Possession

Short story (from my creative writing class)

I watched as Jacques' car pulled out of the garage and onto the road. I rested my elbow on the counter and my chin on my hand. With my mouth open and my tongue, pink and slimy, hanging out, saliva dribbled down my chin, seeping between my fingers. My eyes were tired, red and dry. I hadn't slept well since we moved in, the howls and screams of coyotes and mountain lions in the hills kept me awake at night and echoed in my head during the day. I wasn't used to living next to the forest.

I dried my mouth with the back of my hand and shook off the shiny, wet saliva on my apron. I took a deep breath, stretched my arms toward the ceiling and got to work. I went upstairs, where the bedroom I shared with Jaques and his office were located. I entered the bedroom and made the bed, punched and shaped the cushions, scented the room with a sweet air freshener and turned around.

The office door was closed, rattling in the wind and banging on the frame arrhythmically. I knew I shouldn't open it, Jacques had warned me. His office was his personal space, I had to respect it. If I didn't strictly respect his privacy I offended him, and then he would yell at me.

When we met at a bar in Los Angeles—I was waiting for someone else, a guy who never showed up—Jacques was charming, funny, a little pathetic in his dark suit ('Very New York' I called it at the time). He had told me that his wife no longer loved him, and I believed him.

I went down to the basement. It smelled musty. The wallpaper was peeling off, revealing patches of black mold on the wall. I had begun documenting their growth, marking the progress with little pencil strokes around them. The wallpaper bunnies looked at me with wide eyes, as if they knew something was wrong.

I picked the wallpaper. It was designed by the same man who designed the ones at the Beverly Hills, the hotel where I would meet up with Jacques when we first started dating. He stayed in a huge room overlooking the mountains, the walls were covered in a beige wallpaper with gold flowers embroidered on it. All the decor in the room was in shades of gold—the door knobs, drawers, and cupboards; window borders; lamp feet—but it didn't look cheap.

The first night I stayed with him at the Beverly Hills I sat on the side of the bed that faced a huge window, lit a cigarette and stared out at the hills and valleys, the lights on the houses. I put the cigarette out in an ashtray on the bedside table. It was dirty and full of Marlboro red butts. Jacques smelled of Marlboro reds and maple, of wood and smoke; he smelled of forest fire and looked like Alain Delon, with his bright, sea-blue eyes and tanned skin.

Jacques no longer smelled of fire, no longer smelled of wood and smoke since we got married. He didn't look like Alain Delon anymore, he was greying and getting a beer belly. He drank a lot and shouted even more. Maybe that's why his ex–wife left him.

The office door kept banging on the frame. Bang...bang, bang, bang! and bang...bang, bang! and the dryer was rumbling...rumbling...my temples were throbbing to the rhythm of the banging. Bang...bang, bang! and rum...rumbling I wanted to scream, my mouth wide open, like a hyena or a coyote, showing my sharp teeth as if that would silence the rattling. I kept quiet and went upstairs, I was too tired to scream.

I passed the boy's room again, thought of names. If it was a boy, Wayne; if it was a girl, Ajedrea. Bang...Bang, Bang! I panicked at the sound of the knocking and walked determinedly to the office. The door rattled loudly. Bang, bang, bang! I had to close the window.

Bang...bang, bang! I went to the door.

Bang, bang, bang! I walked to the door. Bang, bang, bang! I put my hand on the knob. Bang, bang, bang! I held it in my hand, it was cold and glowed golden against my skin. I turned it slowly, mesmerized by the howling wind on the other side of the door. I stopped hearing the faint rumble of the dryer for a second and stopped, a second later I heard the beep, pip...pip, pip, pip! of the dryer. I had to go downstairs. The door could wait.