lafayetteproulx

Here is a story that is, let's just say, a long time in the making. It's the first story I ever really started working on as a serious writer. I experimented with different revision styles, and even completely rewrote it a few times. Here it is though, the nearly final version of my story. It's four in the morning and I'm well aware that there are some tense issues in the story, but those will be worked out tomorrow. For now, here is what you get, the fruit of my labors, and no one else but you gets to read it. Make sure to let me know what you think.

So here it is, my nearly final draft of Walking With Your Eyes Closed. Enjoy.

Walking With Your Eyes Closed

Monica, I wake up with my head on her chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her ribs. The thump thump of her heart echoing in my head. I kiss her skin and taste fabric, I squeeze her tight and she's full of feathers.
I'm sweating and shivering, naked and spooning a pillow. The stench of vomit is heavy on my breath and I'm embarrassed I had the dream even though there's no one around.
When my eyes adjust and my brain rights itself I notice I'm in my ex-fianc's room. My dead ex-fianc, Monica. The alarm clock is blinking noon.
I force myself out of bed, my head throbbing with every movement. Stumble to the bathroom and find some aspirin in the medicine cabinet. I take two with a water chaser. The shower looks inviting, and if my nose is correct I'd do right by getting in. The water is warm and relaxing, the pills take effect and the dull throb in my head slowly goes away.
I've seen Monica go in and out of this shower before. Times where I lay on the bed pretending to not want to get up but I was only stalling because I liked to watch her as she got ready in the bathroom mirror. Leaning over the sink wearing nothing but a towel, preparing her hair and make-up for the work day ahead. She'd look in the mirror, catch me watching and give me a wink. It's the little things that kill me.
Monica is not my ex-fianc because she died, she's my ex because right before she died we had an argument. She was leaving me for another man. I pressed her to tell me who it was. Words and vulgarities were thrown back and forth between the both of us. We were snakes spitting poison. She left with a fury.
She was driving too fast, maybe driving to the person she was leaving me for. All it took was one sharp curve. Her jeep hit a guard rail and flipped into an embankment. With her arms broken from the steering wheel coming in at her she couldn't undo the seatbelt that was slowly choking her to death.
It's hard for me to think that it's not my fault.
After the shower I smell like cheap soap but it's an improvement. A glance in the mirror shows four months of facial hair, I stopped shaving after she died. I open drawers and cabinets looking for the razor I kept in her room. I found it and shaved, slicing my face in numerous places, little droplets of blood forming on the skin.
A pile of neatly folded clothes lay on the dresser. Either I did laundry while I was drunk or Monica's roommate, Melissa, felt like being kind. I changed into the clothes, jeans and a red hooded sweatshirt. It was the tail end of summer when Monica died and now winter was rearing its ugly head.
- - -
Melissa and I have history together. A year before she introduced me and Monica we dated. Our relationship ended amicably and we remained friends. A few months after we stopped dating Melissa invited me to a dinner party being hosted by one of her artist friends.
The place where the party was being held was a mansion owned by the father of one of the artists. A giant structure resembling a French chateau. I wore my best suit, black on black with no tie yet still felt terribly underdressed. As I walked through, looking for Melissa, people would turn their heads from their conversations and give me a quick glance. Once they realized I was no one they knew or wanted to suck up to they turned back the other way. Melissa, a woman, and a man with a suit and red Converse sneakers stood off in a corner talking.
Melissa introduced me to the woman, Monica. This was when they first became roommates. The man was Jason, Melissa's new photographer boyfriend. He did more weddings and parties than actual art. Monica looked as equally out of place and we started a conversation. Jason, slightly drunk, would keep butting in, telling Monica that she needed to model for him. That in the right light he could bring out her true beauty. He gently placed his hand on her shoulders as he spoke. I rolled my eyes but he didn't notice.
While Jason propositioned Monica, Melissa took my hand and asked for us to be excused, she was going to give me a tour of the house. Before the tour began we both got glasses of wine. She had noticeably had a few prior to me showing up.
Melissa had me hold her wine glass as she went to the 'little ladies' room as she put it. When she came out and I handed her glass to her she said, "It's going to take more than a glass of wine, I'm not that kind of girl."
After a few sips of wine my head started to tingle. Little bottle rockets going off in my head. My body started to feel warm and relaxed. I wanted to find the host and applaud the wine selection.
Melissa walked a few steps ahead. Every room she passed she would quickly point out to be a bedroom or bathroom. A dining room or a den. My eyes kept wandering to her dress, a slender black dress with a skirt that stopped just above her knees. The skirt swayed back and forth with the movement of her hips and I was enraptured. Every few rooms she would glance back at me, her long black hair whipping around and landing with a bounce on the opposite shoulder. My eyes would quickly dart back up to meet hers.
Melissa was an architect and started talking about the construction of the building. I was only half paying attention, my wine glass completely drained. I set it on the next flat surface we passed.
She started talking about architectural blind spots. How no one uses one hundred percent of their homes, leaving unused rooms and corners where if people are quiet enough and careful enough they could never get caught. She took a turn into one of the rooms, a rather normal looking guest room. A bed, a bare night stand and a plain wooden dresser.
My mind was trying to put the pieces together. It hit me, just as Melissa began to approach me. She had a smile that spoke of mischief. I took a reflexive step back, finding myself pinned against a wall. Melissa walked up and pressed her body against mine. Without words she placed her lips to mine. I tasted wine and lipstick. I tasted warm breath and soft skin. My brain wanted to tell me that kissing a girl who had a boyfriend was dangerous. The thought was put out of my mind when Melissa took my hand and slid it up the back of her thigh, pushing her dress up. She stopped my hand at that perfect fold where ass turns to leg. Her kisses were hurried and precise, pleasant reminders of the time we used to spend together. In a moment where our mouths part for air I whisper "I want you."
In our hurriedness we forgot to close the door and footsteps could be heard coming from down the hall. Melissa took a quick step away from me and adjusted her dress. I stayed against the wall and looked up to the ceiling taking a deep breath. My heart and my body were both racing.
Monica and Jason came into the room.
"We've been looking for you two." Jason said. He had one of his arms linked with Monica's. Melissa told him that she was just giving me a tour, telling me about the history of the house, all of the architectural elements that I couldn't remember. I nodded in agreement and no one was the wiser.
Later that night I asked Monica to go to dinner some time. Six months later we were engaged. A year after that and she was dead.
- - -
The air outside is cold enough to see your own breath. My legs are shaking, my knees knocking together. Hands held tight together in the pockets of the hooded sweater. The cold is good though, it wakes me up and takes my mind off of things.
If my memory serves me right today is a Tuesday and Melissa is at work. So is Jason, who moved in after Monica died to help Melissa take care of things around the house. I own a studio apartment across town but Melissa has been kind enough to let me stay here whenever I want.
The cold becomes almost unbearable and I go back into the artificial warmth. In the kitchen the sink is full of empty alcohol bottles. Either the night before I drank enough liquor to kill a football team or Melissa emptied them all out.
I remind myself that she's looking out for me. She has my best interest in mind and I need to be respectful. Jason doesn't like the fact that I spend the night occasionally. I'll drink to the point of nausea and pass out in Monica's bed. Melissa says I can move on whenever I feel comfortable, Jason says I can move out right away.
In the pantry I find trash bags and fill one up with the empty liquor bottles, braving the cold to take them to the trash, a small thank you to Melissa.
Inside I start a fire in the fireplace. It being a gas fireplace it's as easy as turning a knob. Flames instantly shoot up around the fake logs and the room begins to warm.
The television doesn't interest me, and other than that there's not much else to do in the house. I decide to wander, curiosity getting the best of me. I climb the stairs up to Melissa and Jason's room. Inside the closet is a door that leads to the attic. Jason spent an extraordinary amount of money converting the attic into a darkroom for his photographic endeavors. Today the door stands out, like a little kid told not to go in, I want to go in. The door is locked though, luckily not with a doorknob but a simple padlock. He claims that he only keeps it locked so no one goes in and messes with his equipment, but people only lock up things they wish to keep secret.
Old boy scout training came back to me, and using a tension wrench I found in the garage and a bobby pin I took from Monica's room the lock was picked in under a minute. Use the bobby pin to lift the pins inside of the lock and use the tension wrench to turn the lock.
The room was definitely professionally built. Apparently Jason was making more money off of wedding photos then I thought. The room was temperature controlled with numerous stainless steel sinks and workbenches. Negatives and slides were scattered everywhere. There was one light switch for the red florescent lights and one for the white. I turned on the white.
Wedding pictures were safety pinned to a wire dangling from wall to wall. Happy couples and families. Every picture that was left out came from either a wedding or someone's birthday party that he was commissioned for.
I remembered how he spoke to Monica at the party, he wanted her to model which means he has asked other girls to model which means those pictures are around here somewhere.
Almost invisible, underneath one of the steel sinks, was a small door. Nearly invisible except for the small metal handle. Another padlock kept this smaller door shut but after thirty seconds of trying that padlock was as easily picked as the one before. Inside was an old wooden chest, like a miniature hope chest. The chest had ornamental molding around its corners and edges. Whatever Jason keeps in there is something he prizes.
No lock on the chest. It opened easily and inside were stacks of unmarked, black photo albums. I took one of the top ones and flipped through it. Series of girls starting with them fully clothed, picture after picture with clothes removed, becoming more pornographic. Album after album, all of the same. Girls that he gave the same speech as he gave to Monica. Looking through his lense, telling them that they're more beautiful if they spread their legs just a little bit more, that their ass isn't too far up in the air. Girls filled with talk of art and beauty being exploited for Jason's own pornographic purposes. There were maybe a dozen photo albums. One at the bottom caught my attention, instead of having a plain black binding it had golden edging in an ornamental design. Whatever is in that photo album is something he greatly admires.
Even I didn't see it coming. Monica.
Monica with that smile on her face, the same smile she gave me. Flip the page and it's Monica with the same smile but one less article of clothing. Page after page her face said angel but her body said whore. In all of the other photo album I couldn't tell where the pictures were taken, probably wherever the girls lived, but the one of Monica was personal. It was taken on their very own couch, the one directly below me.
Monica stripping and posing. Monica showing everything to some scumbag with a camera. Monica falling in love with him. Jason feeding her words about how she's the most beautiful when she's on all fours.
I take as many of the photo albums as I can carry and I bring them downstairs. I drop them in front of the fireplace. Taking the pictures, one by one, I burn them in the fireplace. Girls that Jason has probably slept with. Girls that he lied to. He believes that because he has a camera he knows what beauty is. Not a single album held a picture of Melissa. Either Melissa saw through his lies or he was too busy seeking out other women, women like Monica.
The smell of burning plastic starts to become noticeable. I open a few windows sacrificing the warm air for the stench of Jason's lies.
A car pulls into the driveway.
I sit Indian style in front of the fireplace chucking in picture after picture.
The front door opens and I hear heavy footsteps, Jason.
Jason must catch a whiff of air, and behind me he probably has his mouth open to speak, he must see me with his precious photo albums surrounding me. He must smell the burning plastic and knows exactly what's going on.
I beat him to it, "Where were you two going to run off to?" I ask him, not taking my eyes off of the flames and the bubbling plastic of melting photographs.
Jason's camera bag falls to the floor. He takes a few steps into the room.
"Jackson, I'm sorry," he says to me, taking a few steps closer.
"When did you take those pictures of her?" I say, holding up the album of Monica's pictures to remind him of what I'm talking about.
"You don't want to know this man, just leave it alone. I've got the negatives anyway."
I still don't stop, this time tossing the remaining albums into the fire. When the flames start to rise, engulfing them, I stand and turn to Jason, meeting his gaze.
"Did you sleep with her." I ask. One of my fists is clenched tight.
"Not much sleeping, buddy. The girl sleeps like a dog, she won't quit kicking." He has a smug smile on his face.
"She sleeps like an angel if you treat her like one."
A tense moment passes where no words are spoken. Jason puts up his hands defensively.
Another car drove up, this time Melissa.
Jason closed his eyes and breathed a heavy sigh, bracing for whatever was going to happen to him. A key played at the locks in the front door and the door swung open. Melissa spoke, "What's burning?"
She walked in to Jason and I standing at ten paces. If we had guns they'd be drawn and one of us would not be standing.
Jason knelt down and picked up his camera bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He turned to Melissa, "I'll be by later in the week to get my stuff." The coward made a dash for the door and his car.
Melissa looked at me with wide, curious eyes. I turned my eyes away from her, not able to look. I didn't want to tell her what just happened.
"I know, Jackson." She says to me, catching me off guard.
"Know what?"
Melissa takes a seat on the couch that sits in the middle of the room, facing the fireplace. "I know you found the pictures. I found them a few weeks ago when Jason let me in to clean the dark room for him. I'm sorry Jackson, I didn't know how to tell you."
My fist opened back up and I started to relax. I know it's wrong to speak ill of the dead but I felt angry at Monica. I was angry at Jason, but there was no way I could be angry at Melissa. She has always had my best interest in mind and I knew that this was hard on her. Jason didn't just lie to Monica, he lied to Melissa. He lied to me. He lied to all of those girls.
Melissa hung her head, tears making their way down her cheek. I walked behind the couch and placed my hands on her shoulder. I started to gently massage her shoulders the same way I would do when we were a couple. Just like it did all that time ago she began to relax. She leaned her head back, eyes closed, and whispered repeatedly, "I'm sorry."
I leaned in close, close enough to whisper in her ear, "Don't be."
With my lips so close to her skin I placed my lips gently on the nape of her neck. I kissed her again.
She turned her head toward me, turning her body so she could face me and meet my gaze. Her eyes were watered and kind and I could tell that she could see the same in mine. We both came forward, pressing our lips together.
Again Melissa spoke, "I'm sorry."
I stood up, walking around to the front of the couch, taking a seat next to Melissa. We kissed again. This time she came at me with an urgency, throwing her arms around me neck, kissing me hard. I tasted her lips, her tongue and started to melt in much the same way as I did at that party.
Monica, if you're watching, turn away now. Turn away for good.
Melissa stopped kissing and lay her head on my chest. She began to cry. I stroked her hair and pressed my lips to the top of her head. I told her repeatedly that it's okay. That nothing is her fault, or my fault. Between every sentence I kiss the top of her head.
She lifts her head and looks toward my eyes. Her lips part slightly but no words come out. She doesn't need to speak, I know what she means to say. I lean in to kiss her, a way of saying, "Me too."