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This is a story that I wrote in that other life I had but it's one that's lingered in the back of my mind. There is something about the imagery that keeps it flickering through my imagination. Anyway, I ran into it tonight as I was cleaning up my GDocs folders (they get so messy and cluttered when I don't keep at them!) so I thought I would repost it here. This is the story, if I remember correctly, that gave me the idea for the Allen Street Stories. Man, I should find those and repost them. One of these days, I'm going to continue that world because I think it was awesome! But then, I'm a bit biased about these things. *grins*
Title: Overwhelmed
Word Count: ~2000
She missed him. Not just because her days were empty without him to make her laugh, but because he’d left a gap in her stomach. At least, she thought it was her stomach. Maybe it was a lung. Or a kidney. Whatever this hole was out of, she felt the loss keenly. No matter what she did, it nagged at her until all she could do was sit in his favorite chair in the dark and rock back and forth.
If he was dead, this would be considered her mourning phase and considerate friends and neighbors would have filled her icebox with casseroles and different variations of Jell-O in prismatic shades. Because of who he was, none of her friends knew he existed… and she’d never taken the opportunity to know her neighbors. It was a pity because she was out of sugar and had no desire to get dressed just to go to the store so that her iced tea could be sweetened. She only drank it that way because he had made it that way. There was a lot she did now because he had done it that way.
The microwave bleated at her, reminding her of the cup of water she’d put in to heat over a half an hour ago. It would be cold now. She should take it out and dump it down the sink, maybe start over with a new cup and some new water. Or maybe not. If she had the energy to do that, she should just make something to eat. It was dark outside, had been for a very long time, and the microwave was too busy reminding her about the water to tell her the time. Was it after midnight? Surely it was too late to eat dinner now. She’d put it off until tomorrow.
A gust of wind blew through the room, pushing her hair into her face and back out again. There was a distinct fragrance of rain on the wind, which would be good for the flowers in the yard. While she’d remembered to water them from time to time, it had always been his job to remind her to do the little tasks around her house. She hadn’t even had flowers before he came along. Their trip to the greenhouse was a good memory but she was having trouble bringing it up now. Something kept pushing it out of the way. Something important.
She hadn’t left any windows or doors open in the other parts of the house. In fact, she’d been fanatical about shutting and locking everything this morning after a nightmare had woke her before her alarm. In it, she’d been robbed at gunpoint by a masked man. She didn’t know why she’d been so afraid but it made her extra cautious. Besides, a masked man should always be a sign of fear, shouldn’t he?
So, why could she smell rain on a wind that shouldn’t have existed in this room?
The butter knife was still on the table beside the chair where she’d laid it yesterday morning. It was caked with the blackberry jam she’d spread on her toast as she considered rearranging the room. It had seemed like a good idea until she’d tried moving the small table and the plate had slipped to the floor. The stain had refused to come out of the carpet and she’d completely forgotten why she’d been in that room to begin with. Holding the weapon up so that so one would be able to attack her front, she edged to the door, making sure there was a wall behind her.
The wind was stronger now. A storm had come up and she hadn’t even noticed, so in tune with her misery that the flashes of lightening so evident in this room hadn’t even captured her notice in the other. The flash lit up the room before the rumble of the thunder echoed throughout. Sure enough, the door was swinging open. Had the wind been strong enough to blow it free of the lock or had someone disengaged it?
“Who’s there?” she asked, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling from the electricity of the storm. She should have been afraid but she wasn’t. Her heart was beating fast but not from fear. The empty place in her stomach wasn’t hurting anymore.
There was a sound from the other side of the room, near where a couch sat against a wall as if waiting for other furniture to join it to make a normal seating group. She hadn’t bothered to move it to any other room considering it was ugly and weighed a ton. It would be better to let the Salvation Army cart it away like her mother kept nagging her but they hadn’t been by lately.
Her sense of sight was shot in the complete darkness after the lightening but she could still smell and hear. There was something else in the air underneath the fresh tang of the rain. It was familiar, bringing with it a new sense of fear. And yes, there was a lump on the couch that hadn’t been there before.
She closed the door, making sure it was firmly locked again before bending over the still form. The scent of blood was stronger now but she needed to move him to a room where it was safe to turn on the lights so that she could figure out if it was his or if he’d acquired it from someone else. He moaned when she touched him, his voice rasping from his gut in a feral sound of an animal that had run to ground after being hurt.
“I’ve got you,” she assured him. “You’re safe.”
Even though she kept talking to him, he resisted her at first. His instincts were still taking him toward safety and wouldn’t stop until he lost completely unconsciousness but she was the stronger of the two now. After a harrowing trip across the darkened room, she shut the bathroom door and turned on the light.
His beaten face turned her stomach but she worked on getting his clothes off. He’d always told her the first goal was assessing risk. Forget about the stuff that didn’t matter. Bruises were surface injuries, especially these that were already colored. Something else had sent him running for her house.
He was more lucid by the time she had his shirt and jeans off, his eyes following her movements as she folded each item of clothing as if she was standing beside the dryer. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“Where would you have gone in this condition? Your mother’s house? Do you honestly think she would have appreciated you bleeding on her rose chintz?”
“I could have gotten a hotel room.”
She scoffed at him, her lower lip between her teeth as she concentrated on not crying out at the sight of the angry gash on his side. It was a bullet wound by the look of the clean edges. The shooter had either been able to move very quickly or he'd just been a lousy shot. Blood was still congealing along the wound that, for the most part, was working on closing up on its own. Nothing she could do would make it better. Taking a washcloth, she began to wash the dirt and grime off of his face and neck. He had to grit his teeth but she didn’t want him in the shower until morning. This would have to do.
“Is there anything else?” she asked as she went to the door. “Should I know about any other wounds?”
He shook her head, laying it against the smooth marble of the sink. She left him to get the first aid kit from the back of the hall closet. It would have the gauze she needed to patch him up. With a whimper, she held it close to her chest and she leaned her own head against the wall, gaining the strength to go back in to face him. He had told her he wouldn’t be back unless it was bad. It was dangerous for her if he was around. She’d discovered that it was even worse for her if he wasn’t around. Was it worth the argument they’d have tomorrow when he was ready to leave her once again? Should she leave him here to rest and go get that hotel room for herself?
“Taren?”
She blinked, realizing she’d been away from him for too long. Hurrying back into the bright room, she set to work patching him up. After she was done, she pulled him to his feet where she waited while he found equilibrium once again. There were no glasses but he accepted a few white pills, swallowing them without the aid or liquid. It was the tough guy way to take medicine, she’d learned. Not how she’d want to take it but it worked for him.
The bedroom wasn’t far but it was a battlefield of odd shapes now that she’d turned out the light and they were in the dark once again. She stubbed her toe on the hall table and he ran into the wall, setting the collection of framed photographs thumping out of alignment.
“Stay with me.”
She sat next to him on the bed, happy they’d finally made it, but refused to answer his command. Instead, she tossed some of the pillows to the ground and forced him onto his good side, pulling a comforter over him. His pale flesh had been slightly luminous in the dark, guiding her to him like a weak beacon. Now, she blind once again. There was a chair along the opposite wall but she’d have to walk around the bed to get to it. The odds were good that she would hit her hurting toe again. That left the floor. It was the most uncomfortable option but she would need some sleep if she was going to go head to head with Max tomorrow.
Her foot connected with one of the pillows as she tried to stand and she fell back onto the bed. He shifted toward her, his hand wandering through open air until he connected with her shoulder. It was hard to not flinch at this abrupt contact after not having him for so long. Had it been a week since he’d left last? Or had it only been days?
“The more I see you,” he whispered, “the more I want you.”
It was the closest he’d ever coming to reciting her poetry. Contract killers didn’t do that sort of thing, after all. If it got out that they had the ability to be sappy, it ruined their credibility. It was enough for her, though. Without even bothering to take off her clothes, she lay down next to him. He moved over to give her more room, something she’d always given him grief about when they’d shared a bed in the past.
“Thank you for coming back,” she said to his bulky form. Her voice carried throughout the quiet room, swirling back to her as if she’d still been alone in the house and been the only one to hear the words. He stayed silent until she wondered if he’d fallen unconscious. Maybe she was only getting sappy poetry from him once tonight. Or he didn’t want to acknowledge that he’d intended to leave her for good last time he’d walked out and had only come back like a puppy with his tail between his legs because he didn’t have anywhere else to go.
He cleared his throat, making her jump in surprise. “Thank you for being here.”
It was enough. Tomorrow, she’d fight the fight once again. This time, she’d use the right words and he’d at least give their relationship a chance. It was hope and she’d cling to it for dear life until the day when the emptiness inside her overwhelmed all else.
Title: Overwhelmed
Word Count: ~2000
She missed him. Not just because her days were empty without him to make her laugh, but because he’d left a gap in her stomach. At least, she thought it was her stomach. Maybe it was a lung. Or a kidney. Whatever this hole was out of, she felt the loss keenly. No matter what she did, it nagged at her until all she could do was sit in his favorite chair in the dark and rock back and forth.
If he was dead, this would be considered her mourning phase and considerate friends and neighbors would have filled her icebox with casseroles and different variations of Jell-O in prismatic shades. Because of who he was, none of her friends knew he existed… and she’d never taken the opportunity to know her neighbors. It was a pity because she was out of sugar and had no desire to get dressed just to go to the store so that her iced tea could be sweetened. She only drank it that way because he had made it that way. There was a lot she did now because he had done it that way.
The microwave bleated at her, reminding her of the cup of water she’d put in to heat over a half an hour ago. It would be cold now. She should take it out and dump it down the sink, maybe start over with a new cup and some new water. Or maybe not. If she had the energy to do that, she should just make something to eat. It was dark outside, had been for a very long time, and the microwave was too busy reminding her about the water to tell her the time. Was it after midnight? Surely it was too late to eat dinner now. She’d put it off until tomorrow.
A gust of wind blew through the room, pushing her hair into her face and back out again. There was a distinct fragrance of rain on the wind, which would be good for the flowers in the yard. While she’d remembered to water them from time to time, it had always been his job to remind her to do the little tasks around her house. She hadn’t even had flowers before he came along. Their trip to the greenhouse was a good memory but she was having trouble bringing it up now. Something kept pushing it out of the way. Something important.
She hadn’t left any windows or doors open in the other parts of the house. In fact, she’d been fanatical about shutting and locking everything this morning after a nightmare had woke her before her alarm. In it, she’d been robbed at gunpoint by a masked man. She didn’t know why she’d been so afraid but it made her extra cautious. Besides, a masked man should always be a sign of fear, shouldn’t he?
So, why could she smell rain on a wind that shouldn’t have existed in this room?
The butter knife was still on the table beside the chair where she’d laid it yesterday morning. It was caked with the blackberry jam she’d spread on her toast as she considered rearranging the room. It had seemed like a good idea until she’d tried moving the small table and the plate had slipped to the floor. The stain had refused to come out of the carpet and she’d completely forgotten why she’d been in that room to begin with. Holding the weapon up so that so one would be able to attack her front, she edged to the door, making sure there was a wall behind her.
The wind was stronger now. A storm had come up and she hadn’t even noticed, so in tune with her misery that the flashes of lightening so evident in this room hadn’t even captured her notice in the other. The flash lit up the room before the rumble of the thunder echoed throughout. Sure enough, the door was swinging open. Had the wind been strong enough to blow it free of the lock or had someone disengaged it?
“Who’s there?” she asked, the hairs on the back of her neck bristling from the electricity of the storm. She should have been afraid but she wasn’t. Her heart was beating fast but not from fear. The empty place in her stomach wasn’t hurting anymore.
There was a sound from the other side of the room, near where a couch sat against a wall as if waiting for other furniture to join it to make a normal seating group. She hadn’t bothered to move it to any other room considering it was ugly and weighed a ton. It would be better to let the Salvation Army cart it away like her mother kept nagging her but they hadn’t been by lately.
Her sense of sight was shot in the complete darkness after the lightening but she could still smell and hear. There was something else in the air underneath the fresh tang of the rain. It was familiar, bringing with it a new sense of fear. And yes, there was a lump on the couch that hadn’t been there before.
She closed the door, making sure it was firmly locked again before bending over the still form. The scent of blood was stronger now but she needed to move him to a room where it was safe to turn on the lights so that she could figure out if it was his or if he’d acquired it from someone else. He moaned when she touched him, his voice rasping from his gut in a feral sound of an animal that had run to ground after being hurt.
“I’ve got you,” she assured him. “You’re safe.”
Even though she kept talking to him, he resisted her at first. His instincts were still taking him toward safety and wouldn’t stop until he lost completely unconsciousness but she was the stronger of the two now. After a harrowing trip across the darkened room, she shut the bathroom door and turned on the light.
His beaten face turned her stomach but she worked on getting his clothes off. He’d always told her the first goal was assessing risk. Forget about the stuff that didn’t matter. Bruises were surface injuries, especially these that were already colored. Something else had sent him running for her house.
He was more lucid by the time she had his shirt and jeans off, his eyes following her movements as she folded each item of clothing as if she was standing beside the dryer. “I shouldn’t have come.”
“Where would you have gone in this condition? Your mother’s house? Do you honestly think she would have appreciated you bleeding on her rose chintz?”
“I could have gotten a hotel room.”
She scoffed at him, her lower lip between her teeth as she concentrated on not crying out at the sight of the angry gash on his side. It was a bullet wound by the look of the clean edges. The shooter had either been able to move very quickly or he'd just been a lousy shot. Blood was still congealing along the wound that, for the most part, was working on closing up on its own. Nothing she could do would make it better. Taking a washcloth, she began to wash the dirt and grime off of his face and neck. He had to grit his teeth but she didn’t want him in the shower until morning. This would have to do.
“Is there anything else?” she asked as she went to the door. “Should I know about any other wounds?”
He shook her head, laying it against the smooth marble of the sink. She left him to get the first aid kit from the back of the hall closet. It would have the gauze she needed to patch him up. With a whimper, she held it close to her chest and she leaned her own head against the wall, gaining the strength to go back in to face him. He had told her he wouldn’t be back unless it was bad. It was dangerous for her if he was around. She’d discovered that it was even worse for her if he wasn’t around. Was it worth the argument they’d have tomorrow when he was ready to leave her once again? Should she leave him here to rest and go get that hotel room for herself?
“Taren?”
She blinked, realizing she’d been away from him for too long. Hurrying back into the bright room, she set to work patching him up. After she was done, she pulled him to his feet where she waited while he found equilibrium once again. There were no glasses but he accepted a few white pills, swallowing them without the aid or liquid. It was the tough guy way to take medicine, she’d learned. Not how she’d want to take it but it worked for him.
The bedroom wasn’t far but it was a battlefield of odd shapes now that she’d turned out the light and they were in the dark once again. She stubbed her toe on the hall table and he ran into the wall, setting the collection of framed photographs thumping out of alignment.
“Stay with me.”
She sat next to him on the bed, happy they’d finally made it, but refused to answer his command. Instead, she tossed some of the pillows to the ground and forced him onto his good side, pulling a comforter over him. His pale flesh had been slightly luminous in the dark, guiding her to him like a weak beacon. Now, she blind once again. There was a chair along the opposite wall but she’d have to walk around the bed to get to it. The odds were good that she would hit her hurting toe again. That left the floor. It was the most uncomfortable option but she would need some sleep if she was going to go head to head with Max tomorrow.
Her foot connected with one of the pillows as she tried to stand and she fell back onto the bed. He shifted toward her, his hand wandering through open air until he connected with her shoulder. It was hard to not flinch at this abrupt contact after not having him for so long. Had it been a week since he’d left last? Or had it only been days?
“The more I see you,” he whispered, “the more I want you.”
It was the closest he’d ever coming to reciting her poetry. Contract killers didn’t do that sort of thing, after all. If it got out that they had the ability to be sappy, it ruined their credibility. It was enough for her, though. Without even bothering to take off her clothes, she lay down next to him. He moved over to give her more room, something she’d always given him grief about when they’d shared a bed in the past.
“Thank you for coming back,” she said to his bulky form. Her voice carried throughout the quiet room, swirling back to her as if she’d still been alone in the house and been the only one to hear the words. He stayed silent until she wondered if he’d fallen unconscious. Maybe she was only getting sappy poetry from him once tonight. Or he didn’t want to acknowledge that he’d intended to leave her for good last time he’d walked out and had only come back like a puppy with his tail between his legs because he didn’t have anywhere else to go.
He cleared his throat, making her jump in surprise. “Thank you for being here.”
It was enough. Tomorrow, she’d fight the fight once again. This time, she’d use the right words and he’d at least give their relationship a chance. It was hope and she’d cling to it for dear life until the day when the emptiness inside her overwhelmed all else.
