I Saw The Shadow
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Raunchy shit. Unrequited love. Sporadic acts of violence.
Stella had no more concept of fidelity than a cat in heat. If I wasn't around, she'd find someone else. That was our arrangement. I didn't like it, but I lived with it.
Besides, at the time, we weren't really dating exactly. I had no claim to her, nor she to me. If I tried to 'assert my dominance,' she'd have found another flatmate. That would be that. She had little to no tolerance for what she called 'patriarchal bullshit.' She wholeheartedly believed men and women were like bonobos, that polyamory was the way to be. No connections, no emotions, just straight-up, no holes-barred sex.
If she thought I was getting jealous, she'd threaten to leave. We were just roommates, after all. She could always get another place.
Always, I relented, but under one condition: she was never to bring other guys to our loft.
Stella didn't want to be tied down.
Stella was like a cat in more ways than one. For instance, she had two moods: chipper and grumpy. When she wasn't brushing me off, she was brushing up against me. That's just how she showed affection. We'd have our clothes off faster than you could blink.
She liked clavicle kisses. She liked marathon sex. She liked nibbles and scratches- to receive, but primarily to give. Never hickeys.
Sometimes, when I'd shave, I'd notice these little indents on my Adam's apple, proof of her having been there, as if she were marking her territory. She was the type of person who just can't help sinking their teeth in.
Stella moved in after her old flatmate got tired of her. She wasn't holding up her end of the rent. We'd met through a mutual friend some months before and hit it off immediately. Upon our being introduced, I was stricken. Afflicted, you could say. Stella feigned indifference. If there is such a thing as love at first sight, we were most certainly it.
No one can say I didn't know what I was getting into.
Stella wore her hair in a disheveled topknot, like a disgruntled samurai from a Kurosawa movie. Speaking of movies, we watched a lot. Stella was down for whatever I put on, be it classics, foreign films, porn.
She had these scraggly bangs, not because she liked bangs, but because they disguised the nest of acne scars that were the hallmark of her forehead. From behind, it made it look like she was sporting a ratty mullet.
She had rings of all sorts, shapes and sizes. A nose ring, a lip ring, a nipple ring, a septum piercing. She flirted with the idea of a labial stud.
Her back, midriff, and arms were layered with tattoos upon tattoos of varying quality, like graffiti in a bathroom stall. From her hips down, however, there was nothing, no ink, all blank, untarnished, pallid skin. Half under the blankets, you could imagine those legs belonged to a completely different person. She was like two women, wrapped up in one.
Stella made her money as a hostess, or barista, or bartender, trading odd jobs every other month. She was responsible for one third of the rent, and I was okay with that. When, after two years of living together, she stopped paying rent entirely, I was okay with that, too. I could afford to support us both.
Stella was always up at odd hours. She slept in two hour stints. Sometimes, when she'd get home from the late shift, she'd curl up on the bottom of my bed. She always slept with me, when she could. I'm not sure she slept at all if I wasn't home.
Stella took her coffee black, the groundier the better. I couldn't drink it. It tasted like tar-water. Also, like many twenty-somethings, she didn't believe in diets. We ate junk for the longest time. She didn't believe in cleanliness either, so I took most of the chores upon myself. What else? She couldn't help but itch scratches. She would pester her bug bites and pimples to no end, and not just her own, but mine as well. She'd itch them ‘til she bled. It wasn't hard to see how she came about the acne scars.
On the bright side, it made her doubly afraid of STDs. She was careful her prospective lovers wore prophylactics. Again, this wasn't for my benefit.
Stella had a thing for feet, the only woman I've ever met to confess to that particular fetish. Watching TV, she'd curl around my ankles and suck my big toe like it was a binky.
As a result, I was always careful to keep my feet clean. In fact, they were probably the cleanest part of me. I scrubbed them twice daily, wore socks, even got the occasional pedi. Part of our arrangement was that she wasn't allowed to suck anyone else's toes. If she was going to be living rent-free, I should be endowed some exclusivities. None of her one-night stands, none of her braindead hunks or poet wannabes, only me.
To my knowledge, she was faithful in that respect. Had she bothered to suck anyone else's toes, she'd probably gloat about it. Sometimes I'd quiz the guys she slept with. I'd see them at parties. I'd casually ask, "Oh, bro, did she do that thing where she sucked your feet?" Without fail, they'd all look at me like I was crazy.
Stella liked it rough. Too rough, sometimes, even for me. I couldn't help feeling like I left her dissatisfied. I was too meek. It was only when I instigated 'it' that she got any satisfaction. And I only instigated 'it' when I was angry. In a blind rage, even.
But that's just it. That was the crux of the issue, the rub. She preferred to fuck me when I was pissed off. According to her, that was the only time I really put my back into it. And so, naturally, she'd go out of her way to ruin my day. Just little things, at first. Leaving the milk out to spoil. Not cleaning up after herself. Clogging the sink.
Unfortunately for Stella, I am a patient man. Her childish antics might have soured the mood of a lesser person, but, by and large, time and again, I kept my faculties in check. I came to expect these digressions, such that it no longer brought me to a boiling point when I came home to find coffee dregs on my mattress, or shards of glass on the kitchen floor.
I'd put her in something of a bind, you see. It was my fault, she said. I gave her no choice but to revert to baser tactics. There were only so many ways to make me mad. She had exhausted all the simplest options.
Stella brought a man home. I lied earlier, I suppose. She knew better, sure, but knowing better never stopped her. She had sex with him in my bed- was having sex with him in my bed, I should say, when I came home.
Her bed wasn't so much a bed as it was a single, child-sized mattress. She picked it up from the curb, thought it was a steal, and then barely used it. Most nights, unless we were arguing, she slept cuddled up to me. As pissy as she could be, she liked playing little spoon.
Anyways. As you might imagine, I wasn't too keen upon getting home from a long shift to find my prized linens done in with an amalgamation of her and some other man's bodily fluids- namely, at this point, sweat and spit. All the same, there was something amusing about it. The timing was much too immaculate. She'd even called me asking when I would be in. She never did that.
She was testing me, obviously. Testing to what extent I was willing to beck. This must have been a year into our cohabitation. There were still quite a few things she didn't know about me. For one thing, I'm always up for a challenge.
The 'no fucking other guys under my roof' rule was one of the few I would ever enforce. Lucky for her. In her attempt to find my limit, my breaking point, she'd gone well past.
I can't say I'm surprised at how I acted. I come in, find her on top of him, straddling him, reverse cowgirl, his thumb in her mouth. Something just snapped. It was like an elastic went off in my brain. I didn't act rashly, mind you. I've since learned I'm incapable of that.
Instead, I admired her. Not for long, just a moment. I took a mental snapshot. The sheen on her abdomen, the beads of sweat percolating on her upper lip, her bangs splayed, unveiling the nest of zits. It was all so carefully orchestrated, so intentional. She'd even minutely changed the position of my bed, such that she'd be facing me when I stuck my head in the door. The better to gauge my reaction.
And then of course, the man couldn't see me. He was looking at her back.
I leaned in the doorframe, arms akimbo. I can't say how accurately she interpreted the expression on my face. I remember the flicker in her eye, her yellowed teeth, smiling menacingly. This was a dare. What did she expect me to do? What was she playing at?
Of course, with me around, rather than do the honourable thing and dismount, she giddied up, doubled down. The nameless pig grinding his pelvis beneath her made delighted noises. Based on the acceleration of Stella's thrusts, the rhythm of her bated, butterfly breaths – like hiccups – I could tell she was close. Based on his squeals, he was closer.
Well, I couldn't have that. It's one thing to fuck the love of a man's life under his own roof, and quite another to bring her to orgasm in his presence.
It's hard not to feel bad for the man, though. In a way, he was merely an unwitting participant in a delusional game. But unwitting doesn't equate to innocent.
It's remarkable, in retrospect, how calm I was. Still am.
I about-faced. I turned on my heels, strode into the kitchen, and grabbed the heaviest thing I could find, which just so happened to be the microwave.
My hands weren't even shaking. I mention this because of how unusual it was. At the time, I couldn't even speak to my supervisor, let alone give a group presentation, without my foot tapping up a storm, without feeling like I was going to vomit. And yet, cool as a cucumber, I unplugged the oven, deftly wrapped the cord around it, and re-entered my room.
I'll never forget the look of surprise on Stella's face.
I'm convinced that it was this, this very moment, that she realized just who she was dealing with. That she realized, once and for all, that we were soulmates.
Stella was still naked when I got back to the house, her chest spattered with sticky, dried blood like a giant Gorbachevian birthmark. A seal. She was crouched on a chair – for the longest time, she didn't have it in her to sit like a normal person – slurping reused coffee dregs, smoking like a chimney. Not using an ashtray or a coaster, mind you; another gesture specifically calibrated to annoy me. I remember the balcony door was open. Chill November winds were rushing in.
And she just stared. Stared at me with her pursed lips and overlarge eyes, like a cat that knows it's been bad. Like a cat that can't help feeling smug about it.
Softly, I closed the door and locked it.
Stella would forget, twice more after the incident with the microwave, that we were soulmates. She forgot many times in our first couple years together, but her memory losses became less and less frequent. Usually, within the span of a day or two, the universe would see fit to remind her I was it.
The first time she forgot was when she came home with a black eye, with welts on her midriff, with bruises on the nodes of her spine. I couldn't have that. Fucking other men was one thing, but enduring outright abuse? Quite another.
I was less afraid of myself being accused as I was of her sustaining some kind of permanent damage. Typically, I'd leave her to her business, but this merited an intervention. I told her her behaviour was vastly irresponsible. I told her she was jeopardizing the lives of any future children we might have. Not the proper response, I'll admit, but I was overcome with emotion.
Besides, surely she realized my intention to one day have kids? I figured, by our 30s, her libido would have died down enough for us to give it a go. By that time, I'd be well on my way to six figures. We could buy a house. Get a dog. But none of that would come to fruition is she let some Neanderthal inflict permanent damage to her person.
She thought I was nuts. Outright refused to tell me who he was or where he lived. Told me to stay out of it. So I tracked the troglodyte to its cave. It never hurts to leave a message.
When she found out... unkind words were exchanged. A screaming match ensued. An argument like we'd never had. Stella left. She packed her suitcase, but didn't fold her clothes- in retrospect, almost always a sure sign a woman will be coming back.
At the time, however, as you might imagine, I was distraught. I was sure this was it. And yet, in all honesty, a part of me was glad. No more adultery. No more shenanigans. No more jealous tirades. I could move on with my life.
I was in love with her, of course, I could freely admit to that. Hell, I could even admit she was my soulmate. My mistake was believing that perhaps there were other soulmates out there, other women I could love just as much. That was my next realization. There was Stella and there would only ever be Stella. Forever and always, however regrettably, she was it.
Stella returned to me within hours of that first flight. She only made it so far as the car, my car – I'd gladly provided her the keys – where she'd sat down behind the driver's seat and had a smoke. And then she'd come back. She had forgotten something, she said- her toothbrush, ostensibly. Head hung, eyes darting, she skittered into the washroom and hovered around for an undue amount of time. Even went so far as to brush her teeth.
There, on the sink, was the second time I made her come. Not the average come, the life-altering come. By the time we were done, we both knew well enough what she'd forgotten was me.
Stella could be an enigma, to others, but to herself most of all. I don't think she understood her motivations, let alone her emotions. She claimed she didn't want my concern, my care, my attentions, and yet, only in my arms could she find solace. She claimed to despise jealousy, and yet deep down, she got off on it. And herein lies the paradox of our relationship. Nothing got Stella hot like my unrequited rage.
Stella grew resentful of me, after coming back. You'd think she would have accepted it, once and for all, our being soulmates. If anything, she fought harder to deny that simple fact. Though she had returned, she withdrew into herself. Even a layman could see she was tamped full of doubts. About the future. About us.
What I had said, about our being married, our having children, had taken a toll on her. A life of relative normalcy must have seemed hellish to her then. I knew it would take some time for her to come to terms.
Stella disguised her feelings. We continued to sleep together, to make love, but her heart and mind weren't in it. She was hesitant to cross that line, to say the words. To confess she loved me.
So I began saying it. Again and again. I said it enough for the both of us and then some. I love you Stella. I said it in the morning. I said it before we went to bed. I said it enough to drive even the craziest romantic mad.
I love you, I love you, I love you, I said.
At first, she would merely roll her eyes, snort, maybe flick my forehead. As the weeks wore on, however, my affections wore on her. Her counterattacks grew more drastic.
She fought me with 'reason'. You don't love me, you love the idea of me. We aren't soulmates, we're just used to each other. That kind of shit. There was a time I might have bobbed my head and agreed, that this was some elaborate folie a deux. You would be just as compatible, she said, maybe even more compatible, she said, with a normal person.
And so on.
Really, she was fighting herself. She was her own worst enemy. Her innate stubbornness was the final impediment to her eternal happiness, the largest hurdle. It remained to be seen whether she could mount it.
For before she could readily admit her love for me, she had to admit it to herself.
Stella became more resentful and intolerant of my advances with every passing day. She grew to hate me for my adoration.
I hated her too, naturally, but I loved her for it. I embraced it. I embraced the love, and I embraced the hatred. Every time I looked at her, I was filled with what the simple man might deem conflicting emotions. I wanted to cradle up against her, to hold her to my chest, to weep into her hair, to kiss her neck, her breasts. I wanted to write love songs and poems expressing my undying devotion, to take her on rides, the sappy shit.
Simultaneously, every time I looked at her, I wanted to fuck the living daylights out of her. I wanted to snip off that ugly topknot and tear out those scraggly bangs. I wanted to rip out her piercings and call her a fucking whore, but not just any fucking whore, my fucking whore. To hollow her out from the inside, to bash her fucking brains in, you name it, I fantasized about it.
Whatever I did, chose to do, most of all? I wanted her to enjoy it.
Stella insisted if I didn't quit the lubby dubby shit, that she would leave. Moreover, she would leave in the night, such that I couldn't change her mind. She would leave without a trace, without a word, without a thought for my lovesickness. And she tried. I'll give her that. She damn well tried.
Sometimes, she'd get so far as the door.
Stella's parents were out of the picture. I caught glimpses, here and there. Father abusive, mother absent, or perhaps it was the other way around. It was nothing you wouldn't expect, and besides, neither of us were much inclined to delve into our respective pasts. They were written in the lines of our twenty-eight year old faces. I figured, given time, she'd be ugly one day, and who would want to fuck her then? Me. Only me.
I couldn't wait.
Stella's friends thought we were in what the kids might call 'an abusive relationship.' Contrary to what you might expect, they didn't say this to her, they said it to me. Even the more feminist of her friends was gradually becoming concerned for my well-being. Fancy that. Me. A man. The longer our living arrangement went on, the more 'in dire need of help' I must have seemed.
They knew Stella well enough. At first, as to our symbiotic lifestyle, they were all for it. They worshipped Stella's gargantuan balls, so to speak. They applauded her for snagging such pristine accommodations, meagre as they were, from the jaws of defeat.
She was like an icon to them.
Here was this woman, one of their own, in total domination of a man. A man who worshipped her, who let her live, to their knowledge, borderline rent free, a man who made her lunch and dinner, who did the chores, dishes, who lived in deference to this woman, this 'slut', in total devotion, as if she were a deity, he a monk, she a goddess. They appreciated the role reversal and yet they openly mocked me for it.
In their eyes, I was undoubtedly a simp- they wondered aloud, was I even getting any? If not, what was in it for me? They thought I was cute, at least. Like a pathetic, blind, balding puppy.
It wasn't until I began openly expressing my love for Stella, to her face, in her friends' presence, that they began to grow concerned. For even then Stella showed me nothing but contempt. She would curl up in other men’s laps, go home with them, even. She would swear at me in public places.
These 'friends' knew full well the more explicit details, the carnal nature of Stella's love life, the extent of her sexual antics. Well... almost. Like I said, Stella refrained from telling them anything to do with me. At first I assumed this was out of embarrassment, but as we both came to realize, she merely considered our relationship sacred.
Only, we didn't have a relationship, we had an arrangement... Her words.
Stella made one last-ditch effort to escape the shadow of our everlasting love. As it turned out, this was the most disastrous effort of all, and could have ended in tragedy. She had yet to say she loved me. Until she said it, I suppose she was convinced there was still a chance of her escaping unscathed.
What she didn't understand was that our love was a black hole. There would be no escaping it. We could either be happy together, or we could be sad, but together we would be.
Stella's last-ditch effort entailed her first committed relationship. No cheating, full stop. The man, if he can be so called, the subject of her desire, let's say, was named Ben. A villainous name. She started dating him out of the blue while she was living with me. She said, and I quote, 'there was just something about him.' Right.
As such, all sex was off. She went cold turkey. She told me she'd begin sleeping in her own room, on her own child-sized mattress. From that point forward, she would be faithful to Ben.
He was a good man, she said. She insisted she liked him. We can't do this anymore, she said. She said it was time that I, me, specifically, grow up.
I shrugged. Sure thing.
I gave it two months.
Stella would date Ben for six. Had I known it would last that long, perhaps I would have intervened sooner. Had I known what was going to happen regardless, I'm sure I would have.
In the time Stella and Ben were together, I, as you might expect, grew more and more distressed. There was one light at the end of the tunnel, though- as this experiment proved Stella was, after all, physically capable of fidelity, a subject I'd long debated with myself.
Stella was stubborn. That half a year of living together, of not being able to touch, was hard for me. Possibly harder for her, even.
We lived together, but we barely spoke. No more clambering to join me in the shower, no more curling up against me in the night. Judging by the bags under her eyes, she wasn't sleeping well, but she kept at it. How long would this go on, I wondered. She had to crack eventually, right? To realize the error of her ways?
So I taunted her.
Often, in the bathroom, a dingy affair, I would squeeze by while she was brushing her teeth. She brushed her teeth like a madman, froth everywhere, looking like a rabid dog. So I'd insist she lean over the sink, then brush past her ass with the seat of my pants, or reach under her arms to grab something, weave past her, let her feel me against her hips.
Sometimes I'd catch her eyeing me as I not-so-subtly modelled my hard-won physique. She'd give dagger eyes, miserable and ravenous in equal measure, wanting to ravish me and murder me both.
I felt confident in my 'masculinity,' if there is such a thing, for the first time in my life. I had started working out religiously, and I could see why people devoted so much time to the gym.
Still, all I could do was wait. She would break, eventually. She had to. So I waited. And waited. And waited some more.
Stella said she was moving out. Ben had grown increasingly territorial, paranoid, even. He thought it suspect that his so-called 'girl' was living with another man. And, seeing as he had a big enough place, he invited her to live with him. He had a queen bed to my double, a DVD player to my VHS...
So of course she said yes.
And, I admit it, I panicked.
Was she lying to me? Did she really love this man? But how? He was nice, easy on the eyes, but a simpleton. She couldn't possibly desire that.
In any case, her friends were happy. One of them, Bridget, went so far as to give me her number. I suppose, by this point in time, I had become a catch.
This Bridget wouldn't have looked twice at me back in the day, but, due to both my increase in social standing and the faintest encroaching wrinkles on her own face, she had recently lowered her standards to muscular + well-paid. That I was a six and she an eight must have seemed like less of a deal-breaker given we were fast approaching thirty.
If only to make Stella jealous, I feigned susceptibility to Bridget's advances.
Stella must have known she was reaching a tipping point. Soon Ben would be asking for children and she'd have to cut it off. Besides, she'd made good on her threat, she'd proved me wrong... right? Surely, she'd stop before children? How far was she willing to take this? The thought of me having to play stepdad to Ben's vile brood kept me up at nights. Surely she afforded me enough respect not to cuck me, yes? Why can't you just admit you love me, you stubborn piece of shit!
And then there was Bridget.
Our first date went well. Too well. She was a wonderful flirt, training to be a nurse. She dressed up for the dinner and everything, something Stella had yet to do for me. Her crazy days were behind her, this Bridget. She wasn't soulmate material, needless to say, but even if she was, she could never replace Stella. I was sure she'd make someone a fine second wife one day.
After dinner, I left her with a single goodbye peck, and then went to the movies to kill time.
I got home at 2am, half-expecting Stella to be at Ben's, but hoping against hope that she wasn't. She was sitting at the kitchen table, crouched in her usual seat.
I gave her a wave and strode to the bathroom, making sure to leave the door open. I leisurely shed my clothes. By the time I was fully naked, Stella was standing behind me, looking more haggard than usual. Her eyes worked their way up and down my person, straying here and there, magnetized to the genital region.
She asked if I fucked Bridget.
I was feeling playful. I said, What's it to you?
I hear she squeals like a pig.
I don't know where Stella got this information, but, as I would soon find out, there was some truth to it. I stood awkwardly by the tub, waiting to get in. I invited her to join me.
To my surprise, Stella stripped naked. Before I entered the tub, she accosted me, however. Wait. She dragged a finger down each of my thighs, around my balls, up the shaft. I wavered. She knelt, then, and I half expected her to take me in her mouth, something she never did, something she was vehemently opposed to doing, despite regularly asking me to do the reciprocal task for her. But no. Instead, she did something singularly odd. She sniffed.
Stella invited me to help her move, ostensibly because I had a van where Ben had a car. I, in turn, invited Bridget to come, because why not?
As it turned out, Stella had never truly moved in with me. Most of her things, those accrued in childhood, were locked up in a storage unit on the outskirts of town. Her uncle owned the joint, or something, so she got a permanent discount. Seeing as Ben had such a big place, I guess she figured why not bring everything. She was turning a new leaf, after all.
Meanwhile, Bridget and I were officially going steady by this point. We had successfully made love four or five times, depending on your definition. She had a different feel to her than Stella, one I liked but could never imagine becoming comfortable with. She was lankier, pantier, needier. More like a dog than a cat.
In any case, there were four of us on moving day. Stella, Ben, Bridget, and I. We pulled up at the lot, a fenced-in area, home to a vast number of trailers.
Stella's storage unit was filled to the brim with all sorts of childhood memorabilia and recognizable outfits - ones we’d used for roleplay purposes long ago. I was surprised to find myself rollicked by a pang of dismay. It alarmed me that, until this day, I didn't know the unit existed.
“Where are they from?” Ben asked, indicating the nurse costumes and princess dresses.
Stella lied. Said they were from Halloween.
I explored the maze of Stella's items. Towards the back of the unit, I had to hold my breath. It smelt strangely putrid, though I'm not sure what from.
“What are we moving, exactly?” Bridget, bless her heart, saw fit to ask.
Stella looked me dead in the eye. Your move, her gaze said. "All of it."
Stella would be married for four years, five tops. So I predicted. Realistically, she and Ben would probably last closer to two, but it's best to prepare just in case. Assuming five years, that would mean we'd be 34 upon reconciliation. That would give us plenty of time to settle in and have a kid. Or so I told myself.
As we moved Stella's stuff, an old bed – so she did have one – a moist couch to my truck, I tried to keep calm. I couldn't show weakness. There were no arguments to the contrary that could convince Stella to stay with me anymore. Were I to beg, it would only drive a stake between us, perhaps permanently. She couldn't stand weakness. It was driving me to my wit's end.
Perhaps she, too, was juggling the what ifs. What if I didn't brink. We were playing a game of chicken, both too stubborn to just crash into each other. Somehow, I couldn't see either of us meeting halfway.
Stella went for a smoke. Ben kept moving miscellaneous objects. Bridget, no help, clung to me. It's so nice to see Stella growing into herself, she said. You know, for awhile there, we were really worried, but she really seems to love Ben.
I could have slapped her. Love. You and your feeble concept of love, I could have said. Instead, I took her in my arms and kissed her cheek. It wasn't her fault she was caught up in all this.
Then, suddenly, it struck me. If Stella was marrying Ben, did I have to marry Bridget?
It was the first time I considered my own side of the equation. What would I be doing all that time Stella was holed away? What if Bridget demanded kids? I'm a very paternal person, I couldn't fathom abandoning a child, even if they were half bimbo. Would Stella care?
"What's wrong?" Bridget asked. "You're shivering, are you cold?"
Stella was still smoking. She looked at me pityingly. I took the cigarette from her lips, put it out against the brick wall, flicked it onto the pavement. Can't have her getting cancer. She raised her eyebrows, but said nothing.
"Guys, look what I found," came Ben's voice.
We went back to the storage unit. Within, towards the back wall, stuffed away in a corner, Ben had uncovered what looked like a door for a dwarf. It was flush with the metal back wall of the unit, shrouded in darkness, and thus hard to discern. "What is this?" he asked.
Stella knelt down before the four lines in the wall and pushed at it, to no avail. Digging her fingers into the little slits, as if by force of sheer will, she managed to pry the thing open, then poked her head into the dark, little hole.
"Well?" Ben asked.
Equipping her phone, Stella turned on the beam and slipped into the cubby.
"Stella," Ben reprised her.
"Be careful," Bridget said.
Without a word to either of them, I plunged in in Stella's wake.
Stella shimmied along the little hall. Sidestepping, flat as a pancake, I tailed behind her. She spared me a glance, and then pointed to the other hatches leading to separate units at our feet. Priming her foot as much as she could, she kicked one such dwarf door. It wouldn't budge.
Using my phone, I went the opposite way. In the thinning light, I could just about make out a host of other apertures. I kicked each I passed, until, at the very end of the row, to my surprise, one door gave way.
Hurriedly, mildly claustrophobic by this point, I crouched down and crawled inside.
Stella was, for a moment, for the first time in weeks, no longer the only thing on my mind.
It was pitch black. I cast my phone about, trying to adjust to my surroundings. The unit I found myself in was bigger than Stella's by some degree. It smelled musty. Dust coated everything. Beyond that, the room had two defining features: easels and boxes. Most of the easels were disguised by heavy, mildewed white blankets. Most of the boxes were sealed.
Doubtless, whoever owned this unit considered themselves an artist.
I became distinctly aware, surveying the expanse, just how dark it was. As in, there was no light peeking through from under the main door. Stranger still, the unit seemed exponentially bigger, somehow, than did Stella's. Dimensions-wise, it went on for much longer, and was at least a few feet wider. For whatever reason, this didn't bother me.
I peeked into the first box I came across, and after wiping the packing peanuts aside, I was met with a strange, globular sculpture like none I'd ever seen. Intrigued, I tried to take it out, but it was much too heavy for one hand. So I let it rest.
Next, I approached one of the sheeted easels. Upon closer inspection it was less like a sheet than a pall. It was wet. Peeling back the cloth, I found a painting of sorts, a harrowing image, kind of surrealistic, a maroon and black close-up of a skinless man and woman on an empty plain, cast in the glow of a blood red moon. They were naked, flayed, trapped in a tight embrace, wordlessly screaming.
The image was distinctly unsettling, but whatever dread it instilled did little to diminish my curiosity. As I uncovered more of the easels, I found they were all alike the first. Skinless faces. Bugged out eyes. Stark white teeth. Screaming. In some, the subjects were naked. In others, they were missing limbs, or eyes, noses, mouths, lips- they were run through with iron rods and hooks and bells and chains, all painted in the same vein, all enduring some terrible pain. Each face was so distinct, I couldn't shake the impression that they must have been modelled after real people.
Captivated, I tread deeper and deeper into the storage unit until I heard a jingle, like that of a tiny bell, from somewhere in the darkness. I've never been one to put much stock in the paranormal, so my first thought wasn't towards a ghost, rather, that in my wanderings I'd dislodged a box. That, or perhaps some chimes had been stirred by a draft that my opening the door leading to the crawlspace had let in. Another possible, albeit more surprising alternative, was that there was a cat locked up in here.
As it turned out, I was wrong on all counts.
When I navigated around the last tower of boxes, I was met with a startling image. A woman. The tips of her fingers clung to a box's edge. She stared at me from behind an easel, amongst a tangle of mannequins. Two things stood out about her, her yellow eyes, and her skin, grey, as if encrusted by dust. She stepped out from behind the tower, seemingly afraid of me.
She can't have been more than thirty. She was covered in soot, cowering, but not long for food. She stared at me with muted appreciation, naked but for a tiny bell tied round her ankle, one she could have easily removed.
I stared at her, this grey woman, for at least a minute, entranced. It didn't occur to me that she might speak English. She was as foreign to this location as if I'd stumbled upon a wild animal. Perhaps I had.
I held out my hand to her, but she only shrunk back, hunkering further. I took a step forward – wait – but she retreated deeper, deeper into the unit, into the maze of boxes and out of my sight.
"Come back!"
I raced after her, but when I turned the corner, she had crawled into what looked like the entrance to a fort. I stood outside the entrance, staring in, debating the best course of action.
Stella came to me as if out of a dream. She had doubled back down the hall, my singular rescue party. She asked me where I'd been, seeming oddly concerned. It was the first time I'd witnessed her concerned for anyone, actually. "What are you doing back here? It's been almost an hour. We thought you were trapped."
"I lost track of time," I said.
She looked around at the towers of boxes, the covered easels. I indicated one of the paintings and asked if she wanted to see what resided beneath the sheet.
Stubborn as ever, she turned to me and said, "I can guess."
Stella conducted me through the crawlspace and we slipped back into her unit. Most of her stuff had already been moved without my assistance.
"Where have you been?" Ben asked. Bridget threw her arms around me. "We're almost ready to leave."
Taking Stella by the hip, he booped her nose, steering her towards the van. "We're having dinner with my parents tonight. My mom is making-"
In my defense, I'm not proud of what happened next, but it's not like it was unprecedented. In a moment, meeting Stella's eyes, I saw the span of our lives laid out before us, the shadow of our parting, and I simply couldn't bear the thought. If she didn't brink, in that moment, I wasn't sure any possible future would have her in it.
And that was a thought I simply could not bear.
I would not wait five years for her. I would not endure five years of Bridget's fruitless negging. I would not go five years of Ben having his way with her. I was entitled to her, she to me. That was it. Neither of us believed in god, but I believed in this. Perhaps some things are destined.
In that moment, I felt the hopelessness draining out of me, replaced by an implacable rage. It permeated from the core of my being, beating in tune with my heart. Stella was mine. That's all there was to it.
Meeting my eye, she smirked like the devil herself.
I did what I had to.
Stella's friends left us alone after that. I broke Bridget's heart, they said. Not to mention, Ben's nose, collarbone, kneecaps. I said they were being hyperbolic. Two weeks and five lovemaking sessions hardly constitutes a broken heart, least of all for someone as gung-ho about big dick as Bridget.
I was charged with aggravated assault, but Stella spoke up in my defense. She lied, said Ben hit her, that he'd been abusive. The story went that I took notice, that I hadn't been able to contain my rage. I was charged, but didn't see a significant amount of time behind bars.
Bridget didn't technically refute Stella's account, but she certainly could have made it seem more legit. She tearfully admitted that, in the immediate aftermath, Ben a soiled wreck at my feet – to be fair, I set upon him so suddenly, he didn't really have a chance – Bridget said that I'd stolen her phone and told her to wait in the truck. That I'd taken Stella into the empty storage unit and shut the door. That we hadn't emerged for the space of twenty minutes, during which time Ben writhed like a worm on the cold, hard street.
In Bridget's defense, her testimony was correct. However, the actuality of what happened in that storage unit was largely left up to speculation. Stella attested, as did I, that we merely had a discussion. And discuss we did.
I got off with a boatload of community service hours, a massive fee, but no time served. Certainly not five years.
But it would have been worth it even if I had.
Stella met me halfway, in the end. In the storage unit, she finally said it.
I love you, too.
