Surreal Ecstasy (35 page)

I could have had a real father, but
she'd stood in the way.

Sighing painfully, I looked at the
envelope, which was already starting to be a symbol of suppressed daughterly
love. My fingers caressed the flap absentmindedly.

I didn't have the energy to try to
reach out and talk to my mother. I didn't want to deal with her nastiness, her
negativity, or her general hatred of humankind. I wanted to keep my wonderful
father's memory fresh and alive in my mind, and I would not allow her to taint
it.

Silently I decided that I would not
go to his funeral, which would probably only serve as a tribute to my mother's
already-exaggerated ego. I vowed then that I would build a suitable memorial of
my father someday, in whichever house I finally settled down in. I'd remember
him in my own way, independent of anyone else's discriminations.

I reached up and massaged the right
side of my neck, taking a deep breath and using all my willpower to hold the
rest of my tears back. I'd done way too much crying lately. I really needed to
clear my head and get away from here.

"You guys," I called into
the next room, "Let's do it. Let's move to Los Angeles."

* * *

A few nights later, I massaged my
temples with my fingers.

Alone in the bathroom and sitting
on the closed toilet seat, I could hear the twins in the kitchen. They'd been
working on what already smelled like the best damn meal I might ever consume.
We were going to have a 'we're-moving-to-Los-Angeles' celebration dinner.

I wanted to have a peaceful,
perfect dinner with them. I didn't want to bother them with a letter that I
found in the mailbox this morning.

It rested ominously in my right
hand, the opened envelope in my left. It was from Milton Newhall, my father's
political career 'manager,' the one who Adim claimed was the Distinguisher that
worked for the Melted. I had no idea how he knew my address, but that was the
least of my concerns right now.

I reread his letter. 

So, I hear you've officially
joined the GG. I also hear your late great father left you some money that he
really should have given to your mother and me instead. The bastard always said
he didn't have enough money to give me a raise or a bonus, but as it turns out,
he'd been putting money aside for his little whore daughter. Is it fair that I'd
been slaving night and day to prepare him for a seat in the local
representatives, only to be paid a few bucks?

Morgan, I know what you've been
up to. I've been keeping my eye on you because you're trouble. True, your
father's dead now and you can't bring him any shame, but your mother—oh, your
mother.

The last thing she needs is a
brat running around making things worse for her. She doesn't know about your GG
affiliation, of course, since she isn't the type to understand these things. I've
taken it upon myself to comfort her MORE than usual.

Worry not; I'll come see you
again soon, and then I'll know for myself exactly WHAT you are, besides a
snotty little bitch who never visited or called her father, yet gets one hell
of a fucking payday.

I will find you, and I will make
you pay.

What Adim did to you is nothing
compared to what I will do.

All my love, Uncle Milt.

How the hell did he know about Adim
when my mother obviously didn't? I took a deep breath, wondering if I'd need to
have another talk with Ethan and get a full understanding of all the things he'd
done against me. I didn't think he had anything to do with Milton, but I had to
admit that I was curious if the two men were connected or working together
somehow. If Ethan really had a crush on me the way Ree seemed to think, he
might open up and tell me everything he knew. All I had to do was ask him.

And the implications about Milton
and my mother! He made it sound like they were involved, like they had an
affair or something, or like he was sleeping with her now that she's a mourning
widow. I shook my head.

No. That was an insane notion. My
mother would never cheat on my dad, and it was much too soon for her to be with
someone new, let alone with a married old friend of the family. She was the
most uptight person on the planet. Still, recalling how she was perhaps
too
concerned
about what my father did in his own spare time…and the way she never argued
when he went on business trips and she seemed to go away for a couple days
herself…I shook my head again. Absolutely not. I wasn't going to think about
this anymore. It was bad enough just dwelling on his threats.

I wanted to call my mother and
inform her, maybe warn her about this crazy lunatic that we'd known for years.
But my father had just died, and I had no way of knowing what kind of emotional
state my mother was in right now. Sadly, I didn't know her well enough to make
that kind of judgment. That, added to how much she obviously hated me, helped
me decide that I wasn't going to talk to her about this anytime soon. I'd have
to just put this on a shelf in my mind-room and consider it again later, at a
different place in time.

It was also pretty evident that I
was going to have to deal with Milton's intense wrath for me, which I never saw
coming at all.

Suddenly, I felt nauseous. What
have I gotten myself into?

I flew to a standing position and
then fell to my knees, lifting up the toilet seat. As I emptied my stomach
contents into the porcelain bowl, his written words haunted me: 
I will find
you, and I will make you pay.

I wondered which people out of
everyone I'd known since childhood were Worthy, Melted, or Slates, and if they,
too, were planning my downfall at this very moment. Briefly, as a passing
thought, I also wondered if any of the bitches at work or back in high school
were Melted.

It would certainly explain a hell
of a lot.

Sitting there, panting and weeping,
head hanging over the toilet, I realized with a quiet laugh that I was
mirroring my actions from what seemed like so long ago, the morning after the
very last time I had taken ecstasy. I felt like I was lifetimes away from the
person that I was then, yet here I was, doing almost the same thing. There was
probably some mystical irony and/or lesson in all this, but I was way past the
point of caring.

Way past the point of caring.
I
lifted my head and pondered for a moment. Why would I care if people hated me,
after I'd just undergone the most difficult tribulations of my life? I have
been on my knees, wanting death because of other people's unfair judgments. I
had given of my body freely, never realizing there was priceless value in
virtue, in keeping myself special for the one person I intended to share my
life with. I had no shame as I cut my own veins and passed out, strangers
carrying my naked, near-bloodless body to a hospital. I have had my sanity
clinically questioned as I screamed to the heavens and coddled my broken body,
feeling sorry for myself, not knowing if I even
desired
the gift of my
very own life, a life I had no right to take away.

Yet I had found a way to raise my
head up high, although for the longest time I truly didn't believe I deserved
to do so. Ready to collapse in my soul, I had barely managed to stand back up,
but I had done just that, slowly but surely.

My body had been bruised and beaten
almost on a daily basis. My delicate, fair skin had been permanently burnt. I
took pills and drank liquids that endangered my life, these illegal substances
giving off cheap, shallow, chemical imitations of some of life's greatest and
most natural joys.

They were absolutely nothing
compared to pure, universal love and fulfillment, or happiness borne of
serenity and self-awareness. Even before I found stability in my own strength,
I could have tried to find true happiness by making the decision to forgo drugs
and find inspiration in the changing world around me. Maybe then would I have
eventually realized that I
was
, in fact, deserving of all these things
and more. My body has had time to heal from all this and indeed felt stronger
than it had ever been; my resolve, even stronger.

My spirit had been almost diminished
to a mere tea light. Not too long ago, I'd believed in nothing beyond this
life, and I honestly hadn't cared. I had believed that if I'd deserved
anything, it was a lifetime of misery and punishment.  I once believed that if
there
was
a God and if He
had
watched over me, it was only to
watch with scorn as I lived sinfully day after day. After living so closely
with surreal individuals and knowing that someone had cared enough to send me a
Living Guardian Angel, I knew there was goodness out there, a powerful, wise
force of good. I didn't know the details of any of that yet, but I was
satisfied with this for now, because at the very least I knew that I was loved,
that there was more to this Earth than what I could see and touch, and that
there was endless potential for me to live whatever kind of life I wanted.
After a lot of hard work, my spirit now shone brilliantly, thanks to
independence, bluntly-cut heart strings, and faith that there was a significant
purpose in being involved in the God Generation.

My heart, fragile and ready long
ago to commit itself to an undeserving abuser, began to understand the
seriousness of commitment and the results of the choices I make—positive,
negative, and everything in between. After trying in vain to repair that doomed
relationship in every conceivable manner, I'd made the smartest choice of my
life. I had finally learned that it was better to be alone than to be in a
relationship that degraded my soul. I was
willing
to be alone and that,
I think, is what made the universe bring Ree to me, my fading LGA who yet
guards me in life, who loves me in a way that I myself may never fully
understand.

And through Ree, I had discovered
an incredibly rare sort of love, one borne of soul connections, spiritual
protectiveness, unreal sexual attraction and compatibility, and pristine,
genuine affection. I was not going to base my self-worth upon this
relationship, however. I knew now who and what I was. I wasn't afraid of
judgment anymore.

Laughing and weeping simultaneously
like an insane woman, vomiting complete, I slipped out of the bathroom and back
into our bedroom, the twins too distracted with their culinary mastery to
notice me much.

I made it to our mattress and
collapsed, laughing delightedly at the life I was about to live.

What Adim did to you is nothing
compared to what I will do.

Not if I get that son of a bitch
first.

# # #

About the Author

Chrissy Moon was born in Orange County, California, and has been writing poetry since age seven. She's passionate
about ancient Egypt, American history, and learning languages. Chrissy lives in
the Los Angeles area with her husband and sons, soon to be living near Seattle, Washington. She spends her days drinking iced caffè Americanos, going to
bookstores, and buying way too many DVDs.
Surreal Ecstasy
is her first
novel.

More information about Chrissy and
her writing can be found on
www.chrissymoon.com
. 

www.ringoffirebooks.com