Page 1 of Possess Me! (I Want You To)

The first time I got soap in my eyes I was nine years old. I’d been bathing with my two siblings for most of my life and as the oldest, I figured it was finally time to grow up, put my big boy pants on, and shower alone like the independent badass I thought I was.

For months leading up to that moment I’d begged my mom to let me, shooting confidence out my eyeballs like laser beams any time she caught me in the bath. Look at me, all responsible, I’d project toward where she sat sentinel on the closed toilet seat, presumably to make sure none of us drowned. I’d squint, my grin positively manic—but all Mom ever did was roll her eyes in response and go back to whatever book she was reading.

At the time, I thought she didn’t trust me.

In reality, she was debating whether my independence was worth the addition to our water bill.

When—after a century (a few months) of begging—she finally said yes, I’d been too nervous to ask questions, terrified she’d change her mind and decide if I entered the shower stall with anything but the utmost confidence that meant I wasn’t ready. Adam had just turned three and he’d developed an annoying habit of shooting me with his bath toys every time we shared, and I was more than ready to never be squirted in the eyeball by a rubber ducky ever again.

The knob that controlled the water was easy enough to navigate on my own, so maybe I was feeling a bit too confident as I piled two handfuls of shampoo in my palms and lathered them up. I figured the hard part was over. Battle won. This was the shower of champions. Then, after checking to make sure the door was shut and I was alone for probably the sixtieth time—a product of having two nosy siblings under the age of six—I ambitiously began the meticulous process of turning myself into Jimmy Neutron.

My emotional high was short-lived when only three minutes into my first independent adventure, I experienced the worst betrayal of my young life. You guessed it. Motherfucking soap in the eyes. Maliciously, the suds dripped from my forehead and seeped into my lashes, eating away at my eyeballs like the soap was made from acid.

It burned so fucking bad—and I’d held back my pained cries as I shoved my face blindly into the pelting water, utterly crushed. Like Icarus, I’d flown too close to the sun. My eyes were practically bleeding, the pain was so intense. When drowning my eyeballs in water didn’t help quickly enough, I thrust the fat side of my palms into my eye sockets, my nails digging into my now squashed—no longer cartoon-worthy—hair. More pain. Liquid fire. A revolution battling out between the soap and the water attempting to cleanse me of it. Somehow the harder I pushed, the more the soap spilled down into my eyes, almost like my desperation made it multiply.

Though, luckily like all things, even this had to end.

Eons later the soap washed away, and I sat broken, bewildered, and betrayed. I was tear-sticky with my ass plastered to the damp tile, my eyes blurry and swollen, my naked knees wobbling. The warm water had run out ages ago.

As I huddled, shivering and staring up at the shower head, I swore to myself that I’d never, in all my life, feel worse than I did in that moment.

I was wrong.

Sitting shakily in my empty car outside the Rain family manor in Elmwood, Maine I felt that same horrid burning at the back of my eyes that I’d felt all those years ago. Only this time it wasn’t soap that had killed my dream, but reality, my own stupidity, and one really uptight—horribly dressed—brunette heiress.

My last painting sat strapped into the passenger seat as I rolled down the long gravel driveway toward the unknown, fighting the burning tightness in my chest. If I’d thought the pain I felt sitting on the shower floor at nine was bad, this was lightyears worse.

This meeting had been my last hope.

My last chance to set things right.

I’d been counting on this sale to get me somewhere. At least far enough that I could pretend like I hadn’t royally fucked up six months before. But…just like when I was a kid, I’d gone in too confidently. Funny now, how the emotion my painting was supposed to depict was hope. I stifled a bitter laugh as I pulled onto the long winding road that led out of Elmwood.

What a joke.

Hope was a dirty, rotten liar.

* * *

The club in Ridgefield was packed. I don’t know what I’d been expecting, all things considered. It was a club, after all. People tended to be squashed like sardines from wall to wall. I knew that, but still, I was somehow surprised and overwhelmed as I clutched my painting to my chest and zeroed in on the bar. Maybe I’d hoped that a club in a tiny town like this would be different. Though Ridgefield was larger than Elmwood, the town I’d just driven an hour north from, it was still minuscule in comparison to the kind of cityscapes I was used to.

Actually, it wasn’t the town’s fault I was underprepared, I realized belatedly as I bumped into someone’s elbow that was somehow both sweaty and glittery. I just wasn’t ready for polite company in general, so I would’ve found any excuse to complain. Anything that would get me out of there faster so I could wallow in salt and calories and drink my sorrows away alone. Well, as alone as I could be considering the fact I was sharing a hotel room with my roommate.

It was her fault I’d come to Elmwood to meet Temperance Rain in the first place. Violet had grown up here. And when she’d proudly proclaimed that everyone knew that Temperance was both stupid-stupid rich, and a collector of fine art? I’d decided hey—it was worth a shot. Wasn’t like I had any other options.

Violet was waiting for me, double-fisting two giant martinis, her back ramrod straight, dark hair perfectly coiffed. She’d texted me as I’d been pulling into the McDonald’s parking lot in Ridgefield, determined to eat my feelings in the form of three McFlurries and a large fry.

Come to the club, she’d said.

It’ll be fun, she’d said.

It’s been six months, Luca. And god knows how much you need to get laid.

As if I wanted to spend my last fucking pennies on cheap alcohol and even cheaper entertainment. To be honest, this pessimistic side of me was unfamiliar. I’d always been a sunshine kinda guy. The kinda guy who looked at a rainy day and talked about how excited I was for the excuse to stay in, prior plans be damned. The kind of guy who sang along to musicals and always had something positive to say. Your grandma died? Well hey, at least your hair looks great. That was me! Sunshine McGee. Smile trooper. Happy-go-lucky extraordinaire.

Until recently.

Sunrise follows even the darkest night.

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