Abandon

I’ve spent my whole life waiting for someone to see me. I’ve just wanted one person to look at me, see what I can do, and reward me for it. I haven’t been looking for a big reward. I only need some small sign that I’ve really been seen. Give me the job, the promotion, the employee of the month plaque. Anything.

Thirty-six years and it still hasn’t happened. I’m still invisible.

I’m tired of waiting.

I turn the key and settle my hand against the rough wood of the front door. I could drag my hand down, impale myself with splinters. Instead, I pull my hand back to reach for the knob. Flakes of white and blue stick to my hand, layers of the past passed from this ancient house to me.

This house is my reward, the one I chose for myself, scrabbled for cash to purchase. Quit my job for.

This abandoned house is my future. This house is how I will make the world see me. This house is how I will finally get what I deserve.

I brush the past off my hands and walk through the door to my future. The house smells every bit as old as it is. A century’s worth of dust and mildew crawls up my nose, forcing a series of sneezes.

It takes me a moment to catch my breath and I am left dizzy. A flick of my wrist and the windows on the first floor open. A wave of my hand and the dust carpet in the house flies out into the yard.

I turn in a slow circle. As I turn, the overhead lights flicker on revealing the deeply scratched and stained wood floors, the peeling layers of wallpaper, the broken lathes poking through crumbling plaster.

My eyelids drop closed and I continue to turn, lifting my arms as I pivot. Three turns. I stop turning and open my eyes.

Beneath my feet the floors give off the rich glow of well-tended oak. The walls are unbroken, smooth surfaces painted a deep burgundy. The room is brighter, the light fixtures now clean, polished glass and crystal.

I smile and head for the stairs.

As I climb, I trail my hand along the banister, sending tendrils of color and polish ahead of me. By the time I reach the top, the rooms are ready for me.

On my right is a sitting room, three black velvet chairs, two side tables with legs so ornate there is no chance of ever dusting them. Well, not for most people. The floor lamp in the corner has a blood red shade, tinting the room rose.

On my left is the room I have most been looking forward to. No chairs here. A single table stands just above waist high. It is long, a little over six feet, but only three feet wide. The perfect shape for an adult to lay on. I wasn’t willing to sacrifice and go with steel to make clean up easier. Again, for me, it doesn’t matter. I chose mahogany here.

I skate my hand across the surface. Silky smooth, almost soft. I consider climbing up, laying down to test it for myself. But I don’t really care if they’re comfortable.

I reach up and adjust the overhead lamp. Right now it’s dim, so I turn the knob, testing the range. The room goes from candlelight to surgical theatre in a count of three.

It’s all perfect.

I look to the wall to check the time. No clock. I sigh and twitch two fingers to fix the problem. I only have five minutes before my first appointment. I have cut this close.

I turn, again three times, this time to perfect myself. A floor length black skirt. A simple black tank under an elaborately beaded flowing shirt. I’ll take that off later, when we’re ready to begin. Wouldn’t want to ruin it.

The doorbell rings.

I glide down the stairs to meet my first client.

He’s a large man. Larger than I expected. Maybe too large for the table.

I lead him upstairs and ask him to wait in the sitting room. Across the hall, I tap the table to adjust it for him. I slip off my shirt and replace it with a gleaming white lab coat.

I call him to me, invite him to take his place on the dark wood. I don’t ask if he’s comfortable.

I close my eyes and settle my hands on his temples, letting myself imagine what he wants. It’s unclear. I linger there longer than I should, shifting my focus back and forth, trying to focus.

I force myself to relax, to let go. He finally flickers into view. He’s already a big man, but oddly he wants to be bigger, taller, more muscular. He wants to be sculpted.

Again, I smile. Now that I know what he wants I am ready to begin. Keeping my eyes closed and my fingers on his temples, I start to reshape him. His legs are the first to be noticeably different. They are shrinking, the muscles beginning to atrophy. His torso follows.

I didn’t get what I wanted, what I deserved out of life. Why should I give this man what he wants and thinks he deserves?

His wants flicker into view again. It’s not just bigger that he wants. There’s something else there, something he’s hiding. Deep in the process of changing him, I abandon myself to his vision.

He is huge. Strong. Ferocious. And he’s smiling. Smiling down at what his hands are doing. They are wrapped around something. Wrapped around someone.

I am a moment too late in letting the vision slide out to show me what he’s holding.

I am a moment too late in taking the strength from his arms.

His hands have found me, snaked around my neck, cutting off my oxygen. Cutting off my power.

I lift my hands to him, wishing I could change him into sand that would blow away on a breeze. My hands are ordinary, mortal, and useless against his own.

The table crumbles into dust, dropping the man onto the floor. He doesn’t let go, taking me down with him. The lights flicker off as wallpaper sprouts on the walls, peeling down like drooping flower petals. 

Everything I have done is coming undone. Including him. His once again powerful thighs pin me to the floor as he gets his deepest desire, canceling out my work, canceling out my life.

One last time, I fail to get what I want.