Human Hieroglyphix - Dex & Leila

Dedication

To my Jesse & his Dawn.  Thanks for showing me that a tattoo is more than just ink on skin, for being excited for me and cheering me on every step of the way. You guys are amazing!

To my Jazz.  Thanks for keeping me reasonably sane in such an insane world, for always being in my corner and having my back. Every single, freaking day.  Means a lot!

And to Melissa S., who understood where I was trying to go and helped point out the potholes (or plot holes) along the way.  You are my machete and absolutely define awesome!

For those that have been with me on this journey…Thanks for the memories!

And to those that are still on their way…Where've you been?  My heart's been waiting for you.

*.*.*.*.*

Chapter One

I was late for class.

As the professor, it was important that I, at least, was there on time and ready.  But that day and time, for that particular class, I was anything but on time or ready.

I could blame in on the meeting with Dr. Weatherby who is the head of the English department here at the University.  My meeting with her had gone a LOT longer than I had anticipated even though the review she gave me was good.  But it was still a long meeting.

By the time I got out of her office, I only had time to run across the street to the Mini-Mart and grabbed a sandwich and a large flavored coffee from their machines.  As I made my way back to campus, I was eating as I quickly walked as fast as my calf-length, khaki skirt would allow; not quite a jog, but faster than quick walk.  And shoving my glasses back up into place about every fifth step.

I made the hallway turn just by the edge of my loafers, almost comedic in my attempts to balance my extremely large and extremely hot  mocha, decaf, with both whipped cream and sprinkles and my overflowing messenger bag that I used as a briefcase.

And I would've made it, too.

Really.

That is if I hadn't be jostled from behind by a couple of students racing to get into the class before me and knocking my elbow enough to spill almost the entire cup of coffee all over me; my skirt, my knee socks, in my shoes and all over the floor.

I shot them a dirty look as they moved by me and pulled out my trusty plastic bag of napkins from the bowels of my oversized purse and began to wipe the mess off of me and the floor.  As I was wiping and, basically, smearing my entire coffee over the lower part of me, I heard my late students, that had stopped in the doorway of the theatre I used for my English Class.

"She's not here yet."

"Let's pray she doesn't show.

"What's the grossest thing you would do for a million dollars?"

"Dr. McCarthy!"

"Hey, I wouldn't fuck her even with your dick."

"I get that she's old, but, damn, the woman's gotta be half-dead to look that bad."

"God, I hate this class.  The fuckin' subject is boring and the professor looks like that dude from Tales of the Crypt."

"Do you think that Dr. McCarthy needs an enema or just a good fuck?

"Smelled her once when I asked her a question after class and she smelled good.  But, honest to God, man, who'd do her with a face like that?"

"Then do what my Gramps said to do in those situations."

"And that would be?"

"Put a flag over her face and fuck her for glory."

I had stilled at the sound of their voices but absolutely froze at their conversation.

Oh, God.

They were talking about me.

About me, like I wasn't even three feet from them, listening.

Listening and absorbing every word out of their mouths.

Their dirty, filthy mouths.

I stood up from my crouched position snagging both my bag and my now empty paper coffee cup.  My legs were trembling as were my hands and I tensed them both to prevent those shakes from taking over my entire body.

As I entered the amphitheatre, I avoided looking at my students and kept my eyes on my desk.  'I wouldn't fuck her even with your dick,' my mind seemed intent on replaying those nasty words again and again in my brain. 

I made my way to the desk, my khaki skirt sticking to my thighs and my feet making squishing noises from my wet knee socks and wetter shoes.

At long last I was finally there and set my bag and coffee down.

"You okay, Ms McCarthy?" I heard my T.A., Carla, whisper at my shoulder.

I know my mouth opened to reply but no words came out. 

In fact, no words were forming at all which was, for me, weird beyond belief. 

I love words and I use them carefully trying, at every opportunity to find just the right word to say exactly what I mean.  But, here, at this moment, I didn't have a single one.

"Want me to take this today?" Carla asked softly.

I found my fist was pressing firmly against my lips, but I couldn't remove it for the life of me.  I just nodded in Carla's direction and grabbed my bag from the desk.

"Th-thanks," I choked out from around the lump of my throat and turned away, but even that simple movement seemed beyond my body's control and I stumbled a bit before grabbing onto the desk edge for support. 

I dropped my head as I slowly made my way to the door careful to avoid stepping in the wet spots on the floor from my entry into the room.

Once outside, my body's reactions to the hateful words I'd overheard didn't stop; they seemed to be on a continuous loop, being replayed again and again in my head. 

I felt myself consciously having to push the air both in and out of my lungs.

I don't remember walking to my 2010 Acura but suddenly I was there and fitting my key into the door lock.

I sat in my car, there in the parking lot a long time, before I engaged the ignition.  My hands had stopped their shaking enough that I felt I was good to drive although I was still numb. 

My thoughts were spinning and every time it touched on something the boys said, I'd feel it deep inside me like a tear in the fabric of my heart.

I made my way to the little cottage I called home and parked my car in the garage, where I just sat, still reeling from their horrible, harsh words.

 I don't know how long I was sitting there before I got out of the car, but I was stiff, like I'd been sitting in one position too long.

I went in through the kitchen door that was closest to the garage and placed my bag on the long tiled counter.

 It should've felt good to be home, since home had always been my refuge. 

But on the inside I was still stunned, too caught up in the hurtful words to find peace .

I moved through my window bright kitchen, through the small dining room to the stairs that bisected the living room. 

Once upstairs, I began to remove my coffee stained clothes.  Toeing off my loafers first, then wiggling out of my khaki skirt that had partially dried by the heater in my car. 

I had a strong desire to stomp on it as it hit the floor. 

I tore off my light-weight, serviceable jacket and threw it across the room.  I could hear my breathing rasping as it came up and out of my throat and my heartbeat was pounding as I ripped my wool sweater up and over my head and, after straightening my glasses, threw that too across the room. 

My buttoned-down shirt was next and a couple of buttons went flying in my haste to get it off.

I looked around my bedroom looking for something, anything to throw when my eyes caught on my cheval mirror standing in a corner.

A mirror that I didn't use.

A mirror that I didn't need.

A mirror I avoided, if I was being truthful.

Stepping in front of it now, I saw myself dressed only in my chocolate stained knee socks, serviceable white cotton panties and equally serviceable white bra.

Still staring at my reflection, I reached behind my head and slid the scrunchy out of my hair, letting my thick, long, dark brown hair tumble almost to my waist.

"I do not look like the Tales from the Crypt guy!" I yelled at my reflection, and it felt good.

My hands were tightly fisted and my usually pale skin was flushed.

"I'm
not
old!" I shouted at the top of my voice leaning towards the mirror. "Thirty-one is not
old
!"

The tension in my chest began to ease, but that easing released the pent up tears that I had been holding back.  I removed my glasses before throwing myself onto my queen sized bed to sob my hurt and pain away.

When my out and out bawling had finally turned to hitches and my crying was finally more controlled, I tried to understand why what those stupid students had said hit me so hard. 

Why those asinine, little boy-men's opinions would carry any weight with me at all.

Maybe it was because I hadn't had a date, not a real date, since my divorce.  And while I thought I was well and truly over my ex-husband Dan and the hurt he had caused by admitting to sleeping around, I still, on occasion, heard his words in my head.  That I wasn't enough woman for a man like him, that I wasn't sexy enough, attractive enough to keep his interest. 

Logically, I knew that he was probably going to cheat no matter who his wife/partner was.  But my heart had still taken a hit when he blamed me when he was caught out by the husband of one of his conquests.

That husband, in turn, had called me with all the gritty, dirty, dismal details or as much as I could understand through his sobs.

And, at the time, I remember wondering why the man was crying.

I remembered my own crying.  Tears of sadness, when my divorce was finally final.  But that was nothing compared to the tears of humiliation and anger that were drying on my cheeks now.

I had never been a girl that was all that concerned about her appearance.  Geez, my mother had both her own and my concerns sewn up in that regard.

When other girls were playing with Barbies, I was being swept away by whatever book I was reading at the time. 

In high school, when other girls were experimenting with different hair styles and makeup or giggling over some boy, I had my nose in a book or found with a pen in my cramped hand, writing my own stories.