The old Cadillac broke down on I-80. I was on my way to a photography convention in Reno, Nevada. It was my first one and the magazine asked me to speak about my work. I have been a photographer for the New York Times for 20 years, and now my pictures have received so much praise that I’ve somehow won awards.
I’ve enjoyed pictures all my life. When I was a little boy, I would buy used cameras from garage sales and make the most of them. My mom would research them and locate the film. Luckily, Mom has worked as a librarian all her life. She had access to the world at her fingertips in the library, which became my home away from home.
We found a camera shop in the city, just a 20-minute drive away. She would take me there, and I’d save my birthday and holiday money for my film. We grew a relationship with the store owner, Matty. He was passionate about cameras, fixing them, and discussing how they operated. His eyes lit up when we walked into his shop: someone to teach, some fresh mind to mold.
On a given day, walking into that old red door with the bell on it, Mom and I would spend at least an hour as Matty would explain how my newfound camera functioned, the film type, and even unique composition shots for me to try when going out to snap new photos that day. Mom would always stop by the diner on the way home for thick strawberry milkshakes and a plate of crispy fries. I’d tell her about my school days and projects, mostly though I would tell her about all the people, places, and things I wanted to take pictures of within the following day, week, or month.
As I grew and camera technology advanced, I quickly rose to modern challenges with software, lenses, etc. I graduated high school with 15 cameras and a scholarship to Minnesota University, where I pursued a photography degree.
I did well and spent most of my spare time snapping photos and learning as much as possible. Mom was so proud. My senior year professor was so impressed with my work that he hooked me up with a job at the local paper. From there, I had many jobs in magazines, newspapers, and independent work that eventually led me here to the New York Times.
I was able to travel around the country and around the world, visiting historical and breathtaking places while creating art with my bag full of lenses. Looking back at my humble beginnings, I feel grateful.
I’m not one for public speaking, let alone standing in a room full of people saying words they may or may not remember. I’m solitary, just me and the camera. That’s how I like to operate. My boss convinced me that speaking at this conference will inspire others. Hell, maybe there might be a young person, just like I was searching for inspiration. Inspiration is the only reason worthwhile and why I eventually agreed to talk about my work, my process, and my thoughts. If there's anything I can talk about, it's my life's work.
The last rest stop posting I saw was 10 miles back, an impossibly long walk with only one canteen of water. I could go north and hope that there is a gas station nearby. I exited the car and set up my tripod to mount my camera with a telephoto lens. I squint into the viewfinder with one eye as the dry breeze wisps clouds of sand around my feet. I rotate the mount and myself counterclockwise, scanning the horizon for signs of life.
A mile out through the sand stood a building that looked like someone's home. It was old and tattered, and the paint clung to the brick. An older Honda was parked in front. Maybe someone was there or still lived there. It was the only structure I found; the rest was a sea of rolling sands.
I packed my camera and a few lenses in my carry bag and my green canteen slung over my shoulder, sloshing with every step. I put on my hat and my golden-tinted aviators to block the sunrays as best as possible. I smothered my skin in sunscreen before packing the car, but at this point, it must have sweated off. Shielding my face and eyes was the best I could do to avoid a severe sunburn.
After twenty minutes of dredging through the sifting sand, I reach the home. The door has a screen attached to it with tattered holes at the bottom, several shapes and sizes, and the screen is unlatched from the outside. Potted plants filled with tiny grains line the porch, and bright silver wind chimesTg dance in the gentle breeze, singing a song of winding peace.
After calling out through the closed door, I heard no sound coming from inside. The windows were lined with retractable blinds, and there was no way to peer inside. I walked around to the back, and a doorframe appeared, but there was no door.
The room was filled with sand, with footprints leading to the kitchen. A bedroom door was set ajar, unmovable by the dune behind it. The walls were caked with dry clay, and the once-blue wallpaper faded into grey. My mind started filling with questions. Who lived here? How long had it been abandoned? How old was the structure? If there are prints in front of me, who was here? And when?
The rich hues of yellow and orange gleamed as the heated rays shined through the doorless wooden frame. I positioned my tripod to face the opening. Footprints led out from the door, and dessert brush plants painted the backdrop. The air was quiet, and the setting reminded me of an entrancing emptiness. I snapped some photos as I thought of my mother and Matty at the camera store. Both have long passed, and this room took me back to a conversation we once had on a Tuesday afternoon after school.
“Johnny, don’t worry about the camera type really. They all have their special purpose, and I can show you how and when to use them. But there is one thing you have to remember above all. The camera is the tool you use to capture the art, but the essence of the moment, the soul of the image, is what you dictate. The beautiful images, over time, were curated with a purpose. An image is a message, poetry, and what it is that you want the viewer not just to see but feel. The most beautiful images in life come from the most simple things and remind us of times that were meaningful. You have that in a picture; it will change the world.”
After returning to my car that day, I hitchhiked to the nearest gas station and returned to the road. I went to the convention and spoke of my work, and I took the time to mention Matty and his advice to me at the end. I got a round of applause, and a smile filled my face.
Later, I submitted my photos of the sand-filled home to the magazine. The photos so moved the editor that he decided to have a several-page spread and the cover of the issue printed with one of the photographs. They included a written article about my life's passion and my origin story, which is the story of two people who have always believed in me, conversing in a camera repair shop.
Papa lost his job at the mill after breaking his ribs in an accident. With no income and hunting season being over, we were starving. My sister Tilly and I struggled to walk around without our dresses slipping off our shoulders. Our only food was jam preserves, which Mama prepared for us before she died. We rationed them over several months. No one in town was hiring for help as Tilly and I knocked on every door, offering our assistance for everything and anything. The crops the year before were ruined by the wind storms, and land tillers were broken. Strong gusts left the entire town with empty coin purses. Until Papa's ribs were fully healed, there was nothing we could do. It was winter now, and the wind was picking up. Dry snowflakes whipped and circled on the ground, freezing the only vegetables in the wooden planter boxes outside the windows. Papa gave TIlly and me his last week's rations. “You girls must eat. I still cannot provide, and you must stay as strong as possible if you can do something for us. Nora, Tilly, I am so sorry I have failed you. The stone was supposed to come down five minutes earlier. I would not have stood in my station if someone had warned me.” “It is not your fault.” I looked into my father's eyes and empathized with a man who prided himself on caring for his family. “Papa, Nora, and I will figure something out. Don’t you worry, you need your rest. We will find food.” Tilly brought a cup of water and set it at his bedside, kissing his forehead and motioning me to come outside. We pulled on our black cloaks and gathered firewood in the woodland near our home. Flakes blanketed the once-green ground with white. “Sister, we must find nourishment quickly. We are losing too much weight. Papa will never regain his strength at this rate. I am feeling much stronger since we ate the preserves. We need to do something now while we still have the strength.” “Yes, I agree. But what?” “I am nosy, as you know. While we were in town last and asking Mrs Collins about a sewing job, you were speaking, but I was listening to everything around us. I heard a conversation between two women near us; they talked about the abandoned stone castle north of here. I’ve heard of it before; it’s called Crestiville. I know that the Duke who lived there left on a quest for love or an ancient artifact. I can’t remember. He dismissed all his servants and left just one dogkeeper at the property. He takes care of the watchdogs that guard the property.” “This doesn’t sound good, Nora; where are you going with this?” “The dogkeeper must sleep at some point. We could travel North and survey the castle to find his routine. Then, use the witchbane from Mama to put the dogs to sleep. Inside, I'm sure there must be something of value. We can take some. I’m sure the Duke has many riches, especially since he collects rare items. We can sell it at the merchant's market on the winter solstice, and then we would have enough money for food until Papa’s ribs healed for good.” “This sounds like the most dangerous and idiotic idea you’ve ever had.” “Yes, I agree it is not my first choice. But we have tried everything else to earn money. We will die. Papa will never get better. We can’t lose him, too; I couldn't bear it.” “As much as you know, I hate to admit it, dear sister, you are right. We will have the neighbor check on Papa while we take the half-day ride out.” I smiled graciously and bowed my head, getting snow thrown at my hair in return and a trail of laughter that led back into the cabin. The following morning, we quietly gathered materials for our journey. I filled a saddle bag with things we may need and strapped my belt around my hips with my two hunting knives. Sister gathered her bows and arrows, and we dressed warmly. By the firelight, Tilly wrote Papa a note of when we would be back and placed it by his bedside with a jar of goldenberry preserves as a paperweight on top. I prepared my horse Thimble and brushed his blonde and golden mane before departing. Tilly road her brown freckled stallion River, and we charged North to the castle. The weather was still dry and shivering; the wind was light, and the breeze ran through our long curls, making them dance upon our shoulders. After half a day's ride, the leafless giants began to clear, and the dirt path transitioned to cobblestone. Thimble and River's hooves clicked and clonked along the pavement. I surveyed my surroundings and found a wooded area in front of the castle where we set up base and watch without being spotted. I guided us there and off the stone path, where the sound of our arrival would not be detected. After hitching up the horses, I pulled out the cloak potion and misted it over ourselves. Mama told me this would hide our smell from any creatures or humans for a day. It was just what we needed: thank the gods for Mama's potions. Tilly and I approached a large log in the snow and kneeled behind it. “There!” I whisper. The dogkeeper stood in his wooden tower, scanning the horizon. Two large black dogs stood below it, sitting stiffly. They were tall, sitting on their haunches; their ears stood straight up as the pointed ends rotated to detect any sound. They possessed serious, focused yellow eyes, and their pupils were sharp and small, with green veins of color surrounding the iris. We sat patiently for hours until the dusk had arrived. The crescent moons began to cast their white glow and laid across the white fluff as the dogkeeper climbed down from the rickety tower.” “Here he goes, Nora.” The dogkeeper calls in the dogs, and we count twelve that follow behind him through the front gate. They all line up neatly behind him, their red leather collars reflecting the moonlight. An hour passes as TIlly and I share our jar of preserves, eating its contents with a metal spoon we snatched from the kitchen. I bury the jar beneath the snow so the hounds can’t catch a whiff. I sprinkle the ground with the potion as an extra measure. All the hounds reemerge with the dogkeeper. He closes the gate behind them as ten enter a small building near the tower. The stone structure is waist high and has gated doors in stalls with hay and light and an outer door surrounding them. “That must be the kennel.” Tilly looked at me. Two dogs stood by the tower, one on each side, eyes forward and alert. “Two must stay awake to guard the others while we sleep. Let’s wait a few moments before going in. Are you ready, sister?” “As I ever will be Nora.” It was getting darker, and we had no light aside from the torches on the cobblestone path, which the creatures eyed patiently. We must sneak through the slippery snow from the side. At least it's dark enough that they may not see our footprints. I pulled out my hunting knife, armed and ready. I handed Tilly the other one Mama owned but never used. We nodded our ready signal as we approached to feed the two standing witchbane. That morning, I wrapped some terry leaves in bunches and rubbed their stems in meat grease from the iron pan on the stove. I sprinkled the powdered witchbane inside the bunched leaves for the dogs to ingest and fall asleep. The powder is meant to keep them sleeping for six hours, enough time to get in and out of the castle. As far as the dogkeeper, I brought my rope and a gag to tie him up and used sleeping powder to knock him out. We throw out the grease-wrapped leaves inches before them, and the two guards eat them happily. Within two minutes, both lay under the watchtower and fell asleep. I approached the kennel and slowly closed the large wooden door, flipping the latch to keep the other hounds inside. We enter the castle's front door silently. The floors are made of flattened stone patterns, and glass-stained windows with colorful painted animals and geometric designs line the hallway, lit with mounted wall torches on both sides. Tilly and I crept along the hallway, scanning the open rooms with no dogkeeper in sight. Our knives were in hand as we approached a large sitting room with roaring flames dancing in the fireplace. The dogkeeper was asleep, legs sprawled out on a large sofa. I nodded to her as she stood at the doorframe. I sprinkled the sleeping powder on his upturned, drooling open mouth, waiting for it to set in. “Thank god that’s over. Help me bind him.” We tie the dogkeepers' wrists and ankles in the remaining rope. I grab a torch from the wall, and Tilly does as well. Past the sitting room, nowhere in the castle is lighted. It is pitch black and frigid. We walk down another corridor and find the kitchen fully stocked with food—enough for ten families. Starving, I grabbed a jar of pickled vegetables and devoured it in moments. Tilly found a loaf of soft bread and pulled mouth-sized pieces off, a bite at a time, until it was gone. “Let’s find the relics. We can come back and grab some food on the way out,” I said, smirking at my sister, who had scraps all over her clothes. She giggled as she wiped the crumbled bread onto the floor. Beyond the kitchen was a set of stairs that led up and one that led down. I glanced at the dark stairways, up and down. I couldn’t make a decision. This castle is so large with so many rooms, I don’t want to make the wrong one and waste more time. “My gut is telling me down, Nora.” We head down the winding stairs to a brisk room. I feel a wall to my right and use my fingertips to find a torch holder. Finding one a few paces along the wall, I light it. As the corner lit with light, I found two more, and more after that, until I walked the perimeter of the room, lighting the 20 torches all along the way. We had found it—the collection room. Glistening items filled the room on silver carved pedestals. Books lined the upper walls, and paintings of vivid, intense color displayed the most intricate brush strokes. I could tell they were originals by the ridges left by the paint strokes. There were stone structures, metal armor on display, crowns filled with sparkling jewels, and weapons of all kinds. I had never seen swords, daggers, bows, hammers, and tools. Everything was neatly organized and displayed so the Duke could walk around the paths and admire them from several angles. That must be precisely what he does when he’s in this room. There are no places to sit but marked pathways of black and white tiles encircling the objects. “Nora, what is all this? I don’t even know what some of this is. It all looks so rare and expensive. Some markings, designs, and even colors aren’t what we see in the solstice marketplace. How did he attain all of them? I can’t imagine where he must have traveled to get some of these artifacts. And what is the point? To walk around on these paths and look at them? For what reason? This man has everything he could ever need. He has an enormous castle that fit 10 of our village. He has ships, horses, dogs, and a kitchen so full of food it’s surprising he isn’t bursting the seams of his garments. What the hell is the point?” “It’s breathtaking, though, isn't it? Maybe he likes to look at the pieces for their allure and beauty. Maybe that is what is most important to him. To hold and obtain and own all the beautiful things that he can. I hear he is not married; perhaps this room keeps him from loneliness.” “That’s just absurd; objects cannot replace love, can they? Money and food can make things easier for survival, but surely they cannot replace caring and being cared for.” “If he never had affection, how would he know? We don't even know what it feels like to have all these things.Maybe it’s a fulfillment better than love.” “I have a crazy sister. I will say, though, that this round red stone is enticing. It almost looks glowing, which must be worth something.” Tilly opens her cloth bag and picks up the round polished ball. The surrounding light becomes so intense that rays of color beam between her fingers while in her moistened palm. The room hums with power and vibration, and light waves encompass it. Her eyes stretch open and widen at the sight of the magnificent hues. A blanket of warm air, perfumed with jasmine, permeates the room. It smelt like the summer the family traveled to the village to live for the very first time. I was young, only standing at fathers knee. Tilly in her white cotton dress, with embroidered edges, circles of flowers with elongated stems marched around the bottom flowing hem. Her wavy blond, gentle curls swayed with the breeze as we stopped the horses and hooked them on dry wooden posts to explore the sand. We had never seen sand as we came from the wintery mountains of Balaria. The tan surface was warm and slightly moist, creating peaks and valleys between our toes. I ran through with excitement, the sand flying off the bottom of my soles, creating a trail of grooves to the ocean waves. Tilly’s little legs could not keep up as she ran directly in step with my footprints. She cackled and swayed with each step as our parents pulled off their shoes and began laughing behind her. Papa scooped her up in his arms and ran faster to catch up with me. I stood before the mighty ebb and flow of rising waves, curling at its edges with an intensity I had never witnessed before. The water peacefully reached my feet, and I would go back out and in again. I watched the sand sift through my skin with each tide pulled back into the sea. The ocean had drawn me in. Staring at the horizon made my body feel as if it was vibrating, pushing, and pulling with it. I was in a peaceful trance as I closed my amber hues and listened. Papa stopped alongside me, and silence enveloped us. He stood there watching me and told my sister to close her eyes. Mother slowed down to a walking pace behind me as Papa extended his hand, palms outward, and curled his knobby fingers around Mama's slender hand. She, too, joined us. When I opened my eyes, I saw my family standing near me, breathing in the salty air. “What do you all have your eyes closed for anyway?” Papa bellowed out, howling with joy. We stayed on that beach all afternoon until the sun had set. We made camp there and journeyed the following day to our new home. I opened my eyes and saw the Duke's artifact room surrounding me. “What, what is that? Do you recognize the smell? It is the shore we found when we first came here. You were so young, only a toddler, so why had I forgotten about that beautiful day? The day when our whole lives changed. Tell me, do you remember?” The stone, still emitting light, sat in her hands as she looked up at me with tears welling in her eyes and a nod of confirmation. The ground began to tremble, and paintings fell off the walls. A loud crash from below our feet rang piercingly in our ears. Something was coming and fast. “Grab what you can! We have to get out of here!” I grab some small items in the containers nearest to me and stuff them in my knapsack; I tie the strings taunt and swing over the bag on my left shoulder. Tilly is already ahead of me, running through the door to the front of the castle. I catch up behind her as we bolt for the front door. Running towards the horses in the forest, a thundering roar pierces across the night sky. We untie the horses from the posts, placing our legs on the saddles where snow has accumulated while inside. A giant beast emerges from behind the castle. Grunting, knawing, its spiked fur splashed with blood around its wide open mouth foaming with crimson and sticky strings of saliva clinging to the roof of its mouth as it roars and hunches its back like a cat, readying to charge full speed at us. Its large black eyes are fully dilated, noseless, and glass spikes peeking out of its long blue fur. In a heartbeat, the creature leaps like a deer beyond our horses, landing directly in front of the forest. I kicked my horse's side and yelled, "Run!" Tilly and I charged our horses forward as fast as possible, hunkering down and bent over to glide more easily with the force of the strengthening wind. The creature was only 20 feet behind us. Our horses panted, and we ran out of steam after a few minutes. The air was thick and full of fog and snow. We were unable to see far ahead of us. We outpaced the putrid monster, sighing with relief. It took a moment to realize that we were no longer on the ground but in the air. I held tight to my horse's neck, pulled the knapsack around, and stuffed it between my legs as we fell deeper and deeper. This is is, this is the end. Suddenly, the force of falling stopped and slowed gracefully a dozen feet above the ground, my sister safe beside me. We landed in the ravine upright, still saddled on our horses. The beast stood at the top of the rocks, roaring into the earth as its failure echoed around us, bouncing between the ridged structures of formed rock. “What... how did that.. how are we?” Tilly pulled the savior from her cloak. It was still glowing, emitting waves of the jasmine shore aroma. “It was the stone; it protected us. Somehow, someway. It is full of magic. It is the embodiment of magic. This may be the most important stone ever created, ever forged, or who knows, one that may even have fallen from the heavens.” I grinned as I held her tightly. Closing my eyes, my chin resting on her shoulder, I was transported back to the beach, where we held each other as our parents sat in the sand.
The rain was crashing that evening. It was pouring so heavy that it pooled in small puddles everywhere and gathered slickly on the freshly paved roads, paved just two months prior. The sky had darkened and grey. Immense clouds opened their mouths and released the weight of their burdens onto the small town.
Father hadn’t come home after work last night. He was hardworking, working late shifts for extra money around the holidays. My family lived in a tiny house and sometimes struggled for groceries. Often, we ate bread and cheese for dinner. Despite the lack of food, Father always ensured we had gifts on birthdays.
I am a twin to my sister. We were eleven that day, and our twelfth birthday was a few weeks away. Usually, for our birthdays, we would get a handful of memorable gifts. Mom would make two cakes, one chocolate, and one vanilla since my sister preferred the latter. Mom would craft paper chains, hang them on the walls, and write beautiful words in handmade cards.
My two younger brothers ages four and seven, and of course, my oldest sister, Elena, who was fourteen, babysat us when Mom and Dad were working or occasionally had a date night. They prioritized each other. Dancing in the kitchen, with flowers on the table, their wedding anniversary was always celebrated with a candlelit dinner and homemade grasshopper pie.
It was a loving home. The children never realized we were poor, for our love for each other was all we needed. Both parents made us feel individually unique and appreciated. And it rained that evening, harder than I have ever witnessed rain.
Dad didn’t come home the night before. Elena started calling hospitals, family, friends, and Dad's job to ask questions. His boss said he left work on time, and no one else had seen or heard from him.
Mom was composed in stressful situations and stayed calm throughout. When worry began to stir, Mother convinced us that the old car had broken down, and Father was probably walking somewhere to get to a pay phone or ask for help. He would be back tomorrow.
The phone rang, and Mother answered. Her face stayed expressionless as my siblings, and I listened intensely. The person on the other end spoke quietly enough that the sound didn’t leak through the speaker to our prying ears.
When she hung up the call, she didn’t answer our questions about who it was, what they wanted, or what they possibly knew about Father. Mom smiled and reassured us she would be back soon as she pulled on her tan trench coat and left the house. At that moment, the rain only sprinkled.
My siblings and I silently waited in the family room, messing with the antenna behind the thick, plastic-smelling old television purchased from a neighbor. It was old and clunky, but we were grateful for it—even with the bad reception. An old movie was on as the four of us curled up together under blankets on the orange-tattered cushions.
Three hours had passed, no parents had shown up, and no phone calls had rang through. We stayed silent as Elena passed out toasted bread spread with chunky peanut butter and topped with sliced bananas. Since no one was there to stop us, we ate in front of the TV instead of the dining table.
The rain pounded the roof as Mom pulled in front of the house. I observed her sitting in the car for a moment, her head resting on the steering wheel. I ran to the window and saw her climb out. Her head was covered in her hood, and she looked down at the sidewalk, shielding as much of her face from the rain. She walked slower than usual. She wouldn’t glance up.
She opened the door and began sobbing. She collapsed on her knees, not bothering to close the heavy door behind her. Elena began crying as she ran over and sank to the floor, hugging her. Using her shaking hands, motioned the younger siblings to join as they began to cry, too; I doubt they recognized why so much water was being released.
The room's energy was dark and hung low like the open clouds outside. I stood at the window as my family cried and held each other. A blanket was still around my shoulders as I began to shake. The pink wool kept me warm before, but a chill ran over me from head to toe.
My sister Elena lifted her head to lock eyes with me. Her eyes were sunken in, pink and puffy. Her nose dripped with snot, and brown mascara ran down her red cheeks. Big sister extended her hand to mine.
I was afraid. I'd sink once I touched my sister's saddened hands, too. No one sank to the floor in the home where I was raised. Father would not want this. I understood that Father was gone; sinking was all I could do.
I took her hand and fell to the floor on bony, scraped knees. Mother lifted her head, grabbed my waist, and pulled me into her lap. My siblings sat around us, and I began to let my water pour and open from my heaviness. The clouds outside the windows continued the emptying of weight in unison.
I arrived at school in my freshman year, and it was time for my first class of the day, English. I couldn’t sleep the night before and tossed and turned at a decision I knew I had to make. My girlfriend of three months, the girl who I lost my virginity to, the girl I told I would be with her forever, was driving me insane. All the while, I thought about my ex. She began texting me again, and I vented to her about Leanne.
Yesterday, as I was leaving the front doors, Leanne stopped me and asked if I had time to hang out today. My mom expects me right after classes, I have homework, and I can’t spend every waking moment hanging out with her. I hadn’t seen her all day, but she should know better.
In my frustration of telling her over and over again, I lost my temper. “No! I have to go fucking home!”
“Why are you yelling at me? I just wanted to spend time with you; I have barely seen you in the last two weeks.”
Spring break had passed, and Leanne went over to her friend's house and spent night after night having fun. She never texted me the whole week and didn’t try to meet up with me. I was annoyed with this but also relieved at the time I spent alone—the time I needed to think about our relationship, my ex-relationship, and the girl I secretly was still in love with.
After the yelling incident, I didn’t text her the whole night. She was so hot and cold throughout our entire relationship. One minute, she was all over me. The next, she was detached and hanging out with her friends, taking hours to respond to something I had said. I should be her priority. Why the hell couldn’t she simply respond?
She seemed so annoyingly vulnerable. I told her I would marry her one day and danced with her in my living room when my parents went out of time one night. It felt right then. She was a warm body next to me. And god sex with her was amazing. She constantly told me how much she adored me and would always be there for me. And she believed every word I said about how much I cared for her.
Deep down, though, I knew I didn’t love her in that way—not in the way she loved me. She looked up at me with admiration in her eyes. She bought me lunch, held my hand, and let me touch her in all her places, anytime and anywhere I wanted, without saying no.
On the bus, in an empty classroom, in a movie, I could slip my long fingers under her jeans, and she would kiss me with passionate acceptance. All along, I thought, how am I getting away with this? She’s letting me do whatever I want. My ex only let me kiss her once or twice.
After yelling at Leanne, it dawned on me this whole thing wasn’t right. I didn’t love her; she gave me whatever I wanted, which wasn’t enough to make me happy. I was only holding on to the physical, and when I spoke to my ex, I even told her I was using the girl for sex and just sex.
The following morning, Leanne found me in the hallway.
“I didn’t hear from you all night. Are you okay? Are we okay?”
“No, I don’t want to be with you anymore. I want to break up.”
Tears began to well in her eyes, falling moments after I said the words.
“How could you do this to me? I love you. I’m so confused. Why would you do this to me now, especially right at the beginning of the day when I have classes and a math test? Why the fuck would you do this to me?”
Her face was contorted, blushing, and choking on the words. She was going to begin sobbing, and I had to get out of there before she caused a scene.
“I gotta go.’
I walked past her swiftly, lugging my books in hand. I felt relief but didn’t expect her to start crying. I didn’t think she was that attached. She must have realized we didn’t really love each other. We were only 15, and she must have realized I only wanted to fool around all the time. I thought that’s what we were.
The day went by quickly, and I walked to the stone steps from the front doors. She was already heading towards the bus stop, holding the hand of one of her guy friends, looking over her shoulder to make sure I could see her. Of course, she’s already off to the next guy. Why the hell should I feel bad at all?
Our mutual friend, Belle, approached me two weeks later by my locker.
“Jonathan, why the hell did you do that? Leanne is completely torn up and falling apart. She's drinking, she's not coming to school anymore, and you need to talk to her.”
“Oh Jesus, Belle, she’s being so dramatic. She doesn’t care as much as you believe.”
“Jonathan, yes, she does. You told her you loved her, she loved you, and she meant it. She had no idea this was coming. She’s hardly speaking to anyone, and she’s talking about killing herself. She found out you were telling everyone in school that you two were sleeping together all over the place. She thought you would keep it between the two of you. How the hell could you do that to her? She thought you were in love with her; that’s the only reason she slept with you so much. Now, her reputation is ruined because you couldn’t shut your fat mouth. You're a piece of shit.”
“Oh, come on, it’s not that bad.”
“Oh, it is Jonathan. You were her first relationship, you know she lived a sheltered life you idiot. You took advantage of her because she was in love with you and trusted you.”
“Whatever.” I concluded the conversation by walking away in disbelief. I was sure Belle was exaggerating until the next time I saw Leanne. It was on the bus after school. Her sleeves were rolled up. No seating was left, so she was forced to stand, holding onto the yellow railing above her. Her arms were covered in fresh cuts, dozens decorating her pale forearms. She refused to look at me and kept her eyes forward.
I didn’t learn my lesson, though. We continued to hook up after the breakup. She stopped coming to school entirely in her Sophomore year, and her depression was getting worse. I finally apologized as she told me I had broken her. Out of guilt, I promised to take her to senior prom. A week before the night, I told her I was falling for someone, and she said to take them instead. The girl I took to the dance is the woman I am now married to today. I cut off all contact with Leanne. I couldn’t bear looking at her face, and with the reminder, I tore the girl apart for my selfish 15-year-old desires. Days I think of her, I can't look in the mirror.
"Jules, please listen to me. I have known you since you were born. Your mother, my sister, died on that lake. Your father was never in the damn picture. I took you in; I raised you. You became my flesh and blood. I would do anything for you. I would die for you. I fucking love you. You're so beautiful."
The sobbing started to come out in wales between the words. The deep inhales stifled by the throbbing pulsating of the temple veins in Roberts's head grew in intensity with each word passed from his lips. His niece stood in her apartment bedroom doorway with a look of horror. She breathed deeply through her nose and out of her mouth quietly.
"Uncle, I don't know what you mean. Of course, I love you too."The sickening stirring began in her stomach as she held the contents of her lunch inside with all her will. The sloshing veggie wrap was like an open sea in a storm. She stood firm, bare feet firmly planted in the green shag carpet. Her German shepherd dog Bongo stood on his haunches beside her. Tail resting on her foot as his ears pointed at the sound of the uncle's words. The dog's body was tense, and he sensed Jules's uncomfortable body language as the guest continued crying in their home.
"I'm in love with you, Jules. I always have been. I want to be with you. I want to marry you. I will take care of you for the rest of your life."
Jules's skin ran cold. Goosebumps rose high on her arms at his words. Her head spun with a thousand and one thoughts. Her heart sank into the ocean of her stomach, and she was about to hurl forth the contents of her lunch. Her cinnamon-brown skin began to turn pale, and her knees began to shake. She was going to be sick and needed to get this man, this man she knew and trusted, out of her sight.
"You need to leave." She needed all her emotional and mental strength to keep from collapsing on the floor. Bongo stood up beside her, never taking his eyes off the man.
"Jules, look. I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say. I love you, though. Please call me. At least you're not my biological child."
Jules moved towards the front door and opened it, Bongo at her heels. "Please leave now."
Her uncle walked out the front door, head hung low, staring at his beat-up work boots.
"Goodbye Jules, I'm sorry."
She gently closed the door and bolted it, grabbed the chain, and locked it in place. Franticly, she went around her apartment, closing and locking all windows. She latched the back sliding screen door. At last, she called Bongo to her bedroom and locked her and the dog inside. Gathered under the blankets, she sobbed mournfully as her dog lay warming her body beside her.
After sobbing and sleeping, she woke up the following day and called Edie, her best friend. She explained everything: what her uncle had said, the way it was said, her shock, the nauseating waves of food rotating in her stomach, the rotation of numbness and emotional distress she cycled through every thirty minutes.
Edie encouraged her and told her that everything was going to be okay. Jules understood it would eventually be okay, but it would take drastic change and action. She did not know her uncle, unable to fathom how he had grown and developed feelings for a little girl.
She had only turned eighteen a year ago, and in that past year, he barely reached out to her.
During that course of the year, she wondered why there was so much distance between them. She, however, also felt relief that she wasn't seeing Robert every day.
As she grew up, it was just the two of them. And she felt his eyes always on her. He let her do what she wanted, but he wanted to spend all his free with her when she was home. Renting movies, listening to new albums, buying her presents each time he was away for work. He would cook for them and would buy her anything she wanted.
Jules loved her uncle like he was her father, for her own never was in the picture. Her mother died in a speed boating accident when she was six. A drunk date of hers turned a corner too fast, and out her body flew. Not knowing how to swim well and being four beers deep, she drowned before her date had time to help her out of the water.
The uncle knew where she lived, worked, her friends, her exes, and her class schedule. He knew how to find her anywhere, anytime he wanted. Her skin crawled at the thought of ever seeing him again.
The deep wound of betrayal festered and bled buckets inside her as her anger began to rise. The woman she is becoming feels rage for the child she once was. The innocent, the vulnerable, the beautiful child she was. It had felt that he stripped all innocence and sense of wonder were stripped from her soul as she ruminated on the words that came out of his mouth on a used couch she had once loved.
That afternoon, she called and quit her job, put in her notice that she was breaking the lease on her apartment, and picked a city six hours away from her hometown to pack up and move to. She had no plan, no job, and no future in mind. It was time to start over, where she would fall in love with herself.
She packed up her car, put Bongo in the back with the windows down, and walked back into her almost empty apartment. The bright orange couch stood solely in the middle of the living room. She pulled with all her strength to maneuver it out of the front door and onto the curb, where she placed a cardboard sign scribbled in black sharpie: 'FREE.'
Walking back to lock her apartment up for the last time, she stared and the deep imprinted green shag fibers of the carpet. It was the last trace of the life she started here she would take in. She breathed in deeply, bolting the door, to leave behind the indents and begin anew.
