The Lurking Man by Keith Rommel Page A

reflection in a mirror that hung on the back of a closet door that had been left ajar. The person that stared back at her had an expression of untainted hate.
    She looked away, familiar with and even satisfied by what she saw. The question of whether she ever really intended on dying that day or if it was merely a cry for help was answered by the voice that often called her a coward.
    â€œBut what does it matter?” she said. “What does any of it matter?”
    Regardless of what she had said to Emerson about quitting drinking alcohol, she would continue to do so. It was the only way she could repress the sorrow. And that voice that tried to guide her—it wasn’t nice and yet she couldn’t ignore it.
    She crawled back to the dresser and used it to pull herself to her feet.
    Tell me when it becomes about Beau first in your decision making?
    Wilson’s question resonated in her head like a penny that bounced around inside of a tin can.
    â€œShut up,” she said.
    When, Cailean?
    â€œOh, Beau,” she said. “What kind of mother treats her child the way I have treated you?”
    She pushed back against the idea of ever having to hear the response to that question.
    â€œNo,” she said and held a hand up. “Please, don’t answer that. I don’t think I could bear ever hearing you tell me what you really think of me. I know I’m a lousy mother, but to actually hear you say it?” She shook her head. “That would be devastating.”
    She released her hold on the dresser and stumbled to the bed and fell face down. Emerson’s scent trapped within the linens was powerful and the desire to have him near stirred in her groin.
    Amused, she chuckled at how often she was repulsed by him and yet desired him when he wasn’t around.
    Just like the bottle.
    He was one of the few that were willing to put up with her crap and she couldn’t figure out why.
    â€œBecause you’re a big fat stupid man that thinks you can get away with telling me you love me.”
    She sighed and was overtaken by a sudden burst of anger.
    â€œDamn you, Emerson!”
    She slapped the bed and tossed a pillow across the room.
    â€œWhy would you stand by my side, especially when you know what I did?”
    And then she remembered how he helped her cover it up.
    â€œBecause you’re a lot like me, aren’t you?”
    She nodded, certain the memory was true.
    â€œMaybe I should have stayed with Wilson. He understood me the most. I couldn’t understand him because he was ordinary.”
    But he didn’t want you.
    â€œShut up,” she said and attempted to relax and concentrate on the numbness that consumed her. She offered it her hand and allowed it to lead her far away from her concerns. And there, tethered to an artificial euphoria, the nudge of sleep came quickly and made her body twitch as it pulled her farther away.
    â€œWilson,” she said half awake.
    There was no doubt that he was in love with her and had always treated her well. He treated her much better than she deserved despite the fact she offered nothing but a bag full of dysfunctions and lies in return. His ability to forgive and to see the good in her made her resent him. So she made up a bunch of lies about him and told them to Emerson. How else could she make sure they were at odds with each other so they wouldn’t look into her stories?
    Brilliant.
    And although the love she had for Wilson was there, it was buried deep beneath a pile of perverse thinking and cruel motivations, never to be disclosed.
    â€œMaybe if you supported me the way you should have when I needed you most instead of . . .” she snickered. “Ah, it’s like I said, what does it matter? What’s done is done and I can’t change it.”
    And, like someone flipping a switch, she fell asleep and was immediately drawn into the memory of that day.

Chapter 7
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