Author's note: The following story is a work of fiction. Some scenes include nonconsensual sex that may be disturbing to some readers. If you are one of those readers, please select a different story. As always, happy to receive constructive criticism, both positive and negative, and to hear creative ideas for future stories.
Imperfection and perfection go so hand in hand, and our dark and our light are so intertwined, that by trying to push the darkness or the so-called negative aspects of our life to the side... we are preventing ourselves from the fullness of life.
Jeff Bridges
This is a story about Charlotte McPherson. In case you haven't guessed, that is not her real name. I hope she would be fine with me telling her story; Charlotte herself is unaware of some important parts of her own story. So I suppose it's possible she wouldn't be fine with my telling the story. But since she doesn't know that I'm telling the story, the point is moot anyhow. It's been a long time now and the story needs to be told. Besides, a precondition of my telling the story, my precondition, is that no one should be able to easily identify her. Too many identifiers could cause problems for people. And when I say "people," I mean me.
The main part of the story is about what happened way back in the late summer of 1991 when Charlotte was visiting. Well Charlotte and her sister. They both visited. But this is more a story about Charlotte than her sister, so it's not necessary for me to tell you her sister's name. I'd have to use another fake name even though she is real too, just like Charlotte.
Well, let's go ahead and call Charlotte's sister, Amelia, just in case.
But going back to times before 1991, I had met Charlotte at a series of extended family events in southern California. Events like parties. Or weddings. Or graduations. Or funerals. Since it's been a long time now, the exact number of family events and the purpose of each event has become fuzzy. But of course I easily remember Charlotte. Like it was yesterday, or maybe like the back of my hand, or like some other metaphor about something you know or remember.
Charlotte was cute and energetic and made a nice impression. At least that's what I thought at the time. At least I was impressed. So I assume everyone else must have been impressed along with me. My wife, Kathy, and I had to travel a long way for these events since they were invariably close to where my wife grew up in California, and that's a long way from where we lived -- where we still live. Hence the travel part. And it was far enough away that we usually flew. Although we did drive sometimes but that was a pain in the ass. Literally. We had to sit in the car for two days to get there. And then the same thing when it was over. Two days while we drove back.
My wife's name really is Kathy, short for Kathleen. Might as well keep one of the names unchanged.
Kathy is a good wife. She's into all kinds of self-improvement and tries to include me in the improvement. Lately she's on this kick to expand her vocabulary -- and mine too (as if I had a choice). Uxorious. I guess I can be sometimes. And there are times when I have to be.
My wife's name was more common back in 1991 than it is now. Although there are still enough people around who are named Kathy -- that's why I'm comfortable using her real name. But not many people name their daughters Kathy nowadays. My wife's name is becoming Anachronistic.
Anyway, the family events were fun (except maybe if we were attending a funeral). Or most of each visit was fun. At least the part that wasn't boring. Kathy's relatives, the McPherson's, are nice people. They have always been good hosts. No matter the event, even if it might have been a funeral, Charlotte was never boring.
One time when we were visiting we went to see Charlotte perform in a concert. She played violin in a string quartet and then in violin section as part of a symphony. She's pretty good at violin apparently. She was right up front there with the people who are supposed to be good. The quartet was nice. Pretty lively. Rimsky-Korsakov, a Russian guy. But the other song, or whatever it's called, by some French guy, a symphony with something about a fawn wandering around in the afternoon was so slow and boring. I fell asleep, even though Kathy kept nudging me to stay awake.
I remember when Charlotte came to visit in 1991 I hadn't seen her in almost three years. She seemed the same. Well, I mean her personality hadn't changed. Although when she visited us in 1991 she had just turned 18. A three-year difference around that age can change some people. But Charlotte seemed like herself -- the same as earlier times when she had impressed me. She was still affectionate, and extraverted, and enthusiastic.
One thing I should say is that I found myself surprised. I was suddenly strongly attracted to Charlotte when she arrived for her visit. I suppose you might have guessed that's what I'd be telling you already. But it needed to be said, otherwise a lot of this story wouldn't make much sense. The main reason for my attraction to her was due to her personality. Yes, the fact that she was lithe and cute, had thick red hair, a lightly freckled nose, mischievous blue eyes (Cerulean), and a way of teasing that seemed somewhere between innocent and flirtatious didn't hurt. She was friendly and enthusiastic and had a kind of zest. She was, she still is, someone who instantaneously lights up a room.
The reason for Charlotte's visit in 1991 is important. Charlotte had a serious boyfriend from the time she was sixteen. That's what my wife told me back then. It was a typical case of teenage romance where the young people are very serious and where their parents wish they weren't. The guy, someone I never had the chance to meet, and who's name I can't now remember, had started sneaking over to be with Charlotte in the middle of the night. So Charlotte was sent to visit us.
"It would be nice for you and your sister to get away for a while. Have a look at another part of the country," was the reason her parents gave Charlotte. But that reason didn't hold water. I'm sure Charlotte knew it was a transparent ruse.
The hope was that "we could talk some sense into her," my wife was told over the phone by Charlotte's parents.
"She would try," my wife said. But I know my wife thought it unlikely that she could hold that kind of sway over Charlotte. She wasn't even sure it was worth trying.
"I do understand it's their house and that they don't want to have her boyfriend -- whatever his name was -- sneaking over in the middle of the night. And that since it's their house they get to make the house rules," Kathy told me after she got off the phone. "But Charlotte's eighteen. She's old enough to make her own decisions.
"And besides, Charlotte is going off to college soon. In about a month. What are they going to do? Hire an armed guard to stand outside her dorm room?"
My wife had a point.
I should have mentioned it before, but Charlotte is Kathy's sister. Or half-sister actually. That's also important. My wife is ten years older than Charlotte. My wife's parents divorced when she was seven. Then my father-in-law remarried and had two more daughters, Charlotte being one of them. My mother-in-law also remarried; that's not important for the story but I thought you might be curious.
Anyway, that's why Charlotte was sent to visit us. Because my wife is Charlotte's older half-sister. And because Charlotte's parents thought Kathy might be a good influence on Charlotte. And because they wanted to get her away from her boyfriend in the hope that she might gain "proper perspective" -- or really, in the unrealistic hope that Charlotte would suddenly start agreeing with them, her parents I mean, and forget about her boyfriend.
---
The morning after Charlotte and her slightly older sister, Amelia, arrived, I came down from the bedroom to get my usual coffee and cigarette and get started on my day. Charlotte was lying on the couch in the living room. She was lying in prone (or supine?) position. She was lying on her stomach, propped up on her elbows reading a book. The lower parts of her legs, and her feet were crossed and pointed toward the ceiling.
