Divine: A Novel (21 page)

Besides all that, the newspaper my father
was reading on the day he died is next to his urn. I never read the daily paper
myself, but I’ve saved
that
one
through the years and re-read it
over and over, looking for an answer, anything that would raise a red flag as
to why he took such dire measures to escape this world on that Friday morning.
Perhaps something reminded him of my mother, but after reading it so many
times, I know every word of that newspaper by heart and there’s nothing in it.
No triggers. Nada.

I sit on my couch in front of my parents’
ashes and lean back with my fingers interlaced in my lap. Inhale. Exhale. The
room’s dark. I’ve painted it grey and always keep my front curtains closed so
the photographs don’t fade in the sunlight.

“I met a guy,” I whisper.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Tears start to roll down my cheek and I
wipe them with the back of my hand. I must be tired from the trip. It’s so
unlike me to cry.

“He’s nice. Different from the other men
I’ve mentioned years ago. I think he actually cares for me and he’s someone
you’d definitely like. Polite. Catholic. He wanted to be a priest.” It’s been
such a long time that I’ve spoken actual words to them.

I can picture my mother smiling and
telling me to be careful, and coming from her that always meant to use a
condom. It was our code. She said those words to me every time I went out with
my friends and I feel bad that I never had a chance to tell her I was a virgin.
I was a good girl until she died. She missed that entire part of my life, and
during that difficult high school time, my father was too depressed to listen
or notice. I loved him with all my heart, but he was lost in his own head.

So I’m telling them now, without the mehs
and the bahs, which, by the way, I don’t want to say I fibbed about again,
but...

I knew when I awoke from the dream about
communicating through sheep sounds that it was a religious reference. Catholics
have viewed sheep as a symbol of suffering and I’m sure everyone has seen an
illustration of the Lord with a wounded lamb or sheep on his shoulder: representing
a soul being carried to heaven.

That sheep, my meh-ing, it’s... you see I
want to make sure... damn it, it’s about my dad. I hope he’s one of those souls
who made it to heaven. Committing suicide is a sin. Thou shalt not kill
includes oneself.

Yes, that’s what he did. My dad took his
own life, and he left me behind to wonder whether or not he’s with my mom, or
someplace else. That’s hard on a kid who just graduated from high school and is
about to start college, and it hasn’t gotten much easier over the years,
obviously.

I look at the photos and then the urns.

“I want to bring this guy, Dan, his
name’s James Daniel Keller, here. To this place, but that means I need to
change
some things before I do.” I stare
ahead at the dining area where I’ve placed many of my father’s
hobbies
. That’s what I call them now.

“Please don’t be angry with me if I clean
up a little bit. Okay?”

Silence in a dark room with two urns is
unsettling. Sometimes, when I wake in the middle of the night, I hear
whispering in my living room. I know it’s just my mind playing tricks on me,
but there’re also times when I’m about to fall asleep and a voice whispers my
name in my ear. The experience gives me the creeps.

Fuck, it’s hard being alone. I moved here
years ago and I still haven’t made any close friends. I met the last guy I
dated at a bar, and I stopped going to those places because I kept running into
my students. It was all too awkward. But my parents were loners as well, so
maybe I picked up that trait from them.

Both my mom and dad were from small
families, neither had siblings, and their parents died when they were in their
thirties. All except my grandfather, who passed away after my mother.

As a child, I can remember my parents
singing to me, usually songs they made up as part of our evening routine. After
dinner we’d read, or play games, or sing, and the television was never on when
I was awake. They waited until I went to bed to watch it.

We also had a piano in the house that was
my mom’s. When she played it, her long auburn hair that was always pulled back
into a ponytail, would bop along to the music. She tapped the keys and would
laugh at my playful frolicking as I spun around her like a ballerina.

I begin humming a tune I believe she made
up especially for me, and then the words begin to drift quietly from my mouth.

For
you, our beautiful daughter

We’ve
opened our hearts and our home

You’ve
brought joy and love to this family

And
know that you’re never alone

One
day you’ll remember us fondly

When
you have a child of your own

You’ll
give her the same love and kindness

And
just LOOK!

How
our family has grown.

She’d clap her hands while singing the
word
look
and then spread her arms
wide for the word
grown
. It probably
sounds silly to most people but it has a lot of meaning to me, especially now,
and I’ll always remember it.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, taking a photo of
them visiting Niagara Falls off the wall. My eyes close as I hold it against my
chest. That was a good wedding anniversary trip for them.

My mother said she knew after her second
date with my father that they were going to marry, and then three months later,
he proposed. Just like that, it was rushed, but it lasted. Insta-love happens
to some people, but not many of those relationships endure. My parents were a
rarity. It’s one of the few ways I differ from my mother... I have strong
feelings for Dan and had a flash of him being
the one
, a quick flash, but I’m definitely not going to marry any
guy until we’re together for some time. Unlike my parents’ three-month dating
period, I’d have to wait at least four.

Funny.

I take their photo upstairs with a plan
in mind; get a few boxes and each day take one item out of the room.

One
item means your man, Dan, isn’t coming over for at least a year.

Well, I’ll try to remove a
few
items from the room each day so it’s
not overwhelming, but the dining room’s a whole other story. I have no place to
store those
things
.

Too
bad you can’t fold them up. You may have to rent a storage unit like you did
during college.

No. Those items aren’t leaving the house.
Besides, I haven’t found any climate-controlled storage in this town.

Hoarder.

You know that’s not true.

I
thought you weren’t responding to me anymore
.

Well, it’s impossible for anyone to stop
the thoughts in their head. Impossible! Besides, sometimes it’s too lonely not
to talk to yourself.

Div?

Hmm?

I’m
proud of you. And remember, that’s coming directly from you... so, when do you
think we’ll get to see the meat stick again?

Oh my God, you make me... I make me so
fucking crazy.

I
know.

CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN

D
an’s truck is gone when I leave for work.
It’s the first time since I started admiring him months ago that his vehicle
isn’t parked outside his place in the early morning hours. My stomach turns
when I notice, but convince myself he has an appointment to get the damage
checked out. Nothing’s wrong. He’s fine.

And campus is quiet. Too quiet.

Hannah and Bridgette, along with half of
my students, are absent from class. Everyone’s grieving. Hannah lost Luke as
well as Margaret. Bridgette lost her freedom. Dan’s distraught about the
Cherokee. I’m suffering from anxiety about shifting my furnishings and the
entire campus is in mourning. It’s no big surprise when a storm rolls in and
the sky turns grey. Seems fitting for such a downer of a day.

I stare out my office window at
Margaret’s building. It twists and fluxes through the heavy drops of rain
splattering the glass, and at times, the water running down makes the home
economics haven look as if it’s melting.

“Divine?”

My door’s wide open and Richard’s voice
behind me is no surprise. He asked if I’d be here today and that usually means
he wants to talk.

“Come in,” I whisper.

“How are you? Your first class go okay
today?”

I nod. “Just fine.”

He joins me at the window and sets his
hand on the glass. “It’s a cold rain,” he says. “I just missed the downpour
walking over here, but it’s gonna get me on my way out.”

“It smells refreshing. A hard rain like
this one is all we need to wash away our past.”

“I can’t imagine anything being able to
wipe out history. Are you referring to Margaret?”

“No,” I continue to whisper. “Is
something important happening today?”

His voice changes to match my sullen
mood. “I’m on my way to the President’s office. Some of the Trustees will be
there as well.” He walks to my door and stands with his back to me.

“I thought...”

“Yes, so did I. Do you have any words I
can pass along as we discuss the future of the department?” he asks.

I touch the glass in the same spot he had
just placed his chubby hand and shake my head. It seems unfortunate that I
can’t speak on my behalf at this meeting.

“Tell them I’m sorry about Margaret and
that I’ll do everything I can to help the students get through this.”

“And? What about the department? Your
program? Your position? Anything else?”

“What I said is enough.”

I hear a sigh and then his footsteps
diminish down the hall.

Something’s wrong. Not with Richard, but
in my life. I feel completely off balance. Maybe it’s because I removed a photo
of my parents, or it could be Margaret’s death. No, I can’t sense what, or whom
it’s about.

I call Dan, but he doesn’t answer, so I
send a Facebook message and a text. After an hour, still nothing.

School ends, no word.

I walk to his place and knock, silence.

Night falls and his place remains dark.

Fuckin’ A, what’s going on?

I think about driving to his parents’
house, but can’t remember what street it’s on and I can’t find them online or
in the phone book. There’s no news about Dan online either. Ergh!

The waiting game begins.

I hate this shit! Where is he! I consider
calling the police, but decide to give it ‘til morning. Maybe he had a family
emergency or something. Oh God, or maybe I’m obsessed with him and should give
him some space. He could be at a party or helping his parents with the
business. I often forget that people have lives and can’t always give me their
undivided attention.

That’s it; he’s just busy.

After a late dinner my cell rings and my
heart races. It’s him... no, a credit card company. Then a text sounds and I
rush back over to my cell... weather alert... another storm’s on its way with
strong winds and heavy rains that may produce flash flooding in our area.

It’s funny how its been only a couple of
months since I realized I had an interest in him, and just under two weeks
since we started dating, and in that short amount of time, it seems almost
impossible to revert back to my old ways. And when I mention that, I’m
referring to my daily online addictions.

I touch base with the Dick Sluts, but I’m
starting to notice the site never seems to change. The same books, same
authors, same discussions, and complaints are being tossed around.

Should
I read this book?

Sixty people respond with the word
yes
.

What
word in a book makes your cringe?

Cunt, pussy, bitch, labia, and anal.

Which
book cover do you like, A or B?

I would actually be the one to post that.
Yeah, I admit it.

Do
cheating characters bother you?

What? Will my opinion on that subject
change your feelings about it? Are we a herd of animals who can’t think on our
own. Damn, I’m in a bad mood today.

Who’s
your favorite book boyfriend?

Jake! Ronny! Tom!

I saw all of these posts the other day as
well as a week ago. And it’s not the members, or the admins of the site who are
at fault; it’s me. I’m bored... and I’m being a bitch.

And the porn, pfft. I’ve got a man who
actually pays attention to me in and outside the bedroom now. Fucking him isn’t
like the quickies from my past. I’m satisfied both physically
and
emotionally. He’s intimate and
loving. Period. The porn was always a stand in for... who knows what the fuck
for, but when I open the sites now it all looks so mechanical... and abusive.

There’s no love.

I close my laptop, then pace in my living
room before choosing three photos to remove from my wall. After putting them in
a box (which I told myself I’d never do) and placing it lovingly in my closet,
I walk outside and meander down the dark street, checking for the Cherokee, or
a light, or even a sound, then return home to read. I have to do something to
pass the time and to stop my heart from racing.

Hayden’s trilogy started more or less
normally; dark, nothing I couldn’t handle, but it’s growing increasingly
deranged with each chapter. Zyn, the main character, is a serial character
that’s also into necrophilia. In the first book, he isolated his victims for a
few days before killing them, but now he enjoys having two or three women in
the same room as he kills one off while the others are forced to watch. They
beg and plead for their lives, but Zyn shows no emotion. He uses the hand of a
corpse to jerk himself off and slices open a neck, placing his dick inside.
It’s downright sickening and I’m unsure if I can finish it even though I’m on the
final book, that is, until the unexpected occurs... a woman, a voyeur, watches
him through his bedroom window. He acts as if he doesn’t notice, going about
his business as she stares through the glass; unaware of the women he has
locked in his basement.

Okay. What the fuck’s going on!

Zyn begins playing games with her
whenever she appears outside. He walks around wearing only a black tank, no
pants, and eventually starts to jerk off in his bedroom. Night after night he
performs for her. From her perspective, she can see his arm moving and his cum
when it shoots out, but from his perspective... from Zyn’s perspective,
standing in front of his dresser, he can see her reflection... her face in his
freestanding swivel mirror.

Holy fucking balls! He did see me! Wait,
this is Hayden’s book and not real life. What the fuck just happened? That’s
another coincidence in my life, right? Did I read that correctly or am I under
stress and making this shit up? I re-read that section.

Okay, where’s Dan?

I stomp over to his place, book in hand,
and knock. No, I
pound
on his door
and call out his name.

Where the fuck is he?

In
the basement killing women.

Fuck that. He didn’t write this trilogy,
he gave it to me because he read the story and thought it was funny. He knows I
was watching him and saw the connection to this book.

But
is it funny?

No! He should’ve told me he knew I was
outside his window.

You
shouldn’t have been outside his window, dummy.

“Oh my God. I’m a caricature of myself,
or someone has made me into a character, or a character in a book that could be
me,” I mumble while walking back to my place and slamming my door. The
photographs on the wall shake and I apologize to my parents.

I need to finish this book. With two
hundred pages to go I settle into my bed with a bag of popcorn, knowing I won’t
sleep until I reach the final sentence. Lightning flashes outside, which makes
reading this dark novel an even creepier experience than it already is.

Zyn eventually kidnaps the woman outside
his window, no surprise there, but he doesn’t take her to his basement, instead
he keeps her in his living room. A space with a twenty-foot ceiling that has,
what he calls, a ‘display case.’ It’s described like a tree fort, and after
she’s undressed, he places her there with a chain around her neck and then
removes the ladder so she’s trapped.

Holy fuck.

The living room contains two leather
chairs that face one another and walls full of crosses. Crosses!

Dan’s
a bastard.

For two days the poor woman pleads for
her life, but Zyn ignores her. He never speaks. Throughout the entire trilogy,
he’s mute. The dialogue comes from the women and Zyn’s wicked thoughts. But
when her pleas change to prayers his eyes become softer, gentler, and she
notices. She begins praying every time he’s in the room, and he always stops
and listens, even if he’s carrying a foot or a head, he’ll stop and let the
blood drip to the floor in order to hear her angelic voice. It’s evident that a
bond is forming between the two.

He keeps her alive and in return gifts
her a book of Psalms and a note requesting that her beautiful voice flood his
home. He wakes each morning to serenades and is lullabied to sleep each night.
The guy’s licked. The woman? It’s hard to tell. After weeks of the two of them
masturbating in front of one another, she seems genuinely attracted to him even
when he... Jesus, he slices and dices a woman up right before her eyes then
eats her out and she doesn’t even care!

The
proper way to catch, prepare, and eat a good fish.

Fuckin’ hell. Fishing books!

This
is fucked up, and even more fucked up since your lights keep flashing from the
storm.

And in the final chapter he speaks. Her
powerful religious messages have opened his heart and he wants her, or I should
say, he wants to
fuck
her. He wants
to
fuck
a woman who has a beating
heart, as he so eloquently puts it.

So he repositions the ladder and climbs
up to be with her, in the living room fort, overlooking all of the crosses. And
the final scene is so violent I almost vomit. Zyn’s ferocious and brutal with
his dick, but she seems to enjoy it. He strangles her until she passes out and
then slaps her face to bring her back. It’s repulsive! There’s not any kissing
and the guy doesn’t even get fully undressed. He just whips his dick out and
fucks away. Egad!

And on the last page, she takes her
chains and wraps them around his neck, and strangles him. Yep, she kills him! I
start to panic while reading the final words. After he’s dead she realizes she
has no key to unlock herself. She’s going to die as well, and as she rolls him
off of her, his shirt rises and she notices the bottom of a tat on his stomach.
She lifts his shirt slowly and reveals a blackbird in a tree, and the words...

Dark
is lovely.
The final
sentence in the book.

Fucking-son-of-a-shit-ass-monkey-goat-balls-piece-of-dick!
That asshole! I’m so angry I can’t even get my swear words to connect. He wrote
this disturbing and psychotic book. Dan is Hayden Night! The queen... no the
king, the king of pitch-black darkness. I can’t believe it!

Maybe
it’s another coincidence?

Nice try. I check when the last book was
published and it came out a month ago. Where the fuck is he?

Arrested
for murdering women?

Shut the fuck up! I throw the book across
the room and stomp down the stairs, slam my door once more, race to his place
with rain pelting my body, and pound on his door like there’s no tomorrow.

You’re
not going to be with this guy after finding out how sick he is, are you?

“It’s fiction,” I whisper. I pound again,
knowing he’s not around. “Fuck! Where are you?”

I sit under the cherry tree in the dark
and let the rain soak my clothing while the wind blows the blossoms away.

“Dark erotic books are often unbelievable
nonsense,” I whisper.

But
your story really happened.