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Why are doctors, specialist—anyone in the medical field, really, so highly regarded? They lie for money, like, the entire government. Aren’t they all criminals? Therapists, psychologists—all of them. They don’t solve problems, because people still die rapidly, and crazy people still roam. Who do these people save? What do they prevent? Certainly not suicide victims like my father. I wanted to ask him those questions, but Mr. Roland didn’t know, and that’s me assuming he cared. His major worries in life centered on his coaching job. Instead of a thorough discussion, the car ride to his mansion was silent and uninformative.

Take my mind off the stress; take my mind off the stress! Please-please-please! She knows, why isn’t she distracting me? Don’t act like your dad! My silent plea gained an answer when she suddenly shouted, which greatly displayed her new, purple braces.

“Mosquito, swag-swag, fish—MosquitoSwagSwagFish!” Addison giggled, and then rolled off the edge of her bed onto the floor, laughing hysterically. “Things I learn when I miss one day of school!”

“And that’s the name of . . . what?” I questioned with one raised eyebrow, gently laughing.

“Derrick’s gamertag,” she said, then grabbed my left hand and led me into her brother’s room down the hallway, “there’s more—much more!” Her excitement had me nervous.

“He keeps the hand written notes of all the girls he talks to during class; the guy can’t text secretly!” Addison said as she abandoned me in the middle of his spacious room; which made me feel awkward, because I’ve only met Derrick, like, twice. “The real-real gushy ones he hides in the top corner of his closet, underneath stinky clothes: wish my hands luck!” She stood atop a stack of shoe boxes to reach his closet while I circled the room. Band posters of Maroon 5 littered all four walls; an iMac on a crammed wooden desk caught my attention, because stickers of racy women were plastered on it. The bed and floor all contained baseball stuff: gloves, bats, and hats.

“Addison, hurry!” I forcefully said, with the hope to rush her, as I kept watch at the door.

“You look worried, but I believe action rives stress! And remember MosquitoSwagSwagFish!” Her soft, girly smile (more girly than mine), eased my tension, I laughed. “Alright, I got them, the gushy, gooey ones.” She waived a mysterious handful of rainbow colored papers before she lost balance and her butt met the floor, loudly. That prompted her father to yell upstairs and check in on us. A former basketball player, I’m sure the noise her butt made didn’t have to travel far with his height. And of course, we lied saying we didn’t leave Addison’s room. Though, that lie didn’t hold weight when he heard scattering footsteps leading from one room to another.

“Your brother is . . . ew. And to all those girls? More ew!” I said. My mouth felt nasty, gritty after I read all of the things he’s done with random girls. Addison didn’t help when she added, “He licks it too!” I was thoroughly engaged over his “love letters” when Addison questioned me saying, “Are you afraid? Tomorrow is your first birthday without him, fourteen years of—”

“—Addison,” I interrupted her while I scanned over an interesting section of Derrick’s notes, “you distracted me well enough; we don’t have to talk about it.” She swiftly agreed, and wished me a happy birthday.

A movie and one hour of homework rounded out our afternoon. Mr. Roland yelled upstairs and reminded us of the time: my time to return home. As I left Addison’s room, she told me she’d keep her fingers crossed for me. Her concern briefly reassured me. I didn’t anticipate my action that dreadful evening.

There was no car in our driveway, or any near our mansion. Inside his truck Mr. Roland and I looked at each other puzzled. “I’ll wait until you get in,” his kind words. But with minutes of me ringing the doorbell, a once puzzled look transformed into a worrisome face. From his vehicle, Mr. Roland yelled, with concern in his pitch, a side of him the man hid well, “She said six-thirty, correct?” My grin reassured him, then I said, “She fumbles her words, and that’s why I keep a spare.” Looking around and making sure my mother wasn’t already outside, he said, “Well, I’ll still wait until you get inside.” Once indoors, I flashed the porch light three times, signaling my safety. Inside was always eerily quiet—good news. I turned on most of the downstairs lights, everything was the same as the morning—bad news. Was mother here? Upstairs I decided to end my fear after all, but before I knocked on mother’s door, I heard faint muttering. With my left ear firmly pressed against the wooden door and palms sweaty, the first voice I recognized was mother’s therapist, Dr. Kellen. He asked her a series of questions; the same questions I asked her, but I didn’t get paid for my service. She responded to them in low, monotone form. When I entered the room, she was sleep on the floor. Bottles (of who knows what) on the nightstand, with the lights off. The hallway light shown everything I needed. I walked closer to her and discovered the noise came from a tiny, gray, and outdated tape recorder by her feet. She left it on repeat. Next I wrapped my unsupportive mother in her favorite fur bed cover, chinchilla, and sought to leave, my fear seemed delayed. On my way out, his questions stopped, and he announced a reading. The journal of some kind, left by my father. Although it wasn’t in my father’s voice; I froze in place from what I heard, and I remembered his word so amply.

“‘Markus! Markus! Your showing in a nutshell: marvelous, splendid, and grandeur!’ Ten words I grew tired of hearing. My former designer, Nolan Durmont, repeated that statement after every one of my fashion shows. Though, during my last show in L. A., I barely noticed him. Every well-known and respected: model, actor, singer, and artist, threw their praise to me in harmony. I knew good comments were a good thing, however; wouldn’t a person attain annoyance from hearing the same congratulations—verbatim? I knew my designs were nice—no, beyond nice, splendiferous. I must’ve been in the wrong field, because when I received good feedback on my work, I didn’t take it as a good compliment. I took it as someone spewing hot, malodorous, coffee breath in my face. But those feelings occurred when I became lead creative designer for Lui-chellà. Mere thoughts of the position came with pressure. Nerve racking said the least about it. By the same token, working for Lui-chellà—a dream job for any fashion designer, and lead creative designer rivaled being tenured with divine powers. Everything I said, for the most part, came to past. Instead of the public setting trends, I set them, I made models famous, and designers envious. It rose to a level where I could’ve proclaimed, ‘Who wouldn’t want to be me? I. I wouldn’t want to be “Markus May,” or should I say . . . “don’t.”’

Three weeks after my L. A. show was Miranda’s birthday party. She gifted all my joy, simply by being herself. Beyond my feelings, hints of Nolan’s changing attitude emerged as I prepared for her party.

‘I’m almost ready. Call Miranda and tell her we’ll definitely arrive late,’ I heard various voices and noises on and off, ‘your soap opera doesn’t come on this late, buddy.’ I joked.

‘I’m just trying to understand the bewilderment of “reality” television. But sure pal, you know she won’t like it.’ Not exactly ten words, but nevertheless; words from Nolan I grew tired of hearing. Admittedly, alighted hours late to your girlfriend’s, soon to be fiancé, birthday party constituted a failure. Especially if one considered the facts that I: planned, paid, and did everything for it.

‘Nolan, how was I able to prevent a car from hitting Lily—tell me—huh? Thankfully, only one of her legs broke. Plus, it happened across town . . . and—you know what happened.’ I said flustered as my hands and neck wrestled with an inanimate monstrosity called a ‘bow tie.’ Fashion designers can’t command clothing.

‘I hear you Mr. May.’

I exhaled, ‘It’s not like people pray for stuff like this to happen,’ admitting my defeat, I tossed the peach colored beast into the bathroom sink, ‘definitely an unfortunate turn of events.’

‘Devil’s advocate, Markus,’ he cleared his throat as if he prepared to give his inaugural address, ‘did she really need to undertake that last minute promotion for Lui-chellà’s new perfume?’

‘—What?’ I apace rebutted his outrageous claim, with slight anger.

‘—No, let me finish. Mind you, a perfume that needed to get the “okay” from you.’

‘Really? You mention this now? That’s a conversation for a different time, and you still haven’t called Miranda!’ I heard his deep sigh from the bathroom. And I think he murmured, ‘He doesn’t understand.’ Yeah, I knew I wasn’t in fault for what happened to my model. Strangely enough, I felt as though I caused her accident by being famous, and head of the most excellent fashion house in history.

When I exited the bathroom, Nolan’s lively personality made the spacious suite empty. He stood near the door, with a pestered look on his face. ‘Your wine glass is on the bar, I’ll be outside.’ I sharply joked, ‘I could’ve sworn you were a better friend than that, you know—’ The door slammed, and in complete confusion by his action; I felt awkward, yet compelled to finish my sentence: ‘I wouldn’t drink red wine on white carpet. . . .’

Miranda’s party was—”

Mother’s voice interrupted her therapist, “That’s enough; I’m done for the day! I’m done hearing about that woman!” Her reaction was the liveliest I’ve heard from her in months. She sniffled through as she talked about her feelings. I believe Dr. Kellen read slowly to make the words hurt even more, but she deserved it. After hearing the awakening groans of mother, I instantly jolted to my room. My unforgiving footsteps fully awakened her. The nightstand shook, the bottles fell on the wooden floor, and mother injured her head, and then made her way to my room.

“What did you hear?” She moaned in my doorway, her purple day dress poorly fitted her enfeebled body frame. Supine in my bed, I said nothing. “What did you hear? My sessions are confidential!” The berserk woman rushed to my bedside and finger drilled my forehead, she spat as she yelled, “And if your little friends find out, I promise—I swear, Jillian, you will never see the end of my rage!” Her breath, scorching, smelled of rotten pineapples and alcohol, then her long and “fancy” manicured nails began to cut. Blood trickled down to my mouth, chin, and clothes. Disgusted and scared of her, I knew to clean myself in the downstairs bathroom. The upstairs bathroom would’ve created no distance between us. I shoved her to generate space; she trailed me, screaming nonsense, close as my shadow all the way to the staircase. Mother attempted to grasp my jacket (designed by my father); I jerked and maneuvered out of it, then she, along with my garment, tumbled down the abundant stairwell, strongly. Echoing thud after echoing thud my soul lightened. Besides, it was she who wanted the mansion with the spiraling staircase.

However, that wasn’t my egregious action; or the fact that I didn’t call the ambulance for help — I called no one.

I grinned and liked her contorted, motionless body.

Bio: I’m a fashion designer by trade, but I thoroughly enjoy writing—my second passion, after fashion. I have a blog on Wordpress, shamonrf. I also have a Twitter, @FordShamon. In the very near future, I plan to release a series of eBooks. Furthermore, I enjoy writing in different genres, with the end result to overall increase my writing skills. Thanks in advance.


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