I closed the door behind me and leaned against it. My heart was reacting to his words in a strange way. Why would he care what Kirk said? Was it possible he was interested in me? "Not likely," I said to the empty living room. He obviously has some kind of hero complex and would probably snap out of it soon enough. None of it mattered anyway. I wasn't about to get into any relationship, so it was time to nip the whole situation in the bud.
I left the entryway feeling deprived. Spending time with Dean had a way of accentuating the emptiness of my house. I pulled a frozen meal out of the freezer and disposed of the carton. I hated these things, but had accepted them as my penance for driving my dad away. The humming of the microwave filled the silent house as I grabbed a soda out of the fridge. When the meal was finished cooking, I settled myself on a barstool at the kitchen counter. I sat eating for a few minutes, but the silence of the house seemed more oppressive than normal and began to wear on me. I stood up and dumped my unfinished meal in the trash. I wasn't that hungry anyway. Maybe some music would clear my head. Dean's attention today had opened a door I had bolted closed years ago. A door that belonged closed. Hell, it was a door I didn't even need. I embraced my solitude. I loved being alone. I loved silence. I was a liar.
Chapter Seven
It was rainy and overcast when I woke the next morning. The bleak weather seemed fitting for Mitch's service. Death was bleak after all. My life was bleak. I didn't know anymore if I was just trying to convince myself of that fact, or if the actions of two completely different people had really allowed a small ray of light to peek into my existence. It wasn't possible. Was it? Denial was a tough pill to swallow. No matter how hard I tried to crawl back into the comfortable dark cave I'd dwelled in for so many years, someone was slowly dragging me out. Dean. He was changing me. He was making me feel. I didn't want to think of him, but he was always there like someone standing just outside your peripheral vision.
Pulling my errant thoughts away, I began to dress for the day. The fact that I had to go to morning classes hampered my wardrobe choices. I eyed my closet critically, pushing the endless array of black t-shirt cluttered hangers to the side, hoping that the perfect outfit would suddenly appear. As a rule, I never wore dresses or skirts, preferring jeans and baggy t-shirts that I could hide behind. Finally, behind a few coats that had never seen the light of day because they were too heavy for our mild winters, I unearthed a long-forgotten dress. My grandma on my dad's side of the family had sent me the dress for Christmas last year. I'd been shocked when the package arrived. My grandparents had been sending me ten dollars for every occasion for as long as I could remember. I'd only seen them a couple of times my entire life since they lived more than halfway across the country in Arizona. They were in their late forties when they had my dad and hated to travel. My mom disliked spending time with them, claiming that their atheist views were not the influence she wanted me around, so visits were sparse to say the least. If they weren't so old, I felt I could relate to them. I envied their normal lives where church didn't consume their every waking moment. Normal. Was anyone really ever normal? Probably not. Life was a sham. Smoke and mirrors hid the dysfunctional lives all of us lived.
I pulled the shift-style dress out and held it up against my slender frame. It would be loose, but at least it would be presentable. Slipping it on over my head, I smoothed it down, liking that it wasn't formfitting. I was far from flat chested, so loose went a long way on taking the focus off my chest. There was a time when I used them as my greatest assets to get what I wanted. At that time, my wardrobe consisted of tight low-cut tank tops and scooped neck shirts. My cleavage was legendary by the time I started seventh grade, and I loved the attention it used to draw. Now I hid it in shame.
Stepping in front of my mirror that was attached to the back of my bedroom door, I studied my reflection critically. The dress didn't look all that bad. It was tan, not black, but I guess I could deal with that for the day. My skin looked paler than normal, and I grimaced looking at it. I may as well be a ghost. That would work well for me. I dragged a brush through my long locks until all the snarls from sleeping were completely gone. Once my hair was tamed the best it was going to get, I added eyeliner and mascara to my eyes, making them stand out against my translucent complexion. A touch of gloss to my lips brought out their natural rosy color better than any cosmetic I could have ordered. Finally, I slipped my favorite beaded bracelets onto my right wrist, which were the only accessories I would wear. I looked in the mirror one last time to find a stranger staring back at me. It had been years since I'd put any kind of effort into my appearance. I knew I looked good, even without anyone telling me. Maybe even beautiful. I had to fight the urge to rip the dress off and scrub my face clean. Beauty was not a gift. Donna said beauty was evil and a powerful tool the devil liked to utilize. Past experience showed me she was right. It was a sin.
***
"Morning," Donna greeted me, not looking up from the newspaper she was perusing while sipping her morning coffee.
"Morning," I said, grabbing my own version of morning caffeine out of the fridge. I watched Donna for several moments as she turned the pages of her newspaper, looking for the arts and entertainment section. I fidgeted in my seat slightly, wondering how to broach the subject, deciding the best approach was to do it fast, like pulling off a Band-Aid.
"Donna," I said tentatively. The word felt foreign on my tongue. I'd lost track of how long it had been since I initiated a conversation. It seemed odd to address her by her given name. Like calling a stranger your "best friend" or a guy you'd never met your "boyfriend."
"Yes, Madison," she said in the even tone I'd given up responding to.
"I was wondering if you could add a cell phone to your account for me," I said, wiping my sweaty palms on the skirt of my dress.
"Do you have money to purchase it?" she asked, folding the paper in half and setting it next to her empty coffee mug.
"Yes," I answered, not surprised by her question. It was decided years ago that if I wanted to act like an adult, then I'd be treated like one. Any money I earned during my mindless summer jobs or that I received on birthdays or Christmas was added to an account set up in my name. Donna would add a deposit to it at the beginning of each school year so I could purchase school clothes and any supplies I might need. With the exception of new shirts, bras and panties, I hadn't touched it. My original plan was to leave it behind when I was gone. It could be considered payment for sins that would never be forgiven.
"Fine. I'll contact my phone provider. You will be responsible for picking it up."
"Okay," I said, taking a shaky breath. In the span of one short conversation we'd exchanged more words than we had all of the previous month.
Donna fell silent after that as we finished our morning preparations. It was only as we were heading out the front door that she initiated yet another conversation.
"Are you attending the funeral?" she asked, taking in my uncharacteristic attire.
"I planned to. How did you find out?" I asked, feeling slightly confused. With the exception of making sure I maintained my C average, Donna steered clear of anything pertaining to my life.
"Your principal sent out a mass email to all the parents encouraging us to make sure we know where our children should be this afternoon."
"That sounds about right," I said, buckling my seatbelt.
"Did you know this boy?" she asked, backing out of the driveway.
"Not really. Does it matter?" I asked, wondering where this strange conversation between us could possibly be going.
"It matters in God's eyes," she said sternly, slowing down to let a car turn out in front of us.
"In God's eyes?" I asked incredulously.
"Suicide is a sin. You know that. By committing this sin, you're forsaking your soul to hell. It is a foolish out for weak people."
"Is hell really any different than this?" I asked, climbing out of the car as soon as she pulled in front of my school.
"If your so-called life is 'hell' as you say, it is no fault but your own. You chose this life," she reminded me.
"I was thirteen," I said, closing the door before she could say anything else. I walked up the main entrance of the school without looking back. The "cross" I had been carrying for the last four years suddenly felt too heavy for me to bear. My surroundings seemed insignificant, and I paid them no mind as I mulled over her words.