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Until I Wrestled It Back Louella Lester
My roommate’s boyfriend brought him over and let him bound into the living
room. When they left to see a movie, he stayed. Settled right into the couch, all muscled
haunches and unblinking eyes.
I brought him some water, it was the polite thing to do, and at first I thought
he was watching me. Then I saw he was focused on something over my shoulder, in the same
way my high school drama teacher had taught us to look just above the audience if we were
nervous. It endeared him to me, the thought that I somehow made him nervous. What I didn’t
know was that he wasn’t uncomfortable at all, he was eyeing my shadow. Before I knew it my
roommate had moved out and he had moved in. At first, when we made what I thought was love,
I could smell bursts of earth, seeds, and leaves, like the damp forest floor.
As time went on, he started to come home later each Friday night. His paycheque
decomposed into pocket change that spilled out when he dropped his jeans on the floor.
He’d leap onto the bed. Roll over. Start to snore, while I cowered, my hair caught
in his antlers.
I often tried to tell him my concerns, but he knew how to distract me with his whisky
and salt-lick lips. That was how, one night, he was able to do it. To reach behind my back
and steal my shadow. Pull until it was thin like an over-stretched slingshot. So thin that
it would have ripped in two if I hadn’t let it go. It flew past him and
hit the wall. Slid down to the floor in a rubbery mess. When I reached down to pick it
up, he pawed it under his side of the bed. “Leave it alone,” he whispered through
gritted teeth, making sure I knew who controlled the forest.
My shadow lay there collecting dust under the bed for months. Lay there long enough
for me to forget. Forget its beauty. Its strength. Its size. Forget it was mine. Maybe
if I had been a better housekeeper he wouldn’t have, one night, forced me to clean
every nook and cranny. I wouldn’t have pushed the broom under the bed. Swept out
the mess. Found the edge of my shadow. Wrapped it around my waist and pulled it out into
the open.
Maybe he wouldn’t have trotted into the bedroom. Caught my shadow’s
tail, tried to yank it away from me then, weakened by a sneezing fit, lost his grip. Maybe
my shadow wouldn’t have flown free. Taking me along with it. Right out the window.
Karma
at the Charlie Hotel Louella Lester
I only heard about the room because I was volunteering at the soup kitchen, not
because I cared much about helping others, but because it got me a free meal without waiting
in line for hours. I happened to be spooning out mashed potatoes near Barb, a dive hotel
owner’s daughter, who was there to fulfill a requirement for a college course. I
overheard her saying a guy had been found dead in the hotel the night before, though he’d
met his demise almost a week earlier.
I’d worked the meals with Barb a few times and she always tried to chat me
up. I’m not a bad looking guy, I try to dress well, no matter my situation, and I
think she thought I was maybe someone just temporarily down on their luck. Unlike drinking
or drugs, a gambling addiction is not so obvious. I sidled over to Barb and asked if she
wanted to go for coffee later and she agreed. At the coffee shop I
spun a tale about a vindictive ex-wife leaving me and child support payments that used
up all my savings after I was laid off. After about thirty minutes I mentioned that I’d
been evicted and was desperately searching for somewhere cheap to live. “Oh, it’s
like this was meant to be,” she giggled, “I know where you can get a place,
as long as you’re not too squeamish.”
I’ve never been the type who’s grossed out easily, so I wasn’t
much bothered about living in a room where someone had just died. And, with winter coming,
I was desperate. I used the last of my cash to pay for her latte while she phoned her dad.
I moved in the next day.
The room was on the top floor and when I poked my head out the window, which I was
leaving open to air out the strong smell of bleach and the underlying odor of death, I
could see Charlie Chaplin, the hotel’s namesake, in a mural perched at an angle just
under the roof line. It faced my window, and it was one of those paintings where the subject’s
eyes follow you no matter where you go. Those eyes didn’t look happy, like you’d
expect with a comedian. I could swear those eyes moved, maybe giving me a warning. Now,
that gave me the creeps, but I had nowhere else to live. Barb kept texting, making
it clear she was interested, and I could come over to her place any time. She wasn’t
my type, but I hadn’t had sex in sometime and I also felt I owed her a thank you
screw. So, I agreed to go to her place for supper the following weekend. I figured by then
her volunteer stint at the soup kitchen would be done and I wouldn’t have to see
her anymore. Best laid plans, eh?
I was in no mood for company as I stood waiting for Barb to buzz me into her condo,
I’d just lost pretty much all of my most recent employment insurance money betting
on what turned out to be the final game in the World Series. But a free meal wouldn’t
go amiss.
It turned out the pasta sauce was great, but the conversation was dull. She spoke
of shopping trips to New York and Taylor Swift concerts, and I fake-listened. Later, in
bed, I thought about my high school sweetheart to get into it. I made sure she’d
climaxed and was snoozing, before I carefully sorted through her jewelry box, selecting
dusty pieces from the bottom, that she’d likely not notice were missing, then I
hoofed it to the door.
She kept texting and I kept making excuses until she backed off a bit, then one
night I was shocked when I arrived home to find her sitting on my bed. She held up a master
key. “I have a bit of pull around here. I hope you haven’t eaten, because I
brought you some yummy soup.” Behind her, out the window, I could see Charlie’s
eyes, but I didn’t heed his warning. I had to pay her back later, in bed, but at
least it cost me no money. After that, she arrived every couple of weeks to exchange meals
for sex. Until, last night, when it ended for good. Barb showed up with
a chicken casserole and when I was halfway through the meal she spoke. “So, I went
through my jewelry box today, some pieces are missing.”
“Oh no", I said, “do you have a cleaner or something?” “No,
I don’t, no one but me has been in my apartment since you visited.” “Barb
… what are you saying?”
She pulled out her phone. “Do you want to watch some video from the teeny
tiny camera I have set up in my bedroom. I hadn’t looked at it in sometime. Have
now.”
I felt sick, really sick, as I apologized, and told her I was in dire straits. Asked
her what I could do to make up for it. “Oh, you’ll pay for it, just like the
guy who lived here before you.” She close-mouth smiled as I slid off the bed, clutching
my stomach.
“Surely you’ll be caught,” I whispered, “if a second person
is poisoned in here.”
“Poisoned? Oh, he wasn’t poisoned. He died in a hanging accident, choked
while he was jerking off.”
I writhed on the floor, dying, shouted for help, but the loud music from the bar
below drowned out my voice. I clutched at her leg, which she pulled away before gathering
up the casserole dish and utensils and wiping down everything she had touched, then she
left as I took my last tortured breath. I’m
lying here, now. Eyes wide open. Waiting for someone to discover my body. I’m staring
at Charlie who’s staring back through the window, and I swear he’s shaking
his head at me.
Louella
Lester is a writer/photographer in Winnipeg, Canada. Her writing has appeared
in Cleaver, MacQueen’s
Quinterly, Litro,
Five Minutes, SoFloPoJo, Daily Drunk, Six
Sentences, New Flash Fiction, Reflex Fiction, and a variety of other journals &
anthologies. Her Flash-CNF book, Glass Bricks, is published by At Bay Press (April 2021).
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