Impulses (73 page)

“You and those damn boxes.”

“It’s unreal how much you fail to realize you missed something, until you’re reacquainted with it again,” I mutter, holding the on/off switch, waiting for it to come to life.

Inquisitive, Jessie peers over my forearm and focuses on the LCD screen on the back.

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder,” she mutters, vacantly brushes through my hair, while watching me as I press the left button, consequently displaying one of my stills.

I scowl and she halts her rhythmic brushing mid-stroke. “Sorry, not the best analogy to quote at the moment,” her mouth tightens in an apologetic grin.

“It’s Okay, Jess,” I speak softly and my camera becomes the target of our focus once more.

She points a finger at the screen. “I have never seen this one before. When did you take it?” and continues to inspect the black and white shot taken from an overpass, cars driving towards me from below.

“I took it just after I left
The Bastard
. I felt so betrayed, so lost, worthless. I just wanted to end everything. I stood at that spot for an hour, debating on whether…” I trail off, the memories too raw for me to even reflect upon.

“If the feelings you had at that point, was so raw and so dangerous, then why would you keep it?” She frowns with a shake of her head.

I smile a sincere, contented smile. “Because I wanted a reminder,” I pull my focus from the camera and peer up at her. She is glaring at me like I have grown an additional limb. “I wanted to remember exactly, how I never want to feel again,” I conclude my preamble.

And with that, I glance out to the water in front of us and lift the camera to my face. Zooming in, I wait for the image to come into focus before pressing the shutter button. As I lower it back down, I examine the shot displayed on the screen. The water is dark around the boundary of the lake, the soft waves frozen in time. Wildlife floats on the surface, and the trees shield most of the light, with the exception of dual small breaks through the branches, which make way for two, hazy diagonal beams to pierce through, causing the water at the heart of the photo to sparkle like crown jewels.

“That’s beautiful. Is there a deeper meaning for this one?”

My briefly considered meaning is followed by a grin. “No matter how overshadowed the situation may appear, there is always a flaw––a flaw that can allow the most diminutive fragment of hope to pierce through it.” I cock my head and observe her coyly, a tightlipped grin marking its place.

“That, Samantha Kennedy, sounds like the motivational meaning that you need at the moment.” I’m startled at the unexpected contact, when she rests her hand on my abdomen, “and the ray of hope in this situation…is in there.”

It’s 7:00 p.m. by the time we get back to the apartment. And as soon as I walk in through the door, I am assailed by good, happy, contented memories, which leaves a weighted, overwhelming feeling of loss once more in my heart, stomach and mind.

How can so many happy memories, make you feel so sad?

“Hey,” she grasps my shoulders and watches me with intent. Her voice returns me back to the land of the living as my gaze is deterred from the dining table, and redirected toward the brunet. “We can do this, sweetie. No matter how overshadowed, there is always a flaw, remember?” she recites my words back to me.

Outside in the open air along with distraction, I found meaning behind those words, I found strength and a minuscule of motivation. But now, as I am enveloped by four walls that have witnessed what I had with Hayden…the love, the passion…they hold the musings of what I have come to lose.

Brushing the words off my shoulder, I mutter, “I, um…I think I’ll go and have a bath. Try and relax.”

“Good idea. I’ll be here if you need anything.”

I flash a smile at my best friend––my rock, before hanging my head and strolling limply to the hallway to my left.

A knock at the door has me frozen mid-step. I welcome the unexpected rapid heartbeat thundering in my chest, the butterflies in my stomach, the trembling in my legs as I secretly hope that the knock on the door was caused by Hayden’s hand. Unaware of the breath I am holding, I slouch on my exhalation, feeling vulnerable and alone as the remainder of my dashed hopes flee upon hearing the sound of Matt’s voice. Disheartened, I wander aimlessly down the remaining half of the hall, and into my bedroom to give the apartment’s newest lovebirds some alone time.

Slipping the iPod into the docking station at the foot of the bed, I press play and begin to step out of my clothing. Fully naked, I take a moment to gaze into my full-length mirror and study my vastly changing body. Turning for a side-view, I am astounded by how prominent my abdomen is growing with each week that passes. I am bombarded by the verity of Hayden no longer witnessing the changes that loom over my body.

“I miss your daddy,” I sigh, splaying my hand over my bump.

Avril Lavigne soon hisses through the speaker, a love song about missing pieces of somebody when they are gone. It’s amazing how you can enjoy a melody when you’re happy, yet, you can empathize with the lyrics when you’re lost. I stand stock-still, listening observantly to the meaning behind her words. And just like the immediate downpour that rages from the darkest of storm clouds, my emotional dam is breached and I succumb to the reality of what I am missing, as I allow the words that she powerfully croons, to submerge myself in my own grief all over again.

The only bath salts I find are the half-empty vanilla ones that Hayden and I used when indulging in a lovers bath. I recall the vanilla scent of burning candles, the flames sizzling out as sloshing water blinded them from witnessing our intimate undertakings. Shaking the memory from my mind, I recover a bath towel from the rail and wrap it around my naked, shivering body. Tucking the corner under my arm to keep it in place, I drag myself from the room, and creep down the hall in hope to raid Jessie of hers.

But as I get closer to the threshold of the passageway, I detect Matt holding the apartment door open.

“How dare you…” I hear Jessie’s voice, but her body is masked.

I can barely make out a strangled plea, and the word,
‘please’.

“There is no way I’m letting you in, mate,” Matt protests, and my curiosity is instantly piqued.

“What’s going on?” I mutter, drying my eyes with the corner of my pink fluffy towel.

Jessie and Matt turn in unison, and all eyes are upon me, watching me expectant like some kind of circus act.

Matt steps aside, pulling the door open farther.

My internal organs perform an act from the State Circus by themselves. My heart stops, then thrums relentlessly, my stomach flips, my legs quake, and the butterflies have transformed into big heavy doves as their wings flap ruthlessly against my gut.

“Am I dreaming?”

HAYDEN

The heavy decent of each raindrop causes them to shatter and rebound from the hard, sodden concrete, as I stand stagnant in the dark alleyway, watching Samantha walking further and further away from me.

I will myself to open my mouth, to call after her, to get her to stop so we can attempt to discuss and work through the findings that were uncovered only a while ago.

But a familiar, patronizing voice reawakens, stretching out lazily before striking heartlessly for the emotional kill.

Oh, Hayden, how often did I tell you that she would walk from you? You couldn’t even keep the woman you loved in your life, because of your fucked-up rationalization.

No! I can do this…we can get passed it; we have overcome hindrances before and survived…

Barely,
he snickers.
Each time you look down on her when you shield her body, and she bites her lip…whimpers…tells you to go faster…I will be there to remind you that many men of San Francisco has seen the same thing while they have been buried inside your beloved.

The brutal attack of the irritant voice is like a drill piecing through my skull. It’s a reminder of all the traits which I fear, the acts in which I never wanted to hear of, let alone visualize, knowing that they are far from a figment of my imagination. All I can do is hang my head, silently observing the white gold band that lies in the center of my palm.

This can’t be the end. Can it?

I open my mouth and lift my head, but Samantha is no longer in my line of sight.

Fuck…what have I done?

Absconding from the torrential downpour, I duck into my car. Pressing my back heavily against the leather seat, I surrender to a cumbersome sigh. Why is it so damn hard? Why can’t I be normal? What can I possibly do to rid myself of my fear, of the voice that inundates me with sordid contemplations and distrust? I roll my head against the headrest, my attention drawn to the vacant, passenger seat.

Reality hits.

This cannot be happening. Not again.

In a daze, I pull into the late night traffic. Time holds no significance in the disquieting, inauspicious part of my mind, as I drive for what seems like eternity, traveling through the darkness of the night, journeying deeper into the bleakness of my involuntary deliberations. Once again, the influence of the oily, dark-haired manifestation ridicules me in his wicked, twisted ways, provoking devious thoughts, in which even now, Samantha could be pinned up against a grotty wall, moving on in the manner in which she is reputable for. However, the slight whisper of my voice of reason tells me that in order to accept Samantha’s past feats, and to move on without being claimed by the assortment of images I have buried inside my mind, I need to free myself of the disdainful voice, the loathing, and the shadowing patterns which I see, tethering Samantha and Addison together.

But how?

With my briefcase in my hand and bound on autopilot, I make my way up the narrow entrance steps of Stalwart Tower and tap on the glass door. I watch the security personnel rise from behind the desk. He begins to fondle his mass of keys as he takes unwearied strides toward the entrance.

Unlocking the door, he stands to my left, holding it open. “Mr. Wentworth, we weren’t expecting you here tonight.”

I step out of the rain, and into the warm and echoing acoustics of the lobby. “I had a brainwave that just couldn’t wait until the morning.” I allow a faux smile to stretch lazily across my face.

“Some professions never sleep, Mr. Wentworth,” he teases with a grin. I simply nod and begin my journey up to the privacy of my office.

Masked by darkness, I stop at the kitchen to retrieve a tumbler from the cupboard, before stalking to my office at the end of the corridor.

Shutting the door behind me, I rest my back against the solid barrier and tip my head back. My mind is tantalized with memories of last night’s love making, and this morning’s exploits in the shower, memories that should warm my heart, make me smile and contemplate how lucky I truly am…but all they do is cause pain as they torment my emotions farther.

Adjusting my eyes to the scarcity of light, I stumble in the blackness and circumnavigate my desk. I slump into my chair heavily with the weightiness that rests in my chest.

There’s a soft stream of light penetrating the window behind me, which casts minute shadows across my desk. I slam the glass onto the leather-padded surface with jarring hands. Opening my briefcase, I pull out the fifth of amber liquid––which I vaguely recall purchasing at Benny’s Liquor––before setting the case under my desk.

Pouring two fingers, I swirl the spiced-aromatic liquid around the tumbler, allowing it to stick and distort the pattern that embosses the glass. I raise it to my lips and instinctively tip my head back, draining the shot and welcoming the burning warmth it leaves in its wake.

Banging the cut-glass on the leather-pad of my desk, I inhale deeply. I pour another, and swirl it around the wall of the glass again. Bringing it to my lips, I glance over the rim and stare at the shadowed chair on the opposite side of the desk. I silently recall the first time Samantha sat there. Her legs crossed and exposed as her skirt rose higher and higher. I remember how badly I wanted them wrapped around my waist, even then.

I tip my head back again, and once again savor the burning that sweeps its way down my throat, through my chest and radiates through my gut.

You’re a stupid, stupid man. She nearly walked away when she found out about your dreams, how you woke up hating her, recoiling from her. And you thought for one second, she wouldn’t walk away when you recoiled from her again?
My paranoia perches himself on the edge of the desk, goading me with dark circled, menacing eyes.

No, go away. I refuse to listen to you ridicule me anymore. You make things worse; you have always made things worse.

Oh, but, Hayden, I only speak that which is true. It isn’t a secret; everybody knows how useless you are. Even Victor, he has had to carry you like a child since your father died.

I endeavor to ignore his mockery. So I pour another glass.

There are things in life people are to avoid, because they will cause more damage. You are a failure. You failed to be a good son, you failed to be a good lover and I mean that in more ways than just one,
he scoffs; his thin, purplish lips curl into a malicious smirk that sends a cold shudder up my spine, a smirk that could be professed as evil, truly evil.
It’s good she walked away and saved that poor innocent baby, the devastating fact that her father is a disappointment, a hindrance;
he leans into my personal space and whispers scornfully,
an inconvenience.

I drain the glass, and slam it onto the desk, making myself jump.

Yet, he still continues.

I think there is a high probability that she has already gotten over you, Hayden, already had someone fill her up,
he smirks vindictively before resuming,
sorry, I meant, fill in your space. Do you think it was coincidence that you split up the night a past conquest came into contact? Three men, one woman…you know it’s possible.

I flail my head in a vain effort to shake the voice away.