A Brief And Entertaining Super Bowl Satire, Followed By An Outraged Opinion

~Super Bowl XLIX In 3 ACTS



ACT ONE:

A FLIMSY FOOTBALL FANTASY


3rd & goal, one yard to go. One yard to vindication, to Super Bowl infamy, notoriety, eminence, celebrity, renown. Seconds were no longer seconds, but instead book-ends; marking disparate paths to myth, legend, eternal glory and unshakable fame.

There were only two: Two heartbeats to victory, two steps to triumph. Two blinks of an eye before the curtain of conquest came crashing down. And in those slender, dangling instants, Marshawn Lynch rolled on, legs churning - those famous, gargantuan, animalistic appendages. Brawn sent him surging while the whole Seahawks tide behind him propelled him on.

His feet flew, fleet across those 36 inches of sweet green grass. There was a gasp – an angst-fueled, fury-defined measure which was all that divided desolation and despair from unutterable joy. Super Bowl XLIX was waiting; an exalted victory that, once earned, could never be rescinded.

One hand-off, one man, one yard, one play, one touchdown, one score, one win that counted beyond comprehensible measure.

It was going to happen. Seahawks Nation was poised to do it again.

Until they didn't.

ACT TWO: WISHING DON'T MAKE IT SO


If you’re feeling like you just got punched in the gut; join the club. I had already written that story in my head as I watched the last few seconds of the Super Bowl unfold. I’m not just an author – but also an impassioned fan of our NFL. When teams I don’t really root for are playing, I scream, throw things, jump out of my chair, rail at the refs, shriek in disbelief at busted plays, missed calls, flunked opportunities. And when my teams are playing (Carolina Panthers, Miami Dolphins), I go off the chain.


I can’t say this Super Bowl mattered too much – I do like Russell Wilson because at some point in our lives, we both attended N.C. State (a perpetual underdog). I also like his fortitude, his presence of being, his poise, his grace under pressure. And Tom Brandy’s smarmy, privileged, frat-boy expressions make me want to smack that smugness off his face*. DeflateGate didn’t help.
*I am totally against violence of any kind - and so any reference to such herein is rooted in fantasy only, and would never be an actual consideration for this author's potential actions.*

So I did have an obvious choice here; a horse in the race, a fan-fave. And that means I was exhilarated at that wild, bobbled catch that got the Seahawks down in the Red Zone in time to win the game. I’m not a fan of Pete Carroll or his voracious chomping (like a methed-up horse) against those endless pieces of gum. But I can stand him better than “The Hooded Menace”. And that’s one small reason why I felt it was worth my time to write this blog.  The others...

Seahawks owners, managers, CEO's:  What the heck just happened? What did I just see here in glaring and unavoidable intrusiveness on my big 'ol HD-TV? Did I really see what I think I just did? Really?


Oh. Oh, wow.


It’s time for most of America to get a little clarity. Some answers. Some definitions. Some insight into the machinations behind the scenes (I mean, we are the kind of country to have about a thousand hours' worth of commentary - and an untold investment in hard-core investigative journalism - over a handful of limp footballs, right?).

I don’t know what everyone else is thinking or feeling or asking right now. But this is where I stand...


Seattle Seahawks: Why did you NOT use your priceless tool (as evidenced by the physicality, determination, and strength of Marshawn Lynch) to finish off the last play? He’s not just talented; he was functioning under "Beast Mode" momentum.

So, why?

And why, rather than handing off the ball to Lynch (& rushing rather than passing so as to run enough time off the clock to where Brady could NOT answer a 'Hawks final score), rather than giving the HONOR of the last and winning rushing TD to your veteran player, your team's hero, the man who'd gritted his teeth and used raw beef and brawn to ram himself down the throats of every single member of the Pat's talented Defensive Line…WHY, rather than assuring a TD score, ensuring victory, counting on your two remaining plays (and twenty remaining seconds) to get that last, final yard DONE…WHY DID YOU DIAL UP THAT ATROCIOUS “PASS”?

Now, rather than raising the Lombardi Trophy yet again, taking home the victory, riding the crest of determination and glory...your season is simply over. And someone, somewhere in the 'Hawks' management team, is responsible. Someone called in a play so pitiful, idiotic and bizarre, that it left players on both teams, both sides, both on and off the field (most notably, Tom Brady himself) - scratching their heads in utter disbelief. I honestly thought I’d dozed off and was dreaming when I first saw it. Had Russell Wilson really, actually, unimaginably…truly THROWN the ball?

(I'm too sick at heart to research it, but from what I recall seeing, the Seahawks were at third and goal, right on the one yard line, with Lynch having already effectively punched it up to the precipice after the stunning and breath-taking catch by newby Matthews a few moments earlier…but if I make mistakes in recalling the exact details, cut me some slack. I’m still reeling here.).

One yard to go, third and goal - third and WIN - third and SUPER BOWL RINGS FOR EVERYONE...(and if Lynch didn't carry it over the line on 3rd down, he had a final down to spare). Keep it in the hands, on the ground, keep the clock running, keep the offense's motor running. Keep moving. And there was no one better suited to the task, better qualified, better able, better deserving - than the star RB who had launched the Hawk's incredible success after an abysmal first 25 mins of play.

But they didn't do that. They didn't even let Russell Wilson fully drop back to look around for open receivers (and check for eager, opportunistic coverage by defenders just waiting to pick off the ball) . It appeared to me that his orders were to get the snap, drop back half-way, and immediately fire it off to ONE pre-selected receiver. Problem was, that receiver had two Patriots guys between him and Russell Wilson. Problem is, the Patriots were better suited to play that ball than whoever the sad sack was that the Seahawk's management team (or whomever) had selected to receive it. I was in too much shock to take notice of the intended receiver’s name, or the Pat’s player who intercepted it, or just about anything else beyond the stunningly-stupid call and the gut-wrenching outcome.


And the aftermath was unbearable. I turned the channel before Wilson left the field.




ACT THREE: JUDGMENT DAY


Heads should ROLL there in the Seahawks organization tonight. Whoever was responsible for directing Wilson to take a quick snap and then fire it off to just the ONE guy (without first stopping and checking to make sure he was open, without looking for other eligible receivers who might be better poised to catch a pass, without evaluating for even ONE second the option of possibly using his own quick-silver moves for a quarterback sneak). No. There is no excuse.

*I don't care if the 'Hawks felt like the Patriots "knew" Lynch would be getting the ball, and so they were all going to pile on him (thus a pass play would be more effective b/c it would be unexpected...that's crap pure and simple - the 'Hawks had been telegraphing their intended plays basically all night, and still been unimaginably effective with executing them).

*I also don't care who thought passing in that situation (a yard away from the goal line where offense and defense were mashed up so close together there was hardly room to breathe) - was better than running the ball (and also taking more time off the clock in so doing).

*I don't care about the jerk who didn't give a second's thought to letting Lynch, out of respect, bang out the winning TD (as a "thank you" for his valiant efforts all night).

*And I don't care WHO told Wilson to barely drop back before firing off the pass - thus being unable to take the time to make sure his receiver was open.

No. I care about any of that. I don't care about ANY ONE THING.


I care about ALL OF IT. Every issue, every problem, every mistake; every single one.

Seahawks Nation ought to be outraged.



And, Mr. Carroll, as far as I’m concerned…you got some serious splainin' to do.



***This blog is entirely the poster's own opinion - just me - based solely upon my own views regarding the game/the plays/and the final outcome. Sorry for any errors - they're entirely my own.

No game "analysts" were studied, watched, or quoted/paraphrased here. In fact, I don't know or care what the "experts" are saying - I turned the TV OFF when I saw Russell Wilson's face as he began to leave the field. I love football. But I am disgusted with stupidity. And you can quote me on that.

"Death Of A Princess" SoftCover Book LIVE and AVAILABLE on AMAZON and already on SALE!!!

Hello!  Hope everyone has been having a great week so far (as we wind down towards the end of it and a couple days of hopefully relaxation and fun this Saturday and Sunday)!  Just wanted to let everyone know that "Death Of A Princess" is now showing up in softcover form, LIVE and AVAILABLE for SALE - BOTH in the US and the UK (amazon.com and amazon.co/UK), and also - of course - on CREATESPACE!

I was required to at least set the list price at $15.95 - otherwise I would've been in the negative (as far as any "profit margin") when the book sold on sites other than Amazon or CreateSpace.  But the only thing that matters to me is that the book is available to anyone and everyone who wants to read it, regardless of who they choose to shop with or what options are available to them for purchase in their home country/current locale.  That's why I set the price as low as I could (it's based upon page count, size, etc.), and the cool thing is, Amazon is already running a sale!  Amazon.com (in the US) has it listed for 5% off (whoo-hoo!), and so it's only $15.15!

FYI - the awesome thing is; if someone buys a book directly from the CreateSpace.com store, authors make a very good return (when compared to other self-publishing companies in the industry).  The next best thing (and which results in about half as much return for the author as does a sale that actually occurs on the CreateSpace.com store) is if the book is purchased off of Amazon itself.  Since Amazon provides extra exposure for an author's novel via their international presence in the book industry, the trade-off is still a very good one.

Indie publishing has been a huge learning experience for me, separate and apart from simply being an author.  You not only have to write your books, you also have to edit them, proof-read them, design covers for them, write descriptions for them, format them, then upload/publish them, and THEN you have to create advertising (marketing not only your book, but your self, as well), driving social media campaigns whenever possible, and learning how to get better at it ALL (very quickly) as you go along.

WHEW!  What a process!  About 6 months ago, I purchased an old antique ring I really liked as a "reward" for finishing my third book.  I had foolishly assumed that I'd have easily "earned" the right to wear it (by having fulfilled my part and published "Death Of A Princess") within a few weeks at most.  Now, after all the changes and updates and re-edits and proofs - it's finally OUT THERE.  And I'm  proud to be wearing my "Death Of A Princess" ring today!

Anyway, back to work for me!  Back to what I love - working on book #4.  Just wanted to give everyone a head's up that the physical/print version of "Death Of A Princess" is now finally out and available on CreateSpace.com!!!

Here's the link:  https://www.createspace.com/4758953 to follow to get to my book's actual page...
or, you can also go to CreateSpace.com and search for "Death Of A Princess" on the "store" vs. the "site" - the option for "store" is on a tab that you can see/select on the upper right-hand side of the main page - there are several other books before mine, I think, with similar names - and mine is currently the third one down in the search results.

OR - you can always go to Amazon itself (Amazon.com/Amazon.UK) and it's finally live there, too.  The $15.95 price is honestly not bad for a 6x9 book that's 460+ pages on thick-stock, cream-colored paper (the white looked "prettier" but I got both kinds via several different proofs I ordered beforehand, so I could see how the book would turn out.  I quickly realized that the black typeface against the cream background is much, MUCH easier on the eyes - black on white is the hardest color combination for the human eye to read/decipher).

 http://www.amazon.com/Death-Of-Princess-T-C-Barnes/dp/1499133316/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=1398450252&sr=8-1

As far as all the other thousands of bookstores/ebookstores, etc., out there - from "Mom & Pop" shops to places like "Barnes & Noble" - it will reportedly take 6-8 weeks before "Death Of A Princess" will have updated to their catalogues, too, but the price should be the same at all of the sites (unless Createspace or Amazon choose to independently run a sale).

All I can say is that I'm so relieved and so happy to have the book finished, to have it formatted, to have it looking so good, and to be able to send a copy to my 97 year old Grandmother since she's not quite acquainted with eBook readers thus far!

Have a great weekend, ya'll!

Here's a thought for the day...

What is it about self-destructive behavior (eating too much, drinking too much, arguing too much, criticizing ourselves too much and not loving ourselves enough) that takes the first 20-30 years of our lives to even recognize (and stop repeating blindly - you may still repeat it, but you'll no longer be blissfully blind) - and the rest of our lives (I can only assume), to manage to work it out?

Human beings are so complex and intricate - with more fascinating and capable components than any super-computer.  Observing human behavior, questioning my own, wondering at the ways of the world - why do bad things happen - what is a "soul" - how do we ever escape from the ghosts of our childhood...THIS is what makes me NOT just a writer, but a writer who weaves complex human emotion, conflicts, and dilemmas throughout her books.
A mystery can be good for certain - even without ever going beyond the "surface".  Action/adventures can be fantastic (and often are without deeper thought) - and in some mediums (TV/Movies), it's nearly impossible to delve beneath the facade of your characters' psyches.  But those quirky, complex, quixotic, fleeting, enduring, hindering, driving, guiding, personal demons - and all that they bring along - are as integral to my novels as the plots themselves.  Some people like to see so deep, read the inner workings of a character's mind.  Some do not (just check out some of my negative reviews on Amazon for proof of that).  But I don't think a novel would truly be profound without it.  And since I aim towards that end -  towards reaching the deeper meaning within human lives and interactions - I'll never give it up.  I'll just strive every day to be better at it.

So, what do you think?  Do you prefer to read the quick books with a fast pace that focus on plot (and can typically be read in one day), do you prefer one that includes keys and insights into the characters' "souls", or do you prefer a mix of both, based upon your mood for the day?

As a reader, I prefer BOTH depending on mood.  As a writer, I bow down to "deeper meaning" each and every time.

The book is now live and available for FREE with this link!

"Death Of A Princess" - 3rd book by T.C. Barnes

http://www.amazon.com/Death-Of-Princess-T-C-Barnes-ebook/dp/B00JIU1MUK/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1397779011&sr=8-1&keywords=death+of+a+princess

Free Book Giveaway

Hello everyone! For anybody who hasn't yet bought a copy of my new book, "Death Of A Princess", it's going to be available for free tomorrow through an Amazon promo!!

The promo is supposed to run from midnight (tonight) through midnight tomorrow (so all day Thursday!), and hopefully it will be a bestseller on the "Mystery" and/or "Women Sleuths" Categories on the Free Book pages for Amazon!!

I'll post the "Free Book" link tomorrow, sometime in the morning...

BTW, if you've already purchased it and want to try and get it through the free deal instead, I think all you have to do is select "return for a refund" on your Kindle account, and then you can re-download it again at no charge. Regardless of how you end up getting it, if you do so, I truly appreciate your support !!!

Death Of A Princess - LIVE!

Hello All!

Hope everyone is well and enjoying the green grass and bright colors of Spring!  Just wanted to let everyone know that "Death Of A Princess" is live and available for purchase in the Kindle store now.  If you've read the first few chapters on here, and then you end up buying the actual book, you'll realize right away that quite a few things have changed!  My entire Chapter One is COMPLETELY different, and it's now action-packed and terrifying enough to hopefully pull people right on in (and to set the alternately 'ominous and then thrilling' tone for the whole rest of the book).

Throughout the novel (so crystal clear in my mind as I was writing it), the reader will get to go traipsing through the gorgeous woods, stately mountains, and sprawling valleys of the North Carolina I knew and loved in my childhood.  All three of my books to date, have either been mostly set in N.C. ("And Still, She Wept" and "Death Of A Princess"), or have at least part of the action there ("The Job").  I spent the first 27 years of my life in North Carolina, and it's the kind of place that leaves an imprint on your soul.  I hold onto it with memories both bitter and sweet, and it'll always be a part of me.  I hope you enjoy visiting a fictional town in the Western NC Mountains in "Death Of A Princess", as much as I enjoyed writing about it.

Here's the link if you haven't already seen it, and by the way - it already has a five star review!  I was surprised to see it when I visited the site to begin the process of uploading the eBook to CreateSpace (to initiate the print version), and was very honored that particular reader enjoyed the story so thoroughly! 

  http://www.amazon.com/Death-Of-Princess-T-C-Barnes-ebook/dp/B00JIU1MUK/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1397340173&sr=8-1&keywords=death+of+a+princess+t..c.+barnes 


Next on the agenda is a novel set in new territory:  Florida, the fascinating place where I currently reside!  It's the Sunshine State, for certain (as evidenced by my dogs basking in the sun all day, the two of them lounging out on the porch together like overfed sloths).  But in this novel, the Sunshine State will be the setting for my new main character, and the very dark, very perplexing series of crimes she's caught up in.  Can't wait to tell you more about it, but I've still got a lot of work to do first.

In the meantime, please give me feedback on what you think about "Death Of A Princess".  Who's your favorite character?  How does it compare to "And Still, She Wept"?  And most importantly, did you like it?

And as far as my free time goes (what little of it there will be :)...) - have you read any good books lately that you think I might enjoy?  Feel free to comment on here any time!

Take care everyone and Happy Reading!

"Death Of A Princess", Chapter 4

Chapter 4

 

 

 

A jagged scream lodged deep in her throat, Kayleen surged straight up in bed, sweating and shaking, mere minutes before the digital alarm was set to blare out it’s warning into the pre-dawn morning.  It was 4:28 a.m.  It was pitch-black outside and Jody was still dead, but the feel of her own bed beneath her and the absolute silence within the dark corners of her room reassured Kayleen that, for the present moment at least; the monster was already gone.

Kayleen rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and then reached over and clicked the off-button on the top of her alarm.  The sun wouldn’t be up for another two hours.  Sometime in the middle of the night, Kayleen had woken up from her awkward position on the couch and fumbled her way upstairs.

Right now, her body was stiff and sore and her head was thick with the cottony-wool of a fiercely-ferocious hangover.  Her mouth was dry and sour and her stomach rumbled with the knowledge that it probably wouldn’t get fed today, either.  Her right eye felt like it had an ice pick gouged through it, and she was dizzy and nauseous as hell.  But none of that really mattered.

It was time to clear the cobwebs out of her mind, to feel the freedom of the wind on her face, and the early morning dew on her ankles.  It was time to take back the only part of the day that she still called her own.  The one time that she could push her body to the limit and push thoughts of him right out of her mind.

This was Kayleen’s favorite part of the day because now, it was time to run.

 

*

 

6:15 a.m. and she was finally back at home.  Today it was yet another breakfast of only vodka and juice.  She took her glass over to the kitchen table and sat down, wiping off her forehead with the inside of her elbow.  She wedged her small gun out of the waistband of her wet shorts and set it on the table.  She never left the house without some kind of firepower, but anything other than the .22 was too cumbersome to run with.

Salty moisture poured down Kayleen’s face and torso, saturating her white tank top and even her old, thin black Umbros, but at least this time it was from healthy exertion and not from bitter dread.  She looked down as she plucked the damp fabric away from her skin, but froze when her eyes landed on the puffy, raised welts along her chest and collarbone.  Even in this early, weak daylight, Kayleen’s scars were still hideously visible.

Kayleen had at one time inventoried them all.  That had been an egregious mistake.  The initial head-shrinker they’d assigned to her while she was still being held at the hospital had thought it would be a good idea.  He’d actually said it would be “therapeutic”.  Yeah, right.  A half-bald, twitchy son of a bitch, who had probably gotten his Doctorate degree out of a box of Cracker Jacks, had presumed to tell her what she needed to do to get over being assaulted by a sadistic serial killer.  It would have been laughable had it not just been so damned sad.

But, idiot that she was, she’d taken out her compact and then stood in front of the big mirror in the antiseptic hospital bathroom all alone; bright fluorescents blazing, door locked, completely naked.  She’d pulled down the bandages and studied herself from each and every torturous angle.  Then, she’d promptly smashed the compact, gotten on her knees in front of the toilet, and thrown up until she’d tasted blood.

Afterwards, when she was done crying, she’d picked up the phone and called her boss.  Then she’d asked the nurses to re-do her bandages and tape the bathroom mirror over from top to bottom.  The staff had been happy to oblige, and Dr. Severance, feeling that she’d been pushed too hard, too quickly after her attack, had made certain that idiot psychiatrist had never come back to see her again.  But none of it had mattered because the damage was already done.

It would’ve been much more tolerable, and much easier for her to handle, if she’d seen the horrific mutilation and destruction that had been ravaged into her skin, after it’d had more time to heal.  As it was, she’d still been freshly bruised, burned, sliced, and butchered.  The wounds had been raw and leaking.  Her chest had been a veritable roadmap of destruction.

Her body had looked to her just like those of Estes’ other victims; corpses she’d seen either in crime scene photos, or first-hand in the Refuge or at the morgue.  Her emotional state had been so fragile then, it had literally knocked her to her knees.  That day, that exact moment when she’d seen what had been done to her, had changed something deep inside of her.  And it was something that she could never undo.

In those moments she’d spent before the mirror, she’d catalogued each and every degrading horror for future ease of reference.  Even now, those memories remained within clear and unnerving reach.  Kayleen could close her eyes at will and see the serrated skin, the puffy, enflamed lines, the weeping marks, the sliced shapes; everything that Estes had incised so meticulously into her flesh.  He’d gotten her torso, her back, her shoulders, thighs, and calves.  Not one part of her body had gone unscathed.  He’d even decorated the backs of her knees.

In addition to all of that, there had also been the macerated puncture-gash in her shoulder where the bullet had gone in, and another larger one on her back where it had blown out.  His placement had been perfect - right where it had caused her debilitating pain, making her weak, vulnerable, and easily controlled.  But it had also been far enough away from any vital organs to keep her from bleeding to death or passing out before he’d decided that he was done with her.

The worst part, of course was his signature; the triangle around the crescent moon, directly over her heart, along with the flattened infinity sign right above it.  But with her, for the very first time, he’d added his entire set of initials:  R A E, for Richard Allan Estes.  Unfathomably, however, she was the only one he’d taken and marked who was actually still alive.  And no one knew the answer as to why, least of all, Kayleen.

With her, when he was done, instead of slitting her throat from ear to ear, he’d merely carved a deep cross right into the hollow of her neck there.  A constant reminder of what he could’ve done; had he only the simplest inclination.  Unable to hide that one disfigurement with most of her clothes, she typically chose to just wear a plain silver locket to cover it.  The kind you kept treasured photos in, except hers remained empty; devoid of memories, hope, or love.

Kayleen finished her drink and slammed the glass down almost hard enough to shatter it.  Then she rested her head in her hands for a long moment and sighed.  When would it get any easier, she wondered?  When would it go away?  Not the scars, necessarily - they wouldn’t ever fade.  But the way she felt about them.  It was as if each one was a physical reminder of how utterly she had eventually failed; as a person, a partner, an agent, a lover, a friend.  As long as they marred her body, their meaning would mar her soul.

She could, of course, have plastic surgery.  It would help to mitigate the butchery some.  Only she didn’t think she deserved any kind of reprieve.  Jody had lost his life that night.  She’d already gotten off too damned easy.  Angrily, she pushed her thoughts away and stood up so abruptly that the kitchen chair rocked back and forth behind her.  It was time to tend to her dog.

Harley was lying on the cool kitchen tiles, still panting like she would never stop.  The poor pooch hadn’t yet gotten used to their brutal, two and a half mile trek up the mountain and back down again.  She didn’t know if Harley ever would.

Back in the city, Kayleen was lucky if she was able to walk her more than ten or fifteen minutes a day.  Work just kept her so busy there that Harley had seemed constantly chafing at the bit for more exercise.  Now, most of the time it was she who dragged Harley along while the dog lagged behind, her long pink tongue lolling sideways out of her mouth as she struggled to keep up.

Back on the night when the Blackthorne Butcher had paid his special visit to Kayleen, Harley had still been at the vet’s office, recuperating from a recent surgery to correct a small tumor on her left paw.  Kayleen knew that if she’d been there that evening, at the very least, she’d have given an advance warning as they’d returned to the apartment after dinner.  If she hadn’t come running to the door to greet her, Kayleen would have known instantly that something was wrong.

Unfortunately, the apartment complex would not let her install any type of security system, forcing her to rely on the “intercom-buzzer” apparatus just beyond the outside door.  It had done little to save her or Jody the night that Estes had come for them; some helpful resident had buzzed him in without bothering to check who he was or what he wanted.

And here, in this old house, the electric system was so bad a security alarm wouldn’t even work.  She’d called, of course, had several technicians come out to take a look in the beginning.  But they’d all said the same thing; her wiring here was so old, so decrepit, that the sirens would go off each and every time the wind blew too hard.  Fixing it would cost at least ten thousand dollars, the payments on which, Kayleen could undoubtedly afford.  Yet that would mean having men – strange men – traipsing in and out of her house for weeks on end, ripping out plaster and stripping up floorboards.  Right now, she was not ready for that level of outsider intrusion.

So, in the meantime, Kayleen made damn certain that her dog was never too far from her side.  It was one of the few easy things she could do to protect herself.  Well, that and making sure that her gun was never too far away from her, either.  Precautions that cost her nothing, but that might one day save her life.  Of course they might not do too much to help her if Richard Estes showed back up on one of the nights when Kayleen had passed out from being blind-stinking drunk.

That realization alone ought to be enough to make her change her habits, but she already knew damn well that it would not.  Alcohol was the only thing that pushed Estes even a tiny bit away from her; the only thing that gave her a small measure of numbing distance from the confines of her own infected mind.  And regardless of the risks, she figured she’d keep right on using it as long as she needed to, perhaps even until it killed her – or until he came back to finish the job.

Kayleen walked into the kitchen now and grabbed a large can of meaty dog food from out of the cupboard and pressed it into the automatic opener.  When she hit the start button and Harley heard the grinding noise indicating that her meal was soon to come, the dog clambered heavily to her feet and then came padding over.

Kayleen snagged a big bowl out of the dishwasher and filled it with a scoop of dry chunks from a bag under the counter.  Then she spooned half the can of wet stuff on top, and jiggled the bowl to mix it in.  The rest of the can would go into the fridge for tomorrow’s breakfast.  Harley ate twice a day but her early meal was the only one where she got spoiled with canned food in addition to her regular stuff.  Otherwise, Kayleen knew from experience that with her already stocky physique, she would get rather obese in just a short amount of time.

Kayleen plopped the bowl of food onto the floor and Harley immediately stuck her face inside and began wolfing it down.  As she ate, Kayleen refilled her other bowl with some fresh water, then she left the pure-bred bloodhound to enjoy her breakfast alone.

She had just headed upstairs to jump in the shower when she heard a knock at the front door.  She was expecting her Aunt Sue that morning, but looking at her watch, she realized that her aunt was more than half an hour early.  Sue knew quite a bit about the attack; more in fact, than Kayleen would have liked.

Back when she’d been in the hospital, Sue had come to visit her over the course of a few of those hazy days.  Although most of the time she’d been covered with a blanket, Sue did walk into the room once when Kayleen had been changing, and she’d gotten an eyeful then.  Also, an overzealous, loose-lipped doctor had taken it upon himself to fill Sue in on most of Kayleen’s injuries.  He’d thought it would be okay with her since they were family, although in truth, Kayleen had been mortified.

But some time had passed since then.  She still felt self-conscious as hell, but God knows, she was tired of always having to cover up like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  If there was ever going to be a chance that she’d one day be able to revert back to simply being herself, she’d have to somehow get comfortable in her own skin.  Practicing first on her sweet, meek Aunt Sue would be a good place to start.

Deciding on the spur of the moment to forgo throwing on a robe, Kayleen just clomped back down the stairs and reached for the door, swinging it open quickly, before she could change her mind.  She realized her mistake a half-second too late.  She heard his gasp, his sharp intake of breath, felt his eyes rove up and down the length of her.

“Jesus Kayleen, what in the hell happened to you?” Caleb asked, shocked.  His face instantly blanched, and he fell backwards a step, as if he couldn’t even stand to be close to her.  All the while, his eyes continued to make the rounds.

Everywhere they rested, Kayleen could feel his gaze like a searing-hot laser against her skin.  His eyes swept over her legs, her arms, her sternum, her throat, and despite her light garments, she still felt as if she’d somehow been laid naked and bare to the bone.  His upper lip curled and he looked positively disgusted; just as she’d somehow already known he would be.

She reacted on impulse, slamming the door in his face and thumbing the bolt.  She grabbed the chain to lock that too, but her hand was shaking so violently she couldn’t get the rounded end into the hole.  As he started banging on the door, she took several dazed steps backwards, not even realizing that she was moving until the bottom step thumped into her calf and she stumbled against the riser and collapsed onto the stairs.

When her butt hit the wooden step below her, she grabbed the railing to steady herself.  She clenched the wooden rod in her bloodless fist, frozen in place while Caleb knocked and pounded and called her name.  At some point, he left off rapping on the front door and moved around to the rear.  Kayleen heard him rattling at the door handle there, and she was relieved beyond words that she always kept it locked now.  He wouldn’t be getting in.  Not today.  Not ever again.

He banged for at least fifteen minutes more but Kayleen didn’t wait him out.  As soon as her trembling legs could support her, she hauled herself up with the handrail and then ran all the way upstairs as fast as she could; his relentless pounding resounding hollowly beneath her as she fled.

 

*

 

Kayleen had been sitting on the floor of the bathroom for nearly an hour.  When she’d first run in there, the face that had greeted her in the mirror was one that she recognized immediately; deathly white, sharply drawn, stricken and sickly.  It was the same way she’d looked when she had still been in the hospital.

Frightened by the glaring similarity, she’d grabbed a towel and covered up as much of the silver surface as she could.  Then she’d knelt down and flung the cabinet under the sink wide open.  Pawing through row after row of soft, thick towels, she’d finally found what she had come looking for.  In the back, safe as always, was her reserve.

She had grabbed the bottle of vodka, thankful that it was still three-fourths of the way full, and then had snagged a stack of Dixie Cups that were stored in one of her drawers.  They were the kind that most people used for rinsing their mouths out after having brushed their teeth.  Hers stood in for improvised shot glasses, and she’d wasted no time in getting one wet.  After the third shot, her cup got soggy.  She crumpled it, threw it onto the bathroom floor, and immediately filled another.  It seemed like a long, long time before the faint knocking finally stopped.  The sound echoed in her head long after Caleb had gone.

When she figured she’d had enough alcohol that the blessed numbness would soon take hold, she set the bottle down, kicked off her shoes, and then climbed into the shower stall still completely dressed.  She turned the water on, stripped out of her clothes under the frigid deluge, and then sank back down onto the cold, porcelain tiles, her body shuddering so hard it was like she was having some sort of seizure.

After several long minutes, the water finally kicked in hot.  But even sitting directly in the scalding, needling spray, she still was bone-deep cold.  She wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging herself as tightly as she could, her fingernails digging painfully into her chill, wet skin while she cried and cried and cried.

 

*

 

“I was really worried.  I knocked for quite a while.”  Aunt Sue’s voice was tinny and small over the extremely bad connection.  Whatever architectural visionary Astin Archer had been, his son Louis had been much less successful at improvements to the house, which is why when the electric and phone lines had been installed by him several decades after the home had been built, they’d been done so haphazardly and with varying results.

When the wind blew too hard, Kayleen still typically lost her ancient phone line altogether.  It had been that way through her entire childhood there at that house.  She knew she needed to go ahead and get it all fixed one day.  But sometimes it was nice just not being able to be reached.  When she wanted to escape from outside pressures, all she had to do was take this old-fashioned phone off the hook.  Her cell, however, was still plugged into the wall charger back at her apartment in D.C., probably ringing incessantly even now.

Kayleen was still trying politely to wrap up her conversation with Sue.  She’d already spent several minutes apologizing profusely for that morning, the mist of alcohol making it hard to focus on sounding coherent.  She had managed to come up with a half-hearted excuse; that she’d been out for a nature walk in the surrounding woods and had lost all track of time.  Truth be told, she’d probably still been in the shower by the time her Aunt had actually come by, so focused on her encounter with Caleb, that dealing with yet another visitor would’ve been the last thing on her mind.  But now, she honestly felt quite guilty over it all.

Sue was actually Kayleen’s Great-Aunt on her mother’s side, and sadly enough, she was really Kayleen’s only living relative.  She was pretty sure she had to have some very distant cousins out there somewhere, but there was no one else besides Sue that she could truly call her own anymore.  She and her aunt had never been all that close.  Yet after Kayleen’s mother had died and then Kayleen had been attacked so shortly thereafter, Sue had been making a good-faith effort to connect.

Sue was Kayleen’s grandmother’s youngest sister, and she’d just turned 65.  Her health also wasn’t the greatest these days, and Kayleen didn’t know how many more years she’d have left.  That was one of the reasons she’d asked Sue over that day.  Since Kayleen had come back to town two months ago, she’d actually hung out with Sue on several occasions.  Mostly they’d just gone out to eat, or spent a few hours together in Sue’s little cottage in town.  Today was the first time however, that Kayleen had invited Sue out to the old house, into her own private space.  And boy, that had sure gone over well.

Kayleen made Sue a promise that she’d make it up to her next time, and then she finally worked around to saying her goodbyes.  Once she hung up the phone, she sighed out in relief and then downed the rest of her small glass of vodka.  She’d run out of juice four hours ago, so she’d simply started drinking it over ice.  God, she realized, she’d been soused for over twelve hours straight.

Kayleen’s stomach growled loudly then, but the resulting thought of food made her want to puke.  She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d actually eaten.  She’d probably lost nearly twenty pounds in the last eight weeks alone.  She was getting rail-thin, her clothes falling off of her more and more.  Caleb had to have noticed how skinny she was the other night when he’d first come over.

Jesus.  Caleb.  Caleb had seen her now, too.  In fact, Caleb had seen almost all of her.  And boy would he have some questions.  Not that she’d ever entertain answering them.

She swallowed, hard, and decided that she needed a refill.  She’d left the bottle in the kitchen earlier, while grabbing the cordless phone off of the base where it had been charging.  She’d brought her glass with her to the couch, but had accidentally left the remainder of the liquor behind on the counter.

She went to stand up now so she could go and retrieve it, but her legs simply would not work.  Instead, they sent her sprawling.  The room tilted and lurched around her as she plunged down, plowing head-first into the heavy wooden and glass coffee table beside her.

The surface shattered into a wild spray of jagged cracks as her forehead punched partially through.  Pain tore into her temple, and the breath was knocked clean out of her.  Instinctively pushing herself up off of the table, she tumbled sideways and crumpled haphazardly onto the floor.

She lay there, dazed for a moment, struggling to find her breath.  Finally, her air came back to her in a big wheezing gasp.  She drew in two stinging lung-fulls, trying to comprehend what had just happened.  She blinked against the warm rivulets of viscous blood that were trickling thickly into both of her eyes.  She’d dropped her glass, smashed her face, and was now bleeding onto the floor.  She needed to get up and get a towel, before she ruined the carpet even worse than what she’d done when she’d spilled the beer yesterday.

Kayleen reached up and painstakingly gripped the side of the busted table with one hand, her fingernails scrabbling at the seam of a couch cushion with the other.  Pulling with all her might, she struggled to sit up straight.  But she couldn’t seem to lift herself up off of the floor more than a few grudging inches.

Suddenly, her eyes felt heavy.  It was all she could do just to keep them open anymore.  A comforting, sedating lull stole over her.  She was just so damned tired.  Wouldn’t it be easier for her to stay on the floor?  In fact, why bother to get up at all when she could merely close her eyes and fall asleep right where she lay, down there on the soft carpet where it was so very safe and warm?

The last thing she heard before she lost consciousness was the insistent knocking from that morning once again coming back somehow.  “Why won’t he just go away?” she thought in irritation.

Abruptly, a long, dark chasm split open beneath her.  She fell, head-long into the bottomless pit of it.  There was another last, half-formed thought about Caleb; that, and nothing more.