Orange Elephants Creative Minds

The bar - she sits watching. He lifts his drink to his mouth. He looks at her. She looks away. Glancing back, she notices how his shirt pulls tight across his arms. He summons the bartender. Ordering another drink, he can’t help but notice how beautiful she is.

Two men chatter in the corner, holding hands. Nothing deep is discussed. They just enjoy each other.

Two young ladies, barely drinking age, sit on bar stools. Across the room two guys, best mates for years, have one goal in mind. To score. Four people now noticing each other.

The bartender works hard, watching the connections. He hands a lonely girl, a weekly regular, another drink. She makes small talk. Maybe tonight he will notice her.

At the hour of midnight, she yawns. It had been a long workday, the customary end of week drink going way longer than it was supposed to but the eye candy at the other end of the bar created a fixation. A rumble from the pit of her stomach reminded her that she had not eaten dinner. Pizza at midnight was not her thing, but maybe tonight was the night she would change that. As her heels hit the tiles the numbness in her lower region from sitting for so long becomes obvious, creating a waddle that could be mistaken for drunkenness.

He watches her as she takes a seat at the table. She studies the menu, lines creasing across her forehead. At this hour, and after so many drinks, she probably needs help making a decision.

She felt his presence before she noticed him, the spicy aroma of his cologne creating a brief giddiness. Oh my god! was the first thing that crossed her mind. She had convinced herself that his returned glances throughout the night had been her desire playing games with her. Gulping to catch her breath and compose herself she knew she had to say something fast before the awkward moment got out of hand. Lust would soon be replaced with the desire to run, ruining the chance of romance. The words ‘take control’ played on a continuous loop through her mind.

“Hi,” was all she could summon.

“Hi. I thought you might need a hand deciding what to eat,” he replied.

“Umm, sure,” she said, reminding herself to breathe as the tattoo on his bicep became evident.

He slid across the seat on the other side of the table, stopping directly opposite her. Seeing her reflection in his brown eyes gave her a glimpse of what he was seeing. His eyes reminded her of someone else’s.

He noticed the glance of interest from the barman on the other side of the room. He couldn’t remember if he was the barman he had spoken to when he visited to have a few drinks the other night. He had come looking for his birth sister, unknown to him until only a few months ago when he had discovered he was adopted. Tonight he had found her.

“So, what are you thinking,” he asked.

How hot you are tried to escape from her mouth as she felt the warmth of embarrassment rise to her cheeks. Eyes down on the menu, her mind battling to focus, she could feel his stare as he waited for her response.

“Well, when I first sat down pizza was on my mind. Not that I make it a habit of eating pizza at this hour of the morning. Why do they serve pizza at this hour anyway?” she was beginning to ramble.

“Pizza and beer go hand in hand at any hour, don’t they?

“I guess,” she said, drawing her focus to the front door. Two young guys left with two girls. Strangers walking close together, the gap closing with a brush of their skin. The cold air chilled her bones as the door swung shut. “I think it is tiredness calling not food. I have a habit of eating when I should be sleeping. I’m actually going to pass on the food and take a brisk walk home.”

“You live close by then?” he asked. “Let me walk you home.”

She thought about declining but before she could say a word they were sliding from their seats, the squeak of the vinyl seat announcing their exit. As he stood, she couldn’t help but notice his height. He became aware of her short stature. Being near seven foot his height never went unnoticed. Maybe going to the gym to ‘beef up’ was not such a good idea. It added to his large appearance, but it did create a sense of security that the women loved. Whilst she considered being wrapped in the security of his arms, his interest was in protecting her.

They walked in silence for a few minutes, neither wanting to break the connection they felt. She shivered slightly. Noticing, he placed his arm around her. She lent in, a sigh of gratitude leaving her body. He wanted to tell her who he was and knew he must before her attraction to him grew. Now was not the moment.

She noticed them as they walked past. Two men holding hands. Deep in conversation. They bumped her slightly causing her to lose the rhythm of her gait. She heard a pop, the noise only registering as he fell to the ground. The chill of the air enveloped her body replacing the warmth of his embrace. Noticing the blood pooling around his body her scream penetrated the silence of the street. She wanted to yell his name, make him answer her, but realised she had never formally introduced herself. Instead she stood motionless.

Those who came to her aid tried to comfort her. They asked her what her name was, but she stood silent. The red and blue lights danced around her. He offers her a warm drink. One he had purchased for himself after closing the bar for the night.

Hi, I’m Sam,” he said.

“I’m Jacqueline,” she murmured.

The scratches ran vertically down her back, weeping with the freshness of a new crime. Perfume, sweet and floral, one that could only be hers, floated through the night-time air, the breeze from the open wind blending it with the masculine smell of sandalwood. The room was full of men; police, the coroner, the medical examiner and local detectives. Something told me the sandalwood did not belong to them. I had been called in on this one. It had been a while since the local guys had ask for the involvement of a private guy. Nothing is ever as it seems and in this case nothing was to be left unturned. The victim was precious to many. Her high status, wealth and celebrity stardom would hang around long after she was buried. The world would seek answers for a time to come.

Her naked body, ashen with early signs of rigor mortis, indicated that death had to have been within 2-6 hours. Based on the fact that she was found around 2 hours ago by the waiter who delivered dinner to her penthouse suite I put death at close to the 6 hours. Mid to late afternoon. The bottle of red wine, its contents cascading over the edge of the bedside table, indicated an early start to the evening’s drinking. There was no clear sign of rape or a struggle giving me the impression that the predator was known to the victim, although dinner was only ordered for one. Her body was sprawled out face down, panties still intact, making me believe the fun had only just begun. It seems her idea of fun and the idea of the predator were two different things. There was no evidence of the use of a weapon, the medical examiners early conclusion being that of asphyxiation, although how was still very much in question. At this stage no one in the room could see signs of a clear motive. Her jewellery, the gold and diamonds sparkling in the chandelier light, were still attached to her body. There was no sign of a disturbance to any of her belongings. It was clear the predator got what they came for, her death.

Lisa was already at the front desk when I entered the office the following morning. She had been my secretary for as long as I remember; actually, I think she has been my only secretary. She took one look at me as I walked past her desk and rose from her chair to head toward the coffee machine.

“I’ll take it strong black this morning,” I informed her.

The darkness of the office was a welcome greeting. The calm before the rush. I had instructed Lisa years ago to never bother herself with drawing the blinds when she arrived. I preferred she didn’t enter my space unless invited. When the coffee cups ran out she politely knocked, sighed at the disgust of the mould growing on the collection of cups on my desk and, collecting them, headed for the dishwasher in the staff room. I often wondered why I paid weekly rent on an office space with a staff room when there was only two of us and one of us never left his office to socialise. I had ambition once upon a time.

Had I drawn the blinds I would have instantly noticed the brown envelope sitting on the corner of my desk instead of when the moist bottom of the cup caused the envelope to stick to it upon lifting. I cursed it as it required further investigation.

The envelope was sealed, without postmark, with the only markings being my name, Detective Sampson, written in neat fancy scrawl across the middle. I buzzed Lisa.

“Lisa, what can you tell me about the brown envelope on the corner of my desk,” I shouted down the intercom.

“No idea Pete, sorry,” Lisa replied. “There haven’t been any deliveries this morning and there wasn’t anything under the door when I arrived this morning.”

“Thanks,” I said, the conversation between us never more than a few words but if Lisa had something to say I knew she would say it.

The envelope contained only one brief letter.

Detective Sampson,

It had to be done. Everyone thinks they knew her, but they really didn’t. I bet you think you knew her.

No one knows me. The real me. The reason I exist and the shame she has caused me.

It had to be done...

                                                                    ******

His body lay lifeless, face down, scratches to his back. It wasn’t the penthouse suite but a dingy motel downtown. I suppose it was all he could afford. His letter, to a local journalist, made sure he was found.

By the time I was called rigor mortis had set in, the rancid smell of his body fluids had seeped into the mattress. As I entered the room it consumed my body creating a dry retching that was hard to control. The medical examiner stated the cause of death to be asphyxiation, although how was very much the question. There was no clear sign of struggle. He had booked into the room a week ago and other than the odd comings and goings he was rarely seen. Those questioned said he kept to himself. A loner. No visitors. Not even a lady of the night.

It had been six months, but I was finally closing in on him. It had taken me some time to track down his birth. His true identity, who is mother was, had been hidden not only from the world but from him to protect her status. She had set him up in a house of his own from the day he was born. He had a nanny who he was close to and who lived with him until she died a few years ago. It was then he had time to think. The loss created anger. His anger created a need for revenge. Her death was his revenge. To die as she did was his last connection to her. Everyone knew her and now they would know him.

She found great therapy in writing. The clicking of the keys on her keyboard filled the dark room with a soothing sound of calmness. The crunching of the chips, the salty flavour tantalizing her taste buds, provided the comfort that food always gives. She was in her place. Her zone. The place she needed to be. The place he could never invade.

She initially wrote about nothing. She wrote the thoughts as they filled her head. There was no longer any pain, just numbness. The hurt had subsided. Years of abuse, verbal more than physical, had created a level of familiarity that lead to an ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude. She knew there would be a time she eventually gave up on him. She thought last time was the time but there must have been a little tolerance left as she went back for more. It didn’t last long. No more than two weeks. One simple request. One suggestion that they spend Christmas day together and see his family Christmas Eve was all it took. He couldn’t consider her, not even for a moment. The rants of abuse, the drinking, fell just short of two weeks.

As she typed the words “I can’t do this” she realized that their meaning had changed. Only a few months ago the can’t was associated with leaving, now the can’t was associated with staying. How could she leave him? She loved him.

It had just ticked past midnight. The magical hour when inspiration hit her. A writer’s life was one of late nights, or were they early mornings? She had tried to sleep but the negative vibes from his body lying next to her were too much. She had initially got up to send him a text. He rises each morning before her, leaving for work so early in the morning their communication is always done via text. He starts his day knowing exactly how she felt the night before. Food for thought is what she liked to send him.

He lay on the bed behind her, snoring. A sound that use to bring comfort but tonight annoyed her. A sound that made her want to shout at him. To stab him in the back.

She turned...the sound stopped.

He lay there motionless. She held her breath, waiting for his breath. It seemed to take so long but there it was, that snort that signified he was breathing again. Life without him would be dull but when she thought of all the time she would have to write, all the things she could achieve without his bantering and alcoholic rants, she wondered if it was the better option.

Why did she always fall in love with alcoholics? She wondered what the attraction was. Her first husband had been the same, although she had learned something as this one wasn’t physically abusive. At least that was what she told herself. There had been one hit in the years they had been together, and the court system had seen to it that he paid the price. There will be more, her friends had warned her.

After the expensive court case he had got his shit together, enrolled in a behavior management course, declaring his love for her. He listened, and he learned. That was nearly 6 years ago. There are still stuff-ups, like the latest one, but each time he pulls it together and tries harder. For her it is not the material possessions that show love but the wanting to become a better person for the one you love that counts. Had the abuse and alcohol been evident when she met him she would have never married him. Or would she have?

As her fingers dance across the keyboard and the words emerge on the screen she smiles. Her publishers will love it. This has to be her best romance novel so far. Number Six. The last four reached the bestseller list. Her reading audience love her. The ladies lust over Elton, the tanned well-spoken entrepreneur who treats his ladies with the uttermost gentle care. If only they knew of the real Elton who is far from that of the fantasy one. A thought runs across her mind. If there is only one reason she needs to stay it is for Elton. The fictional one that is. Without the abuse the fantasy will not flow. She chuckles. She realises that what is missing in her life is not missing at all. It is in the pages of her book. Without the abuse there is no book. Without the books her life is incomplete. She knew there was a reason for the change in the meaning of can’t.

The snoring ceases. She holds her breath and waits. Nothing. She turns. Still nothing. In what seems like slow motion her bottom leaves the office chair. She throws her body across the room toward the bed. She shakes him, yelling his name. He comes to, throwing a punch that meets her left cheek bone. She steps backwards, falling to the ground. She watches him rise, stumbling in the dark in a drunken stupor. As his strike meets the other side of her face with force all she can think of is the last sentence she wrote; He stroked her face with the soft gentle touch that filled her heart with love. Can’t turns into can. I can leave this monster and be successful. The time to give up has come.

“We don’t need him,” fantasy Elton whispers.