Tag Archives: Jet

Parental Deception; chapter one, part one

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“I know Thanksgiving is this Thursday, Jasmine,” I say, pacing my living room floor. “I can read a calendar as well as you can.” Onyx and Jet, my two black cats, sister and brother, pace alongside me. Onyx is mewing at me, and Jet is watching her back, as always. Onyx is five pounds of fluffy attitude, whereas Jet is close to four times her size and pure muscle. He’s content to take a backseat to his more vocal sister, however, which has been their pattern since I got them eight years ago when they were six months old. I fan my waist-length black hair away from my neck as I’m suddenly hot. Perimenopause is no joke, yo.

“You’re delegated to make the pies—whatever kind you like.” My older sister has been in charge of family functions since we were kids, and she’s not above bossing me around.

“I’ll make one pumpkin and one sweet potato. How many people are going to be there?” I make a note to myself because I’ll forget if I don’t. It’s my passive-aggressive way of getting back at Jasmine for being such a control  freak.

“Me, Bob, Coral, Jamal, the twins, Jordan, Joanna, and their three kids as well. Vivian said she’d try to make it, but she hasn’t booked her tickets, yet.” Vivian is our younger sister who lives in Boston and is an artist. She has no concept of time or responsibility to others. It’s not that she’s thoughtless, but that she’s focused on her art most of the time. Bob’s sister and her family lives out of state, and I’ve never met any of them. Jordan and Joanna live in NYC, so they must be flying out for the holiday. Jasmine’s other two kids, Robert Jr. and Michael, live in California and Florida, respectively, and won’t be able to make it this year. “Oh! Bring that guy you’re dating. It’s about time I met him. I want to make sure he’s a good match for you.”

“I’m not sure about that,” I demur. “We’ve only been dating a little over a month, so I don’t want to spook him.”

“You’re not getting any younger, Megan. It’s time for you to settle down.” Jasmine’s eight years older than I am, and she was a second mother to me after our father left when I was three, and my mother started quietly drinking herself to death. That’s why I put up with Jasmine talking to me as if I’m an idiot, but only for a limited amount of time.

“It’s been a month,” I reiterate, keeping my voice even. “He probably wants to go to his mother’s, anyway.”

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Marital Duplicity; chapter one

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Taiji is my sanctuary, and I need it more than ever right now. I’ve had the worst few weeks of my life in which my best friend has been murdered and my lover has been brutally attacked. The absolute worst part is that their attacker is someone who thought she was in love with me and wanted to eliminate the competition. I haven’t slept since she confronted me at work, and I managed to fend off her attack with the aid of taiji. I’m barely holding on, and if I didn’t have taiji and my cats, I probably would have killed myself.

“Let’s do the first section,” Lydia says, and we all move to our places on the floor. We don’t have designated spots, but we all tend to go to the same place as we are creatures of habit. I take the front left corner as is my wont and wait for Lydia to start. I’ve been studying taiji for seven years, and I attend classes three days a week in part because I’m not as diligent as I should be about practicing on a daily basis. I’m better now than when I first started, however, as I never practiced at home during the first two years. “I’ll say the names of the postures; try to stick together. Take your time, and enjoy.” We start the first section of the Solo Form, and I try to empty my mind of all thoughts. It’s not easy, however, as the Solo Form is my least favorite part of taiji. It’s a shame because it’s the basis for everything else we do, but I can’t help what I like and don’t like. The Solo Form is mostly for health and meditation, two things that I don’t care about. I mean, I’m glad taiji is beneficial to my health and my mental health, but I care more about the applications. Although right now, my mental health could do with some shoring up.

I focus on my waist, making sure to turn it correctly. In taiji, the hands rarely move on their own—if ever. We’re supposed to turn our waist to move our hands as it gives more power to every strike, block, and chop. When I do it correctly, it feels as if I’m doing nothing. Lydia says that’s how you know you’re doing it right—when it’s effortless. Taiji is the lazy person’s martial art in which you want to expend as little effort as possible for the biggest possible result. I’m satisfied with my first section, though it’s not my best. Afterwards, we have a ten minute break, during which I sip water from my iced water bottle and listen to my classmates chatter about nothing in particular. I must be giving off a ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibes because no one tries to talk to me. I’m grateful as I don’t feel particularly conversational.

After the break, Lydia asks me to lead the more advanced students in the Sword Form while she works on the Solo Form with the newer students. The Sword Form is my favorite, so I relish any chance I get to practice it. I’ve taught myself the left side of the form at home because that’s the way Lydia’s teacher insists it be done. His rationale is that if you know the right side, you can teach yourself the left side. Any weaknesses you have on the right side will show up in learning the left side. I had little problem teaching myself the left side of the Sword Form, but I’m struggling with the left side of the Solo Form. How like me to prefer the hard to the easy, which is the reason the kick section is my favorite part of the Solo Form.

Once we’re done with the Sword Form, Lydia has us do the entire Solo Form to music. She’s doing it less these days since her teacher is moving away from it, but she still does it once in a while. I like it because it’s faster than we normally do the Solo Form, but many of my classmates disagree. We put the newbies in the middle of the group so they can have someone to watch no matter which way we’re facing. People think taiji is relaxing and meditative, and it is, but it’s also a real workout if you do it properly. My back always aches by the third section, and it’s something that I’m currently working on. I concentrate on making sure my back knee is over my toes, which is another bad habit of mine—overextending my knee. I’m tired by the time we’re done, but also satisfied. My back is aching, but it doesn’t hurt—I chalk that up as a win. After class, I wait for the rest of my classmates to leave so I can chat with Lydia for a few minutes.

“How’re you feeling these days, Megan?” Lydia asks as she goes behind a divider to change into her street clothes. “You’ve had a rough go of it these last few weeks.”

“I’m hanging in. I miss Julianna like hell, though, and I still feel terrible about Rembrandt’s eye.”

“I know it’s been tough on you, but you can’t blame yourself for either event. It was that crazy woman’s fault-not yours.” Lydia’s voice is muffled, and I can barely understand what she’s saying.

“I know, but it if wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t have attacked either of them.” That’s my prevailing nightmare, that I’m the one who brought the misfortune to my best friend and my lover. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m OK. Roger is worried because construction is down right now, but we’re scraping by.” Lydia emerges from behind the division, her face weary. We chat for a few minutes before leaving. I hug her and climb into my car, ready to go home.

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Blogging My Murder; chapter nine, part one

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Chapter Nine; Part One

“Hey, I woke up, and you were gone. L.” I wake up to a text from Rembrandt. I feel guilty for slipping out, but I irrationally feel irritated as well. We’ve only had one date, and, yes, the fucking was phenomenal, but still. He doesn’t own me, and I don’t owe him anything. Then again, he did just give me the fucking of a lifetime, and that means something.

“Sorry. I sleep better at home with my cats.” I text back, struggling not to feel defensive.

“No prob. Would love to see you again soon.” I pause. Do I want to see him again this weekend? My pussy says yes, but my brain is ambivalent. I don’t like spending too much time with any one person, not even loved ones. Perhaps especially not loved ones. I decide to throw caution to the wind and agree to see him again, but not tonight.

“Tomorrow? Dinner? And dessert?”

“Sounds good. I’ll cook. Unless you want to do it at your place?”

“You cooking sounds great.” I stifle the guilt at leaving my cats for another long night, but I can’t turn down a home-cooked dinner. “I like Thai, Italian, and Taiwanese. Chinese.”

“Lasagna, garlic bread, and tiramisu for dessert?”

“YES!”

“Can’t wait.” With that, I get out of bed and take a quick shower. Then, I check my phone and see that I have two dozen responses on my latest post. Most of them say that I was fortunate to have someone like her in my life. MNsnowbaby says, “I met her once at a Picasso show at the MIA. She was so vibrant and intense. We only talked briefly, but I’ve never forgotten her.” SayItAin’tSo comments, “I have a bestie who I would die for. Or kill for. I don’t know what I’d do without him. I’m so sorry for your loss.” BasalTemp adds, “Fuck. What a waste. RIP, and may you find your peace.” QueenBee writes, “Know you are not alone. I will always be here for you. Always.” I frown. That’s a strange thing to say for someone who’s never met me. Unfortunately, there’s a weird thing that happens when you’re in the limelight in any way, even in such a small way as I am. People who read my stuff on a regular basis think they know me better than they actually do, and it can lead to some awkward moments. I had one guy declare in emails that he was in love with me from reading my blog—my old one. When I had to break it to him that I didn’t feel the same, and what’s more, it was inappropriate of him to say that to me, it got ugly. He emailed me twenty times a day, declaring that he couldn’t live without me. After my initial response to him, I didn’t answer any of his emails, but it didn’t deter him for weeks. Just as I thought I might have to take more drastic measures, he stopped. I was relieved, but I couldn’t help being curious as to what had happened to him. I Googled his name and discovered that he tried to kill himself by eating the business end of his gun. He somehow missed anything vital, but it messed him up pretty badly, obviously. This was a year ago, and I haven’t heard from him since. He’s the reason I closed down my old blog, and I’m wary of having the same thing happen again.

I sigh and shut down the browser with my website. I’m feeling morose, and I don’t quite know what to do about it. I perk some coffee and pour myself a cup. I sip at it while it’s still boiling because I like to burn my mouth. It’s a weird thing, I know, but I find it pleasurable, as long as it’s not permanently damaged. I drain the cup in three gulps, then refill my cup. Onyx and Jet stare at me hopefully, wanting more treats. I’m in the kitchen, so it should be treat time, which is probably their thought process. I give them each three Temptations before taking my cup of coffee to the living room. I peruse the news, but I can’t read much about politics because I start freaking out if I do that. I watch a couple Maru videos instead—one of the cutest cats on the internet. I follow that up with Shironeko videos—one of the calmest cats on the internet. Both of them live in Japan in impeccably-kept houses. Watching Shironeko chill with a cabbage leaf on his head is perhaps my favorite cat video ever. I feel better after watching it, and I decide to do a quick taiji set to keep the mood going. I do a Sword Form and the third section of the Solo Form, plus some stretches and single posture drills. It takes fifteen minutes, and I feel even better once I’m done.

I decide to go for a walk, so I pull on my tennis shoes and a pair of leather gloves. Even though it’s October, it’s been unusually mild, so I don’t need a jacket. Once I step outside, I realize that I don’t need my gloves, either. I stuff them in my purse as I walk at a brisk place. The sun is shining, and I inhale the fresh air. Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck bristles, and I feel as if someone is watching me. I whip my head around, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary. Yes, there are people walking around, but nobody looks suspicious. I start walking again, but I still feel watched. I scan the area as I walk, catching a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. I whip my head around, but I don’t see anything. Feeling uneasy, I pick up the pace. I don’t feel as refreshed as I once did; now, I just want to get home. When I do, Onyx and Jet are waiting for me. They follow me upstairs and wait while I take a quick shower. After I get dressed in fresh sweats, I go downstairs to check my website again. More comments. More condolences. More shared stories about meeting Julianna. It’s enough to warm the cockles of even my cold heart. I decide to write a quick post of thanks.

I’ve been overwhelmed with my grief. It’s such an isolating and singular thing. I try to go about my day, but then I remember Julianna’s dead, and I break down again. I have people in my real life who have been invaluable to me these past few days, and I have you guys. I want you to know that I’m very appreciative of the support I’ve received from my readers. You guys have warmed my heart with your stories and your well wishes.

I don’t know how to thank you other than to straight out say it: thank you for supporting me. Thank you for metaphorically holding my hand as I grieve. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to read your loving comments when I’m feeling despair.

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Blogging My Murder; chapter six, part three

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Chapter Six; Part Three

“Hey, Megan. How’re you doing?”

“fine. well, no, not really. i left work early today because i couldn’t stand being there.” I fill him in on my day, and he’s properly sympathetic to my woes. He tells me about the house shoot he did today and how his client was a pain in the ass. Mrs. Decker made him move a lamp five times before ordering him to put it back where it first was. Then, she was unhappy with his prices, even though she had agreed to them before he’d even started. Then, she tried to seduce him in lieu of payment, and he had a difficult time getting her to take no for an answer. As she’s in her sixties, gaunt, and wouldn’t know a smile if it hit her in the face, he wanted nothing to do with her.

“have you ever slept with a client?” I ask curiously. “no judgement—just wondering.”

“I did. Once. It did not end well.” With that, Rembrandt tells me the story.

 

“So, you’re a photographer.” The curvy brunette placed a red-tipped talon on Rembrandt’s arm and trails it down to his hand. She pressed her boobs against his arm while snaking her arm around his waist. Rembrandt was glad he worked from home because he wouldn’t want to have to deal with this in an office full of people. “I’m getting married in two months, and I’m interviewing photographers.”

“Is this part of the interview process?” Rembrandt asked, arching his eyebrow at her.

“For you, yes it is.” The brunette planted a kiss on Rembrandt’s lips, slipping her tongue into his mouth.

 

“Wait a minute. She hit on you while asking you to be her wedding photographer?” We’ve switched to phone, which makes talking about the story much easier.

“Yup.”

 

“What are you doing?” Rembrandt’s voice was ragged, and his cock was rock hard.

“I’m trying to get in your pants. Is it working?” Kimberly—by now he knew her name—asked, her voice husky. “You’re going to be my last fling before my wedding. I think I’ve earned it.”

“Kimberly, I don’t think this is a good idea.” Rembrandt pulled back, but not completely. He had recently broken up with his girlfriend, and he hadn’t felt a tit in two months.

“I know it’s not, but I don’t care,” Kimberly said bluntly. She grabbed Rembrandt’s hand and placed it on her tit under her tank top. Rembrandt swallowed hard at the warm flesh under his fingers. It was not augmented, which was just how he liked it. He instinctively squeezed, and he shivered when her nipple tightened under his touch.

“Fuck it.” Rembrandt grabbed her face in both his hands and kissed her hard.

“Meow?” Ginger rubbed against Rembrandt’s legs while simultaneously glaring at Kimberly.

“Not now, Ginger.” Rembrandt brushed Ginger aside and returned to kissing Kimberly. He guided her towards his bedroom, closing the door on Ginger’s face. “Come here.” Rembrandt gently pushed Kimberly on the bed and climbed on top of her.

“Fuck me,” Kimberly gasped, pulling Rembrandt down hard. After they kissed for several minutes, Rembrandt rolled off Kimberly so she could sit up and pull off her top. Her tits bounced out, and Rembrandt was all over them in a hot second. He sucked one into his mouth and was gratified to hear Kimberly’s moans. “Oh, god. I need this so bad.” They both quickly disrobed before continuing to make out. Rembrandt went down on Kimberly, eating her out until she came. She returned the favor, but he stopped her before he came because he knew he would be one and done. “Do you have any condoms?”

“Yes.” Rembrandt opened the drawer in his nightstand and pulled out a condom. He rolled it on his cock, which was harder than it had been in quite some time. Kimberly lay back on the bed and spread her legs. Rembrandt was between them and in her in a flash.

 

“So this was less than a year ago?” I ask, cutting into his recitation. I’m having a hard time keeping the timeline straight, so I need to clarify the details.

“Yeah. It was about six months ago.” Rembrandt’s voice is filled with guilt, and he continues his story.

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Blogging My Murder; chapter six, part two

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“I’m going out for a while, but I should be home before too late.” I kiss Onyx and Jet on their heads before leaving, ignoring their cries as I do. I drive to South Minneapolis where my sister lives and sit in the car after parking. I steel myself for the encounter, taking several smooth, slow breaths. I always have trouble interacting with normies, and my brother-in-law is definitely a normie. He does something in marketing, and he’ll drone on and on about it for hours if you let him. Coral is a pleasant woman who greatly resembles her mother, and she has the strong will as well. She has marched in Black Lives Matter protests for the past year and a half, much to her father’s dismay. She and her husband, Jamal Harrington, are prominent figures in the local chapter. Jamal is a teacher in an alternative high school, and despite being built like a linebacker, he never played sports as a kid. He’s a crack hand at chess, though. We’ve played it a few times, and he’s whupped my ass every time.

“I can do this.” I turn off the car, lock the door, and knock on the door to Jasmine’s house.

“Megan, come on in.” Jasmine grabs me in a hug, nearly taking my breath away.

“Auntie Meg! Come play.” Michelle and Ing-wen fly at me, nearly knocking me over in their enthusiasm to hug me. They’re wearing matching dresses, red for Michelle and orange for Ing-wen. They both have matching bows in their curls, and they look too cute for words.

“Hi, girls. How’re my babies doing?” I hug them with difficulty as they squirm in my embrace.

“Come play with us! We brought our Legos!” They pull at my hand, but Jasmine shoos them away.

“Girls, let her say hi to everyone else.” Jasmine leads me into the living room where her husband, Bob, is sitting on the recliner, and Coral and Jamal are on the couch. Bob’s black hair is slicked back, and he has a grimace on his face as Jamal and Coral chat with each other.

“Aunt Meg!” Coral springs up and hugs me. “It’s been too long!” She squeeze my hand. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“Coral. You’re looking great!” I look her up and down with a critical eye. She’s lost some weight while still retaining her voluptuous figure. Her curly hair is pinned up in a sloppy bun which suits her Madonna figure, and she’s wearing a brilliant red pantsuit which guarantees she’ll draw every eye in the room. “Your girls are lovely, too.” I look around for Smoochie, Jasmine’s calico cat, but she’s nowhere to be seen. She’s thirteen, has a touch of arthritis, and the only people she like are her immediate family, so I rarely see her.

“They are the best of me and Jamal, that’s for sure!” Coral leads me to the couch, and Jamal rises to greet me.

“Ms. Liang. It’s a pleasure to see you again.” Jamal extends his hand and engulfs mine in his.

“Megan. Please. It’s good to see you, too.” I eye Jamal covertly, not letting on how attractive I find him. He’s six-feet four inches of solid muscle, his dark brown skin looking deliciously edible. His dreads fall halfway down his back, and his tailored suit is just itching to be ripped off. “How’re you doing, Jamal?”

“Just fine, Megan.” Jamal says with an easy smile. “My kids this year are riled up about Phil Castilo’s shooting, so I’ve had my hands full with them.”

“That was such bull—crap,” I say, changing the word at the last moment. I’m keenly aware of my two grandnieces hanging on our every word, and I don’t want to be the one to corrupt them. Granted, they are playing with their ‘Legos’ (Duplos) on the floor and don’t appear to be paying attention, but I know better. The last time I saw them, I said something was shit, and the girls suddenly looked up from their plushies and said shit loudly and in unison.

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Blogging My Murder; chapter five, part two

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Chapter Five; Part Two

Speaking of Tessa, my phone rings her ring. I glance at my phone and remind myself that I need to block her number. I didn’t after I first caught her because I was in shock, and then inertia took its course. Her calls came less and less, and I hadn’t heard from her in the past four days—a record. I wait for her text to come through. It says, “Megan! I heard about Julianna! You poor, poor baby. You must be hurting so much. Call me!” I erase it, then another comes through. “Patricia is gone for the week. Call me.” I snort and erase that one as well. If she thought she could seduce me into a tryst after what she did to me, she didn’t know me at all. I toy with the idea of pretending to go along with her and then rejecting her just as we’re about to fuck, but I decide I’m going to be better than that. A third text, “I am so, so, so sorry I cheated on you, Megs. I miss you.” The use of her pet name for me brings tears to my eyes. I can’t help but remember the times we walked on Stone Arch Bridge, late at night, holding hands and laughing unrestrainedly. Teddy Bear, her black chow, trotted between us, his blue tongue lolling out of his mouth. He adored Tessa, liked me well enough, and tolerated Patricia. It makes me meanly glad that Teddy never truly warmed up to Patricia, despite her being his walker. “Megan, you need someone in your time of need.” I block Tessa’s number, suddenly tired of her pestering. Almost immediately, I get an email from her, so I block her there as well. Next, Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram. Blocked, blocked, blocked. I want her out of my life, and I never want to think about her again.

“Fuck that.” I turn over on the couch, thumping the cushions in anger. I hate thinking about Tessa because it messes up my brain. Any time I resolve to calm down, I get riled up again. I’ve tried slow, smooth breathing; I’ve tried meditation; I’ve tried imagining that I’m stabbing her with a sword. None of it makes me feel better, so I hope that the proverbial time will heal this particular wound. I pull a pillow over my head, and then I feel a cat ass sitting on it. A small one, so it’s Onyx. I reach up and remove her, setting her to the side of the pillow. Two minutes later, I feel the thump again. This time, she burrows her ass down firmly, as if that’ll stop me from removing her. I don’t mind her being so clingy, but not if it means a cat ass on my face. Even if my face is covered with a pillow. “Quit it, Onyx!” I say crossly, my voice muffled by pillow and ass. I move her again, this time turning on my side so she can’t repeat her trick again. She mews crossly at me before hopping up on the side of my ribs. She stiff-legs her way down my hip and settles on the side of my knee. That’s tolerable, so I allow it. Two minutes later, I feel a heavier body bumping against the small of my back. Jet in his usual spot, I presume. His warm, comforting bulk soothes some of my agitation, and I drift off to sleep.

Julianna’s mutilated body weaves in and out of my dream, showing gaps in her skin. A blood-drenched ribbon passes through the gaps, making a grotesque tapestry out of my friend’s body. There is some classical music playing in the background. Bach, Beethoven, Brahms. One of the Bs, though I’m not sure which one. It’s as soft and seductive as a siren’s song. Little bits of flesh crumble off her body as she floats, and there’s a rictus smile on her face. I’m in the dream as well, trying in vain to capture her with a large butterfly net. She keeps slipping through it, and I’m crying as I run.

“Goddamn it!” I sit straight up, clutching the pillow to my heart. I have shifted sometime in my sleep, and Onyx and Jet are snuggled in a ball at my feet. I race to the bathroom, dry-heaving into the toilet. I keep gagging, even though nothing comes up. Onyx and Jet join me, meowing anxiously at my feet. Once I’m done, I crawl over to the counter and pull myself up with difficulty. I fill a glass with water and gulp down several mouthfuls of water. It starts roiling in my stomach, and I lean over the toilet again. The water comes back up, and my stomach hurts from all the retching. I flop down on the floor, not wanting to move. I close my eyes, thinking how easy it would be just to go to sleep and never wake up. I don’t want to live in a world without my Julianna, anyway, so why not just let it all go?

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Blogging My Murder; chapter five, part one

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Chapter Five; Part One

“Mrreow!” I bolt awake to the sight of Onyx’s face inches from mine. Her eyes are small slits, and her fangs are showing.

“Do not do that!” I push Onyx’s face away from mine, wincing as her breath hits my face. It stinks of salmon and kibbles, and I push it further to the side. She eludes my hand and bonks her head against my face. Jet is standing to the side of me, watching his sister with something akin to amusement on his face. I glance at the clock and note that it’s four-fifteen in the morning. I sigh and snuggle down into my pillow, but I’m wide awake. I check the comments on my latest post, and I’m warmed by how enthusiastic people are in response to the post. Several say that they’d love to meet my best friend, with one or two saying more cheekily that they’d like to date her. It’s funny as I don’t mention describe what she looks like or post her picture, but her personality shines through, even on paper. I frown at QueenBee’s comment as she acerbically writes, “All bark and no bite. You can tell she’s got no substance, and her voice is ugly, too. I don’t know what you see in her. She was a waste of space.” I frown as this is the second time she’s said something negative about Julianna. I dismiss it from my mind, then promptly fall back asleep for another hour. I’m not feeling refreshed when I wake up, but it’ll have to do.

“How are my little boops?” I ask, rubbing first Onyx’s nose and then Jet’s. They both nuzzle against me before nudging at my shoulders. It’s clear that they want me to get up and feed them, so I begrudgingly comply. Getting out of bed is my least-favorite activity, and it happens with depressing frequency. I drag myself over to my closet and quickly pick out an outfit. After I feed the cats and eat a bagel with peanut butter, I’m out the door. I arrive early to work, so I allow myself a minute to hop online (on my phone) and check the news. When I open the Strib website, I get the shock of my life. There’s Julianna’s face staring back at mine, on her bed, with her throat slashed. I gag and cry out, quickly stifling it. The next thing I see is that her tongue is cut out, and there’s copious amounts of blood surrounding her. That’s when I lose it—stumbling away from my desk. I make it to the bathroom just in time to puke out the contents of my stomach into the toilet. I keep gagging long after I’ve thrown everything up. I sag onto the floor and begin weeping uncontrollably. How could this be happening to me? How could Julianna be dead? Also, who could have done that to her tongue? Who hated her that much?

I fumble with my purse, pulling out my phone. There’s the Star Tribune website and Julianna’s destroyed face is looking back at me. I quickly close out the tab before plugging Julianna Araki into Google. The first five hits are about the murder, and I cautiously open them in new windows. None of them have pictures, for which I’m grateful. I learn that Julianna was killed at about four in the morning, the same time Onyx had awoken me from my sleep. Remorse overcomes me. If only I had called her, texted her, or something. Maybe I could have saved her. I check my phone to see if I have any messages. I do—a text from her at around 3:45 a.m. I stare at the phone, not believing my eyes. This is a text from Julianna, and it might be the last thing she said before she was—I finally check the text, my heart in my mouth. I don’t want to read it, but I know I must.

“Hey, Liang. I just got the fucking of a lifetime. You should try it! It’s good for what ails you. I’m ready for another round, but Ramona had to go home, damn it. Wanna come over and lend me a hand? Just kidding. Love you, girl. Thank you for the Dong Yuan. Talk to you soon.”

“Oh, Araki. How could you do this to me?” I cradle my phone to my chest, rocking back and forth as I weep. What am I going to do without my best friend, and who could have done this to her? Ramona? Simon? A disgruntled ex? I don’t know, and all I can do is weep.

“Megan? Are you OK?” Tania Smith, one of my coworkers, stares at me, her mouth agape and her hazel eyes wide. She pushes a hank of greasy brown hair from her brow, but it falls back in place.

“I’m fine.” I choke back my sobs and gather my things. I pull myself up off the floor and brush by her to wash my face. I rinse my mouth before turning off the faucet. “I think I might have a stomach bug. I’m going home. Tell Cara I’m taking the rest of the day off.” I sweep out of the bathroom, keeping my head held high. I don’t crumble until I reach my car, and then I burst into sobs again. Somehow, I manage to make it home in one piece before collapsing on the couch. I start weeping as if I’ll never stop. Onyx and Jet hop onto the couch, Onyx on my stomach and Jet on the cushion squished next to my thigh, and they’re both staring at me in consternation. I try to placate them with a smile, but all I can do is howl. I can’t live without my Julianna; I just can’t bear it.

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Blogging My Murder; chapter four

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Chapter Four

I wake up five minutes before my alarm rings, which pisses me off. I’d rather be awakened an hour before it’s time to get up than five minutes. That’s not enough time to go back to sleep, but it’s enough time to make me not want to get up, either. I sigh and roll over, careful not to squish the cats who are spooned in a circle on the bed beside me. I give them a quick pet before sliding out of bed. They’re both out like a light and don’t move a muscle. I hop into the shower after winding my hair on the top of my head. I stay in for an extra five minutes because my body is sore. I don’t know why, except perhaps I slept wrong. The hot water feels great on my body, and I reluctantly turn off the tap. I towel off before dressing. Afterwards, I wander down to the kitchen to toast a bagel. Smearing it with cream cheese, I pop a Lactaid before gobbling down the bagel halves. I wash it down with a glass of orange juice. When I turn around, there are two fuzzy black faces staring at me. I start because I hadn’t heard them come in.

“Don’t do that!” I scold them, though my heart isn’t in it. I open a can of Solid Gold wet food and scoop half onto Onyx’s plate and half onto Jet’s. Onyx wolfs hers down, then eyes her brother’s plate. I pick her up despite her protests and cradle her to my chest so Jet can eat in peace. Once he’s finished, I allow her to squirm out of my arms and race over to her brother. She whaps him on the face, taking her frustrations out on him. He doesn’t even flinch, but when she draws her paw back for another smack, his tail shoots straight up in the air and puffs out. He hisses once, and Onyx retracts her paw. She runs roughshod over him, but she knows when he’s reached his limit. She butts her head against her brother’s instead, and he relaxes his stance. The two of them are sniffing each other’s butts as I tiptoe away. I find it’s better to leave when they’re engaged with each other because there’s less yowling that way.

I arrive at work five minutes early, so I pull out my phone and check the comments on my latest post. There are several complimentary ones, wishing Julianna a happy birthday. There’s a comment from YokoOno thanking me for the post and saying we’ll be besties forever. It’s Julianna, and I write a brief response to her before reading the rest of the comments. QueenBee comments, “Sounds like she’s more trouble than she’s worth. You can do better.” I frown because it’s the first time QueenBee has said something negative on a post. I respond by telling her that Julianna is the best, then I close out my phone. I go into the office, my feet dragging. I’m tired of hawking Groupon coupons and other online shit deals. I’m also tired of Sara’s advances, and I want her to just leave me alone. I slide into my seat and power up my computer. Sara is next to me, but she doesn’t say anything. I’m grateful, and I quickly finish some leftover paperwork before reaching for my phone. As I’m talking, I become aware that Sara is glaring daggers at me. Any time I glance over at her, she doesn’t bother hiding her anger. I blink. What the hell is her problem? I decide I don’t give a fuck and turn slightly so my back is towards her. It’s a busy morning, so I soon forget she’s even there. Before I know it, it’s one in the afternoon. I decide to take my lunch break and go to the break room so I can eat my sandwich.

“Well, fancy seeing you here.” An arch tone reaches my ear, and I look up into Sara’s stormy eyes. She’s wearing a pale yellow sweater that isn’t very complimentary to her skin tone.

“What’s your problem, Sara? You’ve been pissed at me all morning.” I stare hard at Sara, taking satisfaction in making her flinch.

“No reason.” Sara smiles, her voice tight. She clasps her hands in front of her while resting them on the table. “It’s just that time of the month. You know how it is.” I refrain from sighing at her archaic language. I also don’t like using my period as an excuse for moods, but I don’t mention that either.

“Right.” I stand up and throw away the detritus in the trash before returning to the office. I get a text from Julianna saying she’s going to be late for dinner by an hour. She doesn’t say why, but I’m used to that. The day Julianna is on time is the day I renounce sex.

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Blogging My Murder; chapter three

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Chapter Three

“Hey, Megan. Wanna grab a coffee on break?” Sara Paulson asks, her bright pink lips curving into wide smile. She pats her fluffy blond curls and bats her eyelashes at me.

“No, thanks, Sara. I’m not going for a while.” I nod at her, but I don’t take my eyes off the computer. It’s been a busy morning trying to sell Groupon coupons, and I’m behind on my paperwork.

“I can push it back a bit if you want.” Sara’s light blue eyes are trained on mine, and she’s starting to make me feel uncomfortable. She has on a snug dusty rose sweater than accentuates her generous curves. She’s only been working with us for three months, and she’s been trying to get me to go to coffee several times a week in the past month. I went once, but she spent the whole time talking about being on the homecoming court or whatever as a princess when she was in high school, which had to have been at least ten years ago, if not fifteen. I find it pathetic when grown adults dwell on the glory days of their high school years. The only other thing she seemed to  care about was horseback riding, which I knew nothing about. She didn’t ask me one question about myself, and I vowed never to do anything with her again.

“No. I’m fine.” I pick up my phone and start dialing, not missing the crestfallen look on Sara’s face. I feel like a shitheel, but I have no desire to get to know her better. None. Even though I haven’t had sex for nearly a month, and she looks like she’s willing to play. I mentally shake myself out of that line of speculation because one, I don’t like to fuck coworkers, the last time I did with the hot Chris Pratt lookalike (now in middle management) notwithstanding. Two, she’s probably fifteen years my junior, which is lower than I like to go. Three, she’s boring as hell, and that’s definitely a boner killer for me.

“Oh, OK. Maybe another time?” Sara’s still looking at me; I can tell, but I don’t bother answering. I don’t want to lead her on, and I don’t want to continue the conversation. I shrug and let it go at that. Suddenly, I have to pee, and I race to the bathroom. When I’m done, I see my coworker, Fawn Lovett, peering into the mirror.

“God, I am so sick of this job,” Fawn grumbles, leaning towards the mirror to reapply her chewed off lipstick. It’s a crimson red that doesn’t fit her pale skin, but who am I to tell her that? She looks both ways before whispering, “Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve applied to work as a manager at Burger King. I have an interview in two days.”

“Good luck,” I say automatically. I wash my hands, then dry them off with a rough paper towel. Our company’s too cheap to install an automatic dryer, god forbid. “See you back in the pit.” I walk back to my desk, lost in thought. I’ve been on the job for a three years, and I’ve been getting tired of it myself. It’s mindless, and I don’t have to take it home, but it’s also stultifying my brain. I used to be able to compose blog posts as I made my calls, but now, I just shut off all thoughts as I work. Speaking of blog posts, I check out my latest on self-care. MNborn writes, “I like to cuddle with my two pugs to destress. They are the best therapy I’ve ever had.” ScrewYou adds, “I veg out by going down the Netflix hole. I binge-watched Season Three of BoJack in two days.” There are several other comments like that, and I close my phone as I return to my desk. The rest of the day whizzes by, and I’m ready to leave by the time five o’clock rolls by.

“Hey, Megan, hold up!” I restrain a sigh as I hear Sara’s breathy voice behind me in the parking lot as I walk to my car. My impulse is to keep walking, but I slow down and wait for her to catch up in her five-inch heels. This is her first year in Minnesota, and we haven’t had snow yet, but she won’t be able to wear those shoes for much longer. I bet she’s one of those women who wears boots with stiletto heels, then complain about twisting their ankles on the ice.

“What do you want, Sara? I’m tired and cranky, and I would like to get home as soon as possible.” I keep my tone civil, but just barely. The second I’m off the clock, my time belongs to me.

“I just wanted to thank you for mentoring me when I first got here. It was really nice of you.” Sara clutches my arm, and I automatically stiffen. I don’t like being touched without my permission, and I disengage my arm as discreetly as possible.

“No problem. I was just doing my job.” I nod at her, and I’m telling the truth. My supervisor asked me to train Sara because I’m the best at my job of all my colleagues. I’m not bragging, and it’s a very low bar to clear.

“Anyway, I’d like to repay you by making you dinner one night this week. Wednesday, maybe?” Sara clasps her hands in front of her chest as I restrain an impatient sigh. I am definitely getting a ‘she’s hitting on me vibe’, which I need to nip in the bud.

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Blogging My Murder; chapter one, part two

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Chapter One; Part Two

When I open the door to my house, I hear a steady, high-pitch meowing, intermittently punctuated with lower growls. I slip off my three-inch, ruby-red heels and wince in relief once they’re off. I have wide-ass feet, and even the most generous shoes feel better off than on. I follow the sounds up the stairs until I reach my bedroom. Both my cats are staring fixedly out the window. Onyx, a tiny five-pound fluff-ball is the one doing the high-pitch mews. Jet, her twenty-pound litter brother who is all muscle and her protector, is standing behind her (his normal position), emitting the low growls. I flip on the lights, and they don’t even blink. I stare out the window, seeing a small white bunny rabbit twitching its nose at my cats. Onyx reaches a paw towards the bunny, claws out, but I don’t reprimand her because there’s no chance she can harm the bunny through the window.

“Hey, kids! I’m home.” I ruffle the fur on Jet’s neck, and he slowly turns his face towards me, his eyes slit into a predatory stare. They dilate normally as he tucks his head into my palm. It barely fits, and I marvel as always at how panther-like he is. “How’s my big boy doing?” Jet purrs in response before I turn my attention to Onyx. “How’s my baby girl tonight?” She abandons her prey and scurries over to me, leaping into my waiting arms. I know by now to have my arms outstretched when she comes my way because she launches herself at me whenever the mood hits her. I adopted my cats eight years ago, when they were six months old. For the first day, Jet sulked in a box I had placed in the closed off dining room, only venturing out to use the litter box. He refused to come out to eat, so I eventually placed a food bowl and a water bowl in his box. He was content to stay in that box, his enormous gold eyes shining in the dark. Onyx, on the other hand, wandered around the dining room, sniffing everything she could reach. After a half hour, she was sitting at the door, meowing to be let out. I had read that they should be kept in a closed area for twenty-four hours, but Onyx never got that memo. I spent about an hour with them before going to do other things. When I returned and opened the dining room sliding doors, I was greeted by a tiny ball of black fur hurtling through the air. I immediately reacted and caught her, thankfully, but that was the beginning of a lifelong pattern that continues to this day.

“Mrrrrreow!” Onyx trills as she turns her heart-shaped face up towards mine, her emerald green eyes full of sleep. I call her my princess, and she does everything she can to live up to that name. I drop a kiss on her satiny nose, and she closes her eyes before promptly falling asleep. I set her on the bed without waking her, and she curls up in a tight ball. Jet hops up on the bed next to her, wraps his body around her, then falls asleep as well. I watch them for several seconds because they are the true loves of my life, and it warms my heart that they are so devoted to each other. They were actually part of the friction between Tessa and me. She was solidly a dog person and didn’t care for cats at all. I like dogs, but I know myself well enough to realize that I would be shitty for any dog living with me. I work eight hours a day, and by the time I get home, all I want to do is curl up on the couch, blog or read, and then drift off to sleep with my two cats. It wouldn’t be fair to a dog to be forced to live that kind of life, and I would resent a dog if I had to walk him or her every day. Tessa used to complain that my cats didn’t like her, which was actually true. The first time she met them, Onyx hissed at her and wouldn’t let Tessa pet her. Jet muscled up behind Onyx and simply glowered at Tessa. He allowed Tessa to pet him, but he didn’t lean into it as he normally would. To be fair to them, it was clear that she was uncomfortable with them. Plus, she patted Jet instead of petting him, which most cats don’t enjoy.

I tiptoe out of the bedroom and make my way back downstairs. I’m hungry, so I open the fridge to see what I can find. I tend to forget to go grocery shopping until all I have in the fridge is a rotten onion and a container of spoiled milk. However, I had replenished my stock a day or two ago, so I have plenty of choices. I take a minute and ask myself what I want. I have a history of eating disorders, so I try to ask my body what it needs before eating. Unfortunately, my body is a three-year-old child, and it usually tells me what it wants, not what it needs. What it wants is tons of chocolate. What it needs is fruits and vegetables. I make myself a ham sandwich on whole wheat bread with spinach, mustard, and sliced tomatoes. I pour myself a glass of Diet Coke before taking my snack into the living room. I settle down on the couch, pulling my laptop onto my lap.

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