Chelsea

My body quivers. Tingles shooting up and down every part of me as our lips meet and everything about me melts away for a moment. Then I feel her hand on my thigh. She squeezes my leg, hard, as I touch her body. And we're kissing, hard. Passion, I’m pressing myself against her, and she's pressing herself against me. I hurt from so much want, and her soft moans send waves through me. I've never kissed like this. I've never done anything like this. So passionate, so intense; as if nothing else in the entirety of the universe matters as much as this moment. The entire world could be coming down around us, and we'd be here, together as one.

And suddenly, she's touching me, the real me, and I'm touching her, it is warm between her legs, hot, moist, my fingers pressing against the thin cotton panties she wears under a white pleated skirt, I'm feeling every fold of skin and crease of flesh with only a light pink buffer. She moans louder. I yearn, I long, I feel every form of want imaginable and then just a bit more. She crawls on top of me, her knees on either side of me, straddling me, she's reaching down, slipping her panties aside and forcing me inside her, pushing down against me, allowing gravity to take me into her.

That's about when I wake up every time. Always cold sweat is drenching my sheets and pouring off my face when I shoot up from the place where my pillow should be. Almost always I'm sticky from my ejaculate. I still dream about it, sometimes it seems more like a nightmare. It was almost 8 years ago, and I can't seem to have a wet dream about anything else, I can hardly seem to have any sort of functioning sexual relationship at all.

I was thirteen years old. Chelsea, however, was nineteen. I didn't wonder why she was seducing me, or letting me seduce her. She'd baby-sat for me from the time I actually was a baby, having lived next door with her parents, all being long time close family friends. I had somehow come up with the idea that she was into me, even though she was six years older, and certainly woman enough to practically take her pick of any man. She was gorgeous, not just in that hot chick on the street way, but literally model material, yet I thought that when she laughed at my jokes, and came to play video games or watch movies with me, that she was really into me. And she was the subject of my every fantasy.

But that night, our parents were out of town for the weekend, a 'grown-up trip' they said, I was too old for a baby sitter, but she was asked to 'check in on me', just to be sure I wasn't throwing any wild parties, or burning the house down. She knocked on the door that cool summer Saturday night in August, and when I opened the door, she was dressed to kill, a short pleated white mini skirt, and narrow lime green tube top, bunched at the top and bottom, it matched her eyes almost too perfectly, and so much of her perfect skin glowed in the incandescent light. She smiled her seductive smile and asked if she could come in, wanted to know if I wanted to watch a movie with her. I wasn't about to say no.

She pushed past me, and walked into the living room, the sound of her sandals scraping the wood floor held my attention, while I stood there with my hand on the door, unsure of what to do. Something in the air had changed, I wasn't sure how, but I could feel it. The still of the night was broken by the sound of a tree branch creaking in a light autumn breeze high in the tree tops; this sound was silenced abruptly with the closing of the front door. A soft thud, a click of the latch and then it was just me and her, and the rest of the world outside.

I remember the sound of the water heater down stairs kicking on; I remember the whirring sound of the VCR as the movie was sucked in and began playing. I remember the soft scent of sandalwood in the air, the clinging essence of the incense she burned in her bedroom religiously. I remember the warmth of her body, as we sat on the couch, moving closer and closer as the movie went on. However, I cannot, for the life of me, remember what movie she put in. If I had to venture a guess, it would be Casino, only because I vaguely recall Joe Pesci, and that the tape played for several hours. That's not what's important, however.

Within only a few minutes, we had gone from opposite ends of the couch to cuddling. I wasn't paying any attention to the movie, my only thoughts, if you can call them thoughts, were on Chelsea. I wanted to be closer, and I couldn't really tell you why. It was a driving force, as if I was on autopilot, I just had to be nearer, and then nearer still, and it seemed that she felt the same. We just sat there, half laying on each other, our bodies somewhat intertwined, and I felt her, and she felt me, and the world continued to move slower and slower around me, and I didn't care about anything else.

I kept my eyes on the screen or on her hand on my arm, or on the back of my eyelids, but always keeping my face toward that screen, until, there was a little pull at my chin from her soft fingers, turned my head up and around, and her lips were against mine. At first, shock overtook me. I was completely dumbstruck, a few moments later I relaxed into it and into her as we kissed. I didn't dare believe it was happening, yet I knew that it was, and it was nothing like my dreams. Infinitely better. I melted, and literally one thing led to another.

It was my first time, at least with another person, and, while it seemed to last forever, I still remember every incredible moment, the way our bodies seemed to become one. It was magical, wonderful, like destiny. Poetry in motion. We were together completely, we were together absolutely. When it was over, she shook, her legs half wrapped around me, trembling slightly. We were naked, sweating, and panting. I still lay on top of her and we kissed again, then she looked into my eyes, searching them, the miles of deep green staring into me, and she said only one thing, “wow.”

Then my parents walked in.

It was the longest night that I have ever experienced, before or since. They screamed, Chelsea cried, neither of us seemed able to defend ourselves, or explain it, not that they gave us much opportunity. They called her names, used words that even at the age of thirteen and no stranger to profanity, they used words that I'd never heard. Then her parents came and screamed. Everyone took turns trying to calm each other down, with my parents screaming at Chelsea, then at her parent's, and then at each other. Then the police knocked on the door, in the way they do, saying a neighbor had called them. They asked if everything was alright, because, even with all the screaming, it could really have been just fine.

I was scared, and embarrassed, I thought for sure I was in trouble, but no one actually said anything to me. It truly seemed like I wasn't even there. I discovered later that this was because I was 'The Victim', when they finally did talk to me; it was through social workers and therapists. As it turned out, there is a law on the books in the state that I'd lived that sex between an adult and a minor under the age of fourteen requires a mandatory state charge and a minimum sentence of 50 years with possibility of parole only after 20 years served. The two, cool and composed, peace officers stood there, their badges shining in the lamp light. I remember one of them kept looking at a painting over the mantelpiece, an oil painting of a Matador plunging the tip of his sword into the side of a bull as it passed under a deep red cape.

She was arrested after 'admission in the presence of police', and once in custody, without legal representation she admitted to sleeping with me. It was after this that the laws were adequately explained to everyone involved, but it was too late. The State District Attorney's office charged Chelsea with Sex with a Minor, and she was tried and convicted, and although sentenced to the minimum possible term, it literally meant that one night with me had cost her the rest of her life, that the earliest possible opportunity for parole would be just after her 40^th birthday.

I cried on the stand when they called me. I told them that they were wrong to do what they were doing, and that I was almost 14 years old, that I knew what I was doing, and that she hadn't done anything wrong. It didn't matter though; the jury had no choice but to convict her, faced with a recorded admission of guilt, which the lawyer her parents finally hired fought valiantly to have removed from evidence. Several jury members cried while the foreman read the verdict, and he was actually warned twice to simply read the verdict without any exposition.

Throughout the entire thing I was heralded as a hero at school, I referred to on several talk shows and news programs, and I was the brunt of hundreds of jokes. All of this while Chelsea was made out to be some kind of sick, twisted, deviant of a sexual predator. Our faces appeared in newspapers, magazines, and all over the local news. When I was fifteen I tried to commit suicide, but that never got coverage.

Still, I had the dreams, almost every night. I dreamed about her. Even when the media storm had passed, and almost everyone had forgotten about it. Everything became some semblance of normal, and still I had the dreams. I had a few girlfriends from the time I was 16 on, but nothing ever really felt right, and I was constantly destroying what might have been great relationships. My life consisted of going to school, watching T.V., and playing video games. I tried joining the soccer team in high school, and having a few friends, and just living as normally as I could. Every time I masturbated, I thought about Chelsea, it was the only way I could get off.

I hadn't talked to her since before the sentencing hearing. No letters, no phone calls. Nothing, I thought about it, a lot. I even started hundreds of letters to her, but I could never figure out what to write. What could I write? "Dear Chelsea, How are things inside? I'm not in prison. I can't seem to cum without thinking about you. I fantasize about fucking you constantly, and you haunt my dreams. Please write back soon."

All this, the entire history since that night, runs through my head at 2 o'clock in the morning, drenched in sweat and covered in my own semen. This is every night. It only seems to make sense that I get out of bed, throw on a t-shirt and a dirty pair of jeans, head out of my shitty studio apartment and walk up to my bar. My answer to everything these days is to get really drunk. I lock my door, stinking of sex I haven't had, and head down the dark, dank, paint peeling stairwell and out into the bustle of the bright city street at night. Neon and headlights.

How old is she now? Is it twenty-seven, or twenty-eight? Her birthday is in early August, so she must be 28 now, maybe. What is it like for her in prison? There weren't any support groups for 'Young Men Molested by Gorgeous Babysitters'. The groups I'd tried to talk to didn't understand me; neither did any of the counselors. How could they, they were trying to help me get over the pain of being molested, but I needed to get over the joy of having banged my babysitter, and the sorrow of destroying her life. Drinking was as close to a support group as I could find; a twenty-two year old alcoholic. Occasionally, I still get recognized, you know, that guy that boned his babysitter. Surely other kids have fucked their older babysitters, apparently, they just don't get caught.

These steps I've taken so many times, I could do it in my sleep, and likely have, both directions. This is my life, on stage for all to see. This is how 'that guy' lives now. I wonder what she looks like, a vision of her dirty blonde hair cascading off her head flashing through my mind, her soft features, round cheeks and button nose, those deep green eyes the shade of tropical waves crashing on some unknown beach.

My world is plain. I do the same shit every day, and continue the string of trends and disappointments. I start each day late for class, hung-over and ragged. I usually go to work at the crisis center and leave my phone on mute while I work on my homework, entirely unconcerned about whether these kids kill themselves, each other, or have more kids than their parents should have. Exhausted, I slowly kill what few relationships with the people around me I have left, go to sleep for a little while, and before long I'm back at my bar. Life is grand.

The half lit sign from a distance reads 'Head Bar,' however, when you get a little closer, the rest of the name can be made out in it's almost cartoon type scripting, the word 'Hog's' hidden under shadow. The error has been there for as long as I've lived here, which is a couple of years. Oddly enough, it wasn't the short distance that first drew me here, but the fact that I had to see a place called 'Head Bar' first hand. I can't say that I was entirely disappointed on that first visit. I can't say much of anything at all about it, simply because I can't remember much of that first visit. I know I spent some time doing Karaoke, which was unfortunate as the band that was playing at the time became pretty upset. I clearly remember getting a Blow Job in the back, just past the bathrooms in front of the boarded up emergency exit door from Chelsea, but when I grabbed her head and thrust myself deeper down her throat , moaning her name, for some reason she became upset, bit me, and stormed off. Since that night though, most of the regulars and the bartender seem to know me fairly well, and keep their distance.

The old red double doors, faded and marred, worn from so many people pushing them open, give easily against my weight and I'm inside. It is, not surprisingly, empty. The bar extends straight out in front of me, thirty, or so, stools pushed up against the tarnished and worn brass along the base. Only five of these stools bear any weight, and one holds just a purse. There is no pretense of a restaurant here, like so many places these days, there are 4 booths against the opposite wall, and 3 round tables in the middle of the floor, scattered around in front of a short wooden stage, behind which stands a massive mirror, probably a clue to its previous life as a strip club, or dance studio, or something else that I care very little about. This morning, or is it night, whatever it is, the platform stands empty, the massive PA speakers pipe music from the same 5 classic rock CD's that are always playing. Most nights, it's so quiet in here by the time I show up, you can hear the plastic crunch as an ancient CD changer cranks around between songs, dutifully attempting to live up to the word 'Random' I'm sure appears its LCD screen.

Empty for this place is exactly as it sounds, it doesn't mean that there are a few scattered groups of people, it means that the only people in the bar are sitting on four stools near the nearest end of the bar. The smoke hangs thickly over this crowd, four women, all with several empty tumblers in front of them, and sharing an over flowing ashtray. I've seen these girls before; they are in here almost as much as I am, always chatting with the bartender.

The bartender looks up for a moment, satisfied that I'm no one important, he pours me a shot of Jack Daniels, and a Jack and Coke chaser, while nodding in my direction. The soft yellow lighting dimly casts soft shadows everywhere. I walk toward my spot near the end of the bar, and the hiss of the CO2 tank behind the bar means he's done spraying Coca-Cola into one of the always dirty tumblers I've come to love so much. There's no conversation. He doesn't stand idly by, wiping glasses with a rag at his hip, while listening to me tell my stories. There isn't even as much as a 'hello'. He just leaves my drinks and walks back toward the more lively customers at the other end of the bar. One of these days I'm going to have to ask him his name, probably not tonight. Maybe someday I will tell him one of my stories.

When I was fifteen I had sex with a girl at school during class, although neither of us was actually in class at the time. We both came out of our respective restrooms at the same time and our eyes met, across from each other, looking at each other over the water fountains. It's still pretty hard to remember all the details clearly, as it didn't quite have the impact on me as that first time. Nothing ever has, and likely never will. I don't even remember this girl’s name.

She looked at me, and we stood there staring at each other. All of a sudden she told me that she wanted me, like she was blurting a long held secret, she told me that she'd always wanted me. At first I didn't believe her, being absolutely certain that she was just messing with my mind like everyone else, but it didn't take her long to convince me. I pulled her into the Women's Room by her wrist, moving straight for the back wall.

In a matter of seconds I had her terry-cloth shorts wound up with her panties and down around one of her ankles, and my jeans caught up at my knees. And I'm going straight for the prize. I didn't think we had enough time to focus on foreplay, and it was so hot anyway that I knew she just wanted my throbbing member inside her as much as I did. She was so into it, moaning loudly, and even screaming and squeaking with each thrust, her back against the cold tile wall, her voice reverberating around in the ceramic acoustics. She squeezed my shoulders, the pressure exciting me even more, within a few minutes I couldn't help but cum, hard. I left Chelsea standing there, panting, to clean herself up, while I pulled my pants up, thanked her, and told her we'd have to do it again soon. I zipped my fly as I pushed the bathroom door open by leaning my shoulders back into it, pondering my good fortune having just gotten exactly what I needed.

The Bartender might nod at me, letting me know he was listening. I'm sure he'd be at least little excited by the exchange. At least he would be if I told him the story. It's a great story to tell people at the bar, the sort of thing that leaves people hanging off every word. That's the way of sexual exploits; they are the stories make up the stuff of legends. Who can't resist hearing about some tawdry sexual encounter?

They told me later that this time she was 'The Victim'. She asserted that what I had heard as “I want you to fuck me right now!” had actually only been an awkward attempt at a pleasant 'hello'. Apparently she hadn't actually wanted sex then, but I was never certain whether or not she hadn't wanted sex with me at some point. I never really got to ask her, because shortly after this, she changed schools.

I wasn't arrested; I wasn't expelled or even suspended. The school administrators told me that I was a 'special' case. They weren't going to turn me over to the police, and apparently, the girl’s parents, while not entirely sure about the idea at first, had agreed not to press charges against me. Instead, I was given my very own pet counselor, the second or third of her type, a woman, who, I was convinced, was nothing more than a bitter, middle aged, lesbian with 'daddy' issues that got off on degrading young men with odd sexual tendencies. It always bothered me that I wasn't sentenced to 50 years in prison, and, even in retrospect I'm pretty sure that I deserved it. Although it was at this point that my mother and father, after some very heated conversations regarding incarceration and expensive boarding schools, decided it was best that I was home schooled from that point on. My suicide failure was only a few weeks later.

The Bartender might have dropped his now shiny from too much rubbing shot glass as well as his jaw at some point during this part of my story. I'm sure I could give him a moment or two to compose himself before continuing. I have plenty of stories to share. Share everything with the group. Part of healing is to understand the problem. Psychobabble is the opiate of the masses. It sometimes amazes me that I'm still a functioning member of society after all this retrospection. Maybe I was just wallowing in a pit of self-depredation, laying waste to my own psyche by reliving my sorted affairs. Maybe that is what Dr. Olga Wetstein would tell me, the big German Über Dyke.

But Mr. Bartender never actually asks me anything, and I never actually share my life with him. He just sets down drink after drink and I empty each glass. Freebird plays for a few hours behind me, while I sit, hunched down over the heavily lacquered wood grain. Before long my mind begins to falter. They really hate it when I pass out here. At least my money's still green enough for them. I'm probably going to be late for class again.

Beep.

My cell phone chirps, telling me I have a voice message. I'm not entirely sure how I got home. Forcing my eyes open and scanning the room, I did get home at least. It's all just a blur, like so much of my life so far, and I think I prefer it that way. At this point, the less of my life I'm actually aware of, the better. I'm really just living until the inevitable, and hopefully that will be a blur too.

Beep.

I wonder how it would be if I'd had a more normal life. What if I'd had a girlfriend, gotten married, and maybe had some kids or whatever it is that married couples do these days. When we were kids, my buddy used to talk about getting married, he used to talk about it like it would be this all-you-can eat sexual buffet. I always imagined him saying things like, "no thanks, I'll have the blueberry vagina" to his wife. Of course, we were kids, and kids are stupid. Although, if I were married, I probably wouldn't be lying here on the floor trying to keep the sun from killing me. Shining so loudly. I hate hangovers

Beep.

I wonder who might have called me. I could just look, of course, but right now that seems like a lot of work, I just want to lie here a little longer, there's nothing wrong with a bit of a lie in now and then, right? If only the damn thing would be quiet, beeping so loudly, it's giving me a headache, or making the headache I already have worse. What time is it? Of course my phone could probably tell me that too. It's bright, so I know I'm late for at least one class, my favorite too, I don't know how they think I'm able to get there at 8 o'clock in the morning. Oh well. Who would have thought that I could love English Literature so much? Certainly, being one of only three males in the class does add to its appeal.

Beep.

You'd think this thing would have given up by now, why is it so bright in here? My curtains are always closed, it shouldn't be bright; it should be orange sunlight filtered through the clearance Target brand curtains. Just roll over, kill two birds with one stone, close the curtains and shut off the damn phone, if you get enough momentum you might make it to your bed, it's not as hard as the floor.

Inhale, rock left, rock right – eeaugh! I must have hurled here, it's wet, sticky and warm, although I don't taste bile. Just open your eyes again, stupid.

“Chelsea?” No, but who is she, and why is she on the floor there?

“Oh God...”

What happened? That's Chelsea. How can you tell? The hair. Just the hair? Well, she looks the right size, right? Well, take a look, just get up and look. No, she's in prison, you're right, it's not her. Ok, then who is it? I don't know... is she dead? What are you asking me for, is she dead, she looks pretty well dead to me, the lake of blood, the pale white skin, oh, and she hasn't breathed yet, of course, you could check. Maybe I should call for help, you know, ambulances, doctors, clipboards? Listen, she's dead, gone, – exsanguination the coroner will say, I don't think any number of clipboards will help her now. Yeah, wait, how do you know that? We watch a lot of T.V. Oh yeah. Just get up, where are we by the way?

We... I get up, and take in the scene. I'm home, but not my shitty studio apartment in the cities; this is the house I grew up in. Sprawled out in front of me is some dead girl, a young woman, with dirty blonde hair, and an incredible shape. Is it wrong that I'm aroused by this? She's laying almost face down, but facing away from me, sprawled in what looks like a very uncomfortable position, blood pooled across the hard wood floor, the same blood I'm now wiping off my hand onto my very dirty jeans – at least it wasn't puke, but why am I here?

Why are you here?

I don't know – it's my parents place, I haven't been here in a couple years. It's not your parents place anymore, not since your dad– I know! It was a slip of the tongue! No wonder they couldn't sell it though, he did it in here, didn't he? Stop! Why, does it bother you that he succeeded and you didn't? Just... Let's worry about this, ok? Ok, I'll leave you alone. Thank you.

Beep.

It's a knee jerk reaction, reaching into my pocket, pulling out the cell phone, and imagining how it's going to look shattering against the wall.

STOP!

I almost slip and fall in the blood as I step out of my wind up at the top of my arc. What?

You could at least check the time. Why didn't I think of that? You did. I use my thumb to flip the phone open. Imagine a movie star on camera flipping his cell phone open to take an important call, some detail he's pretending to receive to crack some case for the NYPD. He'd love to be this smooth.

Screen reads 'New Voice Msg.', press the back button, so that now it says '2 Missed Call(s).' Press back again, and it says '10:41a'. Damn, it's later than I thought, I completely missed class. No. What? No, what's the date? I dunno, should be the 3^rd, right? Look again.

The phone's gone black. Press the back button again, no sense moving my thumb around unnecessarily. The LCD lights up, it says 'Aug. 5th'. Wait, what the hell happened to the 3^rd, or the 4^th for that matter? Thought so! Oh shut up! Your Dad killed himself, right here, remember? Shut UP! Oh, come on; remember what they said he did to your Mom? No, I don't, I don't want to, why are we talking about this? Why are we talking at all? I'm crazy? Yeah... that's probably it. Weren't you going to leave me alone? Oh... yeah.

Fuck! What am I supposed to do? Sometimes being a sociopath really sucks. A little emotion might help right now, might kick on some sort of deep instinctual reaction. But now, standing over the body of some girl, in the empty, curtain less house in the middle of suburbia, I'm at a loss. It's not shock, it is pure detachment. The sun is shining; the wind is blowing, while leaves whip past the house. It looks like a nice day out there. Maybe I should just go enjoy it.

“See, I wouldn't even think about leaving if I were you,” the voice is loud and echoes around the empty family room turned crime scene. I almost slip in the blood again whipping around to face the entryway from the dining room behind me. Who is that guy, and how does he know what I'm thinking?

“Who are you?” I've never seen this guy before, have I? He looks familiar. No, he looks like that Tony Todd, from the Matrix, classic cool in a black leather duster and black sunglasses. Tony Todd? What now? That was Laurence Fishburne! It was? Yeah, Tony Todd was The Candyman, and seriously, how do you make that mistake, how many people even know who Tony Todd is, did you even see The Candyman? I don't know, does it matter? Yeah, it's like saying 'hey, that looks like Pamela Anderson, from The Sound of Music'. Whatever.

“So, what, exactly, is going on here?” His voice is deep, rumbling, and inhuman. Since I'm almost sure he's not human, it doesn't bother me much. Who stands before me is a large black man. In addition to his black leather duster and black sunglasses, he wears a black t-shirt, black leather pants, and massive black leather boots with silver clasps which disappear a few inches up underneath the coat, which looks almost like a cloak. The way he stands, half leaning against the door frame, it's creepy. His face is hard, expressionless.

“No, I asked you first, who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

“This is your house?”

“Alright, why do you keep answering my questions with questions?”

“Am I?”

“Who the hell are you?”

“I am no one.” He doesn't move, he just stands there, nonchalant, this is every day.

“But, you are someone, aren't you, or are you me, I mean, in my mind? I'm crazy you know.”

“Indeed.” Still he stands there, almost like a statue. Eerie. I can't really tell if he's staring at me, because of the glasses, but he doesn't even give the indication that he's blinked. And I'm fairly certain that I'm not going to get a better answer out of him. Of course, all of this could very easily be a construct of my subconscious, in lieu of real emotions, I might be building a character to help me get through this situation, I guess I can play along, I haven't got anything to lose. Except, perhaps, a few more days. Shut up.

“Well, to answer your question, No One, I'm not really sure what's going on here. I just woke up, and found... this?” I wonder how stupid I look waving my hand behind me like a game show girl introducing a fabulous new prize, but the desired effect is achieved, he seems to break his gaze from me and glances down at the corpse sprawled across the floor, letting what must undoubtedly be a gaze hang for a moment before returning it to me. Silence stretches on, like a dog yawning before lying down. He continues saying nothing.

“So, No One,” since he's given up his turn, “were you going to tell me who you are?”

“I told you,” he crosses his arms, the leather coat creaks as it stretches and rubs, “now, what I see here is a bit of a mess, would you agree?”

“I suppose.”

“And you would suppose right, as far as I can tell, you have yourself a dead girl on the floor of your house-”

“It's not my house.”

“That isn't what you told me a moment ago, you said, 'What are you doing in my house', or did I not hear you correctly?” His deep, booming voice is almost guttural when he imitates me.

He has a point, you said that. Shut up. “Yes, well, it was my house, I haven't lived here in years, and that's not the point, the point is that I don't know how this girl got here, and I really don't have any idea what happened. I'm pretty sure I didn't kill her though.” That'll make a great defense.

“You're pretty sure you didn't kill her? I don't believe I said you did, but does that fact make this any less of a mess?”

“You love asking questions, don't you?”

“You seem to ask plenty yourself, now, here is the problem, as I see it, and I hope I am seeing it correctly.” He pauses, uncrossing his arms, and using his hands to slightly emphasize his words, “Here's what I see. I see you. I see a dead girl. I see a lot of blood from the dead girl on the floor of a house that isn't yours anymore. You seem disoriented, but entirely disassociated from the situation. Does that sum it up?” No One stood there, staring through black sunglasses. No emotion, no expression, nothing but what might be a cold stare. The wind gusts again outside, the sun continues to shine, but it seems dark as midnight in here.

“Yeah, I suppose that does sum it up quite neatly.” What am I suppose to say? No, that's not it at all, you perceptive son-of-a-bitch! His voice hangs in the stale air of the sealed house, thick and heavy, it echoes in my skull. The wind outside continues to whip leaves across the facade and here and there the sound of a dog barking far off in another world makes its way to my ears, but otherwise, silence. Breathing silence.

“Good.” He turns, his black boots scraping grit into, and then pounding the floor boards. Each step toward the front door echoes, and moves the house. Reaching the door he wrenches it open and steps through, without even a backwards glance. Then he's gone, the door closes silently, and I stand here alone, with a dead girl in a pool of blood on the floor of a house that isn't mine, disoriented and entirely detached from the situation.

Alright.

Beep.

I thought I told it to stop doing that. You did. What the hell? Just check it, unless you have something better to be doing. The wind gusts again, whipping around, past, and through the siding, then blasting down the chimney and butting up against the flue which has probably long since rusted in place. The house groans, as if frustrated.

Beep.

A flick of the thumb, a press of a button, and the phone is to my ear, I listen, intently. This could be the answer to everything, “Hi, this is so-and-so, the dead girl is a mannequin, I didn't want to wake you, the footage looks great, I'll call you soon to set up the next scene. Maybe we can try one where you're sober,” laughter and click. Nope.

“You have ONE new message, First message sent YESTERDAY, at twoTWENTYtwo PEE EM,” there is some hissing, then the sound of crinkling, like a bag of chips, followed by more hissing, and a groan, not a groan, a moan. Maybe. Well, that's what it sounds like, kinda? Maybe, listen to it again. How, it didn't say. Press 4. How do you know that? You know it, just press 4, and turn it up. Why, you having trouble hearing from inside my head there?

Beep, hiss, crinkle, and moan. That doesn't help. Maybe it's like a puzzle, you know, like those stupid Sudoku things everyone does, we just need to count to nine. What does counting have to- Shut up. Wait, did you just tell me to shut up? Yeah. Well, shit. Hey, we need to take a look at this girl, maybe it will help us figure out what's going on, jog our memory or something.

Ok, up to now, I have been alright with this whole thing. I can handle just standing here, and trying to remember what happened, but I really don't want to look at her. The silence stretches on again, longer and longer, the wind and a dog, or maybe it's two dogs. But mostly, it is silence, breathing. I'm breathing; I guess I should be grateful for that. Breathing is a one up on the girl on the floor there.

“See, there's always something to be grateful for.”

Who you talking to? You. Why? Why not? Because you sound really crazy now. Well, I don't think she's going to mind. You have to look at her, maybe I can help if I see her. But you are me, aren't you? It's more complicated than that and you know it. So, you think you might remember? It's worth a try. I don't want to. You sound like an eight year old. So. Oh for fu- would you just go over there, or I'll do it for you, we can't just stand here all day. Sure we can.

One foot in front of the other, closer to the window, around the pool of blood, the air is warmer here than in the middle of the room with all the sunlight pouring in, however, the air is starting to smell foul now. Outside, the world still looks inviting, even though the wind keeps kicking up harder and harder. From here I can see my old tire swing; it brings back memories of my dad pushing me in that thing, back when he wasn't dead. I remember when I helped him put it up; I was so scared to get into it. He called me a chicken and said that if I didn't take a swing I'd regret it for the rest of my life. Was he right? The tire doesn't look like it has regrets. Tires don't get to have regrets. Lucky bastards.

Just turn around, take a look at her face, it's not that bad, no different than if she was alive, just look at her face and see if it helps. Stop pushing me. I've never seen a real dead body. I have. How can you have seen something that I haven’t? I told you, it's complicated. Apparently.

Plant, pivot, turn. Those are your feet, pan up some. Pool of blood. We've seen that, a little more.

CRACK!

It's a sound reminiscent of a matchstick being broken against the side of a match box, but substantially louder. Reverberant. With just enough tearing flesh to be nauseating. The floor boards give under my weight, and it's not as bright as it was, a dull crumpling thud. I remember this feeling.

Memories are something that most people try to hang onto. They snap photographs while on vacations, they write in journals, or books. People try to do whatever they can to preserve certain moments in their lives. People consider their lives to be this string of things that happened to them, ignoring the bigger picture of being completely insignificant. My struggle in life has been forgetting. I want to forget. I want to be rid of everything that has ever happened, even that damn tire swing.

That's probably what I'm here for.

Well, that figures. I'm not dead, and you're still around to make my life hell. What do you mean? You made me what I am. You have no one to blame but yourself. That too, I'm always to blame for everything.

I still remember the first time that I thought I was dead, and you were still there. It was the biggest disappointment in my life. Yeah, do tell. Three years ago, there was a bar fight, pretty big one. I was just trying to mind my own business, my fake I.D. got me in, and all I wanted to do was drink a few cocktails and forget about my life. Then the bottle hit me in the head. I don't have the first clue what the squabble was about, but I hospitalized three guys before I went down, hard. The fists were flying, and I was punching and kicking everything that moved, including an upturned table. It was the guy who blindsided me with a beer bottle that put down, knocked me clean out. Everything went black. I didn't dream. But then I heard you, telling me how brilliant the situation was.

And I was right. You never fail to remind me do you? If I wasn't always right, you wouldn't have to deal with it. Don't we just sound like an old married couple? Shut up!

“Good morning sunshine!” That's a cheery voice, a familiar voice as from a dream. I need to open my eyes again, don't I? Fluttering eyelids, pupil dilation, it's not as bright as it was. Alright... again, where am I? Hazy. That's not the ceiling, that's a face. The eyes are duller, but... still the same island green. Now there's a scar, across the left cheek, that's new, at least new for me. She doesn't look as good as she did, she looks worn, broken. I guess this is how I imagine her after 8 years in prison...

You aren't imagining her. I'm not? No. Are you sure? No, but confident enough say it. Did you say it? Oh, shut up. Again, you are telling me to shut up.

“Did you sleep well?” She sounds so happy. I haven't heard anyone this happy in years, at least not while they were talking to me. I'm conscious of the fact that there are a lot of problems here, all of them butting heads to get my attention. Oddly, the most notable fact right now is that she sounds as if we've been waking up like this for years, as if this is a perfectly normal and everyday situation. This is not every day.

“What-”

“Shh...” Did she just shush me? Yeah. Why? How should I know? Well, she asks me a question and then shushes me, what's up with that? Pay attention, this might be important.

There's a throbbing at the base of my neck now begging for my attention. A dull pain, as if I'd been hit with a 2 x 4 or a Louisville Slugger, although I can't remember actually being hit with a 2 x 4 or a Louisville Slugger, I'm pretty sure I can make an assumption based on this feeling. The biggest question is: what's going on?

“So, here's a question for you?” Her voice is so different, yet so much the same. I already have so many questions, but sure, let's add to the pile. This is my surreality, at some point, everything that I knew to be true ended, and this reality took over. I can feel at her looking at me, but I don't want to open my eyes again, because I know that she's still going to be sitting there, watching me. Maybe if I don't say anything, she'll just leave. What are you talking about; you've wanted to be with her again for 8 years. Yeah, but something, or maybe everything about this is wrong.

“Here's what I want to know,” she rolls into the question, undoubtedly planning for some time how she might as this, which means that it's probably loaded, “What if everything ended, without warning, no sirens, no alarms, no breaking news? What if the world you knew, the life you'd been living, the future you had been building up to were gone? I'm talking about not even hearing the bomb blast, just disintegrating in the wave.” She's still watching me, intently, a stare that almost hurts as much as that damn throbbing. Why can't I remember what happened before I fell asleep. Why can't I remember anything?

Well, you didn't fall asleep. You passed out, which usually leads to this sort of thought process. “I don't know, I guess you already answered your own question, it would just be over, right?”

“Ok. Let's say that happens, and you find out that you are going to hell, no matter how good you thought you'd been, life is over and you are heading to hell. And, it turns out that hell is actually a medium security women's penitentiary.”

Oh. Yeah, I should have seen this coming. I was afraid of this. You don't remember what happened do you? Vaguely, I will tell you this, it wasn't a baseball bat. You remember it? Some of it.

“So,” she pauses for effect, “what would you do, how would you feel?” Why do I think of Keanu Reeves saying, “Pop quiz, hot shot...?”

Opening my eyes isn't an easy task, but at this point, it's more due to fear than anything else. What did she hit me with? A shotgun. Oh... shit.

And there she is, sitting cross legged, a few feet away; a shotgun lies across one leg, her hand resting on the stock, the tip barrel resting on the floor. She is dressed in what looks like light blue hospital scrub pants and a plain white wife-beater. It's actually pretty sexy, or would be if I wasn't nearly shitting my pants in sheer terror. Am I wearing pants? No, we're not.

It's obvious that prison has not been easy for her, just from a single glance. Scars are visible on every bit of exposed skin, from the slash on her cheek, to what are probably cigarette burns on the soles of her dirt covered feet. Her hair is stringy, like she hasn't washed it in a week. It falls across her cheeks. I still want to fuck her. That's insane, you're insane. Now it's you and not we, is it?

“Chelsea?” She giggles, it's cute. How can she giggle, sitting there with a shotgun in her lap, and moreover, how is it I find it so charming? I hate myself right now.

“Well, at least you can still recognize me after all these years.” The mock exasperation in her voice isn't subtle. She brushes a strand of hair out of her face, but it just falls right back into place. She is hunched slightly forward, staring me down from behind those duller green eyes. She wears a crooked smile, there's a small split in her lip that looks fresh.

“How could I not recognize you? You've been the star of my dreams almost every night, in my thoughts through almost every day. What the hell is going on?” My first attempt to sit up is stopped by a tight pull on my wrists, which seems to begin at my legs. My legs and arms are bound together. Why didn't I notice that before? Easy, you're trying to take this one step at a time.

Her laugh is cold now, almost sadistic. Is she laughing at what I said, or at my discovery that I'm bound and half naked? The sweat from my back has me sticking to the dirty hardwood floor, grains of sand dig into my skin. It's still my parents place, and from the angle I'm at, looking back and forth, I don't see the body of the girl that had been here, but I can see that it's bright outside through the bay window. Was that yesterday? This is yesterday. It is? Don't ask me how, but I think this is yesterday, you're remembering tomorrow. Now that sounds crazy. She stops laughing, and considers me, something in her head working. I used to be far better at reading her mind.

“You really don't remember?” She sounds almost concerned as she says, “I must have hit you harder than I thought. Either that or you were drunker than I thought. Or both.” What? She sighs, and then continues her monologue, “I called you yesterday, I told you I'd be here, and you said something about being crazy. You sounded pretty trashed. I said to just come. You came, let yourself in. Standing right in that doorway you muttered something like, 'see I told you it was crazy'. I came from behind and knocked you out. Then I just sorta stripped you and tied you up. Now that you're awake, we're having a little chat.”

“Why?”

“Because it seems like we should talk. It's been a while, I haven't heard from you in almost a decade now.”

“No, I mean, why? The bigger why, why are you here, why did you knock me out, why am I tied up, why do you have a shotgun, and... Why aren't you still in prison?”

“Oh. That's a lot of 'why's'” She shifts her weight, letting go of the shotgun and leaning back on both arms, arching her back a little. I wonder if she sat there all night watching me sleep, waiting for me to wake up. The sun is fairly high above the window, must be late morning, I think, or it could be early afternoon, it's been a while since I could tell time in this house. She sighs. I suppose she is trying to figure out how to explain this to me, as if I should just be on the same page as her, which I probably should. Her breasts stretch the fabric of the ribbed tank, and her nipples poke out a little, the left one seems to have more shape. I wonder if she pierced it. Can she tell that I'm aroused by this? Should I be aroused by this?

“So, when did your parents move out?” WHAT?!?!? She isn't going to answer my questions? Calm down, she does have a shotgun. I know, but- No buts, just answer her.

“They didn't.”

The look on her face is classic, gears working in the background. I get the impression that if I don't explain she'll just get pissed off, but for the moment, just a moment, it's nice to see her lost. The only form of retribution I can take.

“Three years ago. Just after I left for school, Dad kinda went crazy. Well, crazier.” Have I ever actually told this story to anyone? “He waited for my mom to get home from work, she was pulling graveyards at the hospital to take care of the second mortgage they took out to pay for my school loans, anything to get me out of the house, I thought. He waited for her, in the kitchen. She walked in the door, and he just threw a knife at her face.” Wow, I can't believe I'm telling her this. I guess if I'm going to do it, I'd better do the thing right. “She fell to the floor, bleeding. While this was happening, her blood splattering all over the kitchen walls, that yellow wallpaper with the patterns of carrots, he wrote a letter saying that he was sick of trying to live life, that ever since... well, since the thing with me and you, life had fallen apart, and that he was going to be 'Sod of it'.”

She just looks at me, those eyes showing absolutely no emotion, but deep as ever, drawing me in. “He actually used the words 'Sod of it', something I'd never actually heard him say, as if he'd suddenly become British with a Bic pen in his hand. He finished the letter, where he'd explained what he'd done, and what he was about to do. He walked over to my Mother, who was probably just gasping and twitching, a massive kitchen knife embedded in the side of her face, plunged into her eye socket, wedged into the cheek bone,” She's listening, at least, although, still not showing any reaction to what I'm saying, “he pulled her by the wrists into the living room here, and proceeded to fuck her, in the letter he said he was going to skull fuck his wife and destroy his manhood before destroying himself. He apparently removed the knife and inserted his penis. The report they made me read said the coroner found 'semen mixed with the cerebrospinal fluid', the liquid that keeps our brains from bouncing around in our heads. When he was done, my Dad, he used the same kitchen knife to lop his penis off, leaving it hanging out of her eye socket. He walked, spattering his blood everywhere, over to the closet, the hall closet there,” I nod my head a bit, and her eyes dart from me to the periwinkle blue painted door 6 feet away, and then back, “he took out his Glock .45, the one he bought when I was 10, he put the barrel in his mouth, right there in front of the closet, and pulled the trigger. The box of ammo and the trigger lock lay there on the floor next to his body.”

I wait for a moment, just to let the whole thing sink in before finishing, “So, they didn't move out, exactly, they were just relocated to the graveyard across from the elementary school down the block there. The realtors haven't exactly been able to sell the place since, and, to be honest, I haven't exactly pressed the issue.”

Her jaw hangs there, slightly displaced from the rest of her face. Apparently, that was a bit shocking for her, at least she listened. I'd imagined that she'd seen much worse in that prison of hers, but now I'm guessing that maybe she hasn't. I figured that there would be constant shivvings and brutal gang rapes and things of that nature, since women tend to be rather more vicious than most men give them credit for.

Slowly, her mouth comes back to a more normal position, and she shifts her weight back forward, staring me down again, “So, how has life treated you?” You have to admire her spirit. She doesn't seem to want to give you an inch of room to work. I'm guessing that she doesn't want to admit that your life has been even slightly worse, or even as bad as hers.

“Apart from the thing with my parents? I guess it's been alright. I have been in and out of counseling and support groups, I accidentally raped a girl when I was fifteen, and they gave me more counseling, I can't get off unless I'm thinking about you, and for the past 5 years I have been almost constantly drunk. At one point, it was revealed to me that my face had appeared in something like 200 publications and broadcasts. So, nothing unusual I suppose. I have been mostly just working, going to school, and drinking. Should I ask about how it's been for you?” She doesn't blink, doesn't even flinch at the word 'rape', she just looks at me.

“Well, I guess it's not been much different. I've been raped, I've raped, as a matter of fact it's to the point that the word is actually easy to say. I've been stabbed, burned, and stabbed some more. I have counseling three times a week, and the food is absolute shit. Been a little out of touch though, even my parents stopped writing to me about a year ago. Why didn't you ever write to me?”

Why hadn't I written to her? You know why. Do I? “I don't really know, just couldn't figure out what to write. It got harder and harder to send you a letter. I started hundreds, but couldn't get past 'I dream about fucking you every night'. Why didn't you write to me?”

“Because you didn't write to me. They told me that I shouldn't have contact with you. They said that I was a horrible person, and you were supposed to move on, and the fact that I kept thinking about you was wrong. You know I came here to kill you, right?”

“I was guessing that. Why though?” Wow, you're taking this well.

“I'm not sure, for the last several years I've only thought about getting out and killing you.” She grips the handle of the shotgun tighter, her knuckles white, and her fingernails digging into the wood. I remember her fingernails covered in a light pink nail polish, which looks fairly fresh. Did she actually stop and take time to paint her fingernails? I think vaguely of the world outside, people driving their mini-vans to work, politicians sleeping with hookers, somewhere, right now, a woman is reading a Cosmo.

“How did you get out?”

“I don't really remember.” Her hand is on her head now, rubbing her temple. There's a visual clue. Her eyes closed, she seems to be reflecting, concentrating. “I remember 5 of the 'some better name' jumping me in the shower, fucking me, which, I was actually kind of enjoying, and then, I just got pissed off. I started to fight back, and everything went black. When I woke up again, I was in dumpster behind a McDonald's in Keystone, South Dakota. That was a few weeks ago, since then I have just been trying to get here, so I could kill you.”

“Wow.” I don't know what else to say.

“You're telling me. I had to hitch my way here, and do you know what I had to go through just to get your cell phone number? Those things aren't listed, you know?” She lets the question sink in, but seeing that I recognize the rhetorical nature in it, she just sits there, looking at me again. Her eyes are softer now. She reaches up and brushes the same hair out of her face again, this time tucking it tightly behind her ear. Her face is older, worn, but it retains so much of the Chelsea I remember. Hard to believe how much we've both been through since then.

“So, now what?”

“You know you were actually my first?” Her eyes narrow a bit. Gauging my reaction.

Hold on, what?

The couch we were on would have been right underneath me, just in sight of the front door, right past the stair case. We were here; thrusting, pushing, fucking. We were both the first for the other? Images of our bodies grinding against each other. Sweat. Moaning. All these thoughts flood my skull.

“I was? Why?” The question flies from me before I've thought about it, but I quickly comprehend my own intent, “That's what I want to know. Why? Why did you sleep with me, I was just a kid who fantasized about the older, hotter, neighbor girl? Why did you sleep with me, you used to change me when I was a baby! You could have had any guy, but you chose me, why!?!?” The surge of anger comes in complete disregard for the weapon laid across her lap, but, after this many years, it seems to billow up from somewhere very deep inside.

“Because I was in love with you, I was obsessed with you.” Her voice is calm, soothing, yet almost condescending, as if I should have known this all along. But this, I never saw this coming. Walls in my mind crumble. Avenues of understanding become obscured with this new piece of information. She loved me? And, you didn't love her. Yeah, she's really going to kill you. How do you know I didn't love her, I was only thirteen, but I felt something? Right.

She continues, “I imagined us being together, I don't know, I thought that we would someday get married or something, but I couldn't wait for you anymore, I had to have you. When our parents went out of town, I just had to come and take you for myself.”

Perhaps what she did was wrong, the emotion in her voice sounds real enough. I had imagined for so long almost every other conceivable feeling, but love and obsession? I guess it isn't that hard to believe that she ended up crazy too. Well, the massive humiliation and stint in prison probably didn't help. She seems to search me, her eyes digging into me, trying to read my mind. She looks away, out the window, suddenly far away, she looks so lost.

As a kid, growing up with here was amazing. She was always something to look forward to, because she was fun, and funny, and made me feel good. We'd sit on my bed, playing Nintendo, Super Mario Bros. 3, and she would laugh whenever I sent Mario reeling off a cliff. She would wave her controller left and right as she navigated Luigi skillfully from level to level. This was how it was, all the time. She and I would hang out, good friends. Everyone I knew and would hang out with the rest of the guys on the block would talk about having sex with fictional girls, but my buddy was Chelsea. Of course I wanted so much more, but it was impossible.

I never said anything. I would never have told her that I thought she was so hot, never had said anything without a laugh. I never would have guessed she thought the same. We'd go out to movies, we'd go to comic book shops, we'd hang out at the mall, and it never seemed odd. Sometimes we'd watch movies, and would end up lying against each other, but it wasn't anything. It never seemed like anything.

And she knew so much more about everything than I did, about so much more than I did. She turned me on to much in the way of music, movies, even video games. She seemed to know everything that was cool, hip, and new. Because of her, I got to know the joys of so many bands, so many artists, so many writers, directors, everything. It was truly idyllic. I had so much and never knew it.

“You know, I had an abortion...” her voice trails off, and my mind follows it. What? How?

“What? How? If I was your first, then...” Oh God! She doesn't mean...?

“No one knew. Except my cell mate. I'd started showing by the time the trials were almost over, I was in the same cell every night. It was a prison facility they kept me in. I didn't want anyone to know, and luckily those county uniforms are pretty forgiving.” Her eyes are shining, glassy and shining, pooled with tears which begin to roll gently over her cheeks, some following the scar down, rolling around her chin and then dropping into her lap. I follow one with my eyes, it splashes when it hits the stock of the shotgun, smaller tears spread and leap through the air. A tinge of sorrow pulls at me somewhere deep inside, a sort of hollow feeling I've never really known before.

“Maria, she was a mid-wife, before she killed her brother-in-law when he tried to rape her. She did it, she set it up anyway, took care of the whole thing for me. I'm not sure what she did so the guards would let her smuggle everything in, and I don't even know what it was she smuggled in, except the vodka, there was a lot of vodka.”

I don't want to hear this! It doesn't seem like there's much choice, you're still tied up.

“Stop!” My cry sounds far away, a part of me awakened for the first time. I haven't hurt like this since long before my parents died. Nausea overwhelms me, and I choke it back, hard, it hurts my throat, bile stinging my esophagus.

She doesn't stop, nearly sobbing, she stares at me, sharing her pain, “She did it on the Friday, the Friday before the sentencing, hoping the weekend would be enough time for me to recover.”

They lead her into the court room, shackled as always, her usual gait seems lost, but maybe the chains are too tight. For the first time, she doesn't look at me. She doesn't look at me, and I fear they've broken her, or drugged her. In a few minutes, it's over. The judge tells her that her life will be spent in a woman's prison. He smacks the gavel, the courtroom erupts in murmurs and stifled sobs, her parents, closer to the front, try to reach over the wooden railing, but the guards just shuffle her past, she doesn't even glance at them today. She knows it is over, she's given up. Or, maybe she gave up more than I knew, more than anyone knew.

“I-” I don't know what to say, grating breaths rack my chest and dry sobs force my body to convulse and contort under my restraints, I feel my wrists rubbed raw by the tape. This isn't right, she's lying.

“It hurt, it hurt a lot, more than I expected, I thought for sure it was the right thing, but then, when she'd finished stuffing torn-up sheets inside of me to stop the bleeding, I saw her with the fetus, and she wrapped it up in another sheet. It was small. So...” She sobs. I sob.

We sob.

“So small, she wrapped him, and put him under the bunk.” She stops talking, her sobbing stops, but the tears keep streaming, pouring out of her. Through the window we watch a cardinal alight onto a branch, the branch my tire swing hangs from, even if from this vantage I can't see it. My dad gives me a push, and I laugh. Spinning wildly around and around, dangling, without a care in the world. The sun is warm, my dad's love is warm, and my heart is warm. Then it dies.

She's talking again, softer, and so far away. “Maria didn't tell me whether it was a boy or a girl, wouldn't tell me what she'd done with him. I suppose, she didn't know. He stayed hidden, all weekend, under that bunk. Sunday night, I tried to get up for the first time, and fell to the floor, he wasn't there.” Now her voice becomes a whisper, “That was the first time I died.”

“I-” still don't know what to say? I can't believe this. I won't. I have to believe it, because it makes so much sense. I didn't think anything could surprise me again, I wish I'd been right.

Are we destined for something worse than hell? She's pointing that gun at you. What?

She's moved, I missed it. She now crouches on her left leg, which is tucked under ass, her right foot flat on the floor, her forearm resting on her knee, the barrel of the gun aimed right at me, the stock resting against her shoulder, finger on the trigger, a slight tremble throughout her body. She stares at me, down the sight, the concentration in her aim, even at this distance, means that she really does want to kill me. She certainly seems to be considering it.

“Chelsea, please, I lo-” Blam. Onomatopoeia at its finest. I don't really know what that sound was, or how to describe, but the blackness is complete. Death seems somehow different than I'd expected. Yeah it does. You're still here? Yeah, why? Well, then I doubt I'm really dead. Why would you say that? Well, I can't imagine that I would still be crazy after I'm dead, figured you'd just stick around with the body. Good theory, any way to test it. No. Well, I still like the idea, let's stick with not being dead for now, what's going on then? I don't know, but I'm sure it's fucked up. No doubt.

Beep.

DAMMIT! That's about enough of that. Sitting up is easier this time. I'm no longer tied up, which is a definite improvement. The house seems the same, except that I'm now facing a far corner of the living room wall. A quick search reveals working parts, no blood, no dead. The wall is dark, everything is dark. Turning around might tell me something, but I'm beginning to question my interest in more surprises today, or whatever day it is.

Let's give it a try anyway. Wait. Is that me, over there? Us? Yeah, whatever? Sure looks like it, we're still passed out over there. What are we- dammit, what am I doing here too? If you don't want to acknowledge me, why keep asking me questions? We've already established that, crazy, remember? Right... where's Chelsea?

Beep.

Wait, that's my – his phone, but, I still have my phone. Of all things, this is worth noticing? No, it's just that, yesterday, or tomorrow, sometime anyway, we're gonna listen to that message. I'm almost too afraid to suggest it, but maybe we should check the date, and the time.

August 7^th, 2:58a. The screen glows brightly in the darkness, the light hurts my eyes at first, but it clearly says August 7^th. I'm more confused than I've ever been. Losing another day, three days, it's more confusing than being in the same room with yourself tomorrow? What? I don't really know either, any ideas.

Tomorrow, on the other side of town, a pay phone rings. A quiet street corner in early afternoon, a few cars amble by through the 2 way stop-sign controlled intersection, a street that is watched by a few antique shops, a credit union, a small mom and pop grocer, a bar and a little tattoo parlor. The sun casts long shadows from these buildings across the street, and still the pay phone rings.

A small bell clangs inside a metal box, which hangs inside a glass box, calling out a muffled cry from a multi-paneled glass prison. The dilapidated phone booth sits a rotting relic, forgotten in an age where almost everyone has cell phones. It's a quiet metallic ring, almost more of a buzz than a ring, not the polyphonic tone most people are used to these days.

At the same time, a young man in his early 20's, sporting tattoos that span from his wrists up to his shoulders, stopping at the edge if his black wife beater, his green corduroy jeans swishing with each step, he rounds the corner and discovers the pay phone making a strange sound he's never heard it make before. It takes time for comprehension to dawn, to realize what this foreign remnant of another time is doing, noting that he doesn't even remember it being there, it's only been part of the scenery. He's walked past it every day for at least the last 6 months.

Presumably on his way to the tattoo shop a few yards away, he carries three coffees and a bag of scones, but thinks that somehow it's up to him to save this phone from its horrible ringing fate, he stops and begins an amusing process of shuffling the coffees around so that he can open the folding glass door. After maneuvering himself about three quarters of the way into the booth, and re-situating his cargo to pick up the dull black plastic receiver, the mouthpiece suddenly springs off and dangles, now several inches lower. The man swears softly before spending a few more moments trying again to re-situate himself, which results in further profanity, before the phone is hung back in its metal cradle, the mouthpiece now hanging by only 2 thin wires.

He walks away, whistling an old punk rock tune probably The Dead Kennedys' remake of the theme to Bonanza, proud of himself for not spilling or dropping anything throughout the entire bizarre exchange. Across town, several days earlier, a cell phone beeps. A small 'V' inside a little yellow box appears on its screen. It sits snugly inside its owner's pocket, who is lying on the hardwood floor of his parent’s former home, completely dead to the world. The magic of technology.

That doesn't make one damn bit of sense. What? What do you mean 'what', that, entirely too vivid, recounting of some punk kid answering a pay phone on the other side of town, and your cell phone getting a voice mail two days ago? Makes as much sense as waking up four days ago, or tomorrow, and talking to Morpheus from the Matrix while my prison scarred ex-babysitter-turned-molester's body lies contorted from with a gaping wound across her throat, which I see, causing me to black out and wake up again yesterday, to talk to said girl, only to black out again and wake up across from myself God only knows when. I see where you're going with this. Yeah, maybe I should try talking to myself, see if the other me remembers anything. Seems like a sound plan, but, if I might ask, if you were to wake up to yourself, what would you likely do? Pretending that your question makes sense, I guess I'd likely come up swinging. And you think that other us is any different? Maybe, I gotta piss though. Let's do that.

I turned eight years old. My parents threw me a huge party, they were happy then. They hired every act for 50 miles, everything from pony rides, and clowns, to a magician, and a local band that also played kid songs at the library on weekends. It seemed like every kid from these 'burbs' had parties like these, parents trying to one up each other, so of course, every kid from these 'burbs' attended parties like these. I was bored. There was something about seeing the same acts 25 times a year that causes them to lose their luster.

Chelsea came, she sneaked me out, and took me out to see a movie, a campy seventies style rubber monster flick playing at a little art house theater in the city. It was one of the greatest times I'd ever had. Apart from being my hero, we had ludicrous amounts fun laughing at the fake monster destroying the fake city, now I can see so much more irony in that. After the movie, we went for pizza and talked about how lame the party was, and how lame the movie was. I like talking with her, because we could discuss how lame everything was. I remember that Dark Side of the moon was playing from the cheap speakers in the pizza parlor, and we talked about how not lame Pink Floyd was. When we got back, my parents hadn't even noticed I'd been gone. No one had. It turned out that my party had been a huge success.

Now, I'm carefully trying to stand up, using the wall for support, just like so many nights, utterly blitzed out of my skull. Just keep yourself steady. The bathroom is just down the hall, across from the kitchen, the other direction from the main entry. Bouncing off the walls, careful not to wake myself up. Which you? Shut up.

The little room, a later addition to the house, it's just a toilet and a sink, no shower, no bathtub, just a place to relieve yourself, that's been cut out of a bit of space under the upstairs bathroom, over the laundry room in the basement. It's still that ugly color maroon my Mom picked out when they put the thing in, the same border along the ceiling with little kids flying kites on a beach in soft pastel colors that clash horribly with the paint, and the paint clashes completely with every other room in the entire house. Pissing in the sink seems much easier at this point, just lean against the wall, and let go. I don't trust my aim right now, sitting or standing.

There's a sound of footsteps, but outside, on the rocks in the landscaping around the house, the scraping and cracking of rocks being crushed against one another, it echoes through the small exhaust vent in the ceiling. I can't tell where it's coming from out there, the sound bounces around so much inside the duct work. My mind works over the situation, I start wondering if this is when Chelsea joins us. Huh? Well, if I'm remembering this correctly, that might be her. This whole thing is reminiscent of a David Lynch film. We're just missing the excellent soundtrack. I can't believe that I'm trying to remember something as it happens.

So, the question becomes, do I leave, do I spy on what's happening, do I run away screaming? Now, there's a question. Well, so far we haven't had a lot of chance to do anything, to figure out what's happening, it's been like watching a movie, everything scripted, but now, I have a choice. That remains to be seen. True.

The front door opens, and footsteps pad down the hall, scuffling to a stop, and then stepping into the living room. A few thuds, and a grunt, and the sound of duct tape being pulled from the roll. It's loud, even through the heavy bathroom door. Listening is draining, every muscle in my body is tense, and still, my ear to the door, and I am trying to hear exactly what's happening, trying to rebuild the scene in my mind. It's like trying to storyboard this bit of movie.

Even though I can't see what's happening, I think I can figure it out, I'm pretty sure I can figure out how I got there in the first place. Now if I could just figure out how I got here. Where? In the bathroom, listening to her tie me up. All I need to do is turn the light off, and open the door, slowly. No.

Why not? If you think that you'd react badly meeting yourself, how do you think she'll react if she catches you spying on her tying you up? So, what, I should sit down and wait it out? Well, for now, I think that might be a good idea, she's probably still got that shotgun. I could try going out the back. That door is nailed shut, remember? It is? Yeah. Maybe she falls asleep at some point, and we can sneak out. Maybe.

The hung-over feeling clings to me like a wet sheet. I can't remember feeling this exhausted, considering the amount of time I've spent out cold, you'd think I would feel a bit more rested, of course, all the time travel is probably taking quite a bit out of me. The room rocks gently, turning a bit this way and then that, as if it's trying to spin, but can't quite get the momentum. This churning gets faster and faster, though, and soon it's like being inside a washing machine, the walls strain as I press my hands out against them, trying to keep my balance. However, to no avail, and before I realize it, the sink is coming straight at my head.

Waking up again. This is becoming almost excruciating. This time, however, this is something completely new. The car windows are foggy, it's dark, and the only light is coming from a lamppost overhead that I can almost discern through the condensation on the windshield. My back aches, and I wonder, again wondering, how long I've been sitting here.

You're here. Where's here. Home, or what used to be home. Why? Well, I'm pretty sure that we're here to meet Chelsea, remember? Oh, right, no. She called, and we came. Got it, I think I remember, but I shouldn't. Probably not. Should I go in there, couldn't I just drive away? Not really, I think this has already happened, so I don't think there is really much of a choice. I guess I can't argue with that.

Suddenly, I'm on the walk leading to the front door, and I'm not entirely sure how I even got to here. I vaguely remember getting out of my car, but that might have been a dream. We're on auto pilot. Right, so, go with the flow then? Sounds about right. So, would be interested in explaining what is happening. I don't know any more than you do. That's just an out and out lie. Why do you say that? Well, you keep coming up with answers, that doesn't seem a bit strange to you? Maybe. And that's all you have to say then? For now, yes. Fuck.

The air around me seems to drop several degrees, and I'm standing at the front door. There isn't any sign of life inside the house, not that there really could be, since it's been standing empty for so long. The strange sense of nostalgia that overtakes me is almost enough to knock me flat, it's a powerful feeling, and strange, disconcerting. I grew up in this house, and so many memories still surround it, it's exactly like going home.

I look up at the small overhanging awning, pillars on either side forming a small having from the rain while digging for your keys. I remember all the birds’ nests my dad would knock out from under here, almost mumbling about the noise in their bedroom directly above. I remember the pumpkins we would carve every Halloween and set out here, I remember all the decorations that would sit on these steps, from the ugly plastic Santa to the ugly plastic Easter Bunny. Maybe we should just go in. Maybe you should shut the f- Hey! I'm having a damned moment here! Can't you just let it be? No, you're opening the door. Fuck!

The door swings open freely, perhaps I should check with the realtors about that, because I'm fairly certain that it should be locked at all times. Do you really think that's important right now? Yes, this whole thing is crazy. Of course it is. This is you we're talking about. Beyond that, there's no reason to be here. Yes there is, Chelsea called and said to come over, and we all know how that ends. Do we, I think it was just a dream or something. That just doesn't seem likely.

And then, standing in the empty entry way, looking, peering down the dark entry hall, past the living room and into the kitchen, it's empty. I look around, staring, trying to see anything. The door behind me closes, which it always does, and I take one loud step further into the silence. There isn't a single sign of life. It seems like I should call out, but for some reason I really don't want to make a single sound, my ears acutely aware of everything, I'm straining to hear, even though there can't be anyone in here. Why not, the door was unlocked. Yeah, after the last showing they probably left it that way, seriously, the worst case scenario is some kids or a vagrant or something. No, the worst case scenario is Chelsea lying in wait with a shotgun. I'll give you that, except it isn't true, this is crazy. Ok.

Another step, and that seems good enough, “See, I told you it was crazy.”

It's the sound of a foot scraping the dust on the floor. Then the feel of something whooshing, moving quickly through the air behind me. All of this is followed by a crack and then blackness.

“HEY!”

I know that voice.

“Hey, get up, you gotta go!”

So familiar. Who is that? My eyes flutter again, smoke stinging them, and I feel myself tear up a bit. The bar pressed against my forehead hurts, or is that the forehead pressed against the bar? I wonder how long I've been laying here.

“C'mon guy, we're closed. I'd like to go home. Maybe you can do the same, eh?”

Mr. Bartender stands before me, resplendent in his black t-shirt and apron garb. My world swims slowly into focus, I'm in my bar. The CD changer is clicking in the background, stuck mid-switch, on either side me stands inverted stools seat down on top of the bar. The clock on the wall reads 3:40 am, which, for the first time in while, is a point in time I can identify with. Scanning around the room, I see that I'm the last one here, and the smoke still hangs in the air. It's odd not to hear any music in the background. Normally, there's a thump in the stool under me. It's almost uncomfortable being here like this.

“I been trying to wake you for almost an hour, man.”

“Sorry, it's been a hell of a night.”

“I'm sure, but you need to get goin'” His stare is almost icy, but there's something in his voice that I can't quite place. Perhaps it's pity. I can't really tell. He stands there, just a few feet in front of me, and I'm struck by the situation, almost as if I were to tell him what I swear I just experienced, he might be able to give me a handle on the situation.

“I'm sorry, I just, it's been a rough, rough night, ya know-” I pause for a fraction of a second, “You know, I've been in here almost every night for far too many nights and I've never even asked your name.”

He shakes his head, and makes his way over to those worn out doors and undoes the locks at the top and bottom, a process that's almost comical to watch. Then he pulls up a massive metal cross bar across the middle, and opens the door. It's almost as quiet outside as it is in here, except that the wind is moving leaves up and down the street with a gentle whoosh and a soft scraping.

“I'm sure your night sucked, but I really need to get moving, my girlfriend has to get to work buddy, and I need to be there for the baby, you can tell me all about it tomorrow, alright?” He stands there, back against the door, watching me as I slowly lift myself out of my seat.

“You mean it?”

“What?” He looks at me with eyes of someone sincere, someone real, it's odd to think of this guy as a real person, and I'm not sure why, the thought almost depresses me.

“I can tell you about it tomorrow?”

There is a flash across his face, one of frustration, but it dissipates quickly, and those same eyes look back at me, “Of course guy.”

I make my way past the rest of the bar toward him, and start to step past him, one foot hanging over the threshold. Then he says, “It's Steve, by the way.”

It takes me a full second to put the statement into the correct part of my brain. The good news is that I now officially know my bartender's name.

“Steve? Alright. Sorry for keepin' ya late, Steve.” He grunts in response, not a harsh grunt, but a friendly acknowledgment of his frustration, and the doors close behind me. The odd bonding that just occurred weighs on my mind.

Back on the street, the cool early autumn breeze whips past me, I pull up my collar, and begin heading back down the street to the haven that is my shitty studio apartment, somewhat confused, and extremely tired. I just want to crash. It's a struggle to keep my feet beneath me.

I remember something, but it's an uneasy memory, it's a fight to get it into focus. It seems like a dream. They are memories of a future. I don't understand it, though. I see Chelsea again, she's escaped from prison, and we're in my parent’s old house. She holds me hostage, and tells me she's going to kill me. She tells me that she loved me. Then she's dead. And the thoughts are so real, but impossible at the same time. I feel like I spent the better part of an hour watching fragments of a poorly directed movie.

Thoughts collide with one another, memories of what must have been a horrible dream. The world seems normal enough now, I'm alone. Walking home and I'm alone. There is something refreshing and frightening in realizing that you are alone.

“HEY!”

Stumble and fall; hard. The pavement is unforgiving, and I hit it full force with the back of my skull, having spun around to face the voice behind me. The fall takes long enough for me to realize that I have been startled by Mr. Bartender, Steve, who is chasing after me down the street. A moment later he reaches me, and helps me back to my feet, I rub the back of my head at the base of my neck, which I figure is going to leave one hell of a bruise. I swear I'd just had one there recently.

“You left your phone man, it started ringing...” His face has an odd expression. This isn't something I would expect this man to do. I would have figured on showing up tomorrow and asking for the thing, and he would begrudgingly dig it out of some drawer, or cubby from under the bar. Instead, he stands there, holding his hand out, a small flash of green from the little status light blinks, and then immediately turns red, and constant pattern. He looks almost as confused as I feel.

“Thanks, Steve, you didn't need to bring it out here,” He drops the phone into my waiting hand, and begins to turn away, then stops, midway around, facing the wall of the building next to us.

“Yeah, I know,” he pauses there, and shakes his head, “get yerself home. Sleep it off.” He finishes his turn, and begins to walk back toward his establishment, then, from over his shoulder he says, “take care of yourself, guy.”

I stand there, a phone in one hand, the back of my skull in the other. 'Curiouser and curiouser, Dinah.'

The hunk of plastic vibrates. Thumb, flip, open. The screen stares at me, 'August 4^th, Overdue Reminder, “Chelsea's Birthday”'.

“Dammit.”

The leaves fly past me in another gust, moving keenly down the deserted street, the buildings forming an unnatural wind tunnel. I watch them spiraling around each other, coming toward me, but never hitting me, I'm not even there. The street lights, spread out up and down the sidewalk, begin to click out, in quick succession, first as far ahead as I can see, coming toward me.

Click. Click. Click. Boom. Boom. I follow them with my eyes, watching, then anticipating, louder and louder the closer they get, the lamp directly above me goes out, boom. I'm standing under darkness. Turning, I watch them go out, now moving away, into the distance. Soon, it is absolute pitch blackness, even the moon is gone, the void envelopes me, and I'm lost in it. I can't see anything, anywhere, I'm not even sure I can feel the ground beneath my feet, I'm dimly aware of even having a body.

This is what it looks like inside my heart, this is me in my own soul, this is every bit of evil and hate in my world, this is all the fear and sadness. This is the blackness of me. My parent’s voices sound in the distance, arguing about something, yelling and fighting. My ears ring, louder and louder. The wind blows again, but far away, outside. Chelsea cries, sobs, the couch shakes slightly.

The world shakes. I hear a jumble of voices, all of them saying different things, some of them I recognize easily, my counselors, teachers, friends, family, everyone who has ever been affected by me in some way or another, their voices rise from a dull murmur to an incomprehensible roar. All along the wind and the ringing continue, even when the voices die off abruptly, they keep going, rising up more and more.

The ringing becomes even louder, and clearer, unbearable, and I am aware of an almost blinding light, emanating from my hands. The ringing fades into ringing, but it's now the electronic mimicry of clanging bells emanating from my phone. The screen displays a number I don't recognize. Then, before I know what I've done, the phone is against my ear, and from in the distance I hear myself answering.

“Hello.”

Silence, then a hissing sound that's barely audible.

“It's Chelsea, I need to see you.” A trigger for a memory. Or several memories, fragments, bits and pieces, flooding my mind, and taking me on an unwilling trip. Everything that's happened, or hasn't happened yet, but will, I remember it. Everything that has happened, long ago, and very recently. It fills every bit of my head. The heavy weight of thoughts accentuates the throbbing at the base of my neck. Nothing seems real, but at the same time, it's as real as anything else that as ever happened.

Why am I speaking? I can hear myself, I'm talking, but I can't make out a single word. I'm in another room, and I'm talking on the phone, but I can't hear anything that's being said. What's going on out there? Nothing.

Where are we going? Nowhere.

No, I've been there, we have to stop this, I can't go there.

I know, but we can't stop this. You can, you're in control now aren't you? No, I was, but I'm not now, I've gotta watch this, the same as you. I don't understand. I'm sorry.

I'm tired of waking up, although, it's getting easier. I'm oddly aware of everything that's happening around me. I think, maybe, I have this whole thing figured out. The world is brighter than it was, but here I am in my parent's house. Chelsea is laying there, her throat slashed, her blood is dry now, her eyes are staring, pale, her body curled up and she lays there in a heap on the floor. The sunlight streams in, and I understand it all.

“No, you don't.”

“Are you sure? Why am I talking to myself?”

Force of habit. I know where I am. Good. I feel extremely lucid; I think I understand this whole thing. No, you really don't.

No, I understand. I've been in this house for several days. Chelsea is dead. I killed her, but only because she was going to kill me. I haven't eaten since we first came here that night. I'm probably suffering a concussion, and this is going to be really hard to explain to anybody, since it only barely makes sense to me. She called, you took over, and we came here. She knocked me out. I woke up and we talked, somehow I ended up free. At some point, she came after me, and I killed her. I lost it from the shock, when I woke, I had some sort of hallucination, I've been in and out of consciousness and my mind has been trying to put the pieces back together, probably some sort of psychological buffer, but it all makes perfect sense now.

No, you're way off.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Remember how you keep saying that if you were dead, I wouldn't be here?

Yeah.

We'll start there.