Page 46

The Runny Egg and the Bruised Ego

I t was too late at night to do much else but sleep, but Poet wasn’t tired.

At least not mentally. She sat in her truck in front of her house, holding onto a file of old papers that she’d begun reading at work.

Report after report, page after page, trauma after trauma.

It was the sort of thing that put your gut in knots, and twisted hard.

She’d already looked into Kage’s background.

All she saw were some fights he’d had when he was in his twenties that led to him being placed in jail for short stints of time.

She had no idea about the other stuff until he’d confessed it.

A part of her wished he hadn’t. She had a high tolerance for death, blood, violence.

She barely flinched at such a thing—but this was different. He’d been just a kid…

Kage wasn’t to blame for what was written in these reports.

Nevertheless, he had demanded she take that folder with her and read through it.

Every page, he said. To read it all, and understand it for herself.

All it did was make the guilt within her simmer, then boil over.

She, too, had secrets. Kage had done something that most wouldn’t.

He’d told the truth about his ugly past, and he didn’t wait until they’d been together for several years before dropping the bomb.

How brave of him. He did the right thing.

And I’m doing the wrong thing … She cracked her knuckles and looked about; her heart full of pain.

I’ve never told anyone… He may not see me the same if I tell him!

Aunt Huni says it’s the past, but it’s not a little thing.

It’s a big deal. I really like him. I care about him.

I’m falling in love… I don’t wanna lose him…

She opened the folder once again and thumbed through it.

Only the outside lights from her house shone through the car’s interior, allowing her to see what was written on those papers.

Inside that folder were endless accounts of his ruined boyhood.

Stints in and out of mental institutions, the medications they’d forced down his throat, and how his mother was banned from visiting after making a scene one Sunday afternoon.

She’d tried to get Kage discharged, but failed.

Kage had even given her copies of some of his therapist sessions, which were transcribed.

He talked in great detail about his upbringing, and the trauma he experienced in the pediatric mental institution which was now closed down.

He had the names of two nurses, a doctor, and an orderly that he hated, and subsequently filed civil suits against years ago.

He’d won the majority of those cases. He also had the name of a nurse who treated him well, and tried to help him on the sly from time to time.

Then she saw another file nestled within the larger one.

He’d admitted he had a police record. He’d been arrested several times for assault.

Once she read the details, it all made sense.

For the most part, in every altercation, he was defending either himself, or other people.

He was stepping up to the bullies and beating the shit out of them.

Problem was, Kage seemed to have an aggression issue.

He didn’t just beat people up—he tore them apart.

He had his share of young boy, dumb shit skirmishes too, bar fights and what not, but his arrests mostly seemed to be linked to trying to help the underdog.

Though he had a record, she figured at least his efforts were admirable.

He seemed to have grown out of such things beyond the age of twenty-six as he had nothing else on file, except for his divorce.

Tossing the folder aside, she took a few deep breaths.

She’d worked late and was physically exhausted, but at the same time, too mentally wound up to just go in the house and fall asleep.

“Oh, goodness… I’m a night owl, but this isn’t healthy. I gotta go to bed. I have an early day tomorrow.”

She yawned and tried to clear her mind. Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl), by Looking Glass played on the oldies station.

Kage had asked to swing by after he finished some window repair work for a company that evening, but she told him tomorrow would be better.

She’d known she was getting home late and figured it would be a waste of time.

Now she regretted turning him away. She wanted to hold him, and to be held.

She desired him, even more so after reading about his life of turmoil.

She turned the radio off, then the car, and got out of the vehicle, her feet dragging.

Her purse on her shoulder, she made her way to the front door and unlocked it.

She stepped inside and tried to be as quiet as possible, not wishing to wake Huni.

Moving about in the darkness, she made her way to the kitchen and set her purse down on the counter, then turned on the light.

Opening the refrigerator door, she removed a bottle of sparkling water, grabbed a glass from the drying rack, and filled the glass to the rim. She drank in the peace and quiet.

Maybe I’ll read a little, and take some melatonin? That should help me fall asleep.

As she finished her drink, she heard a soft thud. Like a small ball hitting the house. Drawing quiet, she listened. Just as she was satisfied that nothing was going on, and it may have been an animal—or perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her—she heard it again. Then again.

She set her glass down, trudged to the front door, but paused to grab her rifle from the back of the coat closet. Then, she went to the kitchen, unlocked a small safe, and loaded bullets into the chamber. As she did so, she heard another thud. This one much louder.

What the hell is that?!

Her heart sprinted with uneasiness. There’d been a string of break-ins in various homes less than twenty minutes away. Was someone trying to break into her house? Sheer, black fright swept through her.

Kage had already chastised her multiple times about not having cameras on her property.

She figured he was just paranoid. Kage always acted like the boogeyman was coming.

He had a million guns, traps, and enough cameras to film the entire state of Texas.

She instantly regretted making fun of his suggestion.

Unlocking the front door, she braced herself. She counted to three, then swung it open. She winced as headlights nearly blinded her, then she heard the sound of tires squealing along the pebbles and stones, kicking up dust, gravel and grass.

An old Buick fishtailed frantically off her property, gunning up the crude road.

Her mind flickered with anxiety, and she felt a clog in her throat—the kind that crawled and jerked up one’s esophagus, then just sat there, cutting off her words.

The car was gone, but she was just figuring out what the hell had just happened.

Pivoting towards her house, she noticed something shiny, translucent, and slimy slithering down the siding of her home. She drew closer and peered at it.

Eggs. Lots and lots of eggs, drooping down the shingles.

It must’ve been at least twenty of them, perhaps more.

Her confusion and fright turned into pure anger.

She raced back into the house, still toting her gun, and darted up the stairs.

Once she was certain Huni was still asleep, safe and resting peacefully, an idea hit her.

She practically tripped going back down the steps.

Grabbing her keys and phone, she high tailed it to her truck, following the tracks of the vehicle that had just left her property.

That was the thing about dirt roads. They wrote stories of plenty of travels and recorded them—just like Kage’s therapy records.

Much to her surprise, it didn’t take long to see where they led.

Right to Melba’s old, gray shingled house.

The one on the slight hill that looked a bit haunted, if you believed in such a thing, and in disrepair.

The last thing on Poet’s mind were ghosts and goblins.

Nope. She was so mad that ghosts and goblins needed to be afraid of her.

Poet parked in the driveway and marched up to the Buick.

She looked at the license plate. Yup. It was the same.

Placing her hand on the hood, she shook her head.

She’d never seen Melba in that car before, but this was definitely her house.

Poet strolled up the creaky terrace steps, with her rifle and an axe to grind.

She hammered on the door, her knuckles throbbing because she hit it so hard.

Then, she pressed her finger repeatedly on the doorbell, and knocked again until at last, the porch light came on.

After a few seconds of silence, Poet had had enough.

“I know you’re standing there. Open up or you’ll regret it.

You egged my house! You came onto private property, again, Melba, but this time, you vandalized my home!

OPEN THIS GOTDAMN DOOR!” Poet struck the door with a swift kick.

No answer. She could hear the television.

“If you don’t open this door, Melba, I’m going to shoot it down, and come in there and drag you out!

” After what felt like an eternity, Melba cracked open the door, and her head peeked out.

The old woman was in a ratty blue robe, brown runover slippers, and her hair in a long salt and pepper braid.

Thick glasses danced on the tip of her nose, and her eyes looked tired and worn.

“It wasn’t me,” the woman stated awkwardly.

“Really, Melba? You expect me to believe that?”

“Nobody from this here house has been to your home! You’ve made a mistake!” The woman couldn’t even lie with a straight face.