for a long time. During that call, I didn’t continue to drink, which was strange because I never did anything without drinking, hence my joblessness. She did something to my heart that I cannot explain in words. I have always been shy, but for some reason, I found myself