Running from Dawn

1

She swayed her hips rhythmically to the bouncing beat that only she heard inside her head. Each motion was a declaration of freedom; each movement driven by the insanity that had resided over her days. Back and forth she went, hips teasing the inside of her dress with each sway, as she made small talk. The conversation was kept light, more a distraction to pass time, while he prepared the high. Her skeletal cigarette, ash dangerously hanging on, sat neglected between two fingers. Her nostrils burned like the cherry.

Stella. Strangers had always complimented her on the beauty of the name, but she never found comfort in it. Just short of stellar, she would think, and perfectly fitting for her life.

Stella was slim but strong, a build well suited for the demands of hunting and gathering, but she was hollow tonight. The substance on the table, appearing as innocent as a misplaced pile of snow, was responsible. She felt runway beautiful anyway, and dangerous, like a tiger loosed in the city. One more line, she told herself, and she would call it a night.

Another line. Another trip to the bathroom, another quick rinse, an embarrassingly satisfying pee, and then she was back out on the couch. The night had grown old before her, and it was here that she found herself during its most tired hours. In a small apartment, in a tight living room, with a man who was barely eight hours short of being a stranger. It was not the glamorous night that she had envisioned earlier, strutting out the door with friend in hand, but there was nowhere else to go.

The clock above the television read 4:21. The time reminded her of all the calls that she could not make from the lifeless cell phone that was buried in her bag. Even if it weren’t such a late hour, the battery in her phone had died anyway. She had charged it all day before packing away the charger in her carry-on. Had figured it would survive through the night, her last night before returning home, with enough juice left over to get her there in the morning. Despite its newness, however, she watched the phone struggle through only an hour of use before buzzing its last vibration. That had been many hours ago when she was feeling euphoric and was too busy draining the last of her cocktail to care. The simple bar talk between friends was engaging, and there next to her feet, it had slipped peacefully into slumber. In the company of a friend, she had had no qualms over letting it rest.

At the time, Stella was even glad that she hadn’t dragged along the charger; was glad that whatever texts her phone guarded were muted indefinitely with its death. It was a blessing. She knew they would be from her nervous husband, who would have too much time to think; too little distraction. The messages would be encouraging in the beginning. “Hope you’re having fun,” he would write, genuine in his wishes. Then, as the hours passed without reply, he would become concerned. “Give me a call, if you get the chance,” waiting with phone in hand, willing it to ring. Then as his tired mind offered up scenarios that would prevent her callback, his words would become dark. “I don’t know what you’re doing,” imagining the worst, “but I guess you’re too busy.” He did have a legitimate reason to worry as he sat alone counting down the hours until morning. He would be meeting her flight very early; anticipated an emotional reunion after a heated split. Three weeks had passed since they had parted ways, and it had been full to the brim with contemplation over whether or not the relationship was worth saving. So the trick, as he fired off his texts, would be to accuse without evidence of accusation. To set up guilt in case she had reason to feel it. His final message would drip with distrust, but its intent would remain debatable. He, of course, would claim that he hadn’t meant anything by it, and she, desperate for his anger, would claim that he had. Without his anger, there was no traction, no foothold, nothing to justify her decision not to go home.

She tucked away the thoughts of angry messages and turned her attention to her company at present. Her audience, a poster boy for ads against drugs, especially those claiming stunt growth, she thought, was captivated. He sat motionless, eyes stalking her hips. His hair had all but disappeared from its youthful days where it lounged against his forehead, reappearing in random patches mid-scalp. His tight spectacles were evidence that a facial growth spurt had occurred since their purchase. He was round and otherwise indistinguishable, but it was not his appearance that made him so; it was that gaping hole where a personality should have been. He was neither nice nor rude, but sat flat on his rump, expressionless, as she flattened her knee length skirt again.

They had passed the hours between the comfort of the bar and their present location simply talking. Had carefully selected mutual topics of interest: drugs mainly, drunken mishaps, favorite songs. They had shared stories about Talia, Stella’s best friend; who was their sole connection. Tossed up tidbits of information about her, passed them back and forth like a friendly match of badminton, but finally they had exhausted their subjects.

Silence reigned before the sound of it became unbearable. “So what’s your story?” He asked, looking for an intro. “I mean, what landed you in this cesspool tonight?”

She considered whether he was referring to his cesspool of a dwelling or his cesspool of a hometown and sighed. “You want the short version?” She lit a cigarette and pulled hard on its tip, letting the chemicals settle. “A bad marriage.”

He pushed out a laugh. “Oh wait… I think I’ve heard this one before.”

“I’m sure you have. Seems to be all the rage.” She scanned over memories of family vacations, childhood friends, and panting dogs, trying to find where her woes began. “You would think that surviving my parents’ divorce would’ve guaranteed more success in my own, but I guess it doesn’t work like that. I’m beginning to wonder if bad spouse isn’t, in fact, an inheritable disorder.”

He nodded, fiddled with the scab on his elbow.

“Maybe I didn’t want to see it. Didn’t want to think that the problem was marriage itself. Had some crazy notion that it was something you could excel in if you just tried. I refused to see it as the farce it is—how it’s only a channel through which we age each other.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, still picking.

“I mean that marriage is a mind game—a battle of wits. If I had just paid more attention when I was younger, maybe my husband and I wouldn’t have spent the last six years tiring each other out. Now it hasn’t been to the same extent as my parents, but they had twenty more years to perfect it. Six years. That’s all it took for him to strip me of my confidence…” She broke into a smile. “But I got him back. I got his dignity.”

“Wow. That’s ugly. And that’s not even as bad as what your parents did?”

“Hardly. I remember when I was in kindergarten, I got off the bus to find nobody was home. I was living with my mom, who had gotten even with my dad ¬by running off with his cousin.” She adjusted the buckle on her shoe, studied the red imprint it had left in her flesh. “So I got off the bus and just knew something wasn’t right. It was just too dark for 3:00—too quiet.

“Anyway. It was about to rain, and I was pretty scared. The door was locked, so after waiting a couple of minutes, I decided to head down to my dad’s house. I didn’t know what else to do. It was about a mile walk, which I know is not far, but at six, with a storm coming, amidst a divorce, it might as well have been in Anchorage…”

He stifled a laugh, figuring she hadn’t meant it to be funny.

Stella continued, “The houses on the street were too deep to see, and it felt like I was hiking through backwoods. Under normal conditions, I loved the majesty of it, but it was just lonely that day. Then from the bend in the road, I saw my dad’s house. And my mom’s car out front.”

She paused, took in a deep breath like she was preparing for a painful injection. “Then I heard my mom’s voice from a distance; in between the sounds of thunder. We had a lot of land, so I couldn’t be sure where she was, but I could hear her calling my dad’s name like he was lost. And my God did it sound desperate. She shouted his name like a question, an exclamation, a plea, but still there was no response.”

His eyes, having fallen on his ankles like the purpose of her story was hidden there, rose to meet her own.

“And then I heard it, like the grandfather of thunder, a crack that split the air in two, but instead of coming from somewhere in the clouds, it came from somewhere inside the house.

“So I ran. Couldn’t see shit in front of me,” a chuckle. “In front of my jelly shoes.” Shook away the image. “But what I did see was the stain of red smeared across the window.”

She stopped and tended to her cigarette, while something short of concern filled the air.

“What on earth?” He asked, his voice showing the first signs of life all evening. “What happened?”

“Well, my mom had rounded the corner as I was nearing the house, and having caught sight of me, grabbed me. Nearly smothered me with that embrace, like if she could just get her arms around me,” she exaggerated each word, reenacting the scene, “That she could rescue me from it…”

“Huh?” He looked confused. “Did your dad shoot himself?”

She rolled her head around on her shoulders trying to work out the tension that was creeping into her neck. With her head back she explained. “From my mom’s arms, I saw the front door swing open, and in its place was my sloppy dad, one hand on the door knob, the other on the shotgun. He looked so pleased, like he had won that round. At least until he saw me standing there. But he hadn’t meant for me to be part of it, and when he realized that it was me he had hurt with his games, he just looked ashamed. To see a parent like that… it was embarrassing. Like I had caught him with his pants down…”

“So I don’t get it,” he said, searching the facts for a connection. “What was the blood from?”

“Ketchup,” she said smugly, delivering her answer like a punch line.

“Jesus Christ,” was all he could offer. He picked up the lighter and thumbed it. “I guess your mom did leave him. What a prick.”

A laugh. “Actually, she went back to him a month later.”