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Twisting Fate: Ch. 2

Tuesday, June 04, 2019

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In the Middle: Ch. 1

**Don't forget to read the Prologue first!**

It’s graduation day, and I haven’t spoken for a year. Not a word. The therapist my parents dragged me to every week the first six months after Brad died claimed it was my “way of coping with grief” but I don’t feel sad. Not really. I just feel empty.

Like no matter how many breaths I take, there won’t be enough air in my lungs to speak.

Eventually, my parents gave up on therapy, and tried instead to rally me into excitement for whatever experiences the end of my high school career permitted me. For three months straight, my mother brought home brochures to universities and colleges all over the country, promising me no price was too high, the sky the limit, I could go wherever my heart desired. She’d pull me out of school early once a week to take me on a mini-vacation to a destination university, dragging me along with the group of dreamy-eyed prospective students and their nervous parents following the upperclassman tour guide around campus. She’d even research the college towns ahead of time, taking me to eat at the top-rated restaurants, whirling me through local shops, museums, and sights.

When that didn’t work, she started in on Prom. Again, she’d pick me up from school early to take me to a fancy dress shop, where she would have me try on dresses for hours, begging me to voice a single opinion. I didn’t go, of course. How could I? I had already gone the year before with Brad.

After the time for Prom passed, she started in on graduation. My school guidance counselor had a session with my mother and I a few weeks ago, assuring me I would not need to attend graduation if I “wasn’t feeling up to it” but that I would be receiving a diploma, despite my lack of proper participation the past year.

“The school and I understand the severity of this situation, and agree this tragedy should not hold you back from the bright future ahead of you,” the guidance counselor had said with a courteous smile.

My mother had been relentless ever since. This morning--the morning of graduation--no exception.

“I just think,” my mother says while we eat breakfast this morning, “that graduation is something you’ll regret not participating in. You know, whenever you’re ready to move on. I’m not saying you need to speed up your grieving process. I mean, I understand fully that everybody grieves at a different pace, and I am in no way suggesting that your pace is too slow, or, well you know what I mean, sweetie.” She reached across the table to give my hand a small pat. “I just…I just want you to promise me that you’ll be there. Okay? Can you do that for me, sweetie? Can you just promise me you’ll go? I just need one picture of you on that stage, in your cap and gown, getting your diploma, and then we can leave. Deal?”

Like a shark that keeps swimming in order to live, my mother seems to keep talking to save us both from my silence.

I nod my head, and swirl my spoon around the gummy bits of Honey Nut Cheerios in my bowl. My mom sighs.

“I just don’t know what to do anymore,” she says, almost whisper-like. “Excuse me.”

She gets up from the table, and I can hear the dramatic sob right before she slams her bedroom door.

She cries a lot. My therapist once suggested a family session, during which my mother confessed to feeling helpless to save me from myself. I wanted to tell her I wasn’t the one who needed saving, but the words died somewhere in the back of my throat before they could escape.

“You made your mother cry again,” my father says as he takes a seat at the table with a heavy sigh.

He opens up the morning paper my mother left on the table for him, and takes a long sip of coffee from the ceramic mug I made him in the second grade, Best Daddy Ever written in green crayon.

He’s had an easier time adjusting to my silence. Truthfully, I think he’s grateful for it.

I stand up, my chair making a harsh scraping sound along the tile floor. My dad takes another sip of his coffee without looking up from the paper. I dump the contents of my breakfast down the garbage disposal, and wash my bowl in the sink. Then, I grab my backpack from underneath the end table by the door, my car keys from the bowl on top, and walk out the door.

***

My first year of high school, Brad drove me to school every morning. He would park his rusty old pickup truck at the end of the gravel drive leading to my house, and wait for me to arrive. If I was running late, he would honk exactly three times as a warning. If I didn’t arrive within the next few minutes, he would leave the truck running and walk right up to the door.

Sometimes, I would ignore his warning bells on purpose, just to see him standing in the doorway with an adorably frustrated look on his face.

In the early days of our high school romance, he would bring me fresh-picked flowers from his mother’s garden every day, along with whatever delicious remnants of the breakfast pastry she’d cooked up that morning.

His mother adored me. She would often introduce me to guests as her “future-daughter-in-law” and brag about my recent accomplishments. I called her "Mom" and helped her make dinner during the holidays.

Now, I drive past her house on the way to my graduation rehearsal at school, and feel a lump in my throat full of all the unspoken words I can’t bring myself to say to her.

I wonder if she knows it was my fault Brad died.

I wonder if she blames me as much as I blame myself.

I imagine when she found the silver promise ring in the pocket of the bloodied pants Brad was wearing when he died, and read the sweet inscription, she cried, mourning the future Brad and I wouldn’t get to have after all.

But then she would notice my purse, left in Brad’s car, it’s contents spilled all over the floor, mixed with shattered glass, and she would know.

I wasn’t there when I should have been.

Monday, June 03, 2019

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author: kayla mathys

Redemptive: Ch. 1

This party will be the death of me.

The invitations were sent in gold envelopes, exclusively to the top ten people in my life. It was supposed to be an elegant affair, the kind with expensive champagne and fine cheeses, chocolates, and conversation. Instead, though, the pretty stationary had been rendered useless, the invitations spreading over Twitter like butter on hot bread, the words parent and free turning elegance into an epidemic of frat-house proportions.

My end-of-Spring-Break cocktail party had officially become a chaotic, high-school kegger.

“Hey!” my best friend, Chelsea, shouted over the thumping bass of the music. “Camille! This is like the best party ever!”

Chelsea took my hands, and tried to twirl herself in some dramatic dance maneuver, but her movements were too sloppy and uncoordinated, and I wound up steadying her instead.

“Thanks, love,” Chelsea said. “I think I need another drink. Do you?”

Chelsea’s dark, glittery eye-makeup was smudged around her eyes, her bright red lipstick was bleeding around the edges of her full, puffy lips, and her paper-thin, shoulder-grazing, platinum blonde hair was slightly kinked in various places. She looked like a walking advertisement for domestic abuse, but it was no secret Chelsea had really just spent the past hour in the guest bedroom in various horizontal positions with Ike, the school’s basketball captain and her on-again, off-again fling.

“Chels—” I started to tell her perhaps she should take it easy, but then I noticed Chelsea’s eyes narrowing at something over my shoulder, and I knew she wasn’t listening.

“What the hell,” Chelsea said. “This is so not okay.”

As Chelsea stomped away, I turned around to see what she was so upset about, rolling my eyes when I saw Ike playing tonsil-hockey with one of the many skantily-clad girls surrounding him on the dance-floor-slash-living-room. Ike was something of a celebrity, mostly because of his law-firm-partner dad’s celebrity client list, though his Abercrombie-model looks didn’t hurt his status either. It was rumored that Ike had recently landed an audition to play Megan Fox’s love interest in a film scheduled to begin shooting shortly after our high school graduation, putting Ike on just about every wannabe it-girl’s to-do list in our Malibu radius.

“Ah, looks like I showed up just in time,” my boyfriend, Ty, said as he wrapped his arms around me. “What did I miss? Or is the show just beginning?”

I turned around, and kissed his lips, running my fingers over the stubble on his jaw and smiling.

“Nothing much,” I said. “Chels and Ike were in the guest room for an hour, and now he’s clearly gearing up for round two with someone else, which she isn’t happy about obviously. Oh, and I’m not sure if you noticed or not, but this is definitely not what I had planned for tonight. It was supposed to be elegant, and grown-up, and classy, and somehow I ended up with this mess instead. My parents are so going to kill me when they get home because there’s no way—”

Ty kissed me to stop me from speaking.

“Cam,” he said. “It will be okay. I’m here. Relax. Enjoy yourself. I’ll help you clean, I promise. Everything will be fine. Except that group of girls Chelsea is about to fight.”

I laughed. “Thank you for that. By the way, how’s your mom?”

Ty shrugged, and said, “Still dying.”

His mother had been diagnosed with stage-four lung cancer three months ago, which had quickly progressed, mostly due to her refusal to quit smoking.

“Still smoking?” I asked.

“Unfortunately. She accused the nurse of stealing her cigarettes, and wanted me to fire her. I told her it was for her own good.”

“I bet she didn’t take that well.”

“Nope. That’s why I’m here.”

“I thought you were here for me?”

“I’m always here for you.”

He kissed the top of my head, and we both turned to watch Chelsea as she grabbed the bleach-blonde ponytail of the girl who had been making out with Ike. A circle formed around them as Ike led the crowd into a chorus of fight, fight, fight. I groaned, and buried my face in Ty’s shoulder. Ty chuckled, and hugged me closer.

“You have to admit it’s kinda funny,” he said.

“I need a drink,” I said, breaking away from Ty to head toward the kitchen.

Surprisingly, the kitchen was empty, despite the diminished tower of food piled high on the table, and the liquor-store selection of alcohol lined up on the marble-island counter. I felt the tension in my body melting at the break from the chaos in the other room.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Ty asked as he joined me in the kitchen, leaning up against the counter as I poured myself a shot of tequila. “And you wonder why I don’t like parties.”

“I don’t wonder. I know exactly why you always show up fashionably late and leave disturbingly early,” I said, my face puckering as I downed my shot. “I just like giving you a hard time.”

“Ah, the story of my life,” Ty teased, taking me into his arms and burying his lips against my neck.

I could feel the shot of tequila warm in my belly, a slight buzzy feeling, slowly drifting to my head. I closed my eyes, and tilted my head back, my long, glossy black hair spilling down my back as I wrapped my arms around Ty’s neck, curling my fingers in his thick, dark hair.

“FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE! POUR!”

The collective countdown from the living room jolted me from my moment of bliss, and I rushed to see what, exactly, was being poured. I arrived in the living room to see Chelsea with her arm slung over the shoulders of the girl she had been fighting with, both of them giggling as they dumped a cup full of beer onto Ike’s step-brother, Zeke, who had been hung upside down by his ankles over the stair banister.

Zeke thrashed and coughed as the crowd continued to dump the contents of their red solo cups on him, but Ike and two other basketball players were holding him too tightly for him to possibly break free on his own.

“OH MY GOSH!” I yelled. “STOP! YOU’RE GOING TO RUIN THE CARPET!”

Ike, and the two other players let go immediately and ran off. Zeke landed on his head, doing a backwards somersault before sitting up, drenched, red-faced, and looking disoriented. I quickly grabbed a towel from the linen closet underneath the stairs, and handed it to him as the crowd dispersed.

“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?” I asked.

Zeke looked up at me with a pained expression in his dark eyes, his thin, cracked lips trembling, and his angular jaw tensed. I couldn’t tell whether he was about to cry or scream. Probably both.

“Does it look like I’m okay?” he asked, standing up.

He tossed the towel aside, and ran off. My mouth dropped open as I stared blankly at the towel on the ground, a stab of guilt twisting in my gut.

***

Zeke had always been the epitome of average.

He was neither smart enough to make the best grades in class, nor challenged enough to struggle with assignments or tests. He wasn’t bad at sports, but I had never seen him play any outside of gym class. He stood at a height of about 5’8” with slightly stooped shoulders, and typically dressed in ordinary jeans and a simple t-shirt. If he had any friends, they all shared the same invisibility cloak.

I would probably never noticed him at all if Ike’s father hadn’t married Zeke’s former model mother, linking Ike and Zeke together.

Not that the two ever took the newfound brotherhood seriously.

The two brothers probably would have continued existing on entirely different planets if Ike hadn’t been pulled over after a drink too many on his way home from a party.

Though his father was able to dismiss any legal charges against him, Ike was still punished for his behavior. However, his punishment was simply having his keys taken away, and being forced to have Zeke drive him everywhere he needed to go. Ike’s father was probably hoping the arrangement would bring the two brothers closer together.

But instead it often led to Zeke being treated like Ike’s personal slave.

However, Zeke seemed to take the unfair arrangement rather well. As far as I could tell, he never complained. While Ike partied on inside, Zeke would sit in the car, playing games on his phone, patiently waiting to take Ike home.

Therefore, though I didn’t approve of the way Ike treated Zeke, it was easy to forget about. It was easy to chalk it up to typical Ike hi-jinks, and forget Zeke even existed. So, usually, everyone did.

But I wouldn't.

Thursday, May 30, 2019

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author: kayla mathys

Echo of Chaos: Ch. 1

My brother was scheduled to be executed on my eighteenth birthday.

I remember thinking the timing was idiotic, but I would never say so out loud for two reasons: One because idiocy is a crime punishable by death; and two because the timing had been intentionally planned by my mother, a professional Schedule Supervisor, as an attempt to save her children—another fatal felony.

It was common knowledge that every eighteenth birthdate was celebrated by the Congruent Coupling Ceremony, the eternal binding of two individuals the Congruity Team found compatible for reproduction. Everyone knew the ceremony could only take place at a certain time, on the mutual birthdate of the loveless bride and groom. Everyone also knew if you missed your opportunity on your eighteenth birthday, you’d have to wait two years for another perfectly compatible mate to be assigned by the Congruity Team, though it was more likely you’d never marry at all.

It was a big tragedy apparently, but I knew better. I knew that it was actually a huge relief to be spared the perils of Congruent Coupling.

I knew because I watched my mother suffer through it after my father was mysteriously pronounced to have committed suicide. She didn’t even have time to grieve or investigate why the man she married in love (an almost unheard-of event in the Program) would drink the poison just hours after laughing and smiling with his daughter and newborn son.

“I guess you never know what some people are capable of,” Captain Salvador Bright had told my mother when he had come to bear the news of my father’s intentional death.

Captain Fancy Pants (as I preferred to call him) was a man who wore a pound of makeup "to soften his image" during the video announcements he made every night. When he came to our door the night my father died, I remember he was wearing gold, silk pants that sparkled when he walked and a matching shirt so bright it hurt to look at it. Three hours later, Captain Fancy Pants, married my mother. Out of courtesy, he claimed. He already had a wife or two, which was illegal, but apparently not when you’re the one who makes the rules.

My father, on the other hand, was a man who valued the truth above all else. I remember the Captain announced an ordinance for an early bedtime once “as a response to recent criminal activity in the late hours.”

My father had laughed sardonically, looked at my mother, and said, “He’s full of shit. The only recent criminal activity going on around here is his own.”

“Shh!” my mother had said, knowing his words could get him sentenced to death.

She seemed to be shushing him constantly. He would come home from his work as an Ordinance Official visibly angry, ranting about the Program's corruption and the Captain's scandalous activity. My parents occupied the room below me, and I would fall asleep to the sound of their muffled arguments. The one the night before my father’s death was the worst.

“I didn’t sign up for this!” my father had said. "I have to say something, Ella! This can't go on!"

“Please,” my mother had begged, “please, keep your voice down. Think about the consequences, Greg.”

“No! I won’t put up with this any longer! I can’t!”

The next night, the Captain came to our door with my father's alleged suicide note. I can't continue, it read in his clear, bold handwriting.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he had told me with a sincerity that didn’t match his eyes. He took my hand and I could feel the coldness of the four rings on his left hand, the giant stones glimmering. "I'm going to have a private word with your mother now."

He had given my hand a quick squeeze before walking past me to my mother's bedroom, where she was feeding Max. I had rushed to my room to eavesdrop on the conversation.

“It’s only temporary,” he had explained to my mother. “The Congruity Team will arrange for a more proper Coupling when one becomes available.”

Of course, that never happened.

Ten years later, my mother was still married to Captain Fancy Pants, still working long hours as a Schedule Supervisor, and still the exotically gorgeous woman who turned heads and made our fine Captain the point of envy in every hot-blooded male, married or not.

“Mommy, how come Daddy doesn't live with us?” my brother, Max, had asked her one day.

“He’s not your Daddy, Maxi,” my mother had replied robotically with a faraway look in her amber eyes, “and this isn't his home.”

That was back when Max was still little. Back when it was still acceptable for him to ask questions like that or to ask questions at all. Max was my father’s child, and my father and mother married before the Flood in a big, beautiful chapel with stained glass windows. They loved each other. They weren’t forced together for offspring quality and similar genius IQs. Therefore, Max wasn’t expected to be a perfect genius because he wasn’t bred by perfectly compatible parents. Still, my parents were smart. They wouldn’t have been accepted into the Program if they weren’t. The Program didn’t accept anything less than perfect.

And Max wasn’t perfect.

Therefore, when he was declared to have a learning disability, when excuses of age and genetics could no longer be used, my mother was asked to schedule his Execution.

These Executions were another kind courtesy from Captain Fancy Pants. After all, learning disabilities, immaturity, and low intelligence levels meant a life without success.

“To prevent poverty and the destruction of our race; to allow equal opportunity and a life of health, wealth, love, and respect, every child at the age of ten must pass the Intelligence and Common Knowledge Assessment with a score exceeding or equalling ninety-eight percent. Any child who scores below ninety-eight percent will be scheduled for termination.” Captain Fancy Pants declared in the video announcements shown on testing days. “For the same reasons, a second test will be distributed at the age of sixteen. This test will measure intelligence as well as mastery of individual skills and will determine professional placement and compatibility. A score of one hundred percent is needed to prevent scheduled termination.”

Max had scored seventy-six percent, the lowest score in his entire generation. There had been lower scores before, but only from the more obviously struggling ten year olds. Max had been expected to pass.

He was smart in his own way. He could list every major city that had once been a part of Earth, and determine the age of any star with one glance. He knew everything there was to know about climate, and could tell you what the weather was once like in any city on Earth. He also had an impressive internal compass, aware of his exact location at all times. All things that didn’t contribute to his intelligence score, and therefore his deemed usefulness.

“We took a test today.” Max declared at dinner the day of his testing.

I had seen my mother’s body freeze at his words. She knew he was different. Everyone knew he was different. It had been known that she would be scheduling his execution before the two generals showed up to inform my mother of Max’s humiliating test score.

They weren’t really generals. Their formal occupation was Information Delivery, but they were always huge, muscular men with big, booming voices incapable of expressing emotion as they delivered any information deemed importantly urgent, which mostly consisted of test failures, deaths, and reminders of scheduled dates. The more important or tragic the news, the more generals you could expect to deliver the news.

Only one had shown up to remind my mother and I of my eighteenth birthday and the Coupling Ceremony scheduled for eight o’clock the following evening. Two of them reminded my mother of Max’s scheduled execution, also at eight o’clock. The other two reminded me that I was the scheduled Execution Executive.

They knew nothing of the conflict that my mother had created. That information came later, and caused such a stir that Captain Fancy Pants himself had shown up to deliver the information.

“Do you think me a fool, Ella-Jane?” Captain Fancy Pants had yelled at my mother. “This was no accident!”

My mother, ever the talented actress, had shed tears and fallen dramatically into Captain Fancy Pants’ arms, his thick, protruding belly squishing the delicate, beautiful form of my mother.

“Forgive me, Captain,” my mother begged. “I have dedicated nearly all of my time to my precious profession. I have hardly found the time to rest! I am afraid such dedication has taken it’s toll on my abilities.”

She pulled away from Captain Fancy Pants to flutter her tear-speckled eyelashes, dab at the moisture on her flawless, contoured cheeks, and retie the strings holding her silk robe together, her pillowy lips quivering in desperation. Captain Fancy Pants didn’t see the desperation, though. He only saw the glimpse of my mother’s ample cleavage while she adjusted the string, and that was all it took to be granted forgiveness.

“Meet me in my chambers in an hour. I will fix this mistake immediately, and ensure you plenty of rest,” Captain Fancy Pants said.

Three hours later, Max was scheduled for execution at the next available date, and I was removed of the privilege of my Coupling Ceremony.

“Thank you,” I told my mother that night.

“Thank you?” she asked.

“Thank you for being my mother.”

She smiled weakly, but she said nothing. Her son was still scheduled for execution in two days, her daughter was a professional killer now destined for a life without marriage, and she was still trapped with the greedy Captain Fancy Pants. However, she had also been given an entire thirty days to rest, a privilege she hadn’t seen in her entire career.

“Be careful,” she warned before retreating to bed with Max curled in her arms like an overgrown monkey.

Her warning had nothing to do with my expression of gratitude which would have been grounds for worry had anyone else heard me. It also wasn’t about my appointed profession or the consequences of emotion. It wasn’t even about the conflict and confusion the day had presented to us.

It was about love and a fellow Execution Executive named Forrest.

It was the same warning she had given to me two weeks before.

More precisely, two weeks, seven hours, eighteen minutes, and twenty-two seconds.

The exact timing of her witness to my crime.

Thursday, May 30, 2019

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author: kayla mathys

The Forgotten: Ch. 1

On the night of her husband’s murder, my sister had been on a flight out of Los Angeles to New York City. If she hadn’t been arrested as soon as her private jet landed at JFK, she would have continued on all the way to London for the start of her World Tour, promoting her newest sure-to-be-platinum album.

But even before the news was splashed across the covers of Us Weekly and People and every other source of celebrity gossip with such condemning titles as “America’s Favorite Pop Star: On the Run!” or, my personal favorite, “Heartbreak and Hate: From Hit Single to Killer Widow!” I knew Katelyn Tomas was innocent.

Even if I sometimes wished she wasn’t.

Saturday. December 19, 2010

Katelyn’s watery, blue eyes make contact with the camera as she twirls the end of her dyed-golden blonde braid around her finger.

“I just hope my music helps someone. You know that feeling, like your whole world is coming to an end? I’ve been there. I know how that feels. And if not for music, I don’t know if I would have made it through. So that’s my goal. I just want my music to be the reason someone keeps going.”

I swear, sometimes I wished I could reach my arms through the television screen and wrap my hands right around my sister’s perfect little neck. If you wanted to help someone so bad, why did you forget me? I would ask. You left your whole family behind! How is that helping? But I knew she meant it. She was only three minutes and thirty-six seconds older than me, but for the first sixteen years of our lives, she had taken on the role as my older, wiser, protecter.

“She came into this world first, so she’d know it was safe for you to arrive,” our mother used to say.

Personally, I think she just liked leaving me behind.

“They’re saying I had motive, Carrie,” Katelyn cried into the phone now. “Motive! Can you believe it? They actually think I killed my own husband! Over her! Like she’s that special! It’s so ridiculous. They’re coming up with all these theories and showing me these awful pictures, and asking me such stupid questions.” She sighed. “I just don’t know how much I can take, Car. I don’t know what to do. I’m so, so scared.”

I could tell by the sudden silence that she was crying. I closed my eyes, and took a deep breath in.

Sunday, December 31, 1995

“Katy, what’s wrong?” I ask.

It’s the middle of the night. Our room is dark, but I can still see Katleyn’s back turned toward me in her bed across the room. She’s silent and still, but I can tell by the way she’s breathing that she’s crying, not sleeping.

“I’m fine,” she says. “Go to sleep.”

She pulls her blanket up over her ears, and…

“Carrie?” Katelyn’s voice snapped me back to the present conversation. “Will you come stay with me? I don’t want to go home alone. I know it’s been a long time, but…you’re all I have.”

I must admit, when the news of her husband’s murder was released, my first thought wasn’t to call and express my condolences. My first thought was finally. Finally something terrible had happened to her. Because that is what our relationship had been reduced to during that so-called “long time.” I didn’t know this person on the phone. Not anymore. We may have shared a womb once upon a time, but this wasn’t the sister I knew at all. The sister I knew disappeared the day William Friday showed up and offered her an opportunity to escape. From that day forward, she was replaced by the Katelyn who never talked, who withdrew and kept secrets, and suffered silently on the inside, who left her family behind and never looked back.

Until now.

“Carrie, please. I need you.”

“I know,” I said because it was only obvious.

Did I believe that Katelyn Tomas murdered her husband? No, I didn’t believe that, but probably only because I couldn’t. I remembered why she was on that flight to New York City, and unlike the rest of the world, I remembered it wasn’t to flee the country. But more than that, I remembered who she was before all the fame.

“I’m not a lawyer,” I said.

“I know.”

“I’m not a detective either.”

“I know.”

“Well, Todd is filing for divorce, and I’m not sure I should get involved in this. I mean, the most helpful thing I could do is testify on your behalf as a character witness, but I haven’t spoken to you in twenty years, and—"

“Carrie, I know. That’s not even what I’m asking.” She sighed. “You don’t have to get involved. I understand. I just thought…you know…you’re all I have now, and…” A deep breath. “I just don’t know what to do. I don’t know anything anymore, Car. I just…I just need you.”

And so I agreed. I agreed to help her in any way that I could. Even though I remembered the exact details of when she left me for her cheery cloud of pop-song pixie dust.

And everything since.

Thursday, May 30, 2019

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Twisting Fate: Ch. 2

In the Middle: Ch. 1

Redemptive: Ch. 1

Echo of Chaos: Ch. 1

The Forgotten: Ch. 1

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