Page 7 of Strange Love

As the hot tears stream down my face, they blur my vision, consuming me with the overwhelming emotions bubbling inside me. My chest feels heavy and tight as I fight to control the urge to break down completely. Every fiber of my being longs for home, a familiar place where I can find comfort and solace from this unbearable pain. But for now, I am trapped in this moment, unable to escape the rawness of my emotions.

Auron stands across from me, his expression stoic and unfeeling.

I try to swallow past the lump in my throat as he speaks.

“I’ll allow you to keep one item,” he says, unaffected by my turmoil. “Only one because this is all new to you.”

My vision blurs again, and I hastily rub my eyes, trying to hold back the flood. I feel a sense of betrayal at his coldness, as if he doesn’t understand the gravity of this momentous decision. I approach the desk with trembling hands and gaze down at the objects before me. On one side sits my trusty lunchbox, its faded colors and dented corners holding a year of memories - packed lunches lovingly made by my mom and sweet notes scribbled in her handwriting. On the other side rests my beloved doll, her once-bright pink hair now slightly matted but still carrying the familiar scent of strawberries, her ever-smiling face offering comfort in times of need.

In that pivotal moment, all uncertainty vanishes and my course of action becomes clear. Clutching my doll tightly to my chest, I’m engulfed in her sweet, fruity aroma. A sense of peace washes over me, transporting me back home.

Turning to face Auron with renewed determination, I declare, “I want to keep her.” The doll’s soft fabric and delicate features become tangible reminders of comfort and love in the midst of chaos and uncertainty. He nods before tossing the other items into the trash by the desk, and my heart right along with them. Everything in my body hurts, but nothing more than the ache in my chest.

“Fine. But I do not see it,” he says. “If I see it, it’s gone.”

I nod, and my breath hitches as I struggle to hold back my emotions, not wanting to let her go even for a moment. My knuckles turn white from the intensity of my grip.

“You need to tell me you understand, Ivy,” he says.

“I do,” the words slip out of my mouth, even though they are a complete lie. In truth, I don’t understand any of this. Just hours ago, I was walking to school like any other day. And now, after being told that I live here, I’m left with more questions than answers. I don’t know what awaits me in this new place, and the uncertainty gnaws at me from within. As the night looms, I wonder if I will make it through to see tomorrow.

Auron beams at me, a broad smile spreading across his face. “Welcome home,” he exclaims, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. As he speaks, I notice the glint of a silver pendant around his neck. “The Voice of the Sky has chosen you,” he continues. His words make no sense, but there’s a sense of awe and reverence in his tone. “You are here for a reason. It’s remarkable.”

I’m too exhausted to ask questions right now, so I follow him, wanting to curl up in a ball and escape into a deep sleep.

Chapter 4

“Cruel Summer”

Corey - Age 12, 1982

As I push open the creaky door of our old trailer and let it shut behind me, I brace myself for my mom’s usual reprimand for allowing the door to slam. But instead, the only sound is the thud of my backpack hitting the small kitchen table. A quick search of the cramped space confirms what I suspected, she’s not here. Ever since my dad walked out on us when I was seven years old, coming home to an empty house has become normal. It’s not so bad, really. Everyone knows everyone in this trailer park and watches out for one another. Well, mostly. We avoid a few trailers on the back end of the park, the ones with cars resting on cinder blocks and bedsheets hung over the windows as curtains. Everyone else here is pretty cool, though.

Mrs. Lyone, the neighbor next door, is always outside on her porch, puffing away on a cigarette and sipping coffee. She has the look of a woman who’s lived a hard life. Her slight frame is too thin, and her face is covered with premature spots and wrinkles. She wears the same baggy sweatshirt almost daily, and her eyes are warm but constantly tired. Yet, she always greets me with a smile and asks how my day was before offering any help if I need it. And I know she means it; she’s helped me out before. One time, I cut myself with a kitchen knife trying to cut some cheddar cheese, and it was Mrs. Lyone who took me to the emergency room in her beat-up old station wagon.

I open the refrigerator to find it nearly empty, just a carton of milk, some condiments, and a leftover hamburger helper. My stomach grumbles, demanding something to fill the ache. I ate lunch at school, but I’m always hungry these days. I always eat everything they offer at lunch and anything anyone else will give me. Today, I scored a Twinkie, some Doritos, two Capri Suns, and some fruit from my friends. Mom jokes that my appetite is the reason she has to pick up extra shifts at the restaurant.

I spot a loaf of bread on the counter and make a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. With my snack in hand, I plop down on our worn couch in the small living space. It’s too quiet here, so I get up, turn on the television, and start fiddling with the rabbit ears on top to get a clear picture. I tune into the new MTV station that everyone at school has been talking about. The music videos are rad, unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Despite what my teachers say about it being bad for us, I’m captivated. It’s a short movie set to music, which is seriously awesome. Now, I can picture the accompanying music videos whenever I hear certain songs on the radio.

I sit back down and start munching on my sandwich when a familiar song comes on, and I play air guitar through bites of my afternoon snack. Looking around the trailer, I’m reminded that we may not have much, but at least we have cable television, thanks to my hard-working mom. She does her best to provide for us, and I’m grateful for everything she does. Now that I’m getting older, I know I need to help as much as possible.

Jerry, the owner of the local gas station, offered me a job for the summer. He said he’d pay me $3.00 an hour under the table to work in the shop. I’ll have to clean the restrooms, stock the food area, and sweep and mop, but it’s a decent deal. I think I can still skate at night, but I might miss some practices. If hockey interferes, I’ll have to quit, which makes me sick. Playing hockey is my favorite thing to do in the world, and my dream is to play professionally, but I’ve been the man of the house since my dad left. That’s the way it goes.

Hopefully, my mom won’t work another shift tonight so that we can watch her favorite TV show, Dallas. It’s become our way of bonding lately. I don’t care about the storylines, but my mom loves it, so I pretend to be excited with her. I think deep down, she wishes she was rich like the women in the soap opera. Maybe if I ever make it big playing hockey, I can make her dream a reality.

Just as I’m considering making myself another sandwich, the phone rings. I slowly reach the kitchen, where the receiver is mounted on the wall, and pick up the avocado-green phone.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Corey, it’s Mom,” her voice sounds distant, and I can hear music playing and the sound of dishes and utensils clinking in the background, suggesting she’s still at work.

“Hey, Mom,” I reply.

“How was school today, Sweetie?”

“It was okay,” I answer.

“Well, there’s something important I want to talk to you about when I get home around 6:00.”