Would You Bargain With Hell?

But I wouldn’t do that to everyone. The scent of vanilla became abundant, and I walked to my newly acquired window and just looked. There was a large willow tree just out of reach. Had my arms been four inches longer I could stroke its branches. The tree swung in the wind, strings of its green life fleeing their homes and flittering about the air.

I grew to envy everything, even the tree. The tree held no pity for me. And I had fallen into this pattern, where I seemed to be happy, and then as if the happiness was the plague I would forget about it and leave it behind. Because I’m that statistic, that girl that people sing about and hope no one realizes that she’s real. That girl that fucked everyone over for so long she can’t feel happiness. That girl that lost her parents, and her friend(s). That self-pitying excuse for a soul that people cared about way too much.

And I must be addicted to the pain, because I always came back to it. And it was all a façade, I had never been happy. Not this whole time. No amount of fantastical decorum or material good would really win my heart. Somehow, some odd months ago, my brain shut off, and I took on a role. So I was never happy, I was just such a good actor, I fooled even myself. There was one way I could figure to fix anything.

“Patrick,” I had waited an efficient enough time, thus my voice wasn’t hoarse or sallow.

“Hey, babe, what’s going on?”

“Uhm, so tomorrow, are you busy?”

“Never too busy for you.”

So I smiled, and carried the memorabilia off of the floor, pressing my phone on my shoulder. “Well, around nine can you meet me at the bridge?”

“Yeah, in the morning or night?”

“Night.”

“Okay.” His voice wasn’t even skeptical anymore.

“That’s all, bye.”

I didn’t wait for his reply before I went into my night routine, around noon. I brushed and braided my hair, cleaned my face, did up my teeth and changed. I closed my curtains and lay down in my bed. I made my decisions, and I would live with them, if I couldn’t repair them.

I slept for a solid twenty-four hours and when I went downstairs everyone was gone.
One of the maids looked at me, almost disappointed though I couldn’t fathom why. I recalled her, helping me a while back telling me that everything was okay, and this unspoken poem in her eyes seemed to apologies ‘I’m sorry I lied’.

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Yes, Madame Tamerlane?” She drew up her broom and smiled.

“Where is everyone at?”

“Miss Grace had an appointment with the baby doctor, everyone tagged along, is there something I could help you with?” Her hair was done up in a cap and her makeup was subtle, if she bore any.
“Would you mind calling me a cab?” I asked, sliding flats onto my feet.

“I could call your driver?” She reminded.

“Rather a cab, please.”

She nodded questioningly and retreated back to the kitchen. I paged through an old family album. There was a photo of Grace after having the triplets, she was crying holding two of the babies while the doctor smiled and held the other. Then some of the Tamerlane’s wedding photographs. Then a photo, I didn’t recall being a part of. Outside of Greg’s orphanage, my little hands in theirs. I remember being thirteen; adoption was rare for my age. I didn’t expect it.

I detected Greg’s face in the background, with a look at the time was a solemn happiness, but in my wiser state recognized as regret. I set the album back and tilted it to the proper angle. I saw the maid hang up the phone and nod. He smile was phony, but I couldn’t detect the emotion behind it. I nodded in response and jogged up to put on proper clothes. I was still comfortable in the jeans although these name brands were tighter and had more bling than I would ever purchase for myself. Then a button up loose striped shirt. Casual enough for me and nice enough for my friends and family.

I unbraided my hair and watched the waves cascade to just below my armpit. I left my face nude; there weren’t any gross zits of imperfections. So I ran back downstairs and rummaged back through the photos.

I heard the maid clicking my way, she entered the living room smiling, and “Your cab is here Mrs. Tamerlane.” She curtsied, lifting the hem of her dress.

“Thank you.” I smiled and pushed the large door open.

It was blindingly bright out, being near five or so in the afternoon. The cab sat about four meters away. The trees that lined the Tamerlane residence were tall and healthy. They swayed in unison. I pulled open the cab door and slid in.

“Where to?” The cabby asked hitting the clock on his dash.

“Saint George’s Cemetery.”

He nodded and drove. He had the radio set on America’s top one-hundred. The songs I was familiar with but too indistinctive to call by name. The ride was dull. Often I caught the drive looking at me in his rear-view mirror. He pulled up along the open gate. I reached into my pocket.

“No, no, Miss Tamerlane, it’s on me.” He smiled, showing two caramel coloured dimples.

“It’s really quite alright,” I searched for his name tag “Daryl, How much?”

“It’s on the house miss, really, when should I be here to pick you up?”

“Actually, how far is the memorial or whatever bridge from here?”

“The saint bridge? It’s up a couple miles.” He pointed up the road north.

“I’ll walk, thank you.” I got out and waved goodbye.

The gates to the cemetery were supported by two intimidating stone columns on top of which perched saints. The gates were tied to remain open. I searched through the maze of tombstones, and saw one in the row of newer plots. The only one without a single flower.

How depressing, to be the only gravestone without any though.

“Hi Greg.” I touched his barren marble plaque.

“I’ve been thinking really hard, about what you would want me to do. About my situation. And I know, you would want me to be honest. I will. But I just don’t know what’s going to happen after that. I do love them. Both of them. And god I don’t want my life to be a cliché. But I’m over the self-pity. I’m over feeling bad for myself. But most of all I’m over conforming. I know that seems like it negates my previous statement, but what I mean is, I’m done being a Tamerlane. My name is Rayder Daisy Abbot and I’m proud of that.” I assured myself.

I nodded wiping some grass off of the stone. “And, Greg, don’t blame yourself for anything you know? I don’t. I love you, and it is okay. Rest in peace.” I smiled, swallowing my emotions like water through a dry throat.

I went around the graveyard for about an hour, reading all the names and epitaphs, it was funny some of the things people wanted said about them for the rest of their lives. When I noticed the sun begin to dim I headed north. It was chilly, but not too chilly. I watched my feet as I walked and saw the bridge in the distance. No one was there yet, and for all I know I was hours early. The sun was certainly a tease sometimes.

I settled with the fact that I was alone and so I sat cross-legged on the middle of the bridge. I thought about what use the bridge was. It didn’t allow cars, or trains. It wasn’t a draw bridge. Maybe, they built it just to give people a place to jump off of. Just to give people an escape. But society would never be that understanding.

“Rayder!” Someone beckoned. I closed my eyes tightly. “Hey!” The voice was getting closer. It had an accent.

“Rayder?” The voice was beside me.

I opened my eyes cautiously. “Hi!” I stood and wrapped my arms around his neck kissing him. He held me tightly.

He still held me but pulled back so he could see my face. “Are you okay Rayder?”

“Better than I’ve been in a while actually.” I smiled and he smiled too.

“Excuse me.” I turned quickly, inadvertently pushing Patrick aside.

I felt my heart fight against my chest and I swallowed hard. My voice broke, “Mason.”