Page 12 of Unhinged

“If you blab, even drunk, I’ll kick your ass so hard, you’ll shit through your mouth and force everyone to call you Anus.”

“I’m well aware of the consequences.”

Rod sighs and bows his head to avoid me. “You know most of it. You always do. It’s my fault Hadley married the prick. It was a stupid mistake to bring him back to Richmond, and it was moronic to help her marry him. I needed to wrong a right. Or right a wrong. Take your pick. After leaving the party, I went to her house and confessed my sin. One of them, at least. It took a turn from there. I kissed her and then pushed her against the wall. God, Amos.” Rod cries again, and amid his sobbing, he states, “I’m fucking in love with her. After the funeral, I kissed Hadley and begged her to love me.”

Confused, I ask, “So that was when you first had intercourse with Hadley?”

From behind his forearm, he snaps, “Stop saying that word before I drop-kick you.”

I clear my throat. “You had sex with Hadley?”

Covering his face, he then drops his hands. “If only.” Rod laughs but punctuates it with a quiet sob. “You want to know what I did with Hadley?” His wet brown eyes filled with shame flicker to my face before falling to his lap. “Buckle up, little childrens, because I have a story that will curl your cornflakes and flip the toupee your chrome dome desperately lacks. And no one leaves here sane. I promise.”

Oh, fuck.

Chapter 4

Rolling over, blinking awake, I look up at the ceiling my mother insisted on painting beige. Every damn room. How fucking odd that I grew up in this house with that kind of brutality. No wonder my sister checked out early.

Sitting up, I rub my eyes as a rooster crows. What the hell is this shit? I shove the blinds aside to see a rooster in the next-door neighbor’s yard perched on a stump, yelling for pussy, I assume. I thought a foul fowl crowing at fucking dawn was folklore. Why would you deliberately own a goddamn rooster?

The rooster continues his bitching. We don’t live on Old McDonald’s Farm, for fuck’s sake. Jerking up the blinds, I open the window to the cold winter air and yell, “Cockadoodle screw you, asshole!”

Surprising the hell out of me, the chicken quiets, so I shut the window, only to hear birdbrain spew more hatred for sleep. But I’ve hardly slept since Amos Vaughn slithered back into my life, and stupidly, I didn’t bash his head in with a tire iron, like I would have any other serpent of the deep.

If only.

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of not seeing that cuntcake. I worked a long afternoon shift at Home Depot and collapsed in bed afterward since I had the night off at the bar. Anything to avoid Amos, and I may as well throw into the mix my mother, whom I’ve not seen for over five seconds since Saturday afternoon.

I remember nothing of how I ended up in my bed, which chills the shit out of me. I don’t do vulnerable, especially around Amos Vaughn. At least I was still wearing my clothes from the night before. Still, how could I let this happen? Every damn time I’ve let my guard down, someone screws me, willingly or not.

Besides my employment choice, I’ve never been much of a drinker and definitely not around people. I limit myself to one and always keep it close to me, though I’ve lapsed with that lately, too. But things change, as do most reliable things in life.

Now awake, I hit the shitter to piss and then change into jeans and a flannel shirt before I stomp out of my room to the sound of the crowing.

When I enter the kitchen, I see my mother watching one of the morning bitchfests. The hag with the big jugs whines about how men are scum and penises are the devil. I hear you, sister.

Needing a drink before I hurl questions at my mother, I hobble to the fridge.

My mother sneers, “Well, good morning to you.”

“Temper the word savagery, lady. My virgin ears can’t handle it,” I joke but wince internally. If she only knew of my sexual exploits. I drag the orange juice from the shelf and, shutting the door, I lean against it. “Why is there a cock next door ejaculating on my sleep?”

Mom frowns at me, but by now, she chooses her battles. “Do you ever listen to me? Last week, I told you Ed’s brother died. He inherited Jimmy Don.”

I laugh, slamming the orange juice jug on the counter. “Are you fucking kidding me? Jimmy Dong. His name is literally two dicks.”

“Jimmy Don.”

“Still, a cock named Jimmy. Your point?”

She stares at me, regretting my conception, as she should. “Ed doesn’t have any other place to put him.”

“An oven at three-fifty.”

“Ed said Jimmy must crow after leaving for work.”

“At least he’s consistent with his assholery. Isn’t Ed the one who cops found nailing a homeless man’s ass in the back of his pickup in an Arby’s parking lot?”

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