I hear the crack of sound before my nerves even register I've been slapped. I cast my eyes downward, unable to face my former friend." Do you hear me?" She demands," You let him die."
Tears fall onto my shirt; I don't deserve the dignity of hiding my pain. Silence rings in my head as my partner's widow stands angrily before me. I know that we have interrupted the ceremony irreparably, thus completing my disgrace. The clicking of Cam's retreating steps to remind me that my castigation is not yet final. I look up and meet the mortified stares of my fellow officers and all of Jim's family circle. Losing my courage, I avert my eyes and awkwardly make my way to the great ornate exit. I need to breathe air that I haven't stained, so I go out into the church's sickly garden.
The sting of Camilla's small hand throbs on my cheek, making me wish she'd punched me instead. I deserve to be sore and swollen. I stand, staring out into the courtyard. I stare nothing, praying to Jim's GOD to take me. The heartache propels me, fueling my fervent prayer. I don't deserve the kindness of death, but without that mercy, that euthanizing touch, my bones will snap under the pressure of my heavy anguish.
I take a deep breath and find a small bench on which to rest and hide. The church organ has resumed in my absence, muting almost every other ambient noise. I rise to trudge my way back home and into my lumpy bed, but I catch something in my periphery. There, with her face contorted into a grimace, is my XO." It's not your fault, Lewis"
Her fruitless attempt at pacifying me is an olive branch, but I don't have the patience now to indulge her pity.
"Please," I say, choking up," please."
Somehow she mistakes my pleading for solitude as a plea for help or needing comfort. She moves closer, stands on her toes, and gently places her arms around my neck. Her long, curvy body leans against mine as if we were lovers, locked in a familiar embrace. My body responds to her softness, and for a deplorable moment, I want to fuck her in the garden. I want to, but I won't abuse her body or her trust to feel better about my own grief.
"Shawna", I draw back from her." Don't."
Her face goes through a rapid transformation; from confused, to offended, to hurt – all in seconds. I turn to walk away before she becomes angry, and neither does she speak nor reach to me. I use an overgrown path, which seems to stretch around the circumference of the small church, so that I can leave without rousing anymore drama.
20 or so minutes later, I'm home and kicking off my shoes. They are, or were, nice dress shoes, though not made for walking to and from funerals to which one is not invited. When I didn't receive an invitation last week, I'd assumed Cam had so much on her plate that she'd neglected a few things. Though I'd known that our friendship couldn't be the same, I still could not fathom the hatred Cam harbored. So imagine how shocking it was to be crashing my best friend's funeral.
Jewel follows my every move as I undress in autopilot. My whole life seems surreal, as I blindly navigate through my own home. I cannot seem to remember where I keep my around the house clothes, so I shed my pants and shirt, and walk around in my bra and panties. Cam's red-tinted face clouds my senses. I know that she is right. I killed Jimmy that day-or at least contributed to his murder.
Jewel trips me at almost every step, and I fight the urge to kick her. She's a good dog, a mutt, but a faithful friend, so my guilt is pushed up a notch at the idea of hurting my dog. She's just happy to see me, and can probably tell I'm upset. I check her bowls, but I must have fed and watered her earlier this morning.
It's still morning, around ten thirty, but I have nothing to do. Nor do I want to do anything. I wish I was a drinker, so I could get lost in a bottle. Fuck it, I think, as I strip my bra off as I walk to my shitty couch. The nice clothes I leave trailing in my wake are the only nice things I own. The rest of my wardrobe consists of workout clothes and my uniforms. I thought it would be too disrespectful to wear my uniform to my partner's funeral. I sigh, plopping my tired body on the couch. I reach over to the phone to turn the ringer on in case Jim calls, only to be reduced to wracking sobs at my stupidity. But I still leave the ringer on in case Cam is not done with me.
I stink, so I make my way to my modest bathroom. Without fetching a towel, I start the water. I put it on high pressure and don't even bother testing the temperature with my hand before I step in. Instead of the scolding hot water I deserved, cold water dominates my shower. Despite my earlier need to be punished, the cold water is too much for me so I even it out with some hot and quickly lather my torso. I lather my limbs next, my privates, and then my feet. It's been a tradition since childhood, and it feels good to at least have one routine back to normal.
I tip-toe to my bedroom and find some comfort in the setup of the room. My bedroom is large and so is everything in it. My bed is enormous and there is a large extra soft area rug partially under it, on which I like to stand and get dressed. I walk over to my closet to get a towel and dry off there by the closet door. I walk over to the bed and lie down naked on my back, assessing my brown body.
I don't have a generous amount of breasts, and my body is pretty average. I don't have sex a lot, but when I do, I'm meticulous with my lovers, not allowing myself to orgasm until my partners do. In fact, I can only achieve orgasm when they do. I don't have any lovers at the moment simply because I don't need some needy woman crowding my space. Now I wish I had a soft lover on whom to cling.
I hear Jewel getting excited in the other room, so I force myself to get up and throw on a tee shirt and some jeans. It's now after noon, and I know she needs to be walked, and doesn't deserve to be ignored. As I walk toward the living room, I notice that Jewel is not by the door. My heart beats faster and I try to hold my breath. Jewel is not an attack dog; she would most likely welcome an intruder with open paws.
My off duty weapon is in the living room and I know my door is unlocked because my community is so docile. Though I welcomed death this morning, I know in this moment that I want to survive. But damned if I bitch up now.
"Who's there?" I project firmly and loudly.
