My mish-mash of everything blog: http://lakeclaire.tumblr.com
My mommy blog dedicated to my baby daughter, Aurora:
In the arms of aged wood and oranges:
We get out of the car, which for some unknown reason we decided to park in the front yard. Approaching my ex-boyfriend, Ash, is a wolf. On my side of the car there’s a combo armadillo-javelina, and a few rabbits. I say, “Hey, I think the animals are cool. Don’t even worry about the wolf.”
I’m halfway through the front door of the house when I turn around and Ash is tearing the heads off of the rabbits and eating them. His face and hands are covered in blood.
Shocked, the first thing I do is grab a 2x4 to defend myself. Ash brings in a round tupperware container holding the heads of 2 rabbits and the armadillo-javelina creature. I don’t understand his sudden cruelty and I am horrified enough to retaliate.
His reflexes are quick, like he’s vampiric in nature. I manage to strike him once on the head with the 2x4. He manages to get a few attacks in but it happens so quickly I am not totally sure of what is going on, other than I’m hurt and I’m losing consciousness.
I find myself outside and I’m hiding in some tall grass with a random assortment of animals. We’re all dressed in shades of white and black, to guarantee a certain amount of safety in the hiding. I’m surrounded mostly by dogs of the fluffy variety, and very tiny Dachshunds. There appears to be a couple of other humans with us, but at the moment it’s dusk and the light is only serving to add to the confusion. We all speak in the same tongue, and not one creature finds this to be unusual, not even me.
We’re crawling on the ground in order to avoid the WWII-dressed military troops surveying the property. I know that my ex is still inside and that he most likely has something to do with this military operation. Crawling on our bellies, we head north towards a large barn in order to find better shelter. Behind the barn is a large patch of fluffy white grass that’s tall enough to go past my knees, standing.
The variety of miscellaneous creatures that we are, we lay low in the downy, dog-hair grass, speaking in hushed voices and doing our best to conceal our fears. It’s unspoken that we find survival to be unlikely.
We hear voices of soldiers coming our way.
Making a mad dash, we all run our separate ways, knowing there are few hiding places for anyone, let alone a massive group of defenseless creatures. As I run south towards the neighbor’s property, hoping to find solace in the woods, I turn around briefly. Explosions erupt on every corner of the property. I watch as my furry companions go up in flames, spreading fire among the coniferous trees. Soldiers are wielding flamethrowers, spraying every animal, tree and living creature with hot death.
As I reach the road, I am horrified to find out that not only are the woods also on fire, but there are cop cars waiting amongst the flames. Staring me in the eyes, are the red and blue flashing lights, like a dare to come forward, like a dare to embrace hell.
I fall to my knees and surrender to the darkness, the flames, and the military officials hell-bent on capturing me.
When I come to, I’m inside the house. It’s nighttime and all of the fires outside have been extinguished. No lights are on. My sister is on the couch watching television. Nothing’s on. It’s just a chaotic clusterfuck of static, blue squares, and distorted voices. She continues to watch the TV like this is a normal activity, and, Duh, woman. TV has always been like this.
I sit down in the living room facing the eastern window. I have a perfect view of the driveway, and it’s an equally as perfect view of the endless flux of surveillance cars which make no attempt to hide the fact that they are watching me. Straight. Up. Staring. At. Me.
As I’m sitting very still, unaware of how long I’ve been doing so, I realize that my sister is and has been on the edge of consciousness, if not her very existence. There’s a voice inside of my head saying, They’ve gotten to her already. It’s too late. Get out. Now.
I slowly and quietly make my way upstairs to my bedroom. There are no curtains on any window in the house, and because it’s so dark outside, to turn on any lights would be suicide for secrecy. I change into a t-shirt, short shorts and cowboy boots and grab my purse. I notice a square hole in the ceiling. Taking a chance, hoping to expedite the process of casual-esque escape, I drop through and find myself back in the living room.
I resume my position facing the eastern window. My sister is no longer in the room. Outside is an 80s era, orange-woody station wagon. Sitting at the wheel is an older man with a grizzled beard, Willie Nelson hair, and a bandanna wrapped around his forehead. He’s smoking cigarettes and staring right at me. I notice a person in the passenger seat and to me it looks like a 12 year old girl. She appears to be staring at me with an equally as distrustful and deadpan expression.
I take a deep breath and decide to take a chance. This is the first non-military and/or police vehicle monitoring me, so I walk outside to talk to him. He’s now alone in the car, but I wait to say anything about it. He’s staring at me like he knows something, but his tone is friendly and calm enough I give him the benefit of the doubt. “Can you get me out of here?”
Still smoking his cigarette, which appears to be of the old and rolled variety, he exhales, expertly flicks the cigarette with his thumb to ash it, then slowly directs his eyes to peer into mine. “I’m sure you know the risks. Hop on in.”
We’re driving down the road and deep into the countryside. I don’t know how long we’ve been driving but daylight never comes. Time appears to be caught between dusk and dawn, as if the sun forgot this side of the planet and decided it had better things to do on the other side.
I’m smoking, too, which I never do, and I break the silence with the question that had been nagging me, “Where’d she go?”
Without looking away from the road or changing facial expression to impress upon me that he was even listening, he said, “There never was anybody.”
I say, “I saw someone in the driveway. It was a girl.”
“That was no girl.”
“So it was a guy. Who was it?”
Still as appropriately deadpan as ever, he responds, “A man you’ve laid with. You shared sheets without matrimony. In a basement, I believe.”
Finally with a surprising change in facial expression, his face creases into a bit of a skeptical smile and he says, “Yeah! That’s the one. John.”
I feel so tiny, confused and vulnerable sitting next to this aged monument of scathing skepticism, unspoken wisdom, and mysterious intentions.
I can’t figure out what all these ex-boyfriends have to do with the destruction of my so-called normal life, but all I know is that everything is fucked and the only person I can trust is this Willie Nelson lookalike.
In my head, the question repeats, What is so special about me, that everyone feels the need to destroy it?