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beforeiforgetyou · 18 days

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Something you inspired me to write Monday night

Melineda Cassamajor lives alone in an apartment on the outskirts of town. The neighborhood is quaint, but older, and its age shows through the neighbors worn down roofs and the potholes in the street. Still, it’s quiet, safe and on the weekends kids ride bikes down the streets and families are holding yard sales and birthday parties. For a single woman in her twenties, Melineda had never felt uncomfortable at home since moving in nearly three months ago.

Three months. Has it really been that long? It seemed like only yesterday that she was anxiously filing out the tenant applications and recounting her deposit to make sure it was the correct amount and not a penny less (or more for that matter). Moving out had been an ordeal to say the least. Worrying about finances, family, and friends is always taxing but adding in the stress of “the big move” had nearly sent her to the nuthouse from stress.

But that’s all in the past now, Melineda reminds herself.

She’s sitting in her car outside the apartment. Something about reminiscing has her frozen in time and chewing the skin around her fingernails. PTSD from the anxiety. She takes a sip of water to break the trace. The cool drink hits the back of her throat and she comes back to life. Melineda blinks twice and reaches across the passenger seat to take her phone out a well worn tote bag. 8:43pm; she has seven unread messages. She clicks the phone screen off without looking at them. They’ll have to wait.

A long day, even for a Monday. She checks her face in the rear view mirror as if there’s someone to impress inside. She looks tired but not as tired as she did three months ago. Ninety says of sleeping away from a family of five had done her well. Ninety days of being able to rest in nothing but peace, quiet, and darkness had made a new woman out of Melineda Cassamajor. The true meaning of beauty sleep unlocked. She feels herself stalling again. She throws the water bottle and phone back into her bag and gets out of the car in an exaggerated movement before another thought can distract her.

The bronze key slides easily into its lock and the door opens with a satisfying click that still gives Melineda a sense of serene satisfaction each time she hears it. Dark. As it should be. When she had first moved in the had kept the porch light on each evening to welcome her home. But she was a veteran now, and old pro. A home doesn’t need welcoming, and home itself is enough of a welcome. Besides, the electric bill was high enough without an added drainage source running all hours of the night.

Melineda slips off her purple Crocs and leaves them in the threshold. The floors are mainly hardwood but something about wearing shoes in the house just feels wrong.

The living room light flickers for a moment before illuminating the room. Home sweet home. Three months she’s been able to say that. The feeling that comes with it can’t be overstated. Oh yes, she has plenty of friends that have their own places, and has heard plenty of stories about how wonderful it is to move out for the first time. She’s heard it all. But the feeling for Melineda is something beyond that. It almost makes her want to cry just trying to name that emotion. Four walls of freedom. Four walls of triumph. Four walls of “I did this. I made it out.” Four walls of finally feeling like it was worth the twenty-seven years of bullshit she’d been putting up with.

A black chaise sofa welcomes her weary body with open arms. She’s a little too long to lay across it completely, but even with dangling feet, she’s never been more comfortable. Melineda curls her body into it. Gil had bought the sofa for her as a twenty-seventh birthday present a month after she moved in. Gil. She wonders what he’s doing right now, but doesn’t reach for her phone. He’s been so distant lately. She misses him but how much can a girl keep giving to a guy who’s never satisfied?

Melineda pulls a quilt over her legs, unbuttons her pants, and flips on the television. Another gift. This one from her sisters. They had piled together whatever money they could, and surprised her with a new 50" screen for the living room. She smiles thinking about it. It hangs, proudly mounted over a stylish entertainment center she had bought off of Amazon. It’s empty right now but one day it’ll be filled with cds and vintage records. Her record player sits on top of it… waiting for his chance to fill the room with a new kind of sound. Soon, she promises.

A teardrop-shaped glass table sits between the sofa and the TV. It’s not the prettiest or her favorite piece in house but, for now, it’s pretty enough. Outside of a shag green area rug that the table sits on, the room is empty. Three months. What had seemed Iike seconds only seconds ago, now felt like an eternity. Three months. She should have had this place fully furnished by now. A wave of disappointment in herself passes, but only briefly. Gratitude. She’s been practicing. Gratitude for the things she has. Gratitude for the person she is. Gratitude for the thing to come.

"But by the grace of God I am what I am." -Corinthians 5:10

It's from a verse they'd been studying at Chad's church. Well, at this point it was pretty much her church too but it still felt strange to call it that. A reminder to take her time, to be grateful for that is in front of her, and to stop being so harsh on herself sometimes. She's been better about getting to church now, and living the life she wanted felt easier now that she had the space to do it.

Melineda feels herself starting to get sleepy while a Netflix movie she is only partially paying attention to blared in the background. Before she can give into that sleep, she forces herself up and into the kitchen. There's not much to eat. An expensive juicer sits on the countertop and tempts her to action. Ugh. She was supposed to be enjoying this but now, every meal felt like such an ordeal to create. She missed her mom's cooking and wondered what the family had for dinner tonight. She pushes the thought aside and juices some carrots, lemons, and kale into a sour tasting concoction.

Taste aside, the juicing was going well. Melineda can't explain it but something about having her own place just made her want to grind up fruits and veggies like it was nobody's business. Gil had laughed at her. He could be so mean sometimes. But that's also why he was so damn fat. She didn't have a scale at home, but in three months Melineda could tell she was losing the weight she'd been so panicked about previously. Her pants fit better and the persistent fat around her belly and hips was shrinking by the day. Was it all from juicing? Or was it the combination of the juicing, a good night's sleep, and better consistent at the gym?

She shrugs and starts the dreaded process of washing out the juicer. The gym. Melineda was supposed to go today but she's exhausted again. Tomorrow. She'll call her sister and they'll meet there after work. She misses them. All of them honestly. But she'd never admit it. She smiles at her own stubbornness and heats up some rice and chicken. A girl gotta eat something real.

Melineda contemplates returning to the sofa but checks the time again. Nearly 10pm now. She lingers in the shower and watches the soapy water swirl around her toes. She never could have done this back at home. It's a priceless experience and more satisfying than a luxury spa. Then again, now there's the water bill to consider... Melineda rinses the soap off of her body juuuust a bit quicker.

The bathroom, unlike the rest of the apartment, does not look empty at all. It's littered with all sorts of bath and beauty products from soaps, lotions, masks, makeup, moisturizers... you name it, it was there. Melineda always knew herself to be something of a... collector but it wasn't until she had the space the let her stuff sprawl all over the place, that it became clear just how much of a collector she really was. That and without little sisters helping themselves to her items, things sure did seem to stuck around longer. Melineda wraps her favorite rust-colored robe around her, puts on a turmeric face mask, and heads for the bedroom.

The bedroom, as it is, is probably the most disappointing room in the apartment. But Melineda doesn't want to look at it like that. It has the most potential! It's huge, especially for one girl and is completely empty except for the King-sized air mattress Gil had given to her. For an air mattress, it was terribly comfortable and she was in no rush to dish out a thousand dollars on something more solid. She had purchased an unassuming nightstand off of Amazon to have somewhere to put her phone and water bottle at night, but it was cheap and ugly and she'd replace it next time she went shopping. But that was a non-issue.

No one was allowed over right now. Not until the place was more presentable at least. It wasn't that she was embarrassed, contrary, it was that she was proud. Melineda Cassamajor was proud of herself and of her apartment and she wanted its appearance to reflect that before she started having all these.. weirdos running in and out here with their own judgments and opinions. She didn't need that. She was never a girl that cared what anyone else thought about her, but she also wanted to make sure that when her name was on someone's tongue, there was nothing but positive adoration to be said.

Funny girl. That's what Gil had said. He always did. She grabs her phone from her bag in the living room and collapses with it into bed. Two weighted blankets and an arsenal of pillows, welcome her officially home. She could pass out right now if she let herself. But the call of social media is too strong. No messages from Gil, and Chad is still at work, so no one to call right now. It's kind of nice like that, peaceful. She would probably have FaceTime'd with Gil while she was waiting to wash off her mask, but he was too busy being in his feelings about who-knows-what today. His loss.

An empty TV-mount hangs across the bedroom and Melineda contemplates moving the living room television in here for the millionth time. The mount had been left by the previous tenants and though Melineda had never been a "tv in bed" kinda girl, its presence alone was going to eventually turn her into one. Gil had offered to get her another TV but she had turned him down... for now. Maybe it would be nice to kick back and fall asleep to Bones or How to Get Away with Murder or something. Better be a Samsung though. She smiles, remembering the stupid back and forth she and Gil had over Samsung vs LG or whatever. The truth was, Melineda didn't care. He could have gotten her a Amazon TV she she *probably* would have loved it anyways.

To be continued...

#things i must remember

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river-runs-on-insanity · 5 years

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Ally

Five years. One-thousand eight hundred thirty-one and a half rotations around the sun, the Earth has made that many. One-thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days. Two million, 6 hundred twenty-eight thousand minutes. And not even once did I not miss her. The world had kept moving, the way it naturally would. Life went on. People were born, and people died. Kids grew up and became adults. Adults went on into the real world and began jobs, got married, and started families. Nothing ever stopped. But losing her was still the strongest pain I had ever known.

Once the flames of grief had died down to embers, the questions of where she had went started to speculate throughout our community. Theories of how she packed up her life and ran away with an older, mysterious man and is now living in Vegas serving beers to whoever walked into her bar. Some believed that she had cashed out her savings and caught the first flight to Greece or Paris and started a life where no one knew her name or the things she had done. Others though, believed the unthinkable. They speculated that she had taken herself to an old abandoned cabin in the Rocky Mountains or somewhere secluded and distant, where it could take years to find her, and put a bullet through her head.

But none of these were true. I was the only one who knew this.

The last time I saw her was the day before she left. She had come to say goodbye.

I had gone to meet her in the diner off 48th and A, not realizing what was about to come. She didn’t cry as she told me of her plans. She took my hand and asked me to do the heartbreaking task of telling her parents of where she went, or at least some jumbled version of that truth. She was gone, that’s what I had to say.

“Rory, you have to make sure they don’t find me. Tell them anything you need to, just don’t tell them where I went. They can never know the truth.” She had said, reaching across the table to stroke my cheek; I closed my eyes and leaned into her palm. I couldn’t understand why she was asking this of me or why she had to go. Even now I still don’t know.

“Please don’t leave me.” I had whispered at some point. She squeezed my other hand and gave me a small, sad smile.

“I have to go Rory,” she had let go of my hand to caress my cheek. I scan still feel her touch on my skin, like a scar that I carry with me forever. “And I think you know this.”

“Then let me have today. Let me have today to say goodbye. And I promise I will do what you ask of me. Just let me have a chance to say goodbye.”

“There’s no one else I’d rather share this last day with than you.”

Occasionally, the memory of how we met will run through my mind; it does this now, the smell of rain and fallen leaves brings me there. And against the autumn wind, I close my eyes and remember her, the girl with beautiful brown curls and eyes so brown, they were gold.

I had broken my back after falling off a house that summer. My first job had been a carpenter alongside my father, and we had both learned quickly that I was accident prone and a safety hazard. Regardless, they had me in the hospital for a couple of days so that I could adjust to the uncomfortable pain I was about to be in for the next couple of months.

Visiting hours were over, yet I remember her sneaking into my room. Hiding from the night nurse, she had told me. They had wanted to lock her up, and send her away to a place where she would stop hurting herself. She asked me to help her escape, but I couldn’t. I was stuck in my bed. I told her of this, and she laughed, deciding to stay with me instead. We talked a lot that night, getting to know one another. Before she had left my room, I told her I couldn’t sleep.

Before shutting the door behind her, she told me to sing the ABCs backwards; that was a trick her mother had taught her, and it worked like a charm. Sure enough, when I had tried it, I was asleep almost instantly. Until they released me from the hospital, she came and saw me every night. She’d perch herself on the end of my bed and talk to me until I fell asleep. It took some time before I noticed the scars on her arms. I’d ask, but she’d change the subject. I never knew what drove herself to inflict that much harm on her body.

She’d tell me things about herself. She had told me once that she wanted to sail the seas and dive deep into those waters to see what was living in the world below.

“So, a biologist?” I brought up one night while we played cards in my room.

“Well, a marine biologist to be exact. But yes, I want to study life. I want to understand it.”

To this very day I still find it funny that she wanted to study and understand life when she herself was a life no man could ever understood. I think about her now, as I walk these city streets on my way out of town. I had stopped at a florist and bought a vibrant bouquet of sunflowers. Those had always been her favorite. They had always made her feel warm and happy on the inside; her face had always lit up like sunlight when I brought her some.

The city is alive and bustling with energy and noise. She always hated it. She had told me multiple times that it made her feel claustrophobic being around that many people. I don’t mind. I like getting lost in the crowds of thousands. It made me feel small and wonderful at the same time. There is something about being just another face passed by on the street, never to be seen again. I used to create stories for her. I’d tell her what I believed their lives were like.

“You see that person over there?” I had once asked her.

“You mean the one with ratty hair and baggy clothes?”

“That woman over there is a cat lover. She lives in a loft with five cats and she treats them all like they’re her kids.”

She just laughed at me, nudging my shoulder affectionately. I loved being able to make her laugh; it was like a mockingbird singing in the distance, chirping and wonderful. Sometimes, like now, I miss how happy I could make her. It was like winning the Nobel Peace Prize. I don’t think she ever realized that I was in love with her. She was my everything, my world, but to her I was just a friend. A safe place to land after taking a valiant leap into the vast unknown. So, I never told her how I felt, I just kept it to myself until it was so overwhelming and painful that it hurt my heart. And I should’ve told her. I had every chance to on that last day with her. The rays of sunlight beam down on my face, as it did on that final day.

I remember it as clearly as I know my own name. We drove to the coast and spent the day on the beach. She held my hand and we talked. We talked about everything and nothing. We talked about stories and music and movies. She told me about her favorite art pieces. She told me of all the places she wanted to go.

“Florida?” I had laughed. “You want to go to Florida?”

“Come on, you can’t tell me you’ve never wanted to do a Daytona Beach spring break.” I could hear the challenge in her voice.

“Nope, and I never wanted to do the Cancun one wither.” I told her, shoving my hands deep in my pockets. “It’s just not my speed.”

“Maybe one day, when I come home, we’ll meet each other there.”

“I’m never going to see you again after this, am I?” I asked, after a long pause of silence between us.

She brushed her pretty penny brown curls out of her face, but the wind just pushed them back. I reached out and moved them away, so I could see her eyes; I held them there, my hand on her cheek.

“Don’t talk like that Rory.” She smiled, but I didn’t believe her. “Of course, we’ll see each other again. You’ll see.”

We didn’t speak about her leaving again. We discussed the languages we wished we could speak. She wanted to learn Italian, I was a little more practical and just wanted to pass high school Spanish. We talked about where we were planning on going one day. We spoke of what we hoped our future would hold. But we didn’t talk about tomorrow. We talked about years from now, but never tomorrow. We both couldn’t stand the idea of what the new day would bring.

“Hey Rory?” she asked me, as we walked towards my house.

“Yes?”

“Can I stay with you tonight?”

She was so small and meek in that moment, that I almost didn’t recognize the girl standing next to me. There was no way I could’ve said no to her.

I held her as she slept that night, and when I woke up in the morning, she was gone. I never saw her again.

I walk towards the bus station. I tried to create new stories and imagine what the lives of those sitting in the rows around me were like, but I couldn’t. All I could think about was her. I could only ever think about her.

She had written to me a couple of times. She told me of her life and how happy she was. She told me of how she made the right choice. She asked me about my life and what I was doing. I told her of college and my quest to get a degree. I told her of my classes and my professors. But that was just mindless talk. Something for her to hold on to.

Then came the worst day of my life. The day when the man came to my doorstep. He was dressed in his military suit and he stood on my porch, telling me how she was a hero. She had given her life so that others might live. She was brave and the best kind of soldier. Her death was very honorable.

Telling her parents hurt. I wanted to lie so badly. I didn’t want to sit in front of them and look them in the eye while I told them I don’t know where she went, but I knew what she had done; no one knew what came after death except those who had died. But that’s why she named me her next of kin. She didn’t want her parents to know, even if she had died. But I had to tell them. I had to tell them that she was unaccounted for. They deserved to know. We all cried together in their living room. The crying never seemed to end. One day, they put a For Sale sign on their yard and left. They left without saying anything.

As for me, I go to see her every once and a while. It had been easier to at first, when I had more time on my hands. But now I didn’t have enough time. But on days like today, I’d make the journey to go and see her. To bring her flowers and talk to her, sitting with her for a while. It brought me some peace and closure in some weird way. I miss her. I always miss her.

I lay the sunflowers at her stone, and I sit in the damp grass. I don’t speak at first. I just take in the moment. The feeling of being near her once again. It’s a beautiful day. The air is cool, and the sun is warm. The leaves are vibrant shades of red and orange. This was her favorite time of year. She loved autumn above all else.

“Hey pretty girl,” I finally say. “I know it’s been too long, but I’m here now.”

I look at her stone, and I read it. I have it memorized by now, but I still read it.

Ally Kay Rodriguez.

April 29, 1987 to December 8, 2005.

#short story #writing blog #my writing #ravenstails #writing #river writes things

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