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A Conversation with an Old Friend

(fiction)

By Katie BoylePublished 3 years ago 9 min read
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A Conversation with an Old Friend

She tilted her head back and saw color. Pinks and greens seeped from the corners of her eyes and spread to the middle, leaving patterns doused in pigment. Her head felt heavy as pink and green Chrysanthemums bloomed in her irises.

"Margaret, isn't it?" The words jolted through her, as if she had been pulled to the surface of a lake. Margaret nodded groggily but didn't look up. Her head pounding as she looked at the dark hard wood floors beneath her sparkling high heels. The wood is polished and shiny, almost as shiny as the shoes. The texture became too much for her eyes to bear looking at. Margaret sat in an upholstered chair clinging to herself with her head between her knees, bobbing like a ship on choppy seas. Her eyesight was hazy at the edges, and she smelled citrus and sugar warming up her nose. The room was warm, but not uncomfortable. She scratched her head near the base of her neck, attempting to distract herself from the tremendous heartbeat she felt reverberating inside her skull. Each stroke took a full, exhausted minute. She struggled to pry her eyelids all the way open as she lifted her head to focus her vision at the man speaking to her.

"Who the fuck are you?" Margaret’s voice cracked.

At first, she thought the man was a cop. After several seconds her vision focused, the first thing she could make out were his teeth; perhaps the whitest and most perfect teeth she had ever seen. The man let out a small chuckle, his lips never covering those teeth. He sat across from her on the other side of a small table with his elbows resting on the tabletop, his interlaced fingers under his chin. She is suddenly struck by how handsome this man’s face is, with dark hair and skin like porcelain. He is dressed in a fitted suit with a baby blue bow tie. His eyes were the lightest brown she had ever seen, almost amber. She became embarrassed by her vulgarity.

“Coffee? You seem to have had a bit of a rough night." His voice dripped down her ears like warm honey as he gestured to a set of white coffee cups on the buffet against the wall opposite to them. Margaret looked at the room she was in for the first time. It was not particularly big, but the walls were tall and covered with a magnificent plum wallpaper that had silver poppies printed in vertical rows, stretching elegantly up the 12ft ceilings. The crown molding had delicate carvings on every inch. The ornate chandelier cast a dancing light upon the room. There was a faint light coming from the window adjacent to the table that Margaret clung to. In between the table and the buffet cabinet there was a charming sitting room. Complete with couches, chairs, and pillows, the sitting area was arranged in the same fashion as her psychiatrist’s office. The walls supported several lavish paintings and one large mirror. Margaret stared at her reflection, silently thankful that her evening makeup was still in perfect condition. She had always had large and wide eyes, the kind that made her look as if she were in a constant state of surprise. She noticed one of her bottom eyelids twitching as if it were a metronome, she could even hear the faint ticking.

Margaret pulled her face away from the reflection and accepted the cup of coffee with a single nod. The man winked at her and, in one motion, got up from the chair and stepped to the buffet. She watched the man pour the coffee into two cups, his arms moving in a naturally rhythmic way. She felt the warmth of the room relaxing her muscles. She felt calm without explanation and tingles at her fingertips.

“Did you give me another hit or something?”

She watched his back and arms move as he poured a spoonful of sugar into one cup. He turned his head only slightly as another angelic chuckle fell from his lips.

“I’m sorry my dear, I do not dabble in such poisons,” he said. He turned his head forward to the sugar.

Embarrassed, she forced herself to glance out the framed window directly left from where she sat. It was foggy on the outside of the window, so much so that all she could see is the trunk of one tree, barren of leaves, shrouded in a white and grey glow that dances around it. She could see the hard brown dirt covered in fallen leaves. Her eyes began to trace the small crystals of ice forming patterns on each individual pane. She touched her fingertips to the glass and recognizes the familiar sting of cold.

A waft of citrus and sugar filled her nose as the man sat down across from her, the corners of his mouth almost turned up into a grin.

“Where am I?” She did not feel anxious about this, mostly just curiosity.

"Well, my lovely, you are currently in my home. Are you comfortable enough?" His words were softer than silk. Margaret looked around the well-decorated room again and smiled.

“Love the wallpaper," she said, her eyes meeting his grin. "How do you know my name?"

He pursed his lips, and chose his next words carefully. "I know that because we have an appointment."

"For when?"

"Right now."

He laced his fingers together on the tabletop again. He watched her, cheery almost, as if he were playing a game of chess. Margaret’s face felt hot, she wished she could push her cheeks against the cold windowpane, but she didn’t want the man across from her to see her sweating. He leaned toward her only an inch.

"How are you feeling my dear?"

"Appointment for what? Tell me how you know my name." She cut him off, chipping the polish off of her fingernails and watched his face. He appeared calm and leaned back in his chair and brushed the feathery strands of hair from his face.

"Margaret, I've known you for some time now. I might even say I'm a little offended that you don't remember me." He paused to allow another small chuckle. "You see Margaret, I first met you when your mother died, and I was again there when you father made his untimely demise only ten years later. I even held your hand when they were burying her." Her eyelids grew warmer. Margaret’s mother had died of cancer when she was only five years old. Margaret could hardly recall most of her mother's passing. The man was watching her reaction, waiting to continue.

"How do you know that?" Margaret asked quietly, not looking up.

"After your mother died, I took a special interest in you. I never much enjoy guiding a mother away from her young daughter." He stopped to sip his coffee. "I noticed that you never once wept for your dear old mother. But when daddy died, you were just beside yourself. He remarried shortly after her death, didn’t he? To that woman who put out her cigarettes on your back?”

Margaret was still, her eyelid ceased its twitch for a moment. Her fingertips felt stiff, as if she had been holding icicles. He continued.

“I’m sorry that you had to find him like that,” his eyebrows furrowed in concern.

"Okay, no more bullshit! You need to tell me who the fuck you are and how I got here," her voice cracked again, but this time from panic.

"Margaret, you calm down now. I would never harm you or lie to you. I'm going to tell you what happened alright?" He put his hand on top of hers, his voice like a lullaby. She let him tuck the hair behind her ears as her eyelid resumed its ticking again.

He smelled of oranges.

"You're here right now because you are overdosing. I don't want you to be alarmed, you're still alive, but we are here to discuss your options." Ticking fills the silence. He continues. “The paramedics will find you before it's too late, your junkie boyfriend called just in time," his eyes were boring into hers, the air between them so fragrant and lovely.

"But I don't want to die. How can I stop this? You said I have options. I want to go home. This isn't supposed to happen to me." She felt herself start to babble, her palms and wrists growing cold. The high heels pinched her toes leaving an ache that traveled through her ankles.

"I understand that you're a little uneasy with this whole situation, understandably so," his voice was calm and patient, “but I wanted to give you an out. You can always stay here.”

"The fuck are you talking about?"

"Don’t be a fool Margaret, we both know what happens if you go back to that filthy apartment. First, they will take you to the hospital and you’ll wake up handcuffed to the bed. There is enough heroin in that apartment for them to think you’re distributing. Then you’ll likely do some time in jail. When you get out of jail, you’ll have to pay for your medical expenses. Do you even have health insurance?" This last question made her shutter and break his gaze. She looked to the mirror at her reflection staring back at her. There were thick streams of yellow vomit on her face and shirt, dark circles underneath her eyes. There was dirt on her face. She swallowed hard. She looked like a corpse.

"Or you could stay here."

Margaret looked down at her hands, pale and stiff. She could see veins of purple beneath a thin, ivory layer of skin. She could feel ice in her toes. She touched the cup of coffee for the first time. It wasn’t warm anymore either.

"If you stay here with me, all of those things will melt away, and you will know no pain. If you give me your heartbeat, I'll give you an eternity of peace." The edges of his mouth almost curved into a smile again. He was striking the best deal he could and she knew it.. "There will be no more late nights doing drugs with strangers because you can't stand to be alone and sober. No more running away. You'll be free."

She looked out the window at the white wall of fog. There was a slight silhouette on a barren tree branch. She squinted her eyes enough to make out two large and unmoving, amber-colored eyes. A large barn owl had landed on the branch and seemed to be staring at her through the window.

Images flashed in her mind; her father’s boots unmoving and sticking out from behind the bed.

"I don't want to pressure you my dear, but I am only responding to your calls. I know how badly you’ve been wanting this, and friends help friends, yes? Regardless of your decision in this moment, I'll see you again. But I must ask what your decision is." He set down the empty cup, his eyes like glowing amber. He set his hand atop the table, wrist up, offering it to her.

“Will I get to see him?” She asked, her eyes fixed on his hand. She glanced up to see that perfect smile return to his face. Then, she took his hand. The owl spread its wings.

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About the Creator

Katie Boyle

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