A Sad Soul Can Kill You Part 4

He looked up at the mishmash of clouds sprawled indiscriminately across the fading aqua blue sky. There was no break in the frigid temperatures forecast for tomorrow; only more of the same iciness.

"Was that your mother on the phone?"

Homer sighed as he turned to see his wife, Sandra, staring at him.

"Yes," his answer came short and quick.

"What'd she want?"

"She just wanted to see how I was doing," he answered impatiently as he continued to stare at her.

"What's wrong?" she asked frowning.

"I know you're not planning on leaving the house with that top on."

Sandra looked down at the V-neck blouse she had on. It stopped three inches from her neck, barely revealing the edges of her collarbone. She frowned. "What's wrong with this shirt?"

"Well, for one thing, your chest is all out."

"No, it's not," she said softly. "You can't see anything."

His eyes grew big. "Oh, I can see plenty!" he said. "And ain't n.o.body got time for that."

"Whatever," she mumbled under her breath as she walked out of the bedroom and sat down on the couch.

She tried to justify his comments by telling herself that he only said those things because he cared about how she looked. But a feeling of weariness had been festering in her. It was mentally exhausting to keep rationalizing his controlling ways by placing them under the guise of care and concern. She was supposed to be his wife, not his child.

She turned on the television just in time for the five o'clock news. The anchorman was talking about the payroll tax hike that went into effect in January, and how it had caused an estimated reduction in the average American worker's paycheck by almost $100 per month.

"Man," she mumbled. "Pretty soon n.o.body's gonna have any money but the rich!"

Homer had followed her into the living room. Although their immaculate ranch-style house was the smallest of the four houses on the cul-de-sac, it was large enough for the two of them.

There was a short foyer upon entering the house which led into a small living room on the right and a hallway on the left. The hallway led to a medium-size bathroom and one bedroom on one side, followed by another larger bedroom on the other side.

The small eat-in kitchen right off the living room had a door that led to a dark and seldom-used bas.e.m.e.nt. Sandra didn't like the bas.e.m.e.nt and never went down there. "It has a dark vibe," she'd said.

Homer was the only one who went into the bas.e.m.e.nt, and he did so whenever he had loads of stained clothing that needed to be washed. He'd throw the dirty clothing into an old washing machine that he had placed beneath one of the two bas.e.m.e.nt windows. Yellowed sheets of newspaper covered the bottom half of one of the windows, and Homer had spent many days standing there watching as his neighbor, Tia, and her daughter, had come and gone.

"We're doing all right," Homer said, bending down to rearrange the magazines on the coffee table. "I have my accounting job, and that's more than enough."

"I know we're supposed to be middle income," Sandra said, "but sometimes . . ."

Homer stood up. "Sometimes what?"

Sandra rubbed her ear nervously. "Nothing," she said.

"No, what were you going to say?" he asked defensively.

"I'm just saying," Sandra chose her words slowly, "that if I got a job . . ."

Homer waved his hand as if he were backhanding a pesky insect. "Don't start," he said.

"I'm not," Sandra said meekly. "I'm just saying."

"Not feeling like we're middle income doesn't have anything to do with you getting a job," Homer said. "The reason it doesn't feel like we're middle income is because that cla.s.sification is quickly becoming the low income just like they've been predicting in the news."

"Yeah, well, this is Obama's second term," Sandra said with a sigh of defeat, "so I hope something changes."

She continued watching the news as the anchorman began reporting on a follow-up story about three young girls who had been missing.

"The three teenage girls who had been kidnapped eleven years ago," the anchorman said, "were finally found when one of the girls was heard kicking and screaming at the back door of the house where they were being held captive for more than eleven years."

"That's a shame," Sandra said shaking her head.

Homer rubbed his head in frustration. "Yeah, but that was nine months ago."

She stared at him strangely. "It just doesn't make sense," she continued.

"What don't make sense is that they're still talking about it," he said as he got up and went into the kitchen.

She looked his way again and frowned. "That's kind of insensitive, isn't it?"

Ignoring her question, he hollered over his shoulder, "When are you going to the store? I'm hungry, and sitting on that couch listening to the news is taking up too much of your time."

"I'm getting ready to go right now," she said. A smirk came to her face as she realized she still had on the blouse that he'd strongly insinuated she change. As she put on her coat, she felt like a child rebelling against a parent, but the realization that she was putting herself in the category of a child made her upset all over again.

She finished b.u.t.toning her coat. "It's making me depressed too," she said in reference to the news about the kidnapped girls. She and Homer had only been married for two years, and Sandra was glad they didn't have any children. "Kids just ain't safe nowhere," she mumbled to herself as she picked up her purse.

"Yeah, well, don't take too long," Homer said as Sandra closed the door behind her. He watched from the window until she had pulled out of the driveway. Then he grabbed his laptop and went into the bedroom.

Chapter Eight.

Thank G.o.d for Wednesday night services, Lorenzo thought as Tia slammed the door behind her. He began his nightly routine of channel surfing until the soft voice of an elderly woman caught his attention. He turned up the volume and listened as she spoke about the hopelessness that so many people were feeling.

"We have an enemy in this world," she said, "and his name is Satan. Some of you may feel like no one loves you, some of you feel empty inside, and that emptiness is slowly killing you, and you feel like you're already dead so you think you might just as well give up because you just . . . can't . . . take . . . it . . . anymore.

"Then," she continued, "the enemy tries to make you believe that it would be best for everybody-especially you-if you just made yourself disappear. Just ended it all." She looked straight into the camera, and Lorenzo gripped the remote control.

"But don't you do it." She continued staring at him. "Don't you believe it. I know the pain you're in, and G.o.d knows . . ."

Lorenzo turned off the TV. n.o.body knows the pain I'm in. He stared straight-ahead at the brown stucco wall. For years, he had yearned to tell his parents what had happened to him. Yet the story had remained untold. Now, after the unpleasant response he'd received from them, he'd decided he was not going to tell another soul what had happened. He wasn't even sure why he'd told them in the first place. Had he still felt the need for his parents' affirmation that he'd done nothing wrong?

Moisture began to acc.u.mulate in his eyes. He had hoped that by telling them, his burden would be released; that they would put their arms around him and tell him how sorry they were and how much they still loved him. Instead, he'd gotten just the opposite.

He dried his eyes and returned his gaze to the stucco wall in front of him. Years! It had taken him years to gather enough courage to tell them. And for what? So his mother could question him and his father could all but call him a liar? Lorenzo threw the remote control down on the table. No, he would not speak on the incident again. But what was he going to do about the nagging pain that would not go away?

The timer on the oven began beeping and startled Lorenzo. He got up too quickly and felt light-headed. He put his hand on the wall for support as he walked into the kitchen. He stood in front of the oven for a few seconds before bending down to take the pan of ribs out of the oven.

As he pulled back the foil that had been covering them, the pent-up steam escaped quickly, surrounding Lorenzo with a temporary film of mist before evaporating into the air. He pierced the meat with a fork, twisting it until the flesh began to fall away from the bone. The meat was done. He turned off the oven and returned to the living room.

Like his mother, Lorenzo had also created his own pile of dirt. But instead of taking it out to the trash, he'd become his own receptacle. For years, he'd been depositing all that grime right into his own internal trash bin. Still, the problem with dirt is that it's dirty, and no matter how neat and clean he kept himself on the outside, there was still-just beneath the surface-a garbage bin filled with dirt. And Lorenzo was so tired of feeling dirty.

He opened the tiny plastic bag he'd purchased earlier and took the illicit painkillers out. He had already swallowed two of them right after he'd purchased them. Now he swallowed the last two. He sighed as the heavy pressure from his emotional pain settled into the center of his heart. He had learned to live with the dullness of it, but it was the constant ache that he could not stand.

He would deal with it until it became unbearable-and that would not take too long-then in order to subdue it, he would do what he'd just done, what he'd been doing for quite some time until the doctor had cut him off and forced him to find his medication elsewhere; he would take two of the little white pills to make it all go away.

His secret hope of finding someone who would recognize his plight and free him from his pain was dying. He thought he'd found a rescuer in Tia because she had been easy to talk to and even easier to laugh with. He could vaguely remember the thought swirling around in his head that she might be the one who could put an end to his misery and make everything better. But she could not do for him what he could not do for himself, and he began to resent her because of it. Now, they no longer slept in the same bed and barely spoke to each other.

He began to notice that two pills were not enough to eradicate his pain-they barely numbed it. And he found himself increasing the amount of pills he took more and more.

Chapter Nine.

Serenity Sparks watched her mother from across the street as she sped out of the cul-de-sac. She stood peeking through the blinds of her best friend, Cookie's, second-floor bedroom window across the street. She released the blinds when she saw Tia slam the front door of their house and walk hurriedly to her car.

"Is that your mother's car speeding down the street?" Cookie asked over her shoulder.

"Yep," Serenity answered abruptly.

"She better be careful," Cookie said, "driving fast like that."

"I know, right?" Serenity said as she looked through Cookie's pink jewelry box with a ballerina on top. "If that was us driving like that we'd never hear the end of it."

"Uh-huh," Cookie agreed. "They'd probably take our license away."

"Yeah. If we had one," Serenity said. "She's probably late for church or mad 'cause I'm not home to go with her." Serenity hesitated. "She might be mad at my daddy too. But she's always mad about something."

"How come you didn't go to church?"

Serenity shrugged. "'Cause it's boring," she said as she flipped through a fashion magazine. "How come you ain't at church?"

"My momma's working late, and my daddy don't feel good," Cookie said. "But I like going to church. Don't you like the youth pastor?"

"He's all right."

"How come your mom's mad at your daddy?"

"Seems like she's always mad at him," Serenity said. "It might be 'cause he's sleeping in the living room. I know she don't like that."

Cookie fell back on the purple and pink polka-dot comforter on her bed. "I wish I could sleep in the living room every night."

"Why?"

"Then I could watch The Walking Dead every night."

"Oh yeah," Serenity perked up. "That's my favorite show. Did you see the one about the guy sitting on top of the house eating some pudding?"

"Uh-huh," Cookie giggled. "That was too funny!"

"Ooh," Serenity yelped, picking up a magazine. "Look at this!"

The girls stared at what looked like a picture of a teenage model walking down a makeshift runway inside of a warehouse. Their eyes traveled to the exposed gray heating ducts running across the brown ceiling all the way down to the white lights situated a few inches below them. They scanned the black-and-white checkered floor of the runway, and finally the mult.i.tude of spectators all watching the one girl as the cameras captured her in motion.

"I could do that," Serenity said making a small bubble with her chewing gum, and then popping it.

Cookie looked at her friend who was mesmerized by the picture in the magazine. "You think so?" she asked.

Serenity got up and walked over to the L-shaped desk in the corner of Cookie's bedroom. "Uh-huh," she said as she sat down and turned on Cookie's computer.

There had been no school for most of the district due to a national teachers' conference, and the two girls had spent most of the day in Cookie's bedroom experimenting with eye shadow and foundation that Serenity had stolen from her mother's vast collection of cosmetics. Her mother's a.s.sortment was so huge that she had to keep them all in a bin underneath the bathroom sink.

Serenity and Cookie's thirteen-year-old faces did not require the layers of mocha and beige foundation each girl had on, and the thick line of black eyeliner that Serenity had applied to her eyelids, made her light brown eyes look hard and gothic.

Serenity clicked on the guest icon on the computer. Once the desktop appeared, she clicked on the browser.

Cookie looked at her. "Don't forget to wash your face.

"You know I won't," Serenity said twirling around in the chair. "My mom would have a fit if she saw my eyes."

"I'm surprised she let you put that red color on the end of your bangs," Cookie said.

"It's just cherry Kool-Aid," Serenity said patting down her dark brown bangs. "I told her it'll rinse out." Serenity left out the part about how Tia had warned her that if she did it again she was going to cut all of her hair off. "And there'll be nothing left to dye," Tia had said sternly. "You better wash your face too," Serenity said eyeballing Cookie.

Cookie looked at the computer. "Did you remember to go private?"

"Oops," Serenity said and quickly exited the chat room she had just entered.

"You can't be forgetting to do that," Cookie said. "I told you my dad checks this computer sometimes."

"Sorry," Serenity said as she moved the mouse up to the top of the computer screen, opened the drop-down box, and then clicked on Private Browsing.

The last few times she and Cookie had visited the chat room, Serenity had forgotten to sign in under Private Browsing, but she hadn't told Cookie.

"Is Saucer on?" Cookie asked.

Serenity signed back in to the online chat room, teen2teen.com, that she and Cookie often visited and looked for Saucer's screen name.