Here's chapter two of my STORYUNTITLED.doc woohoo. it's a bit long, sorry. the next chapter will include many desperate, ridiculous sex scenes thank you very much.
2
The pungent smoky smell of cooked meat fills my nostrils, and I glance around me, realizing that everything was meat: pork, bacon, hamburgers, chicken wings, ribs, barbeque—
“God, these people are cannibals,” I exclaim to no one in particular. A woman wearing an enormous straw hat turns around and gives me the evil eye, walking off into the crowd with a plate of ribs and bacon on her paper plate. No forks or knives. No napkins, no drink in hand. Just meat.
I shrink away and sit out front on the sidewalk, wishing that I am somewhere else. I bury my face in my knees, trying to rest my dizzy head.
A person walks by, and black dress shoes stop in front of me. “Hey.”
My head rises in slow motion. I squint at Pighead, and he stares down at me. His eyes are still green, but he gave up on dying his hair black last year and now it’s golden brown again. His newly-cut hair disgusts me for some reason. “What?” I snap, glaring back at him.
“You just look lonely, that’s all,” he replies, his tone flat and distant. “You know, you should be in those family photos they’re taking right now.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“I came to look for you.”
“Go to Hell,” I retort, my tongue quick. My entire mouth tasted sour, probably caused by the bile rising from my throat. If I threw up, I was ready to aim directly at his white suit and expensive navy tuxedo.
He breaks off our argument and glances away, his expression blank. “Whatever. I don’t even care what you say to me. I’m your brother-in-law now, I’m family. You can’t treat me like this.”
My gaze shifts to a little girl playing down the street by herself. Her ball bounces up and down, up and down, up…
The black dress shoes walk away, and I’m left sitting on the ground alone, my gut wrenching with anger and slight embarrassment. The little girl’s ball bounces down and rolls away, and I wish I can just steal it from her, so that she’d learn, too, how it feels to be betrayed.
Emma confided in me that morning about how she had been waiting for the One – her “perfect man” – before she planned on losing her virginity. She also wanted her “perfect man” to have waited as well, so that they could be each other’s “first”. She’d said to me, with utter kindness, “I wish you will experience this absolute gratification as well. Being patient, and waiting, can be the truest sign to show how much you love a man.”
Well, too bad, I thought. I had said nothing to her in return for her words of wisdom, and only nodded. Now I can laugh to myself all I want.
See, Richard is not a virgin. He loved sex, and I was the one to show him how.
I take pride in that, because no matter what marriage ties hold Emma and Richard together, I, Annabelle Lester, was the one who experienced the original and unspoiled bond. And that bond will always be unbreakable.
Tonight they set off on their honeymoon, to the grand islands, reachable by a car trip and a ferry. Emma had begged my father to pay for a one-week getaway to the Caribbean’s, but my father just stared at her with a look of contempt and disbelief.
Mr. William Lester was a man of dignity, of morals, and a man of simplicity. In other words, he worked hard for his money, and was not going to blow it all on his daughter’s honeymoon. “Besides,” he’d tried to reason with Emma, “honeymoons are supposed to bring you and your husband closer together. It doesn’t matter where the couple stays, as long as the couple has each other.”
Emma relented and accepted the three-day getaway to the Vancouver Islands instead.
-
In the morning, I awake to blinding lights and bloodshot eyes. Grams is hovering over me and telling me to hurry up, or else I am going to be late for school.
I ignore her and turn sideways on my bed, trying to block out the extreme sunlight shining through my window.
Eventually, she sighs and walks out of my bedroom.
I wait until I do not feel the least bit sleepy anymore, and decide to hop out of bed. I stretch and catch my reflection in my mirror across the room. I sit on my bed and observe the way my hair has settled during the night, how puffy and red my eyes look, and the way my shirt clings onto me like a second skin. The mirror shows more than just my reflection, my image; the mirror is a portal to another world, I conclude. In that world, nothing matters. I am alone, but not lonely. I am the only one in that world. It is my private planet, and I am a little prince. I own the bed I’m sitting on and the desk beside me, where everything is strewn carelessly as if a bomb has gone off a few seconds before. I own myself: my beige skin, my long black hair, my dark brown eyes, my thin arms and knobby knees, my round nose and full, pink lips. This small, round spot on the right side of my mouth, I own that as well. In that world, I own the things I touch, and everything I touch is mine.
I tear my gaze away and let fall my tired eyes on everything in my bedroom. In this world, the real world, nothing is mine. Everyone possesses me, from the first time they laid eyes on me. I feel trapped and lost among the crowds of people pushing each and every way. I look over to my desk, and feel as if even that desk owns a piece of me. Every night, I’ll sit at that desk, and stare at the millions of items upon it, and fail to clean them up.
I turn my attention back to the reflection in the mirror.
I look closely into that other world, and I feel safe.
“She’s such a slut, you know…”
“Yeah, I heard, but I didn’t think it was, like, true…”
“Annabelle Lester did what?”
Upon stepping into the washroom, the temperature drops significantly, and unexpected silence rings through the stalls. A group of girls stares at the dirty bathroom mirror, and applies their makeup with quiet, nonchalant countenances. A young girl, probably a freshman, and is new to the group, gapes at me with an open mouth as I enter. One of the older girls nudges her hard with a pointy elbow, and returns to layering on mascara.
As I approach, compacts are slammed close and makeup bags are zipped up. Quickly, the group retreats out into the hallway, their voices hissing at each other; their footsteps slowly fade and the washroom is eerily quiet.
I roll my eyes and stare at my reflection. The other world doesn’t exist in these mirrors. The other world only exists in my mirror. My dark eyes stare out at me, the haunted expression muted slightly in contrast to the heavy eyeliner and coal eyeshadow that I’m wearing. I personally really like dark eye makeup. It matches me, who I am, and who I’m supposed to be.
Besides, when I wear dark eyeliner, nobody ever comments on how much I look like my mother.
I remove most of the makeup with a wet piece of tissue. I look like a raccoon now. I take out a facial cleanser from my bag and squirt some onto my hands. I rub it onto my skin, and start scrubbing to take every trace of the black colouring off my face.
After I dry myself with another paper towel, it is time to meet with my guidance counselor. He makes me meet him every Monday, to discuss school, life, and… a little bit of everything. He tells me that I look pretty enough without 'all that ugly makeup', so I try to clean myself up.
As I leave the bathroom, some guy accidentally bumps into me. I don’t bother to apologize, but I can hear him repeating, “Sorry, sorry” behind me as I walk away.
“Pathetic,” I spit out, turning around the corner. I stop and knock on Mr. Pate’s door. I can hear murmuring coming from behind it and I realize that he’s talking to another student.
Suddenly the door wrenches open and an angry looking guy marches out, his boots stomping on the floor. He pushes past me, and the smell of his Axe cologne wafts through the air. I give a small, disgusted groan and enter the Counselor’s Office. The office is a small room, dark and dusty because the blinds and windows are never opened. Hundreds of books line the bookshelf on the right wall. A formal desk is placed on the left side, where Mr. Pate sits, scribbling in his notebook.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Pate,” I say without any emotion. His head swivels up when he hears my voice. I close the door behind me and proceed to throw my bag onto the little couch in front of his desk. I lie down as well and then glance up at him. He has a small smile upon his face, and his blond hair is ruffled in a way that says ‘I’m too young to be a school counselor’. I know for a fact that he just turned 26 last month. “Alexander,” I say with a scowl on my face, “why are you smiling like that?”
He steps out from his desk and glances through the tiny, translucent window on his door, to make sure no one is milling about. He then approaches the couch and says, “Oh, nothing, Anna. You know, I always look forward to our talks, that’s all.”
I roll my eyes, and sigh. I do this a lot, because the world can be an annoying place, filled with silly, naïve people. I sit up and Alexander settles down beside me, so close I can see the tan lines below his soft blue eyes. He brushes a hand through my black hair and says, “You look so beautiful today.”
“It’s because I scrubbed off my makeup, for you,” I reply, trying to be uninterested, although the heat from his body is making me warm and lightheaded. I’m ready to float off, high above the clouds in the sky, but I maintain my cool composure. “Stop it, Alexander.” My voice is hard but quiet.
“What’s wrong, Anna?” he whispers, his lips already on my neck.
I swallow and pull away. “Why don’t we ever go out?” I ask. This question has been brought up countless times over the last few meetings we had. “Why don’t we ever go see a movie? Or to parties together?”
Alexander’s gentle expression changes slowly. His eyes now examine me in a dark, morose manner. “Anna…please,” he pleads. “Let’s not talk about this now…”
I stand up quickly. This man is a despicable loser. “Your wife left you two years ago. Now the only action you get is from a seventeen-year-old girl who is fucking damaged. Look at yourself, Alexander. Look at your life…are you really happy?”
I am hovering over him, while he cowers on the couch. I feel terrible somehow, but I can’t control my emotions, and the intense power I’m feeling gives me such a high that I suddenly hear myself saying, “I know why we don’t go out, Alexander. I’m going to say it, even if you can’t. I’m the only one who cares a shit about you, so I try to help you out. We fuck Wednesdays, that’s all, right? There is nothing more between us.” I bend over to pick up my corduroy bag. It looks so forlorn and forgotten that I have to hold back my urge to stroke it. Alexander, on the other hand, is almost shivering; with his head down, his broad shoulders slumped over, he looks like a man about to be crucified. His timid quivering revolts me.
“I’ll see you on Wednesday: same place, same time, Alexander.”
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