"my happy place"

[sonreir]

Trader



The first time didn't feel real.

We lived in Ohio, in a suburb of Columbus. Dad worked at OSU as a professor in the Engineering department, and was rarely ever home. Mom worked, too, running a catering business. I saw more of her than I did of Dad, but that didn't mean much from the run of March to August, when wedding season picked up and she was suddenly swamped with orders.

There was usually a babysitter for me, or a neighbor I could stay with, but when I turned twelve, they told me I was old enough to take care of myself, and gave me a key to the house, explicit instructions not to answer the door or phone for anyone, never to tell anyone that I was home by myself.

“You can play in the backyard,” said Mom, “but not the front. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said, because it was the expected answer.

“Call Mrs. Mansfield if you need anything, and remember what our plan is for emergencies."

"Fine," I said.

She handed me the key, then, and let me walk to school on my own. I'd never felt so tall.

I didn't tell anyone I was going to be home alone, at school, though other friends were casual about it. I followed that rule.

I don't remember the date, when she gave me the key. It was a school day. I think it was a Monday. I don't remember the rest. It's strange, what you lose over time -- I can remember the conversation we had, but nothing so basic as the date.

I walked home by myself, did my homework, heated up the plate that Mom had left in the fridge. She was going to be late. I'd been told to be in bed by 10, and I knew there would be hell to pay if she got home and I wasn't, so I mostly listened.

After dinner, there was nothing on TV, not even PBS, so I went into the backyard.

That was where I met you, though I didn't know who you were, at that point -- only that you frightened me.

"Hello," you said, as I walked out. You were leaning against our fence, wearing a pair of jeans and a dark green button-up shirt, smoking a cigarette.

"Don't you know that'll kill you?" I said blankly. It was the first thing that came to mind, something Dad said whenever he saw someone smoking.

"Oh, perhaps," you said, and smiled. "But there are worse ways to die. What's your name?"

"I -- I need to go back inside," I said.

"I'm too early, aren't I?" you said, and your smile faltered. "Damn -- if you were a little older..."

And then you vanished, as quickly as though you'd never been there. The lingering smell of tobacco smoke was the only sign you'd been there.

I shivered, though it was a warm night, ran back into the house, bolted the doors, and sat, cross-legged on one of the kitchen chairs, with the cordless phone in my lap, til ten -- until I knew I needed to be in bed, or I'd never be allowed to stay home alone again.

If you were a little older... ran through my mind, a strange thread of story, for weeks.


I met you again through friends. It was a Tuesday, and we were meeting to play boardgames -- it was the holdover, from college, the thing that we did. We rotated, on what we played. Sometimes it was what we'd grown up playing -- Sorry, or Risk, or Monopoly -- and sometimes, if Chase was hosting, it was the weird European games -- Agricola, Catan, Dominion. Someone always brought beer, and we sat around and shot the shit and generally enjoyed ourselves.

Occasionally, as people drifted in and out, and availability changed, we brought new people into the group. You were one of these.

Amanda, the woman who usually organized everything, brought you to game night. She knew you, she said, through the artists' collective she was part of, downtown.

"He's a painter," she said. "Introduce yourself to the group."

"Call me Rob," you said, and smiled.

"Is that your name?" asked Chase. It was the kind of joke he'd make.

"No," you laughed, "but it will suit."

I recognized you, in that instant. You said something else coy, to Amanda, and I felt something shift. I felt the start, as though there was a sound -- and I knew. If you were a little older...

"And that's it," said Amanda. "So, um -- Chase, you brought the games this week, right? What are we playing?"

"There are enough of us that I thought we could play Citadels. Have you played before, Rob?"

"No," you said, and you didn't take your eyes off me.

"We'll explain it," continued Chase, as though all of this were perfectly normal; as though he had not heard whatever had happened.

"Perhaps Janet can explain," you said, and you smiled at me.

"I've only played it once," I replied, carefully keeping my voice level. "Chase is better at explaining these things than I am; and anyway, I could use the refresher myself."

"Fine," you said.

You weren't wearing the same clothes, but your face and your voice were both the same, and I wondered just what it was I had walked into, what awaited me.


I excused myself, as soon as the game ended. “I have things I need to do -- sorry, everyone.”

“No worries,” said Chase. “Same time next week?”

“Same time next week,” I said, and forced myself to smile.

You walked out at the same time I did.

"Janet," you said, matching my stride.

"Robert." I kept walking. "We've met."

You stumbled, in your stride.

"Thirteen years before," I said, unlocking my car door. "You said you were too early."

"I was, then," you offered, your voice unnaturally smooth. "I may not be, now."

I shook my head, slammed the car door. "I'm not twelve anymore," I said, knowing full well you couldn't hear me. "I'm not afraid of you."

Whatever you may have said in response, I didn't hear it.

Amanda texted me later, wanting to know if I'd seen you. "He left his coat and a bunch of other stuff behind, and he's not answering my calls."

"No," I wrote back. "Sorry."


The third time we met was my wedding day.

My parents had booked a hotel for the reception. There was an open bar. The entire ballroom was closed to the public.

I was more than a little drunk. There had been multiple toasts, and the champagne had gone to my head.

I excused myself to go to the bathroom, grateful that I'd changed out of my bridal gown between the wedding and the reception, relieved that I was wearing something that I could get in and out of on my own.

I stumbled down the hall, past the gym and the business center, all the way to the narrow, dimly-lit bathroom of the first floor.

"Janet," you said, stepping out of a doorway.

"Robert," I acknowledged you.

You were wearing a dark grey shirt with pearl buttons and a pair of black slacks, with boots that came to your mid-calf.

Your cigarette was present in your hand, unlit.

"This is a non-smoking venue," I told you. I was drunk, and hotel security was nearby. I knew that if I screamed, someone would be there within seconds. I wasn't afraid -- I wasn't even angry. I didn't know what you were, and I didn't particularly care. It was my wedding day, and nothing and no one could harm me.

"Mm," you said. "I haven't lit it yet."

I looked at you -- really looked at you, met your eyes and stared you down.

"What do you want?" I asked you, more bravely than I felt.

Your lips curled up in a smile that did not quite reach your eyes.

"France," you started. "A small town outside of Nice, specifically. There was a set of stairs and an ancient bridge, and you thought, as you snapped pictures of them in the afternoon sunlight, that you had never been so happy in your entire life. You were fifteen, I think."

"None of those photos turned out," I commented.

"A pity. It was a lovely place."

"Mm."

"You could be that happy again," you know, you said. "It's a simple bargain."

I only laughed. "I'm that happy now," I told you. "It's my wedding day."

You smiled again, that same tight-lipped smile. "Damn," you said. "Another time, perhaps?"

I pushed past you, into the bathroom, without saying anything.

"Think on it," you said, your voice low.

When I came back out, you were nowhere to be seen.

I'm safe, I thought, though I did not know why.


The last time I met you, I was completely alone.

My mother had died two years before; my father, eight months after her. They both went quickly -- undiagnosed cancer, a previously-unknown heart defect. Neither of them suffered.

I buried them, took care of the estate.

Three months after I buried my father, while I was still grieving, my husband told me he wanted a divorce.

I'd thought we were happy; had thought that everything was fine. We never fought, we talked about our problems like rational, level-headed adults, we still went on "date nights" regularly, and we'd begun trying for a baby. We were doing everything right, and then we weren't.

"It's not you," he told me. "I'm just not happy anymore."

I found out, after the divorce was finalized, that he'd been seeing someone behind my back ever since my mom had died; that he'd gotten together with her while I was in Ohio, taking care of the funeral arrangements.

Something inside me snapped, when I found out. A piece broke, and it was like nothing would ever be good again.


I took up backpacking, after the divorce was finalized. I wasn't a serious backpacker, the way that a lot of the men I saw in REI were -- my trips were strictly weekend ones. Hike in, sleep one night, hike out. I stuck to well-traveled local areas, and I always left a plan behind, made sure that one of my friends, Liz or Nicole or Michelle, knew where I was and knew to check in if I didn't text them that I was home and safe.

I went into the woods not because I was hoping to find myself, or for any particular grounding, but because being there and having to focus totally on the present moment -- on finding firewood, pitching a tent, making myself dinner -- kept me sane. Work occupied me during the week; on the weekends, there was nothing. The woods helped ease the "nothing".

I had just lit the tinder for my fire and was adding kindling in the form of small bits of broken twigs when you stepped out from behind a tree.

"Janet," you said. The cigarette in your hand was already lit.

"Robert," I said, forcing myself to keep my voice calm.

You took a drag, slowly exhaled, smoke mingling with that from the kindling I'd lit. "Nice digs."

I ignored you, focused on building the fire.

"How have you been?" you started.

I snorted. "You know that, or you wouldn't be here."

You shrugged and took another drag. "That's not strictly true."

I put a log on the fire. "Fine. You're going to have to find your own dinner; I only packed enough for one."

"I won't be here long enough to eat."

"Fine," I repeated. I stared at the fire, watched the orange flame lick at the dry wood, the fine thread-like splinters along the edge begin to catch. "If you decide to stay, though, that's what you're up against. There's tequila in the hip flask in my bag."

"Tequila."

"It's not traditional, but whiskey was my ex-husband's drink of choice. I didn't buy nice tequila before. Now I do. What else am I going to put in the flask?"

"Water, perhaps?" you suggested.

"There's a bottle over there." I nodded at it. "There's also a stream, if you -- I don't know, if you know how to purify it on your own."

You smiled, too widely. Your teeth, I couldn't help but notice, came to fine points. "No need."

I stood and straightened, popped open my camp chair. "I take it you're here for the same reason as before."

You nodded slowly.

"That's the happiest I ever was?"

"Yes," you said.

"Okay," I said simply. "What do I need to do?"

"Nothing. I do everything." You stepped toward me, caressed my shoulder gently. "I'll take care of it all."

I couldn't help but ask. "Why?"

"Why not?"

"No," I said. "I mean -- what's the cost? What's the price I have to pay? My first-born, my name? Something else I've never thought of before and will miss nonetheless?"

"Oh," you said. You traced your fingers along my upper arm. "Nothing like that. A...favor, to be collected later. There are certain terms. I won't ask you to harm anyone, or to give me something that you could not live without."

"You won't ask for my name, then," I repeated. "So what will you ask for?"

I heard you laugh, a dry, papery sort of sound. "Love," you offered. "Adoration."

"Nothing I can't live without," I said. "Fine."

"Fine?"

"Do it," I dared you. I felt your hand tighten on my shoulder, and then -- silence.

You were gone.


I cooked myself dinner, let the fire die down, threw water over the ashes.

I brushed my teeth and spit into the fire pit, then crawled into my tent and curled up in my sleeping bag.

I remembered the feeling of your hand on my shoulder, the way it had tightened when I said yes, the silence that had followed, and I shivered.

Suppose I was old enough now, was the last thought I had, before I fell asleep.


I awoke in my bedroom.

I stared up at the ceiling, remembering the fading remnants of a dream I'd had, something about a man with pale blue eyes, a cigarette constantly dangling from his lips. He wore a button-down shirt and slacks, in the middle of the woods...

"Janet!" Mom yelled. "You need to get moving or you're going to miss the bus!"

"Sorry, Mom!" I yelled back.

I dressed and ran down the stairs, bolted a bowl of cereal, grabbed my bag with all my things in it.

"Don't forget your lunch!" she barked. I pulled the insulated lunchbox out of the fridge, shoved it into my backpack.

None of this felt odd to me.


I met you on a Tuesday. It was game night -- the night when Chase and Amanda and I got together, sometimes with other friends and sometimes not, to play board games.

It was Amanda's turn to host. She'd invited you to join us.

"This is Robin," she introduced you. "Rob. He's a painter -- he's part of the same artists collective I am."

I looked at you, and couldn't help but feel that you were familiar.

You wore a grey shirt and black slacks, with black dress shoes. Your dark hair was cut long, but not outrageously so, and your eyes were so pale as to seem unreal.

"Hello," you said. "You must be Janet. Amanda has told me so much about you."

You were beautiful, and you frightened me, though I could not have said why.

"Nice to meet you," I said, and offered you a hand.


When you asked me out later that night, I said yes, despite my better judgment. You weren't my type, not really -- you frightened me, but I was intrigued, as well, and who was I to say no?

"Good," you said, when I gave you my number, and you smiled a tight little smile. "Dinner, next week?"

"Yes," I said. I hesitated. "I have to ask -- have we met before? You seem familiar, somehow, but I think I'd remember you..."

Your smile widened. "In another life, perhaps."

"Yeah," I laughed. "Maybe."

"I'll call you," you promised.

"Please do," I said.


I told you I loved you, six months later, though there was still a thread, an undercurrent, of fear running through me each time I saw you.

"I love you," I said, and you smiled at me, the odd little tight smile I had come to associate with you being particularly pleased.

"I knew you would," you said.

I shivered as you did, though I could not say why.

Comments

[halfshellvenus]

EEeeeeeeee!

You had me all the way through with this one. The eeriness of that returning character, his persistence in coming after Janet again and again-- you can tell he's not human, but you can't be sure of what he might be instead. Definitely nothing good.

I'm not sure what he gave Janet, apart from a second chance at those years of her life, but he gave himself the opportunity to slip into it with a version of Janet that was less leery and who didn't remember that first disturbing encounter, and she came to love him just as he'd wanted. For whatever sinister reason. :O

I'm thinking that the promise of happiness he dangled... that was the bait, and she finally took it. But he was the one with the power, so there was no guarantee he would keep up his end of the bargain.

Really spooky and unsettling and terrific. :D

[sonreir]

Thank you! This was my favorite, I think, out of everything we had to do for this "week"...

I've known a lot of men that could answer to Robert's description (ignoring the, uh, supernatural aspect for a moment) -- men who ignore your clearly stated boundaries and say that they know what's best for you, dangling something in front of you in an effort to weasel their way into your life...

A lot of domestic abuse victims report that their relationship starts out like no other they've ever been in before. "Love bombing" -- it's a thing. Their abuser starts out by telling them that they're amazing, they're a wonderful human being, "you're the best person I've ever met, and you're so beautiful/handsome/whatever to boot, I'm so lucky to have met you, I can't believe we're together..." Lots of gifts, lots of praise...they promise you the moon, and then once you're in the thick of it, they start turning up the heat and making you doubt your own reality. Could this be the same person who told you that you were amazing, calling you a dumb bitch because you forgot something trivial?

Here, the implication is a little more literal -- he's literally offering her one of the best things you *can* offer to someone -- and she doesn't see how short-sighted it is, to take that bargain.

Robert *is* supernatural, but what he represents is all too real, and I'm really happy that it worked for you! :)

[d0gs.livejournal.com]

I really enjoyed this. It has a very haunting atmosphere and that last line was such a perfect way to end it!

[sonreir]

Thank you!

[rayaso]

I loved this, particularly the ending section. I wondered who the stranger was -- just some recurring bad boy temptation? But the twist at the end was marvelous.

[sonreir]

Ha, in a sense, yes! Thank you. :)

[itsjust_c]

Oh...I do love a good reoccurring life type of story! It was superbly creepy and sinister.

Was Janet any happier or was she tricked!? I'm not sure. I think tricked!

[sonreir]

Oh, definitely tricked, but you really can't trust men like this! Supernatural or not, never trust someone who promises you the moon two minutes after you meet them! :) Thank you.

[dmousey]

Surreal... And riveting. 🐭✌🐁😊🎀

[sonreir]

Thank you!