"Trunk"

Here is the start of short story I'm writing that has no ties to any WIP novel. It actually doesn't have any real paranormal events to it! It's my first normal story but as you'll read it's still not very normal at all.

I recently discovered Blossom Dearie, who according to Wikipedia-Blossom Dearie (April 28, 1924 - February 7, 2009 was an American jazz singer and pianist, often performing in the bebop genre and known for her distinctive girlish voice.

I listened to several tracks by her and along with some other random images and thoughts have come up with a short, miserable love story. I'm shooting for it to be no longer than 10K words, and split up into 3 parts, but we'll see how it goes.

I highly suggest you listen to the video while reading. I hope you enjoy!

It started and ended with a girl in a trunk.

He knew she was too stubborn to give into tears. Stubbornness was her forte.

Eleven years ago he didn't even know what forte meant, much less how to use it a constructive sentence. Back then he had been a ragged boy suffering a massive inferiority complex. Uneducated trailer trash with crooked teeth and a hair-trigger temper.

She had saved him, transformed him to someone of surface worth. Even though, or maybe because he had first thrown her in the back of her own trunk.

He squinted. Oncoming headlights made it damned near impossible to stave off the headache he'd been fighting for months.

My head's been hurting ever since I saw her win that costume contest. Queen of Hearts. Skirt up to her ass. Legs out for everybody to see. Sluttish without a bit of shame.

His fingers scraped for the McDonald's cup. He flicked open the lid with one manicured finger. Soda long gone, all that was left were clunky ice cubes. Several filled his mouth before disappearing beneath the pressure of blindingly white, perfect teeth. He wondered if she was thirsty. He hoped so. He hoped she burned with it.

Perhaps it was unfair and even cruel for him to think such.

After all, she hadn't left him. He had left her.

The cup dropped back into its holder with a thud. He had to take a piss. He looked at the clock before checking the mileage. They only had 30 miles to go. A piss would have to wait...but maybe not other things. He glanced at the tiny blue pill taped to his dash.

Maybe tonight I'll take it. After I deal with her.

Agony stabbed his brain again as if it knew relief was so very, very close. He winced, face crumpling like paper. Pain only made you stronger so it was good for you. He had forgotten that during the last two years. Never again would he forget.

Maybe I won't take it after all. She'll probably need it though.

He had hit her in the back of the head damned near hard enough to crack it. Near being the operative word. She was fine or at least she would be after some rest. They both would.

"But I have promises to keep/And miles to go before I sleep."

He liked quoting poetry. It made him feel smart. Worthwhile. She liked listening to him recite. Her smile infectious and pride evident, it had spurred him to learn new verses. He wondered if she was listening now.

Exit 139 disrupted his rendition of Robert Frost. He exited the interstate with signal on and speed appropriately decreasing. It wouldn't do to attract the attention of the Highway Patrol being that his cargo wasn't something he would be able to easily explain. Gruff, derisive laughter filled the confines of the luxury sports car. What was he thinking? He reeked of money and privilege. No one was going to search his trunk.

He never forgot he'd been a delinquent with rap sheet.

He sometimes forgot he was a wildly successful attorney at a small, but thriving firm.

The two-lane highway winded up, deserted and accented with the occasional mirror for blind curves. It reminded him of that other life he'd been cursed to before all this. Before her.

Where would I be if I hadn't taken you that night? Would I be dead by now or would I be rotting in jail?

He first saw her at a Wal-Mart. Elegant and simple would be the words he'd use to describe her appearance now. Then, he just thought she looked like a rich bitch. Pretty didn't enter it. Her pants were clean, shoes and shirt cotton-white. Her dark hair pulled up in a sleek ponytail, made the common look uncommon with nary a hair out of place.

He had followed her from aisle to aisle. When she stopped to look at a shirt, set of dishes, or a bag of chips he had stopped as well. Clumsy. Years later she confided she'd known of his tailing her from the first. It had peaked her interest much like a scruffy dog trailing her down a street would. The comparison suited.

He had been like a dog---kicked, neglected, and beaten daily.

It had enraged him when she had left the store empty-handed. Did she think she was too good to buy the ordinary things poor people like him took pride in? Before he knew it he was walking after her, steps aggressive as if the motor oil coating his boots had seeped into his veins. She stopped at a black sports car for a moment too long. He'd never seen its like before. Panic had set in. Before conscious thought could strangle his intent, he rushed her.

"Open the trunk."

She had looked up at him with painted mouth relaxed and large eyes as dark as his.

"I said open the trunk." He had put a sufficient amount of growl in that order. It had carried the same pitch and tone his father used right before he lashed out with a fist. He'd been sure she'd fall right in line.

Something stronger than fear had made her continue her stare. He had felt it licking across his face like fire. When he asked her about it much later she admitted to being only a little afraid and her fear had nothing to do with him. Even now he still wasn't sure if he was incensed or relieved.

Before he could wrap his fingers around her neck she had sighed with a shrug. "Sure. Why not?"

He had snatched the keys out of her hand when he saw the tiny red button. It wouldn't do for the stupid bitch to sound the alarm. "Which one is it?"

"The one with the picture of an open trunk."

He had scowled at her fiercely, sure she was making fun of him. Instead, she wasn't even looking at him. She had already placed herself at the end of the car. "Hurry. There's no one out but there's cameras."

His neck burned with embarrassment. He hadn't even thought of them.

"I wasn't very smart back then." He said it like a sad curse. It was probably far more accurate to change a verb and drop several words. What he was doing now was complete insanity. He knew it. He knew he was risking his entire life, everything he had worked for, just to go back to something that never should've begun.

Exactly twelve miles passed before he turned off the road. Shrouded with overgrown shrubs and knee-high grass, the pitted drive was easy to miss unless one knew to look for it. There wasn't even a mailbox to give nod to societal integration. Nor would there be one any time soon.

Ashley, his current fiancee, had no idea this 10.33 acre spread existed. He had purchased it, in cash, shortly after she moved all of her feminine belongings into his townhome. Every piece of fabric, furniture, and accessories matched thread for thread in a harmonious palette of ice-blues, antique lace ivory, and goldenrod yellow.

The decor choice seemed to be an interior decorator's homage to her beautiful coloring. It seemed impossible to see the heavy silk drapes, exquisitely embroidered throw pillows, or delicate side tables adorned with photos of his smiling face shoved against hers, and not think of Ashley LaVigne. Sometimes he wondered if the design decisions had been calculated.

Ashley, the epitome of a southern belle, came from a warm and educated family, graduated from Emory University as befitted from two brilliant minds, worshipped at her grandmother's church every Sunday, and apparently loved him more than life. She was also currently employed in the same law firm as himself so the calendar check was a daily event.

But she does it so sweetly. Just to see if I'm open for lunch. Yeah. Right.

Possessive beneath the dripping smiles, Ashley was wildly jealous of any woman, but especially the one in his trunk. Never mind the fact that they both had betrayed her trust and faith three years before by having an affair. Never mind that it seemed Ashley had won the battle over his dubious regard. Ashley never forgot they had both been whores. Their breech of conduct, rarely spoken aloud, plagued his fiancee.

The unacknowledged demons riding her hissed poison tinged with truth. "You cheated on a woman you lived with for eight years. How do I know you won't do the same to me?"

The demons seemed content to possess Ashley. Now, they needed another conscience to ply their venom. Ashley, usually in perfect control of her bountiful emotions, had been a thorn in his side every since Halloween.

Since the night they both watched her take stage in a just another one of a million costume contests.

Ashley had glared at the crimson vision accepting her tiny trophy and cash prize with a wide smile and graceful curtsey. Her manicured nails had dug into his bicep while her pasted smile shredded with insincerity. "Well, isn't she just lovely? Modesty aside, that costume is very pretty. Alice in Wonderland, right? I prefer Shakespeare but Carroll is quite popular for the juvenile at heart..."

Titania had not been happy all night. No one had recognized the origins of her clever costume. Women remarked on its prettiness and men had taken the opportunity to stare at her discreetly augmented breasts. No, Titania had been in a snit and now and she wanted Oberon to rectify the situation immediately with a scathing insult towards the other queen.

Oberon had chosen to do otherwise. It was often said that the best revenge is living well. The Queen of Hearts had been living very well. She radiated happiness and beauty. Where Ashley was fair, she was dark. Where Ashley was tall, she carried a diminutive stature. Crystalline blue gave way to deepest emerald. Ashley, beautiful as she was, quivered with insecurity and fear. The other one didn't.

And never had.

He had refused to let Ashley lead him to her. He wouldn't allow her to use the pretense of hello to inflict damage on the other. He hadn't wanted to see that perhaps there was no wound to reopen. That maybe he had gone way of useless memory, cut off and banished.

Instead, they left the Queen to her court, withholding their brittle silence and murky awakenings.

He used haste when driving over the gravel. Defiant to pings and dents, reckless impatience urged him to hurry. He needed to get to the house. The cold night made him worry about her comfort. As he drew to a stop, he wondered if she would welcome him the same as she had the first time.

Update March 1, 2010

Back then, his twenty-year old self had parked the car under a swaying carport. He had sat there in the dark, fingers curved over the wheel as if the tighter he held it the more likely time would reverse. He hadn't known how to undo what he had done. Stealing, fighting, drugging---those were all crimes he committed and would own up proudly. But this...kidnapping, murder, rape?

His mind still recoiled at what might have happened if she had been any different than what she was. Would he have killed her, dumped her off the mountain in a desperate attempt to hide his idiocy?

Instead, he had looked down at his hands. His large, dirty, rough hands. Hands capable of doing what? He sniffed, not in tears, but at the rich smell of leather. He had wondered how much it cost to drive this car. The back seat was mere formality, much like the rich. Everything for appearance but nothing of practicality.

It was ridiculous. Just like her. Just like him.

He found himself mimicking his actions of a decade before. He hadn't known the make of her car then but now he had the same one, redesigned with power and masculinity in mind. The feline's face looked at him from center steering, mouth yawning ready to devour him for his stupidity.

Ashley hadn't known what to make of it when he had first pulled up in it a month ago. The questions hung on her lips but she swallowed them whole. The fact he had yet to have her in the car was surely catalogued and filed away under, "Things That Have To Affect Me."

Somehow things had gotten away from him.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

The mantra brought dysfunctional comfort. His father had uttered the triple cadence at least fifty times a day from time memorable. Now he had nothing but nice words for his big-shot lawyer son. Now he regaled to one and all how he always knew there was something different about him. How he knew his youngest was going to be something.

It was generally around this time in the pseudo-ruminations that Ashley would draw up, delicate mouth stiff with cordial resentment. She would press her perfect nails into his arm, a sharp reminder to, "Please stop him from mentioning HER in my presence. It's terribly rude and awkward for us all."

His timing had slipped during the last visit.

He remembered sitting there in the living room of the manufactured house, one he had bought for his remaining parent. Ashley, while accepting of him with all her heart, could never quite understand why he had chosen this type of home for his father.

"Wouldn't it be better if you'd bought Papa Peppers a site-built house? What if a tornado comes? There's no way this would stand up to it."

Ashley hadn't understood.

She had though. She always understood.

She had known happiness varied from person to person. What Ashley saw as an abysmal doublewide his father saw a palace. Papa was inordinately proud of the poured concrete footers, brick foundation, and sheetrock construction. He gloried in going to Lowe's and picking out the newest plantings to line the small beds with perfect precision.

He accompanied him from time to time. He walked alongside the old man, trying to ignore the hard knot forming inside his chest.

"You think that's a good price?"

"Yeah."

"I do too."

Yet, the truth couldn't be buried. His father's hands had shown themselves for a liar. They could be gentle. They could coax something small and fragile to become beautiful. They could patiently tie plastic grocery bags around tiny stalks on nights of freezing weather. They knew how to nurture.

He had confessed his jealousy to her once. He had prepared himself for her gentle scorn. Instead, she had hugged him and kissed his ear.

"It's okay. There's nothing wrong in you hurting. You don't understand how he can be this way with plants but couldn't be this way with you. It's not silly. Your papa loves you in his way. That's why he insists on you coming to see him with a suit and tie. He doesn't want you to change your clothes when you go gas up with him. He wants everybody to see his smart, successful boy."

It still hurt but not nearly as much as it did before. She had that power. She had that way of taking the shame out of everything.

That's why he ended up loving her too much.