Yet another Zaedah story birthed by a too-long hiatus. I know you all feel my pain! As always, Zaedah owns neither the characters nor her own mind. Please enjoy responsibly.
Borrowed Life
I had a dog once, a scruffy mutt that would lounge under my chair at the dining room table. Always looking for scraps. The foot of my bed was never without the fifty pounds of fur that snored lightly as I read comic books with a flashlight. I could trust him to chase away the midnight monsters with the same loyalty that made him bite the neighborhood bully's leg. It drove my parents crazy, the way he'd growl at every passing leaf. For one miserable winter, he was a favored companion I'd spent the weekends tackling into snow banks. He might have been faithful, he might have been fun, but mostly I remember that he was gone. When I'd asked my father what happened to the dog I'd named Hero, he'd just shrugged and said that's the way it goes with strays. They appear and vanish without leaving notes. But there was a sideways glance to his locked basement that made me never bring home another pet.
I had a friend once, a year older who thought rules were for quitters. In the same breath, he'd call me a girl and then cry when I'd punch him. Early in a day, we'd swear to hate each other until the boredom hit and then with no pre-planning, we'd meet up in the woods. Sitting in class with him was like watching a boy raised by wolves try to learn gentility. Our level of trust was a bit lopsided; talking about what we'd do as adults was easy, but we'd never admit which girls we liked. It was too tempting to announce pinkie-sworn secrets in the lunchroom. When he stopped showing up for school, I experienced my first anxiety attack. Hearing my father explain that Jay had moved away failed to comfort. Because though he hadn't glanced to the basement, that door was still locked.
I had a mother once, a woman who believed her lips could heal wounds. No matter how many times she kissed me after my father was taken away, that gaping hole never healed. She'd promise me that he was still my father, regardless of location and I'd bite my tongue. I knew what fathers did and location hadn't kept him from coming up short. We'd never played catch. We'd never gone camping. I'd never seen the world from atop his shoulders. It was never him I missed. It was the two-parent dynamic that had set me apart from most of my friends. And when I'd tried to pick the basement lock, kids spy guide at my side, my mother had flown into hysterics. Not once in the half hour rage had she mentioned my offending deed. Rather, every word carried the venom of a needy soul abandoned. I should have felt the sting of a smacked cheek but instead I just hugged her until she collapsed in the corner. I never touched that door again, but the moving company was instructed to deliver whatever they found there to a place I'd never cared to know.
I had a plan once, somewhere in the midst of college. I'd always been smart but our house was only big enough for one genius so I'd gotten low marks on purpose. As much as I'd wanted something to share with my father, his mind must have been a scary place to go from toothpaste to murder. I wanted no part of that. But here, in academia's embrace, I was called to my potential and for a time, I heeded it. There was temptation to see what my brain could do, how far I could go above my peers. Applying myself had been a foreign reaction to stimulus but it grew into as big a high as my roommate's borrowed chemicals. A scholarship made tuition disappear but I lacked transport. And the more drugs I tried, the more I needed. No cash equals no fun, my friends quipped as they'd leave for a club I couldn't afford to buy free water in. But my math was better than most. Brain plus charm equals scheme. In two weeks, I had wheels. In a month, I was strolling through elite clubs with a permanent high. College taught me the beauty of a plan and I began to see the campus as too small a venue for such skill. Later, I'd return to collegiate life, this time as a professor. But that, too, was a scam. And I balked when they offered me a basement office.
I had a life once, that 'fend for yourself' existence which throws adventure and danger into a blender. The resulting mixture meant no time to dwell on the past. It was the kind of life I remember being enticed by through books for young boys. They really shouldn't write that stuff. Because it gives the impressionable, developing mind the idea that post-pubescent, after-shaving life can be every James Bond fantasy. Except no one gets hurt. I discovered that lie when my partner was executed in Thailand for offending a small-time drug lord with big time family. I'd buried my last tie to my college days with my former roommate. His relatives would never know what happened, but my grieving didn't keep me from finishing our project and hauling a bag of money to the first plane to India. Things got simpler and the payout bigger once I began operating solo. It put everything in my control but there remained a nagging voice telling me no one had my back anymore. No childhood friends, no college buddies and certainly no family. And the victories grew hollow when my less-than-honorably obtained money couldn't cover whatever intangible thing I was lacking. Even know, I lack. I have a partner, of sorts. But this life feels borrowed and I suspect I'm in someone else's scam now. Still, the one man I never thought I'd share oxygen with works nearby and he's asking me to see what my brain can do. But somewhere, deep in the place I'd locked, I still fear basements.