Sunday, November 1, 2015
The Black Orchid - First Two Chapters: A dark and twisted novel based on friendship, love...
The Black Orchid - First Two Chapters: A dark and twisted novel based on friendship, love...: THE BLACK ORCHID “The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capa...
A dark and twisted novel based on friendship, love, depravity, sex, and scandal.
THE BLACK ORCHID
By: Christina Twomey
PART I
CHAPTER I – LAYLA MILLER – TODAY Date: Monday, October 5th
Time: 8:57pm
Patient Name: Layla Miller
The sweat beads collecting on Doctor Rx’s bumpy rosacea infected forehead bothered me. So did his crooked Great Clips haircut, and the room temperature. A bitter 68 degrees, wheezing its spine-prickling tongue through a rickety air-conditioning unit propped in the windowsill; its fan-belt clicking and clacking, day-in, day-out.
Just past the sill and the red-brick wall exterior of the hospital, was once warmth. Now a cover of grey had arrived - along with it, the barren fall. For three dawns, the gooey fog came juddering out from behind the buildings: slowly, carefully, meandering, devouring what life had come in its way. By noon, some would dissipate, but like clockwork reemerge as the sun set under the pines of Puget Sound. Sometimes I’d dream the fog would devour me too, so I could be at peace. Like before.
“Patient’s name,” Dr. Rx interrupted my thoughts. He cleared his throat, smudged his index finger onto the bridge of his glasses, and eye-balled my chart. “Layla Miller,” he chimed, his gaze returning to my vacant face, "My name is Dr. Jack Zabern, I'll be your doctor moving forward," his mouth pinched into a feather. “So Miss - err - excuse me, Mrs. Miller, how did we end up in this precarious position,” he asked in a kitschy sunshine-up-your-ass, product of some HR bedside manner course voice. His two bushy caterpillar eyebrows rose into upside down V’s. He paused, long enough for me to think he actually believed I’d open my mouth to speak. Unfortunately for me, none of Rx’s churchy optimism could raise me from near-dead, as I lay here toe-tag motionless and muzzled inside myself. Now stuck at the mercy of this 60-something white coat hovered over me in a hospital bed, mind racing, 6-feet-under cold - covered only by a bleached-to-death sheet and gown.
Then again, even if I could talk, he wouldn't get any version of truth. I’d have to conjure up some pleasantvilley response – try and resurrect that carefree girl at the grocery store persona that was me, just a few short months ago – living my life like normal people do. Usually playing by the rules, rarely crossing any lines. But I’d become something different since. I had revenge in my blood, driving me, feeling dizzy all the time to carry out a senseless act that now made nothing but sense.
Dr. Rx continued, “Let’s go over this chart, shall we,” he asked rhetorically, turning a bit shifty. “32 years old. Five foot, seven inches….one hundred and twenty five pounds… – yes…,” he muddled, half under his breath, half not, then continued along in his sing-song voice. “Car accident victim. Blood alcohol level significantly above the legal limit – go figure,” his change in tone stung. What? Go figure? How dare he judge me? He had no clue who I was – what I’d been through.
“Patient also had elevated levels of prescription drugs in her blood work – as we would expect,” Rx leaned in closer, “typical self-medicating housewife,” he hissed, breathing into my hair, some of his slick skin greasing to it. Screw him! I wanted to pop a good one to his oversized nose. I was no worthless housewife. Sure, I had a couple woes I kept mostly to myself, but nothing out of the range of today’s normal. I had a slew of friends, hobbies, talents - a flourishing career - a twistedly funny sense of humor. I loved playing pranks. Get people laughing to tears, event better, wetting their pants. I had a lot of fun, in the past. My present, reared a different story.
Before Rx's attack I was near loosing it - now this...this was pushing me past the edge. I had no defenses, nothing to do but lie and accept being at the mercy of this demon. I felt like a rotted shell: for Rx’s brazen examination, his misogynistic implications I got what was coming to me, listening to this death-sentence all over again – every hour, the past three days, retina’s burning from the overhead fluorescents, and most of all – failing to carry-out my plot-to-kill. And I just wanted to hit re-wind. Rub the bottle for one big do-over. None of this was my fault. I shouldn’t be here.
Lucky for me, commotion in the hallway erected him up – and flip the switch, he resurrected 'kitchy sunshine.' “Patient remains catatonic, with minimal motor activity and mutism. Does display signs of brain activity. Unsure of long-term trauma,” he paused, taking a salty breath. “Sustained multiple fractures in her left fibula, tibia and femur, multiple clavicle fractures, three broken ribs and remains on a respirator, catheter and feeding tube. Multiple contusions to the skull, arms and legs.” His arms limped to his sides, his stare intensified. I could only blink.
I wondered if he knew I saw him. I mean, really saw him. He was studying me. Did he think I was dead inside – just a heartbeat? Did he know something, that I wouldn't pull through, be able to recover, talk? Be me again? Was I like all the other's who said nothing, who could say nothing - irreparably damaged, the newest forgotten name of a 20 second clip on the news, one of the many invisible pledges to Rx's secret society of voiceless casualties? Stop it. Stop thinking this. I've got to pull through - this can't be my life - I'm strong, I have wake up, move again, talk. I'm sobbing inside.
Rx smiled, as if he knew I’d figured it out, blood rushed to his face. His corneas widened to complete blackness, “Now what in God’s name were you doing driving around past midnight in that horrible storm,” he jested. “Glad you were. I’ve got bills to pay. But I haven’t figured it out – were you running from yourself silly girl? Going after something - someone," he puffed.
Fuck you. I wanted to strangle him. But yes. Why was I driving around in hysteria past midnight in that storm? Note to self: Schedule conference call with 1-800-PSYCHICS Monday morning at 8 AM sharp. Hell if I know how every crossroad ended up placing me here, hanging onto it all by a thread, in the care of your dank hands. Like some baby tooth dangling from a root flopping around some kid’s mouth. Just tug it already, damn it, you’ll get a dollar. But it will huuuuuuurt!!! I would’ve ripped the Band-Aid off that big, fat gorilla’s hairy, hairy arm a long time ago. Had I figured Beckett out sooner.
My anger was rolling, blistering through every vein. I didn’t even know who he was. Plausibly he could’ve won Best Actor at the Oscar Award’s every year of our God damned lives together. I was blind, and so wrapped up in it – so wrapped up in him. I hated him. Hated him deeper than I thought hate existed inside. Although Rx was taking a close second in this race. Tears welled. Heat panged through my body and an opposing threat of sadness enveloped.
I couldn’t stop the pain. I tried to bury it. It wouldn’t go. My esophagus coiled. I despised myself for caring. Hated myself for the tears I couldn't expel. I tried to exhale. I was out of breath. I lay there suffocating for 30 seconds too long before my body retracted and forced a gasp to sustain life. I wish it hadn’t.
I refocused, and picked-up my breath. My eyes pin-holed on my belongings. They sat waiting patiently in a plastic tub on a paisley-patterned upholstered chair smack dab under the TV, right there in front of me. I thought about the gun tucked neatly inside the zippered pocket of my purse. Undetected. Un-used. Waiting. Ready. If only I could walk over to it, get out of this room, and find Beckett’s head with one vindictive bullet.
"Let’s take those vitals, shall we?” Rx’s tarnished wedding band with one diamond chip didn’t gleam under the fluorescents, but it caught my eye anyway as he pressed the stainless steel stethoscope against my chest. He allowed his pinky to brush against my nipple. Against my desire, it stiffened. Apparently my sex wasn’t debilitated in the accident. I was repulsed for thinking thoughts with Rx as the excited catalyst. But be as it may, his ravenous eyes were awakening agitating excitements, in my otherwise numb remains.
“Hmm – your heart rate seems high today,” he grinned, turning to look through the panoramic window, noticeably grateful to find an empty hallway. He shifted back to me, moving his cusped palm surrounding the stethoscope steadily across my torso, down around my ribs; his hand moving to glide softly against my under breast. My nipples now fully erect. Rx smiling.
He carried on, breathing deeply, enjoying his inspection like eager centipedes feasting over rotting carcass. “What a shame,” he trailed, “– such a woman,…Layla.” I cringed inside, trying to capsize my enjoyment of being molested in such a depraved way.
“I’m going to give you some meds to keep things progressing. We have large strides to make. But, I suppose, you seem stable enough to start receiving visitors. I’ll let the nurse know,...in a few days.” Disappointment materialized on Rx’s face; conceivably foreshadowing thoughts of reduced privacy with me – his disinclined, vulnerably submissive patient.
Doctor Rx shot a variety of cocktail ingredients into the IV, “Keep up the good work Layla. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He gently lifted his clammy fingers from my skin, then slid outside my peripheral vision. Rx was good for one thing, and one thing only - his potions facilitated my desire to black out kindly.
A few footsteps later, the door clicked shut, generously muting echoes of the moaning zombies down the hall, all painfully waiting, like me – round-the-clock – for hopeful news from the white coats with clip boards parading through.
Unfortunately, the click-clack, click-clack from the rackety fan belt returned in its place, in full-force; along with it, its shrill, fang-toothed friend – the cold. No trace of peace came with night. Everything was relentless. I wanted to die. But suicidal thoughts with no likely delivery system just perpetuated the madness. “How could I be so stupid,” I interrogated myself silently, bleary eyed. “I really messed this all up.”
My inner dialogue was interrupted by the sound of shifting wood jumping at me from the corner of the room. I tensed. A chair had moved. Hadn’t it? I heard it. Someone was in the room. I couldn’t turn my head to check. But then it dawned on me – I knew who it was. Rx hadn’t left. He’d just closed the door - for privacy, presumably. In the moment I tried convincing myself Rx had gone home. But the stagnation of creepy air reared its suffocating hands – evoking that very-telling gut feeling, when you know someone is watching you. Lurking. Waiting to pounce. My three-day unshaven body hair pricked. Fuck me.
I sunk deeper and deeper. More movement – this time, coming towards me – along with it, a familiar body odour. I had to let go. To get out of this perilous situation, gridlocked at the mercy of the dirty doctor, the drugs, and his inattentive night staff focused solely on janitor closet sex. The drugs were feeling good. Really good.
The delirium was overtaking me, I was so close to being gone. The electric fuzz in my brain, dying. As I slowly drifted down into a comfy abyss, I felt a warm wetness envelop my right big toe. Soft and gentle. Slowing meandering – with purpose – up and down each little pink appendage, sucking and playing. It tickled. My eyes twisted up into my skull. The coldness disappeared.
And for a few delicious moments, I found myself in a fake-happy dream - with the Beckett I used to know, kissing my feet, playing with me. I wanted to stay there, comfy, almost relaxed. But my maniacal brain’s muscle memory wouldn't let me be. It snapped back, monsoon-style - bringing with it, this fleeting thought of terror. The new Beckett, the real Beckett I'd just uncovered, would be on my list of visitors. And if he hadn't already figured out why I was here, what I was intending to do - he would. He'd dig through my purse and find the loaded pistol I'd never carried before. And I couldn't do a damned thing about it. I shuddered. My eyelids flickered. And with it, came a glimpse of Rx's white coat hovering over the foot of my bedside - and then, lucky or not, the all-consuming blackness took over completely, and I was out.
CHAPTER II – LAYLA MILLER – THREE YEARS AGO
I had this escalating urge to cancel, but Eva was insistent. She was always insistent, and Venezuelan, and feisty. I owed it to her anyway; she’d just left her fiancé; an abusive borderline, who everyone else in the city – scratch that – everyone on social media, thought was God. I was proud of her. Most would’ve stayed for the money, or the fame. Not Eva.
“Layla, there’s no way I’m letting you stay in tonight. You know I need you.” There it was – her unbeatable bargaining chip. My fingers started fidgeting.
“– Yes, but…,”
She interrupted as expected, “No but’s, I’m already on my way.”
“Come on, you can’t be serious. I just…–”
“Shush,” her naturally Juvedermed lips puckered at me through the phone. “Grab a slutty little number and those ‘take me here heel’s’ you just had to buy…,” she taunted at my complacency, “and I’ll see you in 30 minutes.”
“Eva seriously, my ass is about to give birth to twins, I just ate a whole pizza. Let me rot on the couch,” I swallowed hard, regretting picking up the phone.
“Twins! Congrats!,” she fizzed, “Can’t wait to meet them!”
“ – Hate you.”
“LOVE YOU!” school-girl glee poured out of her mouth. “Sorry, I win. Plus, Harper and Reece are meeting us. I already told them you were coming.”
Eva, Harper and Reece were my goldmine in Los Angeles. Countless smiles revolved around moments with these girls. I loved each one of them for their spectacularly different personalities, unique quirks, and open hearts. In a city swarming with phony, it was a lottery win to have these three on rapid speed dial.
“Ugh, Eva!...alright–“…my volume rose, “If…, I go out tonight, you owe me – and I mean, OWE me,” I stipulated with little trace of humor.
“I don’t owe you anything but a ride to the bar,” she buzzed back, as sultry as always. Eva had a way about her that was egotistically fantastic. She could work a crowd like Play-Dough. She always got what she wanted. From everyone. And as much as you wanted to hate her, she was too damn lovable, like puppies or ice cream on a hot summer day. She was also an absolute knock-out.
“You’re insatiable… – ,” I churned.
“That’s why you love me, Chiquitita. And anyway, if we’re really weighing the scales, you actually owe me. I’m the one with man issues.” In her mind, she had a valid point.
“Honey, we all have man issues. Yours are just drastically worse,” I shrugged with endearing sarcasm.
“- Understatement of the year –…,” she trailed with sadness now filling any last holes left in her guilt trip. She was winning. I begrudgingly started rummaging the closet, looking for that ‘slutty little number.’
“Yeah, yeah, I know. Ok, where am I being dragged tonight…?,” I mumbled dolefully.
“Oh God woman, Swiffer the moth balls of your nursing home-ready personality and pull it together!” She was right. I did prefer low-key, often. It sometimes took an army to rally me into LA’s inglorious nightlight. But once I was out, well, then I was out.
“Shut it. So where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise. Go get ready. See you in a few, friend.” I knew the phone would click a second later.
“Wait!” Click.
I cringed, forcing my tired stems to carry me to the washroom. Time to begin the transformation from hungry garden gnome to paparazzi-ready-tagalong. I was in no mood for this; and my energy level reflected that perfectly.
Not 5 minutes past, the noise of Eva palm-banging down my door shook the room. “Chica, mamacita, open the door, I know you’re in there!” She must have been calling from my downstairs parking lot just moments ago.
“Woman you’re driving me crazy,” I muttered, opening the door.
She was standing there smiling, looking fabulous as always. “Yaaaaaay,” she sacked me with a line-drive hug straight to the jugular. I rolled my eyes as she bounced, not letting go of her one-sided embrace.
Eva slowed down, finally putting her hands against my shoulders. She pushed back so she could look at my face, “I knew I could count on you.”
“I know you’d do the same for me,” I lamented, this time with love. I pulled her in for a deeper hug.
She sunk into my arms, deflating quickly through leaky fractures in her usually rock solid self-assured exterior. I could tell she hadn’t felt emotionally safe in awhile. She’d been through a lot, and most of it was on the public display platter. Everyone had an opinion, welcome or not, and most weren’t so nice. Not that she’d been a saint in it all, but she wasn’t the abuser. He was, and a really good actor to cover it up, too.
“Let’s go,” she abruptly detonated back into the strong Eva I knew so well, grabbed my hand and pulled us out of the hug.
“Hold-on,” I retracted, snatching my clutch of the kitchen counter, and followed her out into the hallway towards the elevators to the ground floor.
En route to Eva’s car, we walked by David, my adoringly nosey concierge, who per usual was manning his desk. He looked up, eyes bulging, “Ohhh my man meat, Mademoiselles’, I swear you tempt me straight – naughty little divas, where are you off to this evening?” His hand flared up through the air conditioned air.
“You think you could handle this?” Loving the attention Eva swooshed her hands down her hourglass figure, kicked up her right foot and threw back her long hair.
“Honey…, – if I can handle ‘Mr. You Know Whoooo’…,” his excitement ballooned pointing up towards the the direction of Penthouse 1401; the one was where Mr. Sugar Daddy resided. “Well, let’s just say I’d make some memories happen for you too,…girl.” He shifted his finger to point directly at her, his other hand landing flamboyantly on his hip.
“Ayyyy dios mío, Señor,” she fanned herself like a Geisha, “why go out when we can have it all here in Layla’s front doorway?”
“I couldn’t agree more – let’s stay home!” I retorted.
“Not a chance.” She laughed pushing me along towards the door.
“See you later David,” I dragged, “– enjoy your evening! Make sure GQ is taking care of you. You deserve the best!”
“But of course he is,” he flashed us a fancy watch that must’ve been a recent gift. “Night gals!”
“Beautiful watch!” Eva exclaimed over her shoulder.
“Isn’t it though?” He admired it lovingly.
“Night David,” we said in unison heading out the door towards our L.A. limelight night.
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