The Moonstruck

The moon was still up. I could see it peeking through the clouds, peeking through the lace curtains of the bedroom window like a ripe lazy eye. That’s how I knew I was up too early.

I peered over my shoulder at Lionus, sleeping soundly as he should be. Watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, catching the occasional twitch in his face, awash with the innocence of sleep, I almost felt peaceful. Almost. Of course, I could still feel the medication trundling along in my blood stream.

You little bastard red pills. You blend in so well with my hemoglobin…

I needed air.

Gently throwing aside the thin sheets, worn with many other sleepless nights, and being careful not to wake Lionus, I went to the window. Maybe at this late hour, I might chance at a breeze.

Taking up my perch on the sill, I swung my right side out into the night. Luna Street ran crooked and gritty beneath me and beyond that the sprawling metropolis, still glittering with plastic light and the red of the stop-and-go cars. I hung over the city and the heat hung over everything, still. Every now and then, the higher Him would have pity on the sinners and breathe a little through the clutter of clouds. I drank in the gentle wind and tried to breathe.

The oppression of the air called yonder times to mind; when the breeze had a bite and spat ice into your face like a proper, frigid bitch. I thought of them, wondered after them. An unhealthy habit of mine. Lionus didn’t like to see me so sore with something he couldn’t fix, something he couldn’t diagnose. Some little nag the pills couldn’t ease.

But that was Lionus. Of course when you slide that low, down into the valley of Death, you get kind of eager to save. Everything. He was like my Superman. My lanky, mellow, ex-heroin junkie Superman.

We’d met at the community center, frequenting group therapy. That was after Year Two. The year everything melted and the wet wax ate up what I knew and left me to flounder and rebuild.

I’d been fine for all of the first year. With the money Bijou had siphoned away, hand delivered by Sam sometime after the night his employers were imprisoned, I’d managed to refurbish flat nine; it was the only place I knew besides the warehouse. But I couldn’t have stayed there. The ghosts would’ve never let me rest.

So I’d gone back to the apartment, less than blissful and pitifully unaware of its own phantoms. I’d patched up the walls, filled the shabby pink rooms with new furniture. I’d even taken a job, one that didn’t require me to roll my skirt and walk the gutters, at a local bookstore. At night, I slept with the windows thrown wide, hoping that the gloom would steal away the stench of blood and old makeup and the restlessness in my little bones. I prayed that I would settle.

What swiftly followed those nights of petition was not salvation. But damnation.

It started with a sweet itch, a brilliance that rang in the pit of my stomach. Nerves and elation. The urge to kiss every corner man, to run away from the wind, to laugh and then to hit. I quickly forgot where I lived, spent long weeks away from home, holding hands with smoky strangers and drinking their liquor, sliding against them in dry, alien sheets. I roamed, a city gypsy, not yet eighteen. This debauchery, this plastic, frightening ecstasy, was Year Two.

I’d never had the passion for being wild. Or the energy. But I embraced this freedom and brushed off the lusty sensations as human nature and shook the dust from my shoes for another night and another night, meandering and crying and singing.

All of my fun was called to an abrupt halt however in the early months of Year Three. An angel found me asleep in a shitty bar, drooling into an ash tray – Sam found me. He took me home to wring the alcohol from my blood and the stench of cigarette smoke from my hair. And while he was at it, checked me into a mental facility for minors. By the end of the first week, I’d been stamped with what I thought then to be a laughable diagnosis: bipolar disorder.

What followed was haze. A perfect blank in my memory, peppered with strange sensory recollections; the scratch of clean bed clothes, the phantom sting of an IV, the sick roiling in my stomach that came with the scent of sanitation.

And then, once more, I was out into the world with my handbag full of little orange bottles. Tablets for the fits of glee and tablets to stop the tears. And the swings came often but with less violence. With the pills, the doctors prescribed human contact of the affable nature and suggested I attend nightly group therapy sessions. And it was there I found my ultimate cure: Lionus.

As he crossed my mind, I turned my gaze from the city to look at him. The moon had swung her beam to illuminate his face and he stirred beneath her silver smile. The covers fell away from his skinny arms and in the hoary light, I could see the scars.

He’d cleaved the habit from his soul some months before he met me. I knew little else, but that was bloody fine; I’d welcome his ugly when he was ready to give it. Just as I had yet to tell him of my past profession. He still shook with the need, still tore at the crook of his arms until the skin beneath his fingernails was cakey with blood.

But I loved him. And he loved me. We were drawn to each by our need for safe haven. His melodious disposition calmed my highs when the medication couldn’t. And when he was running hot, I was low enough to keep him away from Judas.

Catching the faint licks of a breeze, I turned back to the night, closing my eyes and letting the moonlight eclipse my face. The scent of ash and summer rain hung heavy on the air. And something more, something chemical. Like gasoline…

“Making your escape?”

I tensed, starting slightly, feeling warm fingers at my side. Turning, I found Lionus, sleepy and bathed in milky light. He smiled hazily, the edges of his eyes crinkling in that tender way I loved.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I returned, reaching up to tuck an oily curl of hair behind his ear.

He held my hand to his face, relishing the cool of my palm. “Evidently. You shouldn’t be up.” His eyes sharpened suddenly, fixed on my own. “Not feeling restless are you?”

I shook my head and swung my other half back through the window, a meager bit of wind breathing across the back of my neck. I didn’t want to talk about the pills or how I felt, but I couldn’t blame Lionus for being anxious. The pair of us suffered the worst when I was manic. All I wanted to do was run away and make love. But my jittery, shouting bouts reminded him of Judas and it always struck up his need. A delicious vicious cycle.

Glancing about the bedroom, I caught the time on the bedside table. Nearly six. “Go and put the coffee on,” I murmured, not looking at him, not wanting to see that worry in his sweet face.

He held my hand for a moment more and I felt his mouth twitch beneath my fingers. “Might as well,” he sighed and moved away, shuffling out into the hall and then into the kitchen.

I watched him through the doorway as he shambled from pantry to counter to sink and then back again. It surprised me how gracefully he fell into routine. And out of it. From needles and little bags of snow to coffee pots and dust pans. And pills. He liked to count them out, line them up on the counter like little red soldiers, ready to stifle me. It gave him reason to take care of me. It made him feel as though he could make up for all the destruction of his past.

“I’m going to see them today,” I called from my perch in the window, my voice cracking with sleep.

Lionus only glanced up from spooning the coffee grinds into the paper filter. It was a pointed look. Of displeasure. He knew very well who I meant and did not like me paying visits to whom I often referenced as my parents.

It wasn’t their criminality he didn’t liken to; he simply thought they were bad for me. As though they were the cause of all my bad behavior; not the crookedness of my brain.

I ignored his sourness and swayed on the windowsill, tempting my grip to give way and throw me into the early morning. Soon the flat was warm with the smell of wet grinds and I shambled to the source, my teeth dry and my tongue enticed.

Settling at the table, I watched Lionus prepare the coffee. A spot of milk in my mug, three lumps of sugar in his. He dropped the spoon into the sink with a clatter and took the seat opposite mine. The bitter look had gone from his face and he managed a groggy smile. We didn’t talk as we sipped our coffee. We watched the moon roll out of the sky like a giant white marble. We watched the sun rise on Monday morning.

~~~~

I was greeted with the hiss of an iron as I stepped from the bathroom, water dripping from my fringe and running down my face like copper-flavored tears. Lionus was at the ironing board on the far side of the bedroom, running the machine along the length of a lavender sleeve; my favorite shirt of his.

Lionus worked in the city as an ad man. He had steady hands that were good for sketching brisk, gritty pictures of slanting figures and quick lines. When he moved in, so did his work; it huddled to the walls, hung by thumb tacks and loose bits of masking tape. I smiled at them now as I padded into the bedroom. The pages had begun to sweat and curl with the heat, but the thick black lines and occasional mark of color shone brightly in the morning sun.

They inspired me. One day, my own art would hang proudly beside them. One day…

“Have lunch with me today,” said Lionus suddenly, pulling his shirt off the board and shrugging into it.

It sounded more like a command then a question but I nodded just the same, approaching the bureau for some clean under things. My visit wouldn’t take long; the security at the asylum made sure it wouldn’t.

His dress shoes snapped against the floorboards as he moved toward me. “At the café then, across the street from the office?”

I nodded and felt his lips give a quick peck at the curve of my neck. I turned and adjusted his tie, like a proper housewife, returning his kiss with another.

“See you then,” I murmured and he made for the hallway, snatching up the portfolio from his desk in the corner.

He paused in the doorway, looking back at me. “Love you.”

I smiled, blinking as a droplet of water fell to my cheek. “Love you, too.”

And then, with a final glance about the room, catching that the iron was on, he darted back across the room to unplug it. He grinned sheepishly, shrugging, and then hurried from the room, his shoes clacking merrily.

The slam of the door behind him echoed in the quiet. I stood there for a moment, listening to the flat settle, hating that I was alone again with all the dust and the heat. But I proceeded to dry and dress, humming to myself to ward off any haunts. I wondered after Ms. Kitty, who I’d more or less inherited, and yearned for her oddly comforting, if not all together ostentatious, company.

I was out of the door by eight, an apple in my bag and my hair in a frizzy knot upon my head. Fiddling with the lock and key, I flinched, overhearing a brutal shouting match from across the hall.

The neighbors. The only other young couple in the entire complex. I didn’t know much about them and hadn’t seen them but once or twice. I just knew they liked to yell. And have a lot of sex.

My lock gave an affirmative click and I was shoving the key into the back pocket of my jeans when the door opposite my own slammed open. I whipped my head around, frozen, my eyes wide.

A fellow stood in the doorway, in a wife beater and black slacks. A cigarette hung from between his thick lips and a white jacket was slung over his shoulder, its brass buttons glinting maliciously in the green fluorescence of the hallway. He shot me an ugly scowl and stomped off, not bothering to shut the door to flat ten behind him.

“And don’t come back, Stanley Motte, without a paycheck!” A woman then slung herself against the door jam, shaking her middle finger at the man’s back. She paused, fixing her face with a glare, and added, “And some cigarettes!”

She was falling out of her robe, the tattered silk falling away to reveal her nymphet figure clad in nothing but underwear. I threw my eyes to the floor, embarrassed to be caught in the middle of this domestic verbal brawl. It was then she noticed me.

“Oh,” she chirped and straightened up, tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. I looked back to her and her red lips curled into a grin.

“I’m sorry about that,” she chuckled, shrugging one shoulder and adjusting her robe, “My husband and I were having, uh….um, a disagreement.”

I managed a weak smile. “It’s fine.” I made to move down the hall when she swung out and caught my arm. I tensed at her informality but she didn’t seem to catch the gesture.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a cat, would you?”

The question threw me. I blinked. “Yes. Yes, I would.”

Her smile twisted into something like a knowing smirk. “Hmph. That so?” And without another word, her grip tightened on my arm and with one hearty tug, she pulled me into her apartment.

I yelped, stumbling over the shitty carpeting, the strap of my bag cutting into the crook of my neck. The woman paid me no mind and bade me to wait just a moment. I watched, quite dumb-founded, as she bustled off into another room of her flat, the scarlet silk of her robe flashing like the plumes of some brilliant bird.

Glancing around, I felt the rush of déjà vu. The place much resembled my own, with cheap lacquered walls of chipping paint and dusty, lace-hung curtains. I peered into the kitchen to find the familiar scene of catastrophe. Glass was smiling up from the cracks in the floor and there was red smeared across the floorboards, in hurried smudges and flecks. I wondered idly who’d been bleeding…

“I managed to catch her just this morning,” announced the woman, appearing in the doorway through which she had disappeared a moment earlier. There was glee on her face and she had my cat nestled in her arms, scratching behind her black ears with long ruby fingernails. “She’s been yowling at our window for some time now.”

I moved to meet her halfway, narrowly trampling an empty beer can in the process, and she awkwardly handed the animal over. It clung to my shirt and mewed angrily. I smiled. Just like her previous owner, she didn’t like to be handled.

The pair of us stood there for a moment, this odd, loud woman and I, staring at each other. There was something regal in her features, something androgynous, as though she could rightly love everything. I rather liked her nose and the sensuality of her sleepy eyes, which seemed to hold the green memory of a thousand sleazy nights and a million blushing jokes.

“Well,” I murmured finally, breaking the silence and throwing my gaze around the room, “I should go. Don’t want to be late for work. Thanks for…” I gave the cat a light squeeze and she chirped.

The woman nodded, her head titled slightly to the side, one hand cocked on her hip – a stance that struck a note of melancholy in my heart. I turned toward the door, not wanting this stranger to catch the shadow crossing my face.

“I didn’t catch your name, doll.”

I paused, in the open doorway, once more taken back by her openness. I peered over my shoulder, peeking through my fringe.

“Maude.”

She smiled and wiggled her red-tipped fingers at me in farewell. “I’m Marie. And that lug you met in the hallway is Stanley, my husband.”

I managed a weak grin. “Nice to meet you.”

Her smile only widened, in an almost sinister way, her lips curling back across her teeth, stained yellow with cigarettes. Lucky Strikes. I could smell them.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” she murmured.

I took a tentative step out into the hall, still looking back at her, Ms. Kitty squirming in my grip. This woman made me nervous. Made the cat nervous too. I felt the way I had when I first met Bijou – the sensation of a mesmeric character.

“Bye,” I mumbled stupidly and lurched into the hallway, pretending to check my watch. And I blushed as I trundled away, hearing her giggle and bid me adieu.

“See you round, neighbor.”