WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) (54 page)

Two murders. Two memories permanently etched in my brain—
both with spilled blood
. 
Both a sacrifice. Both food. One for the body—one for the soul. One coop killing’ and one Calvary Crucifixion.
 That night, inside my room, inside the house, inside me, I prayed to the Marie Antoinette God as I’ve never prayed before.

“God, give me a new heart. I mean, make more of them if you have too. I hear you're good at that kind of thing. You know, hire extra Rectors, those angels Maw Sue talks of, whatever it takes. I think I’m beginning to understand this stuff, you know? There is something bad in me and I can’t stop it, no matter how hard I try. I need a new heart. Maybe that will help. Take the bad heart away, okay? And please, please take the headless chickens away too. In fact, just cut that limb clean off the ancestral tree. I hear you can do anything, so pleasssseeee, give me a new heart. Make me a new creature. Bless the Lord. Amen.”

Willodean?

Running, running, running. It’s seems that’s all I’ve ever done. 
Until now.  Everything and I mean, everything has
caught up to me and it doesn’t politely walk up and say, “Hello—have you missed me?” It violently crashes into me without warning, knocks me down, takes my breath and then sticks like glue. It screams, “Work it out. Fix me. Deal with it Willodean, deal with it.”

After a hellish month of mind ramblings, little girl sightings, concrete angels, strawberry gardens, white kites, murders, headless chickens, Dresden’s, president’s and off the chart voices in my head, I’m just waiting for the shit a
pocalypse and I should be good, that is, good enough to be locked away. 
The last session with Doc like to have killed me
but here I am still alive, pained but still alive. 
Dealing.
I have another appointment today and if she doesn’t commit me, I’d be shocked. 

Doc greets me as usual.
I follow her in, and close the door as usual, but as soon as I turn, I feel the attack.  Last week it was Gardenia’s, today its
red roses. I smell pennies and I feel a palpable resistance of an enemy I haven’t felt since childhood. My vision is altered, skewed. Sweat excretes from my pores. The red petals sit viciously inside the Mason jar in the middle of the bay window, exactly where the crystal vase was last time. 
Why would Doc use a Mason jar? After I told her of my stories, my fears of them, the stories behind them?
 

There is no sun gleaming in from outside, only a dark overcast of clouds, mist and fog. The clear jar draw
s me to it like a snake charmer.  In
side the house, inside me, in the Mason room, the petal people rise up and talk to me, corpses from the grave reminding me of gifts, curses, hexes and potions.
For the first time, I recognize their clothing, an assortment of eras, different generations, all Cupitor families.  I remember Maw Sue said the ancestral line went back at least eight generations that she could trace, if not more. I can’t
take my eyes off
it. 
Without touching, I can feel the sharp slic
e of thorns which allows me to feel their feelings, their pain. 

“Willodean. Willodean. Willodean.” They say. 
Pitches, tones and various voices.
 “Come to us. Come.” I am scared.
I am overwhelmed with their pain which mixes with mine. 
I don’t want to go to the Mason room where the petal people are, bodies long dead and gone, yet inside the house, inside the room, inside me, they are evermore alive. In my room, they come to life as wilted roses, talking, whispering and moaning their insidious words. I am cursed with their voices, their blood running through my veins, their stories, legends and tales pricking my heart, and laboring my
soul. They are my ancestors, yet I don’t know them, they are long, long before my time, but yet they still talk, whisper, scream and it drives me insane. 

“Willodean, are you okay?” They say. 
They’ve
never asked me that before. 
Why are they concerned?

“What has happened Willodean? Tell me.”

I rea
lize it’s not the petal people concerned, it’s Doc.  When she touched me on the arm, I jump out of my skin, startled. 

“I—I’mm...” I
said mumbling incoherently.  I twist around, confused and then feel the edge of the couch where I always sit, so I make my way around it.  I sit down, unstable, still caught up with sights and sounds, so I grab my sidekick pillow and squeeze it with both arms around my chest. 
I fight the smells, the sounds, the voices trying to take me, and pull me into their bag of pennies, Mason jar nightmare.

“Willodean. What is it? Do you need some water? Are you alright?”

“No. No—thank you.” I said wiping the sweat from my forehead
and gathering my wits about me. 
Stop it Willodean. You are a pugnator, remember, fighter…now fight. Show yourself worthy of being a Cupitor. Do it. Now.
 More voices. More struggles.

“I’m fine.” I say trying to be convincing. I don’t think I can fool Doc. She reads me well, too well at times. “Just tired I think, I mean, not fine, I just...” 
How do I explain this?

“It’s okay.” Doc said. 
“Just take a few breaths. Take your time. Lay back and close your eyes for a minute.” She gets up and gentle guides me back to the cushion, my head falling like heavy rocks. I take deep breathes and close my eyes. I fell into a zone past the dark places that held me. I am inside the house. Doors slammed, locks clicked shut. 
Make your bed. Live the lie.
 
Punishment of my own sins. Pay the piper. Tick-tock.
 I screamed, wept and railed but Doc couldn’t hear me. 
I’m a pugnator! I’m a fighter! Let me out!
 I beat on the door but no one hears me. I see eyes staring back at me and a disgusted grin. A scent of whiskey and menthol rises up. 
Branson?
 My skin pricks with flight or fight and I don’t know what to do.
He’s here.  He’s there, he’s practically everywhere. 
Tacked up on the walls, picture after picture, imprints and images of him, a collage of Branson wallpaper, wall to wall, ceiling, doors, floor. I looked down at my feet and I'm standing on his shoulders. I jump to the side and land on his back, then again, on his eyes, his chest. My knuckles were raw and dripping blood
from beating on the door to get out.  I turn and the blood drips downward
onto his pecks in a tattoo of dots that spell out
Unlovable
. It reminds me of the paddle talk I had as a child.
Red lettered prophecies
. 
I skittered across the floor like hopscotch, on his cheek, then his head, his leg, until there was nowhere to step that 
he
 wasn’t there. My head sung the Hotel California song by the Eagles, the verse, “You can check out anytime you like…but you can never leave.” My marriage was like that. I had checked out or tried to, time and time again…but never left. 
Why? Why couldn’t I leave? I’m gone, we’re over, yet I’m still here.
 I glanced around the room. Wallpaper Branson, wallpaper everywhere. My emotions went wild and I desired him again, or maybe it never left me but I couldn’t help but go to the wall, and reminisce, touching my hand across the grooves of his face, his ears, his nose, down his neck, yearning for the love I never got, then getting angry and wanting to wrap my hands around his neck, strangle him, make him pay, punish him for making me hurt so bad. I was shaking so hard I could barely stand. Side to side, limb to limb, wallpaper Branson. 
Remembering. Hurting.
I screamed like I had never screamed before. An anima
l had clawed its way out of me and it was not going to be silenced. 
The yell spiraled around the room hitting Branson like a boomerang time and time again, with nowhere to land. When I could shout no longer, I collapsed onto the floor right onto Branson’s side.
Instead of embracing me, he turned his back, as usual. 
I tried to erase the madness
. I tried to talk with Willodean, the hopeful with a hope chest Willodean, the never gonna amount to nothing Willodean.
 I vented. I raged. I hated him. I loved him. 
Why? Why was everything about him?
My life was always about him. What he did to me, or didn’t do, the hurt I couldn’t stop, the pain of wishing I was dead. His problems, his issues, why he drank, why he was unavailable, why he couldn’t love me the way I needed to be loved, why he cheated with women, why I wasn’t good enough, 
why, why, why, him, him, him
. This enormous responsible for him, his feelings, his happiness, his anger and his sexual needs—every single erratic behavior he bore in me, was attached to me.
Still attached and alive within me.  It didn’t matter that
I hated the way he chewed his food, smacked like a pig, snored at night, or talked ugly to others for no reason. I hated the way he drank beer, four large sips right off the bat, followed by a loud, obnoxious gasp, then a burp. Or how he wanted sex when he was drunk and how horrible it was, the alcohol smell reeking from his pores, spilling out in his semen.
Duty, hope chests, responsibility.
 But mostly, I hated the way he looked at me with those cold, uncaring eyes—like I was a gnat to be swatted or the way his lips turned upwards in disgust as if I was the reason for every filthy thing in the world.

“Willodean.” He said.
I lost my breath. 
Branson
was speaking inside the room, his voice a million echoes.  I flew into a rage. 

“What? What do you want?”
I couldn’t believe he had the gall to talk to me inside my own house.  I mean, he has his own room, for God sakes, and why?
How did he get in
here to begin with? His collage of images, wallpapered door to ceiling, floor to corner stir things in me, as I watch.  Thoughts ravage me and
I acte
d out a long, terrifying scream. 
Behind me
a door slams. 
I tu
rn quickly to face the Bastard but it’s not Branson, its Doc. 

“Doc? How did you get in here?”
At this point, I’m not sure Doc is real, or if any of this is real. 

“You let me in Willodean.” Doc says. “I am extremely surprised. You have never once, not once, let anyone inside your house. This is a great step towards healing.”

“
I did?” I looked at her puzzled.  It scared me because I don’t remember letting her in. 

“It’s okay to be upset Willodean but you’re in a safe zone to confront him now.  And I am here to guide you. 
You are not alone.” Doc said holding her clicking pen and my huge encyclopedia file. I was lost in two parallel worlds. The one in her office and the one inside my house. A chair suddenly appeared in the middle of the room. Doc sat down.

“Okay, Willodean. What about you?” H
er voice was soft and delicate like a wind slap on my cheek. 
“This isn’t about Branson.”
Click, click, click
. 
Her finger presses the pen and with the noise, Wallpaper Branson grows irritated and mad, so he drinks beer and slams the wall.
My body fills with old fear and shudders. 
I’m next. I know I’m next.
The hell clock tick and tocks and turns into pen clicks. I want to flee, remove myself.

“This is about you
Willodean.” Doc says. “This is 
your
 session. Are you paying me to talk about 
him
?” She points to the wallpaper. “Help him or help you? Branson is a part of your life and yes, you will never completely erase the memories but you can rise from them and make yourself better BECAUSE of them. Use this part of your life as a lesson Willodean. Learn from it or you will repeat it in the future with someone just like him and God knows you don’t want that.
Whatever dark is in you—defect or damage, you name it, whatever it is, made him attractive to you.  You must find that, heal it, deal with it,
learn from it and move forward. Be better because of it.”

“Forward!” George screamed in revolt.
The petal people rose up and marched.  They chanted a long list of stories, tales, and haunts. 
Focus Willodean, focus.
My head spins. Branson wallpaper yells
and spits out critical words. 

“You created this room inside yourself.” Doc says. “You live here. I am but a visitor. I can leave anytime…but you can’t, not until you deal with it.
You made this Branson room—and only you can tear it down. 
I can help you but I can’t stop you from returning. It begins by confronting. It is NOT about him, Willodean. 
It’s about you.
 It begins and ends with you! Now…HOW DO YOU FEEL?”