On his first night in his new home, Lincoln woke promptly at 3am to the sound of screaming. Heart in throat, he sat bolt upright, and Lucy, sitting up next to him and reading by the flickering light of a Coleman lantern looked at him. "What was that?"
"What was what?" she asked.
Lincoln swallowed around a lump. His heart was back where it belonged but knocked painfully into his ribs and cold sweat slathered his bare chest. "T-That screaming," he said. Even now he could hear it lingering in his head, a high, mournful sound like the cry of a banshee across the midnight still of a misty Irish moor. He darted his gaze around the shadowy living room but didn't see anything.
"No one screamed," she said and closed her book. A buff man with long, flowing hair graced the cover, holding a big breasted blonde at a dip while a city burned in the background. Lincoln could only see part of the title:
ERATE
SIRE
He looked into Lucy's eyes, confused. "Are you sure?"
"Yes," she said, "I'm sure. You were dreaming."
Turning away and looking down into his lap, Lincoln furrowed his brows in consternation. He could have sworn someone screamed - it quivered against his eardrums still, resounding through the chambers of his skull like an unpleasant odor long after the source has been thrown away. Chuckling, he shook his head and rubbed his grainy eyes with the heels of his palms. He didn't have dreams that realistic very often, but when he did they always left him feeling shaky and out of sorts, as though something otherworldly brushed past him in the dark and he didn't realize it until his mind cleared.
Instinctively, his hand crept to the cross hanging from his neck and traced its outline, his thumb stroking Christ's head. In moments such as these, most men have at least the comfort of believing that the supernatural does not exist. He did not. Twice in his life, he was forced to stare it in the face, and ever since the last time, he had been waiting for it to find him again. He was not afraid, nor did he constantly look over his shoulder, but he knew always, in the back of his mind, that there was a chance that sooner or later, something would happen, the way a normal man knows that there is a chance his house will be robbed.
What bothered him was not knowing what exactly was out there. Vampires existed, he knew, and so did demons...or whatever The Man With No Name was. Were there other creatures too? Were all of the nightmare bedtime stories true? That mean ghouls, ghosts, the living dead, witches, sea monsters, Bigfoot, and aliens all stalked the night, jostling for position and for the privilege to cause havoc. It stood to reason that they must exist, but he'd never met any that he knew of, so he could not say, and that weighed heavy upon him if he let it.
Which is why he didn't let it.
Lucy touched his back, her hand cool and dry like old parchment, and he glanced at her. In the throbbing glow of the lantern, her face was pooled with shadows, her lips a neutral line but her dark eyes soft with concern. "You wanna talk about it?" she asked.
He thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, it was just….a scream. I wasn't having a nightmare that I can remember." He rolled his neck and winced; twenty years ago, sleeping on the floor didn't bother him, but now, from all the aches and pains flaring into life through his body, it did.
"I had a dream like that last week," Lucy said. "I heard a dog barking."
Lincoln scrunched his brows and studied her face for signs of deceit. Every so often, she suggested they get a dog - was she dropping a hint or being serious?
Her little grin told him it was the former. Lincoln didn't mind dogs, or cats either for that matter, but he did mind having one shoved up in a tiny apartment. An animal, like a person, needs space and room to move.
Which...they now had.
"You want a dog?" he asked pointedly.
Lucy nodded. "Yes," she said, "I do want a dog."
"Alright," he said and stretched out, the muscles in his back popping, "we'll get a dog."
Leaning over, Lucy shut off the lantern and plunged the room into darkness. She laid down and nestled herself against Lincoln's body, her butt pressing against his crotch and her clean smelling black hair fluttering across his nose. He laid his arm in the curve of her hip, slid his other arm between her and the mattress, and laced his hands over her stomach. She reached behind and moved her hair away from his face, expose the slope of her neck. "Good?" she asked. They had been together so long that they had cuddling, like everything else, down to a science.
"Yes," he said and kissed her neck.
She shivered and let out a firm little giggle that echoed in the vast, unfurnished space. "That tickles," she said.
"I know," Lincoln replied. He hugged her tight and took a deep breath through his nose, her scent filling his nostrils like perfume. For a while, neither of them spoke, both basking in the low, warm glow of their shared intimacy. They had been together as man and woman for nearly thirty years, since he was eleven and she was eight, and snuggling felt as good now, both physically and emotionally, as it did in the beginning. During the day, he found himself unable to keep from touching her, squeezing her shoulders as she stood at the stove, ghosting his hand over her hip as he passed behind, patting her butt as they walked beside each other in public, holding her hand, kissing the top of her head over the back of the couch, rubbing her feet when they sat together in the evening, and playing with her hair in bed, soothing her to sleep and then himself. Everyone who knew they said they were "cute" because of their open affection and obvious love. Lugosi called them "embarrassing." He was joking, though...at least part of the way. He didn't mind walking beside them when they held hands, but if they got too touchy, or giggly, his step invariably slowed or quickened.
Yeah, that's a little too much for me, he said once, and Lincoln laughed. You'll do the same thing, he told his son. Your kids will roll their eyes and pretend they don't know you.
Lugosi nodded. Yeah, probably. Then he grinned. But it's okay when I do it.
What could he say? His love for Lucy did not diminish with the years, as love is sometimes wont to do; it increased, spreading out from his heart and into all of his organs and bone marrow, like the sweetest cancer. She was the sunshine of his life and the most important thing in the world to him behind only their son - in fact, they were all he had. Their parents virtually disowned them after they found out about their relationship and their sisters became cold and distant. They genuinely tried, he believed, to accept their union, but none truly could. When he and Lucy saw them now, they were congenial but in a detached sort of way, as though they were not their brother and sister but friends instead...friends whose lifestyle they did not agree with.
For nearly two decades, it had been Lincoln and Lucy on their own. She was twenty-one when she gave birth to Lugosi, and from there, it was the three of them, a tiny but close-knit family content and happy with itself. Their life was not perfect: Sometimes Lincoln and Lucy argued, and though Lugosi was a good boy, he occasionally needed a grounding; every once in a while, he ran his mouth and talked back. That's life, though. Some days are sunny, and some are rainy. Nothing is perfect, no one is perfect, but Lincoln loved his life, and though they could use a little more money and a newer car, he could never imagine, would never imagine, having any other but his own.
He kissed Lucy's neck again. "What what of dog do you want?" he asked drowsily.
"I'm not sure," she replied, her voice clear and low like always. She laid her hand on his and rubbed his knuckles with her fingertips. "Something big. Something you can play fetch and stuff with and not have to worry about trampling underfoot."
Lincoln knitted his brows in thought. He wasn't very good with dog breeds but he knew a couple. German shepherds, rottweilers, boxers, pitbulls, St. Bernards, greyhounds, uh...that was it as far as larger breeds went. Most of those had a reputation for being vicious, though, and one was known to go rabid and trap people inside sweltering cars.
Oh! Golden retrievers! Those are good dogs. You hear about rots and pits mauling people all the time, but never a golden retriever. He didn't think they were even capable of hurting someone...except by getting excited and jumping on them.
Who was the author Lucy read...the one whose books always include a golden retriever? He couldn't remember, but every time she left one lying around, he picked it up and read the synopsis to see if a golden was part of the plot, and more times than not, it was. "How about a golden retriever?" he asked.
She didn't immediately respond, but he could sense her turning the idea over and over in her head. "I like those," she said finally. "They're naturally gentle, easy to train, and they have an instinctive love of water."
That she knew those things off the top of her head did not surprise him. "Ours would have a blast with the lake," he said.
"He would," Lucy agreed. "They're also really intelligent, which means I can finally have someone to have a decent conversation with when Lugosi isn't around."
That made Lincoln laugh, and the flat, sober way in which she said it made him laugh even harder. "You're funny," he said and hugged her.
"I'm also horny," she stated and rubbed her butt into his crotch. She wore a thin black nightgown through which he could feel the dip of her cleft. His dick twitched against the inseam of his briefs and his heartbeat sped up.
When they were younger, they would sometimes make love three or four times in a night, returning to one another's bodies like drunks to a bottle, hopelessly addiction to the taste and sensation of the other and to the act of joining together as one. Neither could go that often anymore, but sometimes they could manage twice. Earlier, before falling asleep, Lincoln mounted her and held her hand; now, he ran his hand over the bare, creamy flesh of her bent leg, his fingertips lingering and his lips brushing the back of her neck. She sighed and guided his other hand to her tiny breast, her butt grinding lightly against his swelling bulge when she began rubbing her thighs together. He gently squeezed her through the silken fabric of her dress and kneaded his thumb into her stiffening nipple.
She tilted her head back and purred when he kissed the side of her neck, his lips wrapping around her rapidly pounding pulse. Fire filled his depths and his pushed the hem of her dress up, his fingers caressing the V of her sex. She lifted up a little, and he hiked the dress around her hips, then tugged his underwear down enough to free his rigid member. She rolled to face him and cocked her leg over his hip, her hand going to his cheek and their lips urgently fusing. She bent her knee and braced her heel against the back of his leg as he entered her, a moan passing from one mouth to the other. Lincoln slipped his hand under her dress and danced his fingers over her warm skin; finding her breast, he cupped it in his palm and made firm circles against her nipple with his thumb. Their tongues danced slowly at first, then more quickly as their passion crested; Lincoln released her breast, held her hip, and went faster, his breathing ragged and his heart blasting, each stroke into her boiling core bringing him closer to orgasm.
When the end came, he gave one final thrust and moaned into Lucy's mouth as his climax rushed out and filled her center with thick, liquid fire. Lucy curled her fingers into his chest and rocked her hips, her walls closing around his shaft and sucking out every last drop, a muted tremor going through her as her own orgasm waxed and waned like the cycle of the moon. She broke her lips from his and held his head to breast, the reassuring sound of her living heartbeat filling his head and the feverish tremble of her cumming body drawing one last squirt from his deflating balls.
They lay in a sweaty tangle of limbs a while before Lucy spoke, her voice even and measured. "I love you, Lincoln," she said.
"I love you too," Lincoln replied and wove his fingers through hers.
Like that, they fell asleep.
Saturday morning, Lugosi woke in a fall of bright autumn sunshine, his eyelids rippling against the blinding light and finally creaking open. He looked toward the window in confusion. Why was it so -?
There were no curtains.
His confusion deepened. What happened to my curtains?
Then it dawned on him. They were in the moving truck, and he was no longer in his old room but his new room at the Lutz Drive house.
Oh. Okay.
He rubbed his temple with the flat of his palm and sat up with a protracted yawn. Next, he massaged his stiff neck and rolled his head; vertigo overcame him and he held up his hand to steady himself. Like his mother, he was a natural early bird, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed while other people dragged their shattered carcasses to the coffee pot like zombies, but right now he felt like Dad did in the mornings: Drooping and barely alive. He scratched his head and tried to remember what time he went to bed. It wasn't very late. Eleven? Midnight, maybe? He didn't fall instantly asleep, though, the wind kept him awake. Not the wind itself, really, but the low, hissing noise it made in the eaves that sounded uncomfortably like whispering. At one point he could have sworn it was whispering...and that it was saying the house is haunted, the house is haunted, the house is haunted. To be fair, though, at another it sounded like tacos are good. Hey, man, I can agree with that one, not so much the haunted stuff.
Clearly, both times he was just hearing what his mind wanted him to. The human brain is a complex thing, and one of the many things it's trained to do is make order out of chaos. It sees patterns and meaning where there are none - it hears voices in white noise and discerns faces in chicken scratch.
In other words, your brain's kind of a liar.. A well-intentioned liar, but a liar nonetheless.
Either way, he felt kind of dumb now in the daylight - first the thing about Zelda from Pet Sematary then the whispers. Real mature, huh?
First day jitters, he told himself, that was all.
Getting up, he stretched and rubbed the back of his neck, then went out into the shadow-wrapped hallway. Voices drifted up the backstairs, telling him his parents were awake. What time was it, anyway? His internal clock said nine, so it was probably close to that, but sometimes his internal clock was wrong, so...there's that.
He crossed the hall, went into the bathroom, and shut the door behind him. At the toilet, he pulled himself free of his basketball shorts, peed, then flushed. In his room, he grabbed his toothbrush and toothpaste, went back into the bathroom, and hurriedly brushed - Dad would want to get started on unpacking soon. He favored his reflection in the grimey mirror, his features sharp but not unpleasant. He didn't think of himself as handsome, but his mom told him he was all the time, so it had to be true, right? He saw himself being turned down for a date and getting all pissy about it. Well, I'm my mom's type. How would the girl react to that? Probably with disgusted disbelief. Then the next day he comes back with a snotty tone, my mom says you have to date me, so there.
That'd be the funniest thing ever. He kind of wanted to do it now, but he probably wouldn't. He didn't want people thinking he was weird or anything.
Done, he spat, rinsed out the sink, and left his brush and 'paste on the counter. In his room, he took his clothes out of his bag and dressed - blue jeans, black T-shirt, and a red and black flannel shirt. He pulled his hair back in a ponytail then stepped into his shoes. He wasn't trying to look like Kurt Cobain, but as he passed the bathroom and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he realized that that's exactly who he looked like. Maybe he should take the flannel off.
Nah, it looked pretty cold outside. Oh well, there were worse things to look like. Like the singer from Green Day. They had good music but they all looked like grown men copying teenage emos, sitting at the food court across from Hot Topic and wishing they didn't have to stay 1000 feet from kids. Society doesn't understand me, man. Actually, man, society does, that's why you're on a list.
At the bottom, the voices were louder, their timbre rising as if in argument. Uh-oh, Mom and Dad are disagreeing again. Better step in before they beat each other up. He went through the door, and they ceased like throwing a switch.
The sun washed kitchen was empty and silence held sway.
He faltered. Uh...okay, I know I heard them talking. He looked around but didn't see anyone; the place felt empty. "Hello?" he called, his voice echoing.
No reply.
Confused and tensing, he closed the door and went into the dining room, whipping his gaze this way and that but finding only empty house. At the window, he spotted them walking along the shore of the lake, the wind fluttering through their hair and their hands clasped...or maybe they weren't, Lugosi couldn't tell, he kinda needed glasses. He could see well enough to know that that was indeed them.
Was someone else here?
The back of his neck prickled and he turned away from the glass, his hands balling defensively. Neither Mom or Dad had close friends and none of his aunts or cousins ever came over (the incest thing...which, admittedly, he didn't take too well either when he found out). The left one eventuality. The place was crawling with burglars.
He furrowed his brows. The dining room and living room 2: return of the living room were largely open to each other, separated by a wide archway. Light spilled through the bay windows and gleamed dully on the dusty covered floor. Since the house was still barren of furniture, there was nothing a burglar could hide behind. Plus, if someone had robbery on their mind, they picked the wrong house. Literally. There was nothing to steal. Except for copper pipes, probably. There was the moving truck.
Steeling himself for a fight, he went into living room 2 and crossed to the window. The truck stood where he and Dad left it, the back door firmly closed. He didn't see any other cars and certainly no people.
Hm. He did a circuit of the first floor but didn't find anything out of place. He made it back to the kitchen just as Mom and Dad came in from outside, their faces red with wind burn and their hands still clasped together. "Hey," Dad greeted and shut the door, "you're up."
Lugosi threw a glance over his shoulder to make certain no one was behind him (they weren't). "Yeah, I'm up," he said.
Dad sensed something was off. "You alright?"
No, he wasn't. He could ascribe a lot to his brain being a drama queen over moving, but not distinctly hearing voice. If it was one, maybe, but he knew for sure that he heard two, one deeper and the other higher - a man and woman. He went back to the whispering eaves and the sensation of being surrounded by a presence in the hall even though those had nothing to do with now. One was the wind and the other was him scaring himself with thoughts of a dumb horror movie character. Those were easily explainable, but not this. Those voices were just on the other side of the door, yet when he came through, they vanished. Sudden as that. They didn't dwindle as though the speakers were walking away, they cut sharply out.
The only conclusion he could logically reach was that he was hearing things, and from everything he'd read on mental illness, hearing voices was a very bad sign. It starts small, then next thing you know, you're being barraged with taunts, insults, and orders to kill.
Something cold and slimy uncoiled in the pit of his stomach and he felt like he was going to be sick.
Dad watched him with worry, Mom too. Did he look crazy? Was there sickness in his eyes? There often is, you know. When someone's schizophrenic, you can see it as surely as you can see when someone has AIDS, a sort of wide, fevered intensity that stirs disquiet in your stomach if you look too long.
He remembered his reflection in the mirror. He thought he looked normal, but the mentally ill never doubt or question their own wellness. Which, come to think of it, must mean that he wasn't sick, or else he wouldn't be having these misgivings.
Buuuut…
...he was convincing himself that he was well which brought him back to thinking he was normal when, in fact, he might not be.
Now he was confused and unnerved. "Nah, I'm fine," he said, and blurted out the first lie that came to mind, "I just thought I heard something in the wall. Probably a mouse."
Dad bought it. Whew. "There probably are mice in the walls," he said. "We gotta go into town anyway so we can get some poison at the hardware store."
"Sounds good," Lugosi said and fought the urge to look over his shoulder again.
"We need to unpack the truck first." He gazed his fingers over Mom's arm as she passed, going somewhere to do something, then put his hands on his hips. "There's leftover pizza if you're hungry. We can go out when you're done."
Well, Lugosi was hungry but now his appetite was flatlined. "I'm good," he said, "we can get started now."
For the rest of the morning, he worried over whether or not he was going crazy. At one point, standing on the tailgate and waiting for Dad to hand him a box, he caught a flash of the house in his periphery and tensed. I don't like the way you're looking at me, he thought in jest, but his attempt at humor fell flat when he realized that he really did feel like it was looking at him, watching, scrutinizing...hating.
That was ridiculous...something a crazy person would think.
"Lugosi."
Dad held out a box. "Gathering wool?" he asked.
"Yeah," Lugosi said and flashed a wan, tight-lipped smile, "just, uh, thinking about how good the house is gonna look after we fix it up."
Dad came out onto the tailgate, grabbed the metal handhold flanking the door, and leaned over the side, his eyes drinking in the facade of his new home. A grin touched the corners of his lips and he nodded as if in appreciation. "It's gonna be beautiful," he said with a metaphorical tear in his eye, and an instant before he continued, Lugosi winced because he knew exactly what he was going to say: "Just like your mother."
And there we have it, your awkward quote of the day brought to you by the letter 'D' for Dad, who's full of 'em. He shook his head, and Dad shrugged. "She is," he said.
"Maybe to you," Lugosi said, "to me she looks like...Mom."
His parents being lovey-dovey didn't bother him (much) but when he looked at them, he honestly didn't see beauty...or ugliness, for that matter. He saw his mother and father, and like most people, he sort of put his parents in a class of their own...above it all. He knew intellectually that Dad was a normal dude who got hard, and that Mom was a normal woman and...shiver. Why was he even thinking about this?
Because it's better than thinking about what a nutcase you are.
Well, see, actually…
Shut up, Skitz. Don't you have a president to shoot in a vain attempt to impress Jodie Foster?
Ew, no, she's, like, eighty. Plus…
"That's how she's supposed to look," Dad said and clapped his shoulder.
Shoving all thoughts of insanity and Jodie Foster aside, he carried the box inside, stopping just inside the door to read the marker scrawled along the side. KITCHEN.
Why was the atmosphere so leaden? Every time he crossed the threshold, the difference was like night and day. Outside it was light and airy, in here it was heavy and stagnant like...like...he had nothing. The first word that came to mind was void, but he wasn't sure if that quite fit. His mother was good with words (his father too, come to think of it), he, sadly, was not. Void suggested a total absence...absence of light, sound, time, and air...so he'd go with it. Walking into 122 Lutz Drive was like walking into a void.
Man, you really don't like this house, huh?
He had no choice but to say that he didn't. He couldn't say why, so he would stick with the whole resenting the move from my childhood home thing. Maybe the voices were part of that...maybe his brain was pulling out all the stops to fool him into thinking he hated the house for non-petty reasons. Dude, this place is haunted as fuck. Beg Mom and Dad to take us back to the apartment.
Yeah, that had to be it. He wasn't crazy, just a whiny teenager.
Whew.
Deep down he didn't know if he believed that or not, but he latched on anyway, like a drowning man onto a life preserver.
Feeling a little better, he took the box into the kitchen and sat it on the counter. More were arrayed across the floor, some empty and others half filled. Mom stood on her tippy toes and sat a stack of plates in a cabinet.
She was humming.
That was a little odd. Despite her flat personality - which Lugosi had tried and failed to analyze from afar - she wasn't a walking corpse. She laughed, smiled, and even sang, she just had a higher happy threshold than most people. Some people handle pain really well, others don't. Some people do a little happy dance every time something good happens, and some only smile when the heavens part and God Himself comes down with one of those big checks the Publisher's Clearing House hands out. Lucy Loud, you have just won a bajillion dollars. How do you feel?
*Tiny smile*
See how happy this house makes them, brain? And you really wanna be a snot about it? Really? That apartment sucked anyway. It didn't even have a lake, you know what does? This place. Look, see it out the window? It's gonna be lit this summer. Just you wait.
His brain didn't respond, which was encouraging.
Mom turned, went over to one of the boxes, and took out stack of cups. At the counter, she stood on her tippy toes again, then flat on her feet when she realized she couldn't reach.. "Can you put these away, please?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said and took them. He sat them on the top shelf and stepped away, his arms crossing thoughtfully over his chest. "How are you going to reach these when you want to get a drink?" he asked and gestured to the cabinet.
She tilted her head back to look up at him. "I'm not. You are."
Lugosi chuckled. "Raise my allowance and we'll talk."
"I'll ask your father," she said.
As if on cue, Dad came in with a box in his arms. "Ask his father what?"
"To raise his allowance."
Dad sat the box on the counter, leaned against it, and looked at him. Lugosi flashed a toothy smile. He wasn't serious when said it, but if Dad wanted to give him more money every week, awesome. "Raise it?" Dad asked incredulously, and Lugosi's smile fell. "He doesn't do anything. I should take it away entirely."
"That is not true," Lugosi said and pointed at his father, "I do my chores and then some. I cooked dinner three times last week." Granted, it was frozen pizza, Hungry Mans (Men?), and Kraft macaroni and cheese because he wasn't a very good cook, but still, he fed the family when he didn't have to. That deserves recognition at least.
Dad cocked his head and listened, then nodded. "Yeah. Okay, you want a raise?"
"Sure," Lugosi said, "but I was joking with Mom. More money's cool but whatever."
"I'll bump you up two dollars if you help with fixing the house up."
Lugosi opened his mouth to say that he was obviously going to help anyway, but stopped. That might sink his chances of getting this increase. Oh, you were going to? Well...nevermind. Best to play it cool. "Okay," he said at length, trying to sound as though it were a tall order but not too tall for a reluctant but dedicated son like him. "I can do that."
Dad regarded him with a knowing light in his eye, like he figured he was going to help out and just wanted to mess with him. "Alright. Now help me finish unloading this truck. I wanna bring the dining room table in next."
"Let's do it."
It took almost two hours, but do it they did. The living room and kitchen were both littered with boxes and pieces of furniture sitting crooked and askace, left where they were dropped, and there were three fresh scratches in the wallpaper along the stairs because getting the mattresses up took grunting, sweating, straining, and violence...so, so much violence. Lugosi couldn't remember the last time his father used the word 'fuck' but during the epic battle to get his and Mom's queen up without snapping the railing off, he used a good five variations of it. He even called the treads a fucking fuck. Whoa, pops, 3edgy5me. Watch yourself on that edge, my friend. Don't cut your tongue on those envelope pushing oathes. "You guys practically sleep on top of each other," Lugosi grunted at one point; his bent back, arms, and legs were all quivering and he had to turn his head to the side to keep from getting a face full of mattress. "Why do you need such a big bed?"
"Because sometimes we get wild," Dad blurted.
Lugosi dropped his end of the mattress and puked in his mouth just a little.
When they were done, Lugosi brought his bed frame to his room in pieces and assembled it while he waited for Dad to put his together. Afterwards, he and Dad drove the U-Haul back to the rental agency while Mom followed in the car. Next, they went to Home Depot in Chippewa Falls, where Lugois poked around, bored out of his mind, while Mom and Dad moved up and down each aisle at the speed of middle age. He used part of the time to further reassure himself that he didn't really hear voices that morning and that his brain was just being a giant crybaby. That took a while, but nowhere near long enough, and he wound up absentmindedly flipping through carpet samples in a binder. Hmmm, that shag piece felt pretty nice. Stealing a quick look around, he lifted the book and rubbed it against his cheek, his eyes closing and a dreamy smile touching his lips. Oooh, that's nice. Maybe he should try to get Dad to buy him some for his room. Screw hardwood floors, this is where it was at.
He opened his eyes and faltered. An older woman with frizzy red hair and fat rolls glared at him from behind her cart. Uh-oh. He flashed a castigated smile. "I really like this carpet."
She took a deep breath through flaring nostrils and stalked off, one wheel wobbling indignantly. Well, that was mildly embarrassing. Thank God it wasn't a hot girl, he might have blushed a little.
Done feeling up the free samples, he went off in search of his parents and found them literally three feet from where he left the twenty minutes before. He threw his head back and groaned. He didn't mean to be childish, but come, Home Depot sucks unless you're into building and remodelling. That's literally the only stuff they have. Boards, saws, bathrooms, and boredom.
Before he could slink away with his tail between this legs (that old greeter looks pretty cool...maybe he has some interesting stories about Operation: Iraqi Freedom), Dad looked up and caught him. "Come here."
Hoping Dad was going to give him money to go somewhere else for a while (is there an arcade around here or something?) he went over and stood next to Mom, who closely studied two different types of lightbulb. "What's up?"
"What color do you wanna paint your room?" Dad asked. "Or do you want wallpaper?"
Now there was a question Lugosi hadn't considered yet. He wasn't the world's biggest fan of floral print wallpaper, but the house was old and trying to imagine his room with a fresh coat of paint was hard. It's like that saying, when in Rome do as the Romans. Wallpaper in an old house seemed right. "Uhhh...probably wallpaper."
Dad nodded. "Come on. You and I will go see what they have while your mom finishes up here."
"Alright," Lugosi shrugged. He followed Dad on what turned into a fifteen minute long journey of father-son bonding and self-discovery while looking for the wallpaper guy. "Where is this clown?" Dad asked and put his hands on his hips. They were standing by a pyramid of paint cans across from a line of toilets. Lugosi opened his mouth to reply but trailed off when a very attractive blonde girl about his age passed by. She wore a white tank top and plaid shorts that stopped well above her knees; her eyes were vibrant blue and her hair reminded him of warm spring sunshine. He was so captivated that he almost didn't notice her bulldog of a father waddling along beside her with his massive chest puffed out and his tree-trunk sized arms in an upside down U, fists well away from his body. Guy looked like a gorilla only not as handsome: Bald, red cheeks, pack of Ball Park franks masquerading as a neck.
Like any sixteen year old boy, Lugosi enjoyed looking at pretty girls, but he did not enjoy getting his ass whipped by hot headed overprotective fathers, so he made it a point to turn away. I wasn't looking, mister, honest. It was just as well anyway because the paint guy finally decided to show up and they were off to the races. Twenty minutes later, Lugosi picked out a floral pattern just to move things along, then, when they were done, he carried a few rolls of it back to the cart...which seemed to have moved only a couple feet.
Sigh. He didn't wanna whine, but...are we done yet? The house needs work, but not that much work.
Hanging his head, he pulled a U-Turn and dragged himself back the way he came. Maybe he could find that girl he saw, smack her butt, and get into a knock down, drag out brawl with her father to pass the time. He wouldn't win, but if he was lucky he'd get clocked out and sleep through the rest of the trip. See, this is why teenagers get in trouble: Boredom. He was so :weary emoji: that he was this close from hopping into a cart and surfing it through the store. Cowabunga, man!
Then he'd smash into a display of space heaters or something and go flying like Superman on his way to rescue Lois Lane. Whoa, shit! *CRASH* Hey, they might kick him and his parents out over it, so it'd be a win, right?
He turned down an aisle and jumped back when he came face-to-face with Ramona Santiago. She looked extra grumpy today - thick, bushy brow angled in a V; downcast eyes dark and stormy like night in a Lord Lytton novel; lips turned down in a contemptuous frown that invited everyone who saw it to go fuck themselves and die. She came to a screeching halt, registered just who stood before her...and sneered, her jagged teeth like cannibal fangs specifically crafted to tear throats out and rip off heads. Lugosi's heart sank into his stomach and his spine went rigid.
Ramona Santiago did not scare Lugosi - his mother taught him to respect women and he did, but he'd totally overpower and kick the Hispanic girl's ass if he had to - but she, uh...well, he didn't know exactly what she made him feel. Wary? Yeah, let's go with that. He felt wary around her, like the moment he let his guard down, she'd lean over, extend her jaw in a creepy, snakey fashion, and swallow him whole...or drag him away, spew acidic digestive juices over his quivering body, and then slowly consume him over a period of weeks.
Actually, that was kind of hot.
Not really.
"Watch where you're going," she hissed, then went around him, her hands clenched into fists. A swish of air displaced by her passage washed over him, but instead of smelling her normally ripe odor, or anything else for that matter, he felt something.
Sadness.
Lugosi frowned.
Sometimes, mainly when he was younger but now too occasionally, he got feelings he couldn't explain. Everyone, his mother once told him, emits energy, and a very small percentage of the human population could pick up on that "aura". It was a sort of sixth sense that fell under the wide umbrella term ESP - extrasensory perception, the claimed reception of information not gained through the recognized physical senses, but sensed, rather, with the mind. Basically, psychic stuff. He didn't know if he believed in second sight or the shining, but sometimes his gut inexplicably told him something and more often than not, it was right. Right now, his gut told him that while Ramona Santiago looked mad, she wasn't, she was sad.
He remembered the previous afternoon and his vow to be her friend because everyone needs a friend.
Didn't he say something about it being a suicide mission?
If he didn't, he should have...cuz it probably was.
She was at the end of the aisle and getting away. He had a split second decision to make: Was he going to try and befriend her, or was he going to slink away like a pussy? "Hey," he blurted. She tensed, took a deep breath, and turned around slowly, deliberately, reminding him of a movie slasher or something.
"What?" she asked shortly.
Okay. Now what?
Uh…
He blanked. Where do you start with someone who doesn't like you? Compliment their shoes? Make a self-deprecating joke? (I'm such a fag, you know that?). He had no idea, but the more he basked in her psychic emissions, the more resolved he became.
What should he say, though? "How's it going?" he finally said. He crossed his arms casually over his chest and set his feet far apart - just a guy shooting the breeze with a bud, Tim talking to Wilson over the back fence, free and easy and not chafing because she's looking at me like she wants to strangle me. God, I feel so dumb.
Ramona glared at him and took a deep breath as if to calm her raging annoyance. "It's going fine," he said.
Now that threw Lugosi off a little. He was expecting her to call him a mean name. Hey, this is easier than I thought it would be. "What, uh, brings you here?" he asked.
"I work here," she said, her tone that of a woman dealing with a particularly stupid child. She tapped the orange apron covering her chest and lifted her brows patronizingly. "See?"
Oh. How'd I miss that?
Explains why she didn't cuss me out. She's on the clock.
Rolling right along, Lugosi nodded appreciatively. "That's cool. What department do you work in?"
"Lawn and garden," she said with strained patience,, "do you need help?"
"Well, no, but -"
She turned and walked away, disappearing around an end cap. Lugosi sighed and let his arms drop. Well, that was a step in the right direction. Sure, she fled the first chance she got, but while some people might see the glass as half empty, he saw it as half full; he kind of laid a foundation to build on, so...yay. Hey, Ramona, remember when I ran into you at Home Depot? Good times.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he went off in search of Mom and Dad, and found them a whole two aisles over looking at screws.
They were there another half hour before Dad announced that they had everything they needed. Oh, good, now we can leave. Thank God. Next time I'm staying home.
His stomach rumbled.
And packing a lunch.
After going through checkout, Mom pushed the cart past the automatic doors while Dad went off to pay a quick visit to the men's room. Lugosi followed Mom across the parking lot, his mind faraway. Behind him, something dropped to the ground with a muffled thump, and he glanced over his shoulder to see his old pal Ramona struggling to get a bag of fertilizer onto a handcart, her arms quivering and her face clenched. As he watched, it fell from her grasp and plopped to the pavement. She heaved a frustrated breath, stood, and put her hands on her hips.
Check it out: My time to shine.
He walked over, and Ramona looked up at him. He flashed a big, friendly smile and she rolled her eyes. Not this fag again. His step faltered, but he pressed on. "Hey," he said and nodded to the bag on the ground. "Need some help?"
"No."
Short, sharp, and to the point, like a prison shiv. She bent, grabbed the bag, and strained to lift it; teeth baring, eyes squeezing closed, freckled cheeks turning an alarming shade of fire truck red. With a gasp, she dropped it again and slapped her hand to the small of her back. "Shit," she hissed through her teeth.
Mom taught Lugosi that when a woman said no she meant no, but this was kiiiiind of different; without asking her consent, he stooped, picked up the bag, and laid it on the cart. Ramona glowered at him as he did it, and when he turned to her, she drew an angry breath through flaring nostrils. "I didn't need your help," she said, and he thought he heard a wounded inflection in her voice, as though his helping hurt her pride.
"I know," he said, humoring her, "I wanted to."
Her brow lowered suspiciously. "Are you hitting on me?"
Lugosi sputtered. "N-No," he said quickly and shook his head, "I just...you know...I just...thought you needed help."
"Well I don't," she said. "Especially not from you."
Me?
What's wrong with me?
"I didn't mean to offend - "
Ramona held up her hand and turned away. "Just fuck off. Weirdo."
Lugosi knew when to give up, and right now, he gave up and walked away. Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither would his friendship with Ramona Santiago; at some point, though, they'd be buds and the sadness he sensed in her would be all gone.
Well, maybe not all gone, but having a friend to talk to about your problems helped, and he was pretty sure that she had a whole host of problems.
After Home Depot, he, Mom, and Dad stopped at Red Lobster for lunch. By the time they got home, he felt pretty good...until he saw the house sitting in its spot by the lake; his stomach turned and something like sour distaste went through him.
He ignored it.
And planned to keep doing so until he never felt that way again.
Even if it took forever.