"Ever since you found yourself in someone else's arms, I've been trying my best to get along. But that's okay, there's nothing left to say, but…take your records, take your freedom. Take your memories, I don't need 'em. Take your space and take your reasons. But you'll think of me…" – Keith Urban
"Mort, what…oh…my God, Mort! What did you do?!"
He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of his name. Amy, his Amy, stood in the doorway, her eyes wild in a grief-induced frenzy. Her fingers trembled, relinquishing their grip on her purse and letting it collapse to the tiled floor; she brought her hands up to her mouth, which cruelly contorted as she began to sob.
Mort just smiled good-naturedly, spreading his arms out. "Surprise, hon." In one hand, he held a pistol, his index finger still poised on the trigger.
She spoke again, her hands covering her mouth, but because her voice was muffled and had dropped down to a petrified whisper, he couldn't understand her. Still, it didn't matter to Mort. Nothing she said was going to bring back her beloved Ted. Nothing she said was going to save her now. He took a menacing step towards her, the sun pouring in from the windows of what had once been he and Amy's beautiful home. The home he loved almost as much as he had loved Amy.
Her hands dropped from her mouth, to reveal her teeth tightly clenched in defiance. Strands of her blonde hair, the hue of hay, were matted to her cheeks, which were sticky with tears and runny with mascara. "You stay…away…from me…" she attempted to snarl, wanting to sound tough, but her voice came out frail and helpless.
Still he advanced on her, laughing casually, as though at someone making a witty observation. "Why? What do you think I have planned for you?"
Amy choked back another sob, tearing her eyes away from Mort to glimpse the macabre sight just behind him. Ted, her Ted, was slumped against the wall, a bullet hole drilled neatly into his forehead, with total precision; however, the mess behind his head, a lurid artist's palette of crimsons and grays streaked across the pristine tan walls, well, there was nothing neat or precise about that.
"You should have heard him, Amy. If I had a dollar for every time he said 'I'm sorry' in those five minutes I allowed him to live after I walked in the front door, I'd never have to write again. He got on his goddamn knees and begged me not to hurt you. And he cried like a baby when he begged me to allow him to live, so he could…" Mort's triumphant expression suddenly vanished, "…see his child." His gaze trailed down from Amy's face, down to her abdomen. Her stomach had always been flat as a board, but as of late, it was beginning to sport a slight bulge, a rounder appearance.
"Mort, I…" She began, clasping her hands tightly in front of her, as though she were praying to him, "W-we didn't want to tell you…we knew how upset you'd…"
"Upset?" Mort asked, his eyebrow raising. He sighed in resentment, terribly annoyed with her choice of words. "Do you think if I was merely upset, I would have blown his dumb fucking brains out the moment he told me?" He relished at her sudden scowl, the utter look of hatred and defenselessness. "Do you think if I were merely upset, I would do…this?"
Without warning, he leapt at her, closing out the space between them. She had but precious seconds to react; Mort was too fast for her, and too strong. He slammed her against the foyer wall, gun still in hand, his other hand putting an iron grip on her shoulder. Amy stared up at him breathlessly, soft but angry whimpers emerging from her lips.
"Do you think…if I was merely…upset…" Mort continued his rhetorical interrogation, placing the icy barrel of his pistol against her stomach. "…I would make damn sure that you don't become a mother?"
But suddenly, Amy's trembling ceased, as did her whimpers, and she grew calm, the calmest she had been since she saw him standing over Ted's corpse. "Mort…" she whispered.
He blinked at her, completely thrown off by her unexpected sereneness. It was then that he realized the way in which he was pressed against her, so tightly he could feel her heart beating beneath her cotton shirt. And he saw that her lips were no more than a kiss-inch away. "What is it, Amy?"
She stared into his eyes, speaking firmly, "You don't understand, Mort. No matter what you do or who you kill…I will never be yours. I will never love you the way you love me."
All nightmares have their moments when the situation gets too intense to bear, and consciousness comes to the rescue to awake the terrified dreamer.
Mort's nightmare had reached that moment.
He sat straight up on the couch, aching all over from his adrenaline pumping too quickly. An involuntary shudder rippled through him, and he was dimly aware of the sweat trickling down his forehead. Within a few seconds of waking, it dawned on him that the last few hours had been nothing but a deluded fantasy. And he wasn't quite sure how to feel about that. Grabbing for his glasses on the table next to him, he slipped them on and peered through the rather dirty lenses at his wristwatch.
9:27 AM.
Part of him just wanted to lay back down again, curl up into a fetal position, and drift off into another dream, but the fear of re-entering into the nightmare he had just successfully evaded was greater than his drowsiness. Mort swung his legs over the side of the couch, his bare feet grazing the cold hardwood floor before finding their way into his house slippers. He ventured into the kitchen to find Layla sitting at the table, reading intently from a nondescript novel. A pie sat baking in the oven.
"Pie for breakfast?" Mort asked, scratching the back of his head and stumbling over to the fridge.
Layla looked up from her book, a smile playing on her lips to see him with his hair so disheveled. "Any time of day is a good time for pie."
"You're the expert, darling…" he shrugged, taking out his usual can of Mountain Dew. He placed it against his still-perspiring forehead, the metal cooling him down. After holding it there a moment, he cleaned the top of the can with the edge of his bathrobe sleeve, before popping the top and taking a long sip.
"By the way…" Layla mentioned, her tone suddenly tenebrous. Her eyes darted to the upper-right-hand corner of her novel, memorizing the page number, before she closed it and set it on the table. "She called this morning."
"Who?" Mort asked, in such a way that he knew exactly who 'she' was.
Layla sighed, taking a sip from her glass of lemonade; definitely not the kind you buy in a powdered mix, but made from scratch. "It was about eight o'clock this morning. I was surprised the ring didn't wake you, but you seemed to be pretty preoccupied with whatever dream you were having. I didn't want to wake you, especially not to talk to her."
He glanced to Layla, pausing from his searching the fridge for lunchmeats. "What I was having could hardly be construed as a dream. But I think I'd prefer even that than talking to her. You made the right decision." Then, trying not to sound too curious, "What did she say?"
"Honestly? Not much of anything. She just wanted to know how you were. Checking up on things, as usual." Layla glared down at the table, crossing her arms over her chest. "You know, she acts more like she's your mother than your ex-wife. As though you can't take care of yourself. Fucking insulting, really."
"Yeah, no kidding. It's some kind of mind trick she's pulling, making me think that I'm useless without her to hold my hand," Mort muttered darkly, snatching up the bread from the pantry and lining up his sandwich ingredients on the kitchen counter. He grabbed a knife forcibly out of the silverware drawer. "She doesn't realize how much more it would benefit me if she didn't call at all."
Layla nodded slowly, running her fingernails over the raised letters on the cover of her novel. "Or, going a step further to benefit you, maybe if she just…dropped off the face of the earth…her and Ted…"
Mort couldn't help smiling at the idea, but the more he thought about it, his smile shifted into a broad grin. "Not to mention Fr—"
He was cut off by the phone ringing, causing his grin to vanish as though it had never been there in the first place. He already knew who it was.
"I'll answer it for you again, if you want," Layla offered, looking up at Mort, her expression of disgust mirrored in his own face.
He sighed, turning back to his sandwich making. Sadly, he lay a few slices of ham over the bread, though he no longer knew why he was making a meal for himself. News of Amy always resulted in a loss of appetite. "Yeah…sure…"
Layla nodded, rising from her chair. When she reached the doorway to the living room, she stopped and turned, the phone still ringing maniacally. "Any messages you want me to give her?"
Mort didn't answer at first, continuing to make his sandwich. To open the new jar of mayonnaise, he practically bayoneted the knife through the seal. Seeing out of the corner of his eye that Layla was still waiting expectantly, he sighed and finally said, "Whatever's on your mind, you tell her."
At this, she strolled into the living room, plopped down on the couch, and plucked the receiver from the hook. "Hello?" she said, not entirely without smugness.
"Sweetpea?" an almost timid, masculine voice answered.
Layla sharply drew in a breath, her grip on the receiver tightening. Her gaze suddenly looked even more tortured than usual. This was definitely not Amy.
"Layla? Are you there?"
"Yes, I'm here. Hello, Frank," she said, subdued. Mort quickly looked up at the mention of his cousin's ex-husband, turning over his shoulder, even though from where he was standing, he couldn't see into the living room.
"Hey. So…what's up? How are you doing?"
Layla rested her free hand on her knee, but it soon enough began curling into a fist on its own accord. He was being so casual. He had the nerve to ask her how life was. "Excuse me?" she responded, eyes narrowing. "How am I doing?"
"Yes. I'd like to know how you've been. Is that too much to ask?"
"Un-fucking-believable…" Layla muttered.
"What?"
"How the hell did you find out where I was?"
"It doesn't matter, okay? I just asked around."
"You were never supposed to know." Layla dug her fingernails into the skin on her palm.
"It's not like I'm going to stalk you or anything. Excuse the hell outta me for being concerned about--"
"Peachy keen. That's how I am. And how are you?"
She could hear him sigh on the other end, irritated by her automatic hostility. "Fine. We're just fine, Layla."
"I don't believe I asked about the slut," she snarled.
For the first time, Frank sounded angry, "Hey now, I told you not to call her that."
"Well you know me, I calls 'em as I sees 'em."
Interested, Mort ventured into the living room, standing just behind the couch. He knew Layla could carry her own; she had quite a mouth on her when one got her agitated. But if she wanted, he would bestow a few nasty words of his own on Frank.
"Layla, look. I was hoping we could have a reasonable conversation, but apparently, you're not capable of that."
"I'm not about to waste politeness on you."
"Just hear me out for a second, alright?"
"Fine. Talk."
"Okay. Please don't start hollerin' about this, but I just wanted you to know that Natalie and I…well, we're planning on getting married. In a few months."
At that moment, it seemed as though all of Layla's senses, even auditory, seemed to no longer function. She was only dimly aware of her stomach dropping out from under her, the color draining from her cheeks and even her florid lips, the sudden feeling that she was going to vomit, the blood that had just began to trickle from where her nails were digging into her palms. She probably would have fainted had Mort not suddenly touched her shoulder, having noticed her bleeding hand. She jumped a little, dropping the phone into her lap, and stared up at him. Mort, knowing that something deafening had just occurred, gaped at her worridly. 'What is it?' he mouthed, but Layla shooed him away, refusing to tell him anything. He looked at her a moment more before walking back into the kitchen. And all the while, Frank was shouting on the other end, "Layla? Hello?! Are you there?"
She brought the phone up to her ear again, watching Mort head off. "Barely," she managed to respond. It seemed as though it was someone else possessing her, doing the talking, so she wouldn't have to deal with this massive emotional blow.
Now, Frank sounded almost sympathetic. "I know. It was a shock for me too. Funny thing is, she asked me. But—"
"Is there a point? Or does this even have anything to do with me?"
Sounds and sensations slowly began returning to her. The horrible feeling in her stomach hit her full force. She opened up her right hand, uncurling the fist, and stared dumbly at the four small but deep scratches in her palm, at the blood and bits of skin beneath her fingernails.
"Well, Layla, I wanted to let you know that you're invited to the wedding."
Now she was sure she was going to vomit. "You wanted to—"
"Please understand. Just because I don't love you anymore doesn't mean that I don't care about you. Please don't just walk out of my life. I want to at least salvage a friendship. That's all that I want." Lying bastard. Giving her hope like that.
Layla closed her eyes a moment, bowing her head. This couldn't be happening. It was another of her perverse dreams, it had to be. "You want me to be at your wedding, so you can throw it all in my face."
"No, that's not why I invited you. You've got it all wrong. I want—"
"Well Frank…it's not always about what you want. What about what I want?"
"What do you want, Layla? Anything, just tell me." Even Layla would admit how good of an actor he was. Pretending that he cared about her feelings when at the same time, his intent was to publicly humiliate her even more than he already had.
"What do I want?" Suddenly, she began to laugh. Hysterical, demented giggles that she couldn't stop or control even if she wanted to. Stranger still were the words that came to her, everything she had wanted to say to him ever since it happened. "Frank, if I never saw you again, it would be soon enough. I really doubt we should ever be in the same place at the same time. I have enough trouble resisting the urge to drive back down to your house and rip out your fucking throat. I mean, did you really expect me to consider staying in your life? I wasted so much time on you, time that I can never get back, ever again. Even when I married you, I knew what a coward you were. The way you wouldn't even defend me when you heard someone gossiping about me. You didn't even have the balls to tell me you wanted out before you went behind my back…"
"Now wait a minute. Do you think that's what our whole marriage was? A waste?"
"I wouldn't say it if I didn't fucking mean it. Thank God we didn't have any children, I'd hate to think how betrayed, how hurt they would feel by what you've done. And I know they'd be beyond ashamed to call you their father."
Mort hurried back into the living room, carrying a wet cloth. As she went on with her tirade, he gently took her wounded hand and pressed the cloth into it.
"And as much as I hate your little whore, I can't help but pity her. I hope she sees before it's too late what she's gotten herself into, but if she doesn't, hell, it won't be the first life you've ruined."
"Um, Layla," Mort murmured, trying to keep his voice low. He really didn't want to interrupt her. It sounded like she was on a roll. But he didn't want the cabin to burn down either. "Um, it's…um…your pie…it's…"
Layla pulled the phone away from her ear, far more concerned with what Mort was trying to tell her than Frank. "What? What about my pie?"
"It's burning…I think…"
Growling in anguish, Layla pulled the phone back to her ear again. "Just when I thought you couldn't make yourself into any more of a prick! You made me burn my fucking pie!"
"What?!" Frank screeched.
Layla threw down the receiver, hopping up from the couch with her wounded hand stretched out in front of her, warm crimson-tinged water dripping from it, and scampered into the kitchen. However, she had missed placing the receiver on the hook, which Mort did for her, silencing Frank's confused babblings on the other end, before following her into the kitchen.
Layla threw open the oven door, pulling out the overcooked pie with the hand covered by the cloth. Under any other circumstances, it would've been a very attractive pie indeed. Now, the pastry crust was a dark shade of brown and the blueberries inside resembled a tarry sort of substance. It was completely inedible, beyond saving. She violently snatched the pie pan up again, dumping the burnt remnants of the pie into the trashcan.
"Layla…" Mort began, unable to deny that he was frightened of her intense behavior. "What exactly did he say to you, to set you off like this?"
"If it was any of your goddamn business, you'd know by now," she barked, refusing to look at him as she dropped the pie pan into the sink. Storming past him, she marched to her room, still soothing her wounded palm with the cloth, and slammed the door behind her.
Mort just stood there a moment, giving his jaw a crack, knowing that in her own time, she would come out and be ready to talk. She just needed some time to cry. Maybe break a few things. But she would be all right, just like she always was. He hoped.
Looking to the food he had left sitting out, the half-made sandwich, he decided to put it all away. Food was the last thing he needed.
There was nothing to do now but return to the couch in shame…degradation…sloth.