Bronwen O’Connor
"Serenity"
 

It is with a greatly quizzical expression that she surveys the three deep gouges in her palm. She’d been feeding this stray cat for weeks now, and now, finally she felt it had been time to try to pet it as it nervously accepted her presence on the stoop over the bowl of tuna.

Not so much. The fucking thing had gouged new life lines into her palm, crisscrossing the ones she was born with, indicating new raw directions she was going, blood pooling in the crevasses now opened. The old lifeline, a tenuous wavering coda, was now moot. On the ring finger curling out of her now lacerated and probably infected left palm, was a new slender silver band that shone liquidly in the shade of the afternoon light. 

New directions, new lives, now all intertwined inseparably.  She was no longer afraid to wake up to him snoring lightly next to her, no longer astounded to run into him in the bathroom, no longer wierded out by his cooking dinner…less wierded out cooking for him. It was strangely wonderful to have this little world to always return to. Off time from matches was a blissfully relaxing life they both seemed to settle in well to.

He burst through the screen door, junk hanging out of his boxers momentarily, before he scooped it back in and plopped down next to her. He watched the stray cat gingerly edging around the garage, looking at the dish of food on the step balefully and meowing.

“Hey kitteh,” he called, “come ‘ere!” He snapped his fingers a few times enticingly, and the cat scampered up to him and jumped into his lap, rubbing its head affectionately on his chin.

“You fucking bastard,” she growled, staring at the cat menacingly. Shane looked at Bronwen questioningly, as she wordlessly held up her palm for him to inspect.

“You have to pet the cat,” he explained, “not maul it.”              

“Piss off,” she cursed, standing up and kissing him on the cheek. The cat raised a paw in defense, swatting at her, but missing.

“Coffee?” she asked dryly smiling down at him.

“Please. Aww…she doesn’t love you kitteh, not like I do, I know… “

They went for a walk later on, still getting used to the neighborhood they’d moved into. It was a little on the sketchy side, but more on the outskirts of the city, something they’d both preferred. Their yard backed onto forest, but the neighborhood was at least 70 years old, with trees towering over the roads, with old houses, some condemned, some in renovation, and some as mint as they’d been when built, nestled next to each other in the cul-de sacs that made no sense. Mostly the residents in the neighborhood were seniors, always regarding the couple suspiciously at one point or another. Rocking on their porches with beady stares, all that was missing was a rifle across the lap and banjo music. And yet, a few young families lived in the neighborhood as well, still completely strange to both Bronwen and Shane. Mini-vans, jocular fathers, soccer moms…and kids. The first time a kid had hit a ball into the high fenced back yard, Shane had come stomping out to check on the Challenger, hearing the ruckus. Three young children had stopped, pointed and stared, before screaming and running back to the fence they’d so labouriously climbed over minutes before.  She could tell he was a little bewildered by it, but she personally had no concerns about any of the people in the neighborhood.

There were a lot of dogs and cats in the area as well she’d noticed.  A plethora of them, it seemed. As they walked, she felt vaguely uncomfortable stirrings within her as a dog neared. She tried to relax. Felt relaxed, casually held onto Shane’s hand, and walked on. Politely, dog owner and dog parted to one side as they parted on the other. The dog was a big golden retriever with a goofy expression on its face and floppy ears as it trotted along. Bronwen waited, cautiously walking further forward.

Sure enough, the dog went ballistic when it was within three feet of Bronwen, hackles raising up and slobber flying out of its mouth as it barked and growled hysterically, nearly uncontrollable in its dislike, but still herding its owner firmly away from her with its stocky body while it flipped out.

“Goddamnit Shane,” Bronwen sighed, walking back to the middle of the sidewalk.

The last several weeks had been repeats of the same event. Dogs, cats, babies….something instinctual contained within them was triggered into massively uncomfortable unhappiness, defensiveness and rage whenever they came in too close of contact with her.  She’d even been bitten once on the shin by a brave Rottweiler since the wedding and the Paper View.  Getting stitches and peroxide in the Emergency Room while Shane cursed the existence of bad dog owners, she’d felt sort of dumb and immature like a 9 year old cracking his head open on a teeter-totter. Stupid. Confusing.

“I guess you’re just too scary, baby,” Shane snickered. He of course, did not get it at all, and seemed to enjoy ribbing her about the anathema she apparently presented to instinctual nature.

“Did ye see that?” she said, smacking him on the arm. “Two seconds before he came around me, he was just a big dumb dog, happy as fuck walking with his old lady owner. Did you see the look on her face? She’s probably never seen that fucking dog do that in his life!”

“Well, you’re a weirdo baby,” Shane said, kissing her on the forehead condescendingly, “just deal with it, ok? Stop blowing it out of proportion.”

She went to punch him in the chest, but he caught her fist, missing the one that caught him in the gut with the second jab.

“I think,” she growled, punching him again as he laughed and winced, “that it’s a sign of something bad.”

“Ahh,” he said, “but what do we even have to worry about now? After Till, there’s nothing you and I can’t deal with, don’t worry. Till’s gone baby, it’s just you and me now,” he murmured, rubbing her shoulders as an old man gesticulated rudely in the background, yelling at them faintly to get off the grass.

“Baby,” she said, looking up at him with half-lidded rueful eyes, “I’m pregnant.”

Shane gawked at her and dropped his iPod on the sidewalk. It smashed into a gazillion pieces that glittered wetly in the sunshine. The old man was approaching them menacingly with a rake as he stood and stared at her in a wild panic for a moment. Stopped. Squinted and looked closely into her eyes.

“Oh, fuck you,” he chuckled, “I call shenanigans.”

She laughed merrily at him and put her arm around his waist, steering him back down the sidewalk, narrowly missing the swipe of the senior and his armorite green rake.

“You’re just so gullible Clemmens…Let’s go home and smoke a joint.”

Hi Destiny…I was wondering if I’d ever face you in the ring or not. I can’t say at this point, whether it will be a pleasure or a pain, but I’m hoping for the former and the latter. I promise I will have the pleasure of bringing you the pain. I hope you are ready. I don’t know anything about you, but I do know that other female wrestlers I’ve matched again lack my ferocity. I am a wolf amongst the sheep of women in F1X it seems, minus a shtick, only possessing purpose and pleasure born from intense bloodlust.

The nice part is, I don’t have any psychotic hang-ups like the other women seem to have. I’m waiting to perhaps witness one you have yet to bring to the surface? It’s getting to be a tired idea, so I am *hoping* you at least possess as much originality as you seem to have earnestness.

So far, my brief encounters with you have been of the easily pushed aside and overlooked “staff member.” The office assistant, or Aidan Morag’s new Lewinsky stand-in. The guy loves Bill Clinton. Emulates him. Just ask him.  What I’ve seen has been timid, shy, and forceless  Destiny, trying to change things around behind the scenes, and so far…just another pretty face.

On Saturday, as you lovingly put your Randy Orton and Ric Flair dolls back into your toy box before driving out with a new flower in the vase of your Silver VW bug (my envisioning of your vehicle of choice—don’t be flattered by my declaration of you driving an environmentally friendly vehicle), do bear in mind the actual nature of the game. It is bloody (I will spill yours, guaranteed), it is hard to win (not just against me), and it requires heart, tenacity, and a strong will to battle. Not a pretty face. Not cattiness (I will rip you to bits if you even go there, guaranteed. There will be chunks of your over-feminine ass all over the place, because that is a fucking waste of time and breath).  I will bring my best, if you do so by me.

That night, as Bronwen was sleeping lightly, the moonlight shone out and across the king sized bed in a wash of indigo. A scrabbling noise could be heard in the kitchen, and she stirred awake at the sound. Scraping, and the sound of things moving was audible, even as Shane lay next to her, deep in slumber. Somewhat irritated, she padded into the kitchen and peeked around the corner to where the noise was coming from. A dark shadow flitted from the corner of the kitchen and sped past her at ankle level, an impossibly quick black and anamorphous shape. Before she could blink, it had disappeared without a sound into the farthest reaches of the living room past the couch.

“It’s that damn cat,” she growled, although she was not entirely convinced, even as she said it out loud. Looking back to the kitchen, she saw two cups over turned on the ground, both heavy porcelain mugs that had been in the cupboard, now down on the ground and unbroken somehow. 

A hissing sound. She looked back to the living room, anticipating the cat, but was shocked instead to see a pitch black shape hunched over and looking down at her from the top of a bookshelf, eyes burning a blue-white light out of the black void of a body.

Back. I come. Back. 

As quick as it had appeared, hissing the barely audible words, it vanished, seemingly melting into the wall. She shuddered and fled the room, plowing under the covers to snuggle up to Shane, pressing her now cold nose against his back, hearing him snort in surprise as he continued to sleep on.