Post-traumatic (full movement)

It’s a strange feeling when you wake up in your own bed with a woman you don’t remember meeting. I know I left the house last night, which is a rare occasion, but I don’t remember where I went. I know I probably had too much to drink, but this is bizarre; who the hell is she? I stare at her, trying not to breathe, and try to remember what I did last night that could result in a weird situation such as this. Even stranger still, I feel like I recognize her from somewhere. I’m trying to put a name to the face and not having much luck. I slowly push back the half of the blanket covering me; my other hand absorbing any movement I make that might cause her to stir. I rotate my body slowly and plant my feet on the splintered wood floor. My head is pounding and my mouth is painfully dry. I slowly creep out of my bedroom and head down the hallway towards the stairs that lead to the kitchen. I need to kill this hangover before I can think clearly about anything else. I’m really not this kind of guy.
I used to always be the guy with the girlfriend. I find comfort in monogamy, more so than my friends, if you could call them that anymore; friends are expected to actually talk to each other if I’m not mistaken. They would have different woman for the days of the week, something I could never imagine doing. I get attached to a woman; not easily, but when I fall, I fall hard. The feeling though, in my twenty-some years on this earth, has hardly been mutual or reciprocated. I don’t think I’ve had a relationship that was worth remembering, not a good one at least. This has turned me into somewhat of a recluse, the fear of rejection and heartbreak keeps my doors locked and my phone bill unpaid.
I creep down the stairs carefully, even though I know they’re going to creak, regardless of how lightly I tread. The light streaming through the front windows of the dingy foyer forces my eyes to shut and the pounding in my head to increase in pressure. I let out an audible groan and stumble absentmindedly to the powder room down the hall. Aspirin is very necessary on mornings like these, mornings that seem to be increasing in number…minus this experimental variable that is the woman in my bed. Without turning on the light I look at the shadowed reflection of myself in the mirror; brown hair, gray eyes, high cheekbones, two days worth of rough stubble, nothing very exciting. I guess you could say I’m handsome, or at least that’s just what I’ve been told. I turn on the tap and splash cold water on my face, trying to shock myself out of this stupor so I can concentrate on what to do about the woman upstairs. I lean over the sink for a minute to give the water droplets a chance let go of my face before heading to the kitchen.
Everything in this house smells like it’s been dead for years. The large Victorian was built nearly a hundred years ago and probably hasn’t had any renovation for the last fifty. There are strange noises expelled from almost every corner of this place. The wind blows right through it and I haven’t cleaned in months. It’s hard to clean when you really have no one to impress; I’ve been alone for some time now. I don’t leave this place except to buy more booze and cigarettes, occasionally some food, and I feel like I’m slowly becoming a piece of decaying furniture in this place. It is home though. I slouch down in one of the good chairs at the breakfast nook, the other three have at least one leg about to give out, and look for where I put my cigarettes. It’s freezing in this house; too cold to do much of anything. Of course, the cold; I remember now.
The only reason I went out last night is because my heater is broken and I’ve run out of wood for the fireplace that I hardly use. I was feeling particularly low, well, lower than normal. I’ve been very depressed as of late and I thought a couple of whiskey sours at the dive bar on Fullerton might warm up my insides and keep my mood from traveling further south. Truth be told, I didn’t want to drink alone. Again. I find my cigarettes on top of the fridge and spark one up, fumbling with my zippo as I hear the creak of footsteps overhead. She’s awake.
How I met her, I’m not quite sure, but I do remember when I first saw her. She was across the bar wearing a black sweater and jeans. On her feet was a pair of knee-high riding boots that looked as though they’d seen many a better day. Her hair was pulled up into a high ponytail, blonde curls cascading away from her face, making it clear that she wasn’t wearing any makeup. How refreshing it was to see a woman with natural beauty; how contrasting she was in the midst of these drab painted faces. I was probably staring because the next thing I remember is her hopping into the stool next to mine. I don’t know what we talked about, or if we even talked at all. My mind just keeps hovering on that radiant smile she kept flashing my way every so often.
Now here she is, in my home, God knows how we ended up here. I hear the groaning of the water pipes overhead, a tell-tale sign of the shower being started in my bathroom upstairs. Good, this gives me more time to think of what to say in this peculiar situation. I flick on my old coffee maker and pour some water in from the tap, making sure I’ve measured enough for two, then lean against the wobbling counter to further collect my thoughts. I really don’t do this kind of thing, not usually at least. I wonder if she’s the kind of girl to go home with strange men she hardly knows. I really hope not, but then again, I hardly know her either. This is just the way my stupid heart behaves, already getting attached to something it doesn’t know. I realize I left my cigarette teetering on the ashtray for too long. Only a tube of ash attached to a filter remained. I grab another and light up. The coffee finishes brewing and I fill up one of my two mugs, the brown one with the chipped handle, and go to the fridge to look for cream. The barren fridge shows no signs of cream, or any kind of sustenance really, and I secretly hope the girl isn’t hungry. It’s a little embarrassing to live in a place so stark and sad. The only thing in the refrigerator is an almost-full bottle of Jack that I don’t remember buying. Oh well, I guess it’ll do. There’s no harm in a little warmth to start off the day every once in a while. I tell myself this to justify my semi-recent delve into alcoholism; any time is a good time to drink these days. This morning is different though, I’m hoping Jack will act as the liquid courage I need to make this situation bearable, because as of right now I’m a nervous mess with shaky hands. I pour a generous dose of the whiskey into the steaming mug and take a scalding gulp. I’m debating whether or not the cup needs more when I realize the house is silent. Adrenaline pumps with the liquor and caffeine now in my system as I listen for any hint of the woman upstairs. I wonder if I even had any clean towels in the bathroom, or soap for that matter. Shit, I shouldn’t be so nervous. It’s like I’m back in college. I would feel panicked and self-conscious if a girl even so much as looked at me the wrong way after spending the night. That was a long time ago, there’s no reason for me to be nervous in my own home. It’s not like I’ve never spoken to a woman before. I’ve probably spoken to too many for my own good.
I’m not sure if I’m even breathing at this point. The bark of footsteps crashing through the moldy ceiling above is telling me the woman is headed for the stairs. She’ll be here in a matter of seconds and, to be completely honest, I wish I was more drunk. I fidget with my cigarette and gulp the contents of my mug as she clears the last step. I turn to refill my mug with more whiskey; I do this quickly so she doesn’t think I’m some kind of lush. I reach the coffee maker just in time to top off the mug, noticing then that it was more than half full with Jack, and she was there.
She’s wearing one of my old work shirts, the blue one with the coffee stain down the front, and nothing else. Her damp hair falls in tendrils over her shoulders and her bare legs and feet make me shudder. She doesn’t seem to mind the cold. She’s walking towards me casually when I finally look at her face. There’s a fluttering in my stomach that I haven’t felt since, well, I can’t even remember. She’s walking in a straight line with those milky white legs, and then stops with a kiss delicately placed on my cheek. My hand involuntarily replaces her lips after their departure, feeling the faint film of saliva on my sandpaper skin. I immediately regret not shaving, or showering at all for that matter. I focus back on her. She’s reaching for my other mug, having to stand on tip toes to grab it off the shelf over the sink. Smart girl, I didn’t even have to tell her where to find it.
“How’d you sleep?” The sound of another human voice almost startled me. It’s a little raspy, as it should after a night of burning shots and too many cigarettes. I find it sexy. I find everything about her to be sexy. The urge to reach out and touch her is so strong. I debate whether or not I should act on this feeling when I suddenly realize that she asked me a question. I quickly shrug and give her a half smile, not trusting my voice to be stable yet. Those legs, those lips, her hair, her eyes; I can’t do anything but stare.
“What,” she smiled and put the hand that wasn’t holding the mug up to her forehead “is there something on my face?” She lets out a small chuckle as she poured herself a cup of coffee. She lifts her head and glances around the kitchen like she’s looking for something. I’m about to risk breaking my silence to ask her if she needs anything when her eyes light up and she strolls back towards me, her eyes focused on the fifth of whiskey at my left. Her thin arm brushes against mine as she playfully grabs the bottle. I try to keep my face normal so she won’t realize the goose bumps that appeared on my arms after coming into contact with hers.
“I’ve always been a fan of the man who can drink before noon,” she beams at me and pours herself a healthy glug. I chuckle nervously and look down into my own coffee, trying to work up the nerve to say something, anything. She settles into the other good chair at the breakfast nook and looks at me, motioning with a jerk of her delicate chin, to the chair across from her. I hesitate for a moment. How is she so comfortable? I really hope this doesn’t mean she does this all the time with other men. I want her. Maybe she just really likes me. The thought is promising enough to push my body away from my post on the counter and into the spot she’s assigned me.
I sip my spiked coffee frequently, remaining silent for the most part, mostly because she is doing all the talking. Thank god, she’s not as uncomfortable as I am. I give the occasional nod of recognition when she pauses so she can continue twittering vibrantly between generous gulps of her own coffee. I’m having a hard time even paying attention to anything but the melodic sound of her voice. I shake my head slightly and sit up straight so as to force myself to actually hear what she’s saying. She talks about how fall is her favorite season and how she had just gone apple picking with her family in Michigan last weekend; they do it every year around this time. She elaborates and I try to remember if I’ve ever been to an orchard at harvest. I can’t remember, really, but I think I may have gone as a kid or something. She talks about Frank Sinatra and Fred Astaire and about how our generation is in desperate need of a heart-felt and talented crooner. How she thinks none of the music produced after 1979 deserves to be considered worthy of the “Golden Oldies” station on the radio. As she rambles on I realize there is something different about my face. There’s a smile on it. How strange…I wonder how long it’s been there. I blushed and tried to hide behind my own, nearly empty mug, avoiding eye contact with this seemingly perfect woman. I can hardly keep my thoughts from spilling out of my head through my mouth so I keep my lips perched on the chipping ceramic, my mouth’s corners still turned upwards slightly with a hinting notion of that smile.
She stops talking and fixes her eyes on mine, a sideways grin exposing her perfect white pearls of teeth. She exhales slightly and drops her soft yet angular chin into her delicate hand. After a moment of what I think was admiration, she speaks again. The words dancing out between two perfect lips sounded as sexy as silk and as soft as velvet; I’m mesmerized.
“You never could let yourself smile,” she trills as she reaches across the table to lay her hand on mine, the one holding the drink to my face, and gently lowers it until the mug is planted firmly on the table. The sound of the ceramic on the flat surface of the table pulls me out of the hypnotic state her touch seemed to put me in. Never could let myself smile? That’s an awfully deep and defining statement coming from a one night stand’s mouth. Although it was a statement I have heard before, often really, I don’t know how she could know me so well already. Maybe I told her that last night at the bar, but I’m never usually one to talk about myself, especially lately.
A smile spreads across her face as she examines my puzzled expression. I must look like an idiot. I quickly pull my hand out from under hers, causing my mug to tip over and spill its contents all over the table and floor. I stand up quickly and stumble around the kitchen to find a washcloth to clean up the spill before it reaches her side of the table and drips onto her lap. She’s silent for a moment. I stop my frantic search for a moment to look at her face. She’s not talking. Is she mad? I take a step towards her, forgetting about the coffee and whiskey puddle on the floor, and try to apologize. Before any words can escape my mouth my shoe slides across the surface of the puddle which sends me freefalling to the dirty tiled floor. The girl lets out a song of laughter, the last thing I hear before my head hit the ground, hard.
That laugh encompassed my senses. It was so sweet and familiar. Familiar in a way that makes me think; I’ve heard that laugh before. I know that laugh. I loved that laugh…A creeping swell of nostalgia washed over me, the undertow sucking me into a black and silent state of memory. Ramona.
She was an art history major at the college I was attending for my Masters in Literature. I found her laugh late one night in the nearly abandoned campus library. She was sitting alone, reading some dusty wide-spine novel that was causing that melodic laugh of hers to travel and echo down the aisle I was in. I followed the sweet sound to the clearing where the tables were located then stopped, abruptly, when I saw her. She was the most beautiful girl I had seen in a while, maybe ever. Her blonde hair was long and hung in wavy curtains that framed her perfect face. Her porcelain skin was dusted lightly with freckles and her eyes were the most startling shade of green. I was staring, melting, when she looked up at me; those eyes causing my mouth to fall open slightly and attempt to form something close to words.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” she said apologetically, her hand loosely covering her mouth. “Was I bothering you? It’s so late and I didn’t think anyone else was in here.” Her voice was even more inviting than her laugh; sweet with a slight rasp. I was so taken by her that my legs, without my permission, walked me over and sat me down in the chair across from her. She giggled. She looked pleased to have company, even if it was practically drooling and possibly mute.
“I’m Ramona.”
That’s where I met her. We talked for hours that night, after I gained composure of course, and I fell for her instantly. We spent our days lounging in bed talking, our faces pressed to pillows, our limbs intertwined so we were one cohesive being. I remember calling my mother and telling her that I’ve found the girl I will be spending the rest of my life with. She took me with her to Michigan where her family lived. We spend a week apple picking and drinking beer on the big wraparound porch of her idyllic little house. I remember asking her to move in to my dilapidated Victorian with me. She accepted and tried, without much luck, to make the house a home. I remember making love to her in the summer time, the warm and swollen house making our skin sticky, the sound of the busy city around us fading away until there was just the sound of our breathing. God I loved her. I loved her more than I have ever loved anything. It was like we were the only two people on the planet who mattered…then there was him. Oh, how vivid is the memory of when HE ruined everything.
I remember working at a bar downtown one holiday season. I had been working late all week due to the huge surge of Christmas shoppers ending their days with a drink or two. I had actually managed to cut out a bit early and was eager to get home to the warmth of my bed and my girl. I hopped onto the number twelve bus, got off a stop early to grab some milk at 7/11, and walked briskly through the cold until I was at my front door. I stepped into the warm foyer and peeled off my coat and hat. I stopped in the kitchen to put away the milk then headed up the creaking stairs to my bedroom. I swung open the door and stepped inside.
My heart stopped beating when I saw them. Flashes of exposed skin frantically searching for coverage overwhelmed my plane of vision, forcing me to close my eyes. I stopped breathing then. She was trying to explain while grabbing my hands and, panicking, dropping to her knees on the wood floor. I couldn’t hear her. I couldn’t feel her touch on my numb hands. The girl who once encompassed all my senses had, in an instant, taken all of them away.
I don’t remember her explanation, I don’t remember his face, I don’t remember her leaving. The only thing I remember is completely shutting down. For a week I didn’t speak; not a single word to anyone. When I escaped the initial shock I was hardly eating, drinking heavily, and smoking more than my lungs could handle. I cut off all contact with everyone I know. I only left the house to get more alcohol and cigarettes, sometimes food. I can now feel myself coming to; this is the state I’ve been in since she tore everything down. She shattered my soul instantly, leaving me with the torture of having to live in a numb vessel for the remainder of my days. I’ve been undead for almost a year.
I feel my eyes fluttering open and a cool hand on my face. She’s kneeling next to me, her eyes worried, trying to help me regain consciousness. I sit up slowly and look at her, hating her for making me fall in love with her again, when I feel the last bit of my living self die. Using my hands, I push myself off the floor and into a standing position. I don’t look at her but I know she’s still sitting on the floor, a confused look on her face. I feel nothing, but my body is moving towards the foyer and stops in front of the old cabinet to the left of the front door. My right hand slides open the top drawer and pulls out something cold and heavy. My legs walk me back, slowly, through the hallway and into the kitchen. Without a single moment of hesitation, my right hand flies upwards, the object I’m holding now in front of my chest, pointed at Ramona. A single pistol shot rang out through the old house.
A loud noise snaps me out of a deep sleep. I seem to have fallen asleep in my kitchen, atop one of the good chairs. There’s a girl I’ve never seen before sprawled lifelessly on the dirty kitchen floor, dried blood staining the tile and grout in a trail from a single bullet wound in her head.
It’s a weird feeling to wake up in your own home with a woman you don’t remember meeting.