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"Yes, now. The attic can wait. I just found out my husband is an author."

  "I’m not an author. Author’s books you can usually find in a place called a bookstore. My stories are found in one place, and right now that’s in your hands." I stood up and walked to her. "You don’t have to read them all. It won’t hurt my feelings if you don’t think they’re any good. Like I said, I wrote them a long time ago."

  "You let me be the one to tell you if they’re any good. I teach Creative Writing, don’t forget. I know a thing or two."

  I couldn’t argue with her there.

  She climbed down the ladder, my binders tucked under her arm, and left me alone in the attic with a feeling I hadn’t felt in a long time. I felt the sense of nervous excitement rising in my belly that had only been caused by somebody reading my work. It was a high that nothing else had managed to cause. I longed for the approval of others as they read what I had written, and nothing compared to the rush of satisfaction that would hit me like a wave when I got a positive response. Amy had unknowingly stirred something inside me, and it was only going to be a matter of an hour or so before she awakened it completely.

  Chapter 3

  Turns out, Amy loved my stories. Loved them so much, in fact, she started showing them to other teachers at school and some of her closer friends. The response was unanimous; everybody seemed to enjoy reading my work. Although, I wasn't sure how much of the response was honest, and how much was just people being nice. Regardless, after Amy had read all of my stories from the binders, she wanted to know why I had quit writing. The question threw me a bit, and after giving a half-assed excuse along the lines of "I just lost interest," Amy suggested that maybe I should try to start writing stories again. I didn’t put up much of a fight, and in the weeks that would follow writing would become part of my nightly routine.

  I wrote and I wrote, allowing myself once again to become absorbed into the stories I was telling and the characters I was creating. Before long I had about fifteen completed stories that I actually felt were good enough to keep. Amy made the suggestion that I should try and get published, and although I knew the odds were stacked heavily against me, the possibility was enticing. I gave it a shot. But not before I had created Jackson Hugh.

  Amy was out of town for the weekend and I had planned on doing nothing except sitting at home on a Saturday night with a beer and a pizza and watching some TV. Somewhere around the time that most the beers were empty and one lone slice of pizza sat in the crumb speckled pizza box, I switched over to one of the movie channels and started watching a B-Movie Slasher film. As I stared at the screen and watched the overacting and the cheesy special effects, I started to let my mind drift.

  It occurred to me then, at that very moment sitting on the couch, watching as the antagonist drove an ice pick into the eyeball of one of the countless screaming bimbos, that I had never written a dark story. Horror, yes. Dark? Not really, no. I had never brought myself to create a character based on evil, based on a sinister lifestyle. Of all the emotions I had dealt with in my writing, a character’s desire to kill, a desire for blood, or some other sick fixation had never arisen. The thought of it, the possibilities, made my head spin. It was uncharted territory. It was a challenge.

  It was exciting.

  I had no story idea, no plot, no anything. Just a sudden burning urge to go write something I had never written before. The hand had grabbed me, and I knew that if I didn’t massage it, it would never let me go. I grabbed the half a beer I had left off the coffee table and headed to my office.

  When I left the living room, beer bottle in hand, I had nothing. Only the sudden need to write. By the time I was sitting in my office chair, computer booted and a blank white page sitting on the screen waiting for me to fill it like I had done time and time again, I had Jackson Hugh fully formed. He came to me at once, not a gradual build-up of details, but instead an image, appearing out of nowhere into my mind.

  Jackson was slightly above average height, about 6’1", and had done well to keep himself in shape. Sure, he was only thirty, making it easier to keep the gut from forming, but he hit the gym hard regularly and had built up a physique that made girls’ eyes linger on him. Broad shoulders, powerful chest and biceps, chiseled back; top that with his chocolate brown hair, sparkling green eyes, and a smile sent from God, and Jackson Hugh was nearly irresistible.

  He dressed well, designer brands and expensive suits. Part of this habit came from his job, working as the manager of a small hedge-fund that he had founded a few years out of college, spending more time than he cared for rubbing elbows with the other wealthy and greedy.

  The combination of being rich and handsome--gorgeous, if you asked the women--did him well with those of the female persuasion. Whether sitting alone at a bar, sipping coffee at a jazz lounge, or just browsing the local video store, Jackson Hugh could have any girl he wanted, anytime he wanted. In fact, he could have them all. And they’d all have him.

  But that was the thing; he didn’t want them all. Jackson wasn’t one to pick up and go home with the first girl that offered him a wink or a smile. No, he was more selective than that. With Jackson, there was more to it. He was downright picky. So, he’d spend the early moments of his evening in whatever venue he’d chosen on a particular night quickly weeding out the non-potentials and focusing on the ones he felt would be a better fit. The ones he would enjoy more.

  Every unsuspecting woman would sit and wait for him to approach them, the braver opting to go and speak to him instead, all with the prospect of going through the normal motions of the dating world. Get a phone number, go get some coffee, go to dinner, blah, blah, blah, and in the end have sex and maybe turn yourselves into a relationship. The circle went round and round.

  What they didn’t know was that with Jackson it wasn’t a circle. He was more of a linear fellow, the process being more accurately described as a segment. Point A and Point B.

  When they got to Point B he murdered them.

  I wrote for hours that night, finally collapsing on the bed around 5:00 AM. I slept till 11:00 and then got up, ate a quick breakfast, and started writing again. I wrote all day, watching the shadows make their way across the room and then finally vanish as the sun told me it was time to take a break. I ate dinner at the kitchen table in silence, reviewing and contemplating my story as I chewed.

  Jackson Hugh was my new best friend. He had breathed life into my writing, awakened a genre I didn’t know I could handle. Could I handle it? Oh yes I could. I could handle it quite well. The story flowed from me unlike any other. I saw the events unfolding and grinned the whole time I typed. It was good. Very good. When I wrote the dialogue for Jackson as he seduced a woman my heart beat quickened, as if I were watching a suspenseful scene take place in a movie. Only the movie was in my head, and I was the Director. When he killed her, my fingers must have looked like a blur over the keyboard I was typing so fast. I tried desperately to keep up with the details my mind saw and relay them onto the screen.

  I finished the rough draft of my first Jackson Hugh story the Sunday that Amy was coming back from visiting her parents. It totaled just over 100 pages and was by far the longest thing I had ever written. And even though it was still a rough draft, unseen by any eyes but my own, I was prouder of myself for writing that story than anything else.

  I couldn't wait to let Amy read it.

  Amy didn’t like Jackson. Not one bit. She said the story was good, entertaining and well written, but it wasn’t my style. She said it contrasted too much with the voice I had used to write my other stories, that it flat out didn’t belong. My critic had spoken and the verdict was two thumbs way down.

  I’m not going to lie and say that I had never gotten angry with Amy before. There were a couple tiffs here and there while we dated, and after marriage, well of course we had our spats. But that Sunday afternoon after she finished ripping apart my enthusiasm about my Jackson Hugh story--at the time it was still untitled--I think that I could have slap
ped her. Who was she to stand there in our kitchen--My kitchen!--and tell me that the greatest story I had ever written didn’t belong?

  Didn’t belong?

  She didn’t understand, Jackson Hugh didn’t have to belong. He wasn’t a group player. He could stand alone, be his own. He thrived on not belonging. That was the whole damn point. Why the hell couldn’t she see this? Of course it contrasted with my other voice I had been using for my stories, it was supposed to. This was a different type of story, told by a very different person.

  Sitting there, blood pulsing, contemplating just what kind of reaction I should use in response to her criticism, I realized something that quickly defused the bomb about to explode inside me. Amy was a lot of things: Caring wife, devoted teacher, exciting lover, and an avid reader of most anything. But, as I sat on our living room couch, TV muted so I could hear her review, I realized the one thing Amy was not. She was not a writer. She didn’t know the thrill, would never experience the rush. She would always be on the outside looking in, trying to analyze and apply reason where reason had no business being.

  All at once my anger melted and all remnants evaporated. I turned off the TV and stood to face her. She had a look on her face that said, "I’m sorry," as if she knew she had just burst my bubble--and she had temporarily. But I was ok now. It came together in my head and everything was fine. I took the stack of pages from her hand and kissed her on the cheek.

  "I have to start editing this," I said, heading back towards the office.

  I think she was somewhat stunned. Up until that point I think she kind of saw herself as my editor/agent. The things she liked should be allowed for further work, the things she didn’t should be forgotten about immediately. This was the first time I had defied her logic, and it caught her off guard.

  "You’re going to keep it?" she asked, sounding only slightly disgusted.

  I paused at the office door. "Yeah. I really like it. Like you said, it’s different. I need some different stuff. Variety is a good thing, isn’t it?" I said this only to convince her, of course. Right then and there I didn’t give a rat fart about variety, I only cared about Jackson. I had created him and he had to survive. I had put too much into him to just slash at his dignity by tossing him into the wastebasket, which is clearly where Amy wanted to land him.

  "I just think he’s a bit too morbid for you, that’s all." She was walking the opposite direction, heading back towards the kitchen.

  "Come on, Amy, It’s just a story."

  She didn’t answer. I heard a cabinet door open and close, followed by the sounds of water filling a pot. She was making dinner. Not good. It was too early for us to eat so she was obviously angry and looking for something--anything--to keep her mind busy.

  It didn’t bother me. I had planned on spending the coming week mailing my query letters. If anybody bit at my bait and wanted to see my work, Jackson Hugh was going to make an appearance. Yes sir, he was.

  Without him my career would have never taken off, but…

  I should have listened to Amy.

  Chapter 4

  The house looked exactly as I had left it. We hadn’t gotten much rain lately and the fading color of the grass was evidence. The driveway still needed to be resealed, garden hose still lay uncoiled at the base of the spigot by the living room window, and there were still two shingles missing on the roof that had blown off during a particularly nasty thunderstorm a few months ago. Yes, everything looked exactly as I had left it. It was the lives that lived inside the walls that were about to change.

  I parked behind Amy’s Focus and felt my stomach lurch as my guilt-stricken mind informed me that the moment of truth was suddenly only seconds from taking place. I got out of my Jeep and briskly headed up the sidewalk. My fast-paced walking up the driveway slowed to near crawl as I reached the front door. I took out my keys and held them out, pausing for a second before unlocking the lock and stepping into what for the last time would be called our kitchen.

  I couldn’t have picked a worse time.

  I saw only a flash of Amy half-running down the hallway towards our bedroom, wearing only a white skirt and her bra, yelling, "Dillon, you’ve got to get up now! You’re going to make me late!" Dillon was our five year old nephew--Amy's sister Julia and her husband Ben's kid--who was visiting us for a week while his parents were on a cruise to Mexico. Amy had signed him up for a day-camp at the local YMCA so he'd have a place to be while she taught summer school.

  The radio in the kitchen was on, as it usually was in the morning, and over the weather report I could just barely hear Dillon respond. "I don’t wanna go to the Y today, Aunt Amy."

  Amy shouted back from the bedroom, "Dillon, I’m sorry you don’t like it there, but we don’t have a choice. You’d be bored out of your mind at school with me," and then to herself more than Dillon, "Why the hell did Dan have to leave this week."

  Surprise, honey, I’m home. I walked over to the coffee pot, which was off and had Amy’s travel mug sitting next to it with the top off, and switched it on.

  "Aunt Amy, you said hell."

  Standing there in the kitchen, even with all that was going on, I couldn’t help but chuckle. It made my heart melt when I heard Amy do the same. The laugh was short lived though, it was chased with, "Dillon, I want you in that kitchen pouring yourself some cereal in two minutes or I’m just going to leave you here by yourself today…and I’m taking the TV with me!"

  That did it.

  "Ok, ok, don’t leave me. I’m up, I’m up!"

  I heard the sound of little bare feet suddenly running in my direction and knew that I was about to be discovered. Dillon raced out of the guest bedroom and appeared in the kitchen wearing a Power Rangers t-shirt and Transformers underwear. His blond hair was a mess, sticking up every direction possible, and I saw he had a scab on his right kneecap. That hadn't been there when I had left the day before. He came to a sudden stop, mouth hanging open, when he saw me standing by the table. There was a solid three seconds of silence, like for a brief moment the house was in the eye of a tornado, calm and serene, and then Dillon let off a high-pitched squeal and rushed towards me, arms out, head cocked to the side, prepared for the impact of the hug he was about to administer.

  "Uncle Dan! Uncle Dan! Your back! Aunt Amy, Uncle Dan’s back! Yaaaaaaay!"

  His little body slammed into me with all the force he could carry and his twig-like arms tried their best to wrap around me. You would have thought I’d been gone for months instead of a mere twenty-four hours.

  "Hey, Kiddo," I said, not really paying him any attention. My heart was pounding fast, inching its way towards my throat as I waited for Amy to appear out of the bedroom, surely with a quizzical look on her face saying "What the hell?"

  Aunt Amy, you said hell.

  "Dillon, what did you just…"

  She appeared in the doorway of the bedroom, a yellow blouse on now, pulling her hair up frantically while trying to wiggle a foot into one shoe. I looked at the clock on the microwave. Were they really that late?

  God bless her, of all the reactions I was expecting, I wouldn’t have guessed the one I got. Amy, realizing she was putting the wrong foot in the wrong shoe, laughed. She looked at me, displayed her beautiful smile and laughed. "What? Did the big city scare you away, or did they kick you out?"

  I opened my mouth, not sure what I was going to say, but she disappeared back into the bedroom, yelling back, "Come tell me what happened back here, I’m in a hurry. Dillon, cereal. Now! And then get dressed."

  Dillon let me go and looked up at me with his little blue eyes. "I’m making us late." Then he went to the pantry cabinet to get his cereal.

  I made my walk of shame down the hallway towards the bedroom.

  I walked in and Amy was in the bathroom, bent over towards the mirror and hastily putting on makeup. She was so beautiful, she never needed to touch the stuff. I stood in the bathroom doorway, leaning against the frame. She glanced at me in the mirror. "So, what happened,
publishers didn’t like you in person?" She giggled a little at her own joke and the weight of what I was about to say was practically pushing me to the floor. When I didn’t say anything, she put away her makeup brush and stood up to face me. "Dan?"

  I took her by the hand, her skin was warm and it felt good. My hands were cold, as if all the blood had run out of me. I led her towards the bed and made her sit down.

  "Dan, what the hell is going on? Say something?"

  I inhaled deeply and then let it out. "Amy, something happened in New York."

  She waited for more, but I wasn’t ready to give it to her yet. She raised her eyebrows and leaned forward, "Something… bad?"

  I could only nod. My eyes started to water. I was going to be the first one to cry.

  She stood up and grabbed my shoulders hard. "Dan if you don’t start talking to me and tell me what--"

  "Aunt Amy we’re out of the cereal I like! I don’t like Raisin Bran, raisins look like bugs!"

  "Dammit, Dillon, find something else! I don’t care what you eat!"

  His silence satisfied her.

  "Dan?"

  There was no way to beat around the bush, I knew that. There was no need to try and ease into it, telling her how much I loved her and how sorry I was and that I hoped she could forgive me. That wouldn’t change anything and I knew it. Looking back, it might not have hurt to at least try it.

  "I slept with Jenna." I said it and was certain that with those four words I had just ended my marriage.

  Amy stood there, looking at me for a second with a blank expression and then took two steps backwards. Then, as if hit with the aftershock of an explosion, she collapsed onto the bed. As I had known to be inevitable, I saw the tears make their first appearance.

  "Jenna?" she said softly. "You slept with your…your agent?"

  Again, I just nodded.

  She was quiet. "Amy, you have no idea how terrible I--"