Something Untoward

By Cyndiann Lewis Walcott

The Heart Sees is about a woman, June Mitchel, waking up in what she thinks is a utopic dream. This dream turns out to be the bed of stranger who is apparently not that much of a stranger. It takes a while for her to realize that she met this stranger, Alrick Samson, the evening before. Alrick Samson is someone she should not have been with that night, and someone she definitely cannot be with in the future because of her many other relationshps.

However the morning after is not the end of their affair, and neither was the evening before the beginning of their acquaintance. The only trouble is that she does not know it, and Alrick delights in the act of torturing her about what role he played in her life thus far. For the most part she does not believe him, but Alrick finds ways to make her swing back and forth between submission and defiance. She is on this teeter totter because she can't remember anything about the evening, how she seduced him, or vise versa, or why her heart seem to intent on having him to herself; especially when he seemed so determined to love someone else. Did her heart see something that only time would tell? The story helps sort out this conundrum.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Nov 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524552572

Cyndiann Lewis Walcott

Cyndiann was born in Grenada and is now a Canadian citizen living in Toronto with her family. She has a B.A in Georgraphy from York University, a post-grad diploma in Research Analysis from Georgian College, and a Electromechanical Engineering Technician certificate from George Brown College. She loves cultural studies, history, georgaphy, philosophy and psychology, and strives to maintain a marriage between these many aspects in her writings.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Good morning!

A melodious voice sweetened the air. But why was it good morning? Why would he say good morning when he could clearly see that I was still asleep? Or… were my eyes opened? Was I awake or dreaming? And whose voice was it? Who in God’s name could be in my room at this ghastly hour? I hated being awakened before it was absolutely necessary to get up. So for this reason, I was sure that I was asleep.

However, if by chance my eyes were opened, it would have been the test run; everybody knows about the test run. You know, the one where you open your left eye and check to see if your right eye was opened, and if they were not both opened at the same time, you rolled over and went back to snooze for another ten minutes? But I am sure that did not happen yet. I couldn’t remember hitting the snooze button on my alarm not even once. In fact I did not hear the alarm. I had to have been dreaming. I am positive that was the case; my eyes were closed, and I was fully in sleep mode. This had to have been a dream. I smiled and cozied up to the pillow.

Only, the troubling thing was that I clearly heard something of an angelic serenade, and I felt the presence of a real being close to me. I heard him, felt him, and though it was dark, I clearly saw him—or did I? This dream was threatening to keep me awake in a debate all night.

He was real, and he said, Good morning. I embraced my pillow dreamily and smiled, amused in the vanity of being saluted. It was real. He was real, a real angel. I fantasised as I reentered the dozing zone once again.

Oh God! A thunderbolt suddenly shattered my fantasy. Was it really morning? Awww! I sighed, disappointed. But then, a realization. Where were the usual signs? I didn’t hear any of the birds singing. There were no morning rays bullying their way through the splits between the curtains, none of the usual lawnmowers rumbling through the neighbourhood, and no scrambled signals from the radio station on my alarm clock. It couldn’t have been morning. In fact, I had only just fallen asleep. There were no signs of daylight—none! Although it didn’t seem to be nighttime either.

This was potentially my first time having a good, long night’s sleep in years. My brain was usually like a skipper butterfly, constantly fluttering even in my sleep. Sometimes, when I think I am sleeping, I am just lying semi-conscious, staring into the void, tormented by ideas that never come to fruition, inventions I never get the courage to patent, dreams, visions, the trifling memories of yesterday, and fantasies of the future. Most times, however, my thoughts are about the immediate tomorrow, the people I planned on slighting and the mood I was likely to be in. I usually planned my moods in advance and, most importantly, the frock I was likely to wear for the mood-setting effect. Other times I amused myself by deciding on the people I should disappoint and rehearsed the conversation to produce it. Food was important in maintaining my selfish disposition, and a vinaigrette salad was bound to be included in my plans of my daily meals. Night and day I lived in a well-strategised fantasy. My life was a calendar of planned activities and a schedule of management tools.

Sometimes though, my sleeplessness was contributed to by intense nightmares. Once, for about a month, I had the same thematic kind of dream where a huge, fierce pink dog, a boisterous blue bison, a violent violet bull and an angry aureolin elephant would chase me. Other times I found myself involved in some form of aggression, and would wake up in the morning, battered and sore. I had all sorts of nightmares. Nightmares about falling from great heights, clinging on to the weak, narrow branches at the top of a tree, being violently blown by a storm, running a marathon where people were trying to knock me off the track, being in a rocky boat, on a sinking ship, and being stuck in a dark crevasse between clashing rocks—and I would wake up in cold sweats. Once, in the same night, I dreamt that I was wrestling with an angel. Against my better judgement and the advice of my friends, I was determined to prove that I was his equal. He was so strong that he slapped me against a wall, and I became an ugly painting in an art gallery. Stuck within a frame, I couldn’t get out even when people laughed and threw overripe tomatoes at me. I always had dreams that made me wake up feeling exhausted and irritated. But this time, when tomorrow truly comes, I will open my eyes and boast that my sleep last night was peaceful. This enthralling angel’s voice will keep me in barrels of molasses beyond the opening curtains of the rising sun, safe in the arms of Hypnos himself. Oh, how I wanted this sleep to last forever. It was the first time since I became independent of my parents that I was discovering the sweet secrets of a bed. Oh happy day! Oh, sweet repose! I have an angel, a good angel, of my own. What luck!

Ahhh! But where are my manners? I should respond to this felicitous instrument with appreciative adoration. I must at least acknowledge him, or he is likely to disappear, I thought. But why did he have to make me talk? Couldn’t he just sit there and be pretty? Impatient being! I fretted. If he would wait just ten more minutes, I will be fully awake then and be able to return an impressively cheerful greeting to him. But in fear of him leaving and trying to bring the least amount of disruption to my sleep, I grunted, Urr!

Then I drowsily closed my eyes, felt my head slowly falling back to the pillow, and lay there, floating in a void, fully conscious of wasting my night away.

Oh ratz! I was angry at myself. How ungrateful of me. Shouldn’t I still appreciate the little bit of happiness he just gave me? Yes, I should. I agreed and smiled, allowing my senses the satisfaction of being ravished by his echoes still charming the air.

Slowly, my mind concentrated on an image that I seemed to have captured as I turned from one side of the bed to the other. It was something that seemed unnatural to my bedroom environment. I blinked twice, and the image was still there in my mind’s eye.

An angel? I hesitantly questioned myself. Not a dream then! Instantly, I became terrified. An angel! In fear and trembling, I wanted to scream out as my heart pounded painfully against my chest. What should I do? I don’t want to meet a real nice angel. Nice angels usually meant that a person would have to do something in return. I shivered. How do I get away from this situation? I began to panick, and thankfully as I was about to wet the bed, I was drawn into the pleasant part of the dream as he spoke again.

Sleep some more if you’d like. He smiled at me, and I was calm.

Ah, it is a dream. No one in real life will tell me to sleep some more. Everyone always said I should sleep less, be less of a hermit, get up early and go out some more. I was dreaming. I relaxed myself, fell back into a drowsy nothingness, laughing, and trying to reassure myself that it couldn’t be anything but a dream . . .

An angel? Haha! What a laugh. What nonsense? Do you believe in the rapture then? I mocked myself. Do you believe yourself to be awake and in the presence of a celestial being? Haha! My frantic, mind chastised my thoughts. I giggled but I was still nervously unassured. I was having trouble convincing myself. Each time I laughed, I was involuntarily drawn closer and closer into despair. It’s a dream. It’s a dream, I kept saying to myself as I sucked back the honey lager drool that had oozed out of the side of my lips and tried to stimulate drifting into a deeper, thoughtless sleep.

Teresa of Avila! She had a pretty angel, an angel just like this one. He pierced her heart, sending her into an erotic trance. Was this my fate? To be swooned into ecstasy by this dashing ebony-haired angel? I readied myself for submission when a bolt of lightning struck me. Teresa was pious… she longed for union with God. I have no such ambition. Ah dash! Was I dreaming about being awake, or was I awake and thinking about a dream? My head began to throb.

Oh, God! I must really be drunk, I confessed.

Drunk? Why would I be drunk? I never drank, so I was sure that I was not drunk, but I felt like I had a hangover. My head felt full of air and about to burst open with pressure. Poor me. I was really looking forward to a thoughtless sleep and perhaps a rendezvous with ecstasy by conveyance of this divine lover and an enchanting dream. But I couldn’t escape into the nothingness. My mind was awake and wondering if I should try and catch the dream back. But which part of it, I was not sure. Did I really want to know what that dream was all about? Ah damn! The great debate had begun again, and even if I was tired with my meddling mind and sleep should have been the business at hand, my brain was a sleep assassin going on about its business.

Thankfully, I was saved by the restraint of lethargy. So like unwanted footage from a film, the voice and the image was cut and placed in storage as I snuggled up closer with my blanket and pillow and shut my eyes tightly. I would take no chance at peeking or looking for more images. I inhaled, jiggled myself into comfort, and salivated secretly, with the thought of the angel’s image. What a handsome devil this angel was. Was it Michael, Raphael, or Gabriel? I was not too familiar with an angel’s responsibility, so I couldn’t tell which one of them were likely to be in my bed.

In all the world… My mind paraded proudly. Michael, the archangel, in all his glory, was sitting in my bed. I decided he was Michael. I preferred that name to Gabriel or Raphael, and besides, all the Gabriels I knew were a far second place to the Michaels I knew in the handsome race. Michael it was… Archangel Michael! Mmm! What a pleasant pill to swallow. This striking specimen of a man was lounging alongside me, being the guardian of my sleep. Hmmm . . .

I began drifting into the boundaries of the River Lethe with Mercury’s golden slippers latched to my heels. Slowly, slowly the tape rolled: the image of this angel gently solidifying and delightfully underscoring my sleep with the warmness of a wool blanket. A golden ring halo encompassed his entire stature. Soft silver like the moonlight shown in his attitude and his smile… His smile, like a playful breeze, pacified the room and my senses. I was sailing off to bonny land in this fair weather ship when suddenly a stormy cloud threatened a hostile takeover. Where were his wings?

Wings! Yes, there were no wings. Now, in my mind’s eyes, I could see the creature clearly and he had no wings. Oh, God! He was not an angel! But the argument swung back and forth: his dazzling features. He was surely created in the image of a great deity; perhaps he was my patron, the great god of poets and music, Apollo himself. Yes, yes, perhaps it was Apollo because this creature had the features of no one I knew. He was the kind of perfection I imagined in Apollo. He had to be a god.

Apollo! I called. I so admire your beauty and arrogance. Now here you are obliged to serve me. I blushed bashfully then assured him, But we’ll get along well together, you and I. I understand you as well as I understand myself.

He did not reply, but I felt elevated all the same and was quite pleased though he did not even cast a glance in my direction. But he smiled, amused it seemed, by my attentions. He had propped himself up against the headboard of the bed and was supported by two pillows, resting vertically against the headboard. His long legs stretched out almost the full length of the bed and were crossed just above the ankles. His feet were long and slender. His toes were long, skinny, and looked like they were made of bronze. He looked freshly showered and powdered, airbrushed almost, stylish but homely in a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses. He was reading a book, but I couldn’t see the title. I looked at him dreamily and smiled.

I was about to reach for him when I realised that something was missing here too; there were no soft-flowing, blonde curly locks. This one before me had black hair: jet-black, medium length, thick bristles or quills encroaching on his forehead. And his skin tone: he was not glittering like gold, but somewhat of a tanner hue, somewhere between the lustre of copper and bronze. He had a soft youthful appearance but by no means playful; it was rather complemented by a scholarly and urbane air. His physique resembled that of an athletic, chiselled but not overly robust in muscular development, and his mannerism… it radiated the confidence of the chief executive of a Fortune Five Hundred company. He held the book with masterful grace and elegance, but now he seemed more a mortal.

A man!—fully cloaked in earthly garb. He was wearing a pink and white striped long-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of narrow whitish casual khaki pants. He seemed quite self-assured, cocky even, and quite comfortable in his spot. He seemed prideful, almost like a person who owned the rights to the bed and everything in it. A man? How the hell… I was in a daze.

He was so pleasant to look at that had I been a sculptor or painter, I would have immediately hastened to the studio. But as a potential author, all I could think of was getting up and making a few notes about him in my diary lest I forgot the right adjectives to quote. It was common for me to forget the details of a good dream, but this one I was sure I wanted to remember for the rest of my life. However, my laziness convinced me that his was not an image I was likely to forget. So I continued my dream and, in my mind, tried to trace his charming face and how his shiny black hair fell over his forehead in oriental fashion, doing all the more to enhance his charm. I have to remember him, I said to myself. I must remember him, and when I manage to get up in the morning, I must call my mother and boast about my encounter with this divine creature. I smiled, and with a long, deep breath, prepared myself for the second phase of this magnificent reverie.

Was he a man or a god? I swayed between reality and fantasy. Should I get up and go to the computer and do a Google search? I perplexed myself until I had to stand on a firm no. Man or angel, angel or god—it really didn’t matter. I wouldn’t spoil a good dream with reality. They say curiosity killed the cat, and maybe getting out of bed and going to the computer would turn this blissful dream into a horrible, horrible nightmare. What will I do if I found out that this angel face turned out to be the image of Satan himself, and I am not in a dream but in hell during a deceptive break and my real job is digging for coal to keep the fires roaring?

Not ready to get up then? Did you sleep well? He spoke again, and rather than answering, I began rejoicing. My dream had continued, and he was still in it. His voice was mellow and transporting, and I found myself somewhere between the gates of paradise and Venus’s grove. I could hear music as he turned the page of the book. Was he reading or making paper-leaf blowing music? I couldn’t really tell.

How delightful! I was tickled. In my mind, I repeated his words joyfully, Good morning, not ready to get up? Did you sleep well? His voice was rich with the strums of love and the rhymes of passion. Ah! This is the life! I smiled with glee, thinking myself to be awakening in a dreamer’s paradise. But this ecstasy was short-lived as my inquisitive brain threw a caution flag unto the field, and like twilight threatening to dim the light on a day of celebration, I began to ask questions.

Why did he ask if I was no ready to get up? Was my eye really opened and perhaps pleading for more sleep? I couldn’t see him anymore, so that meant that he couldn’t be looking at me to get that impression. Did he just draw up his own conclusion, or was he hinting that I should wake up and end the dream? I looked about the room and it seemed brighter. Now the darkness fell on my mood like a wrecking ball.

I was angry now. What poor manners he has, I thought. Even if it was morning, did he have to talk so much? Let me send him a message, I thought.

Hurrr! I grunted vexingly. That should tell him. People ought to know how important good sleep is to me. I cursed silently. Especially if they are going to be my guardian angel, they ought to know! I pulled the sheets aggressively and rolled over again. Gradually, my consciousness awakened. Was it real? Was the voice real?

Slowly, slowly, into the direction of the voice, I turned, trying not to be noticed, just in case it was a real person asking the questions and not my imagination playing a nasty little trick on me in a dream. That happens sometimes; even my dreams deceive me. Nervously I peeked.

He glanced at me and smiled.

Yes! It was confirmed! There was someone sitting there beside me. He was still reading his book. I smiled back. I was relieved. It was for real! He was for real! I gazed possessively at him. Ah! I exclaimed in a muffled sigh of satisfaction. My own angel! My own angel! I was suddenly intoxicated. I stared at him with languid eyes.

Still tired then?

He lifted a page and held it mid-turn, making a sidelong glance in my direction, perhaps waiting for a proper word from me. His manners were welcoming. Little by little, his face blossomed into a bigger smile. But still he didn’t look directly at me. He stared at the page, which he still held mid-turn, but I could tell that he wasn’t reading. The calm on his face was beckoning me: Ask me something, just ask!

I had lots of questions I wanted to ask, but nothing sensible came from my lips. Ugh, I uttered with a simple smile of fulfilment.

He grinned and completed the process of turning the page. He continued to ignore me by steadfastly reading. He had to be Apollo, I argued. Apollo was an artist, and so reading was natural. Also his arrogant display of the indirect gaze, although by no means had it the insolent sting it should have had on my pride had he being a mortal. I was happy, and my indolent brain had equal enjoyment in the silence he now seemed eager to preserve.

Conversations are hard work sometimes, my thoughts cheered my lethargic adaptation, and so I closed my eyes and pulled the sheets over my head again.

So are we going back to sleep, Miss Sleepyhead? I could hear a smile in his voice as he teased. I did not answer, and then I heard nothing afterwards. I assumed he might have continued on with his reading. This was undoubtedly still the best night I have ever had, so why was I being selfish with him? Shouldn’t I have shown some gratitude? Shouldn’t I have been excited or anxious? Shouldn’t I offer him some breakfast and then ask him for help with money or property, and even a handsome man, one much like himself?

Wait a minute! Did he sleep here in my bed? Did we—? I touched myself, but it didn’t jog my memory. I couldn’t remember feeling him touch me. Surely I would have remembered being touched by a handsome man, angel, or god… And thinking about the possibility of his arrow piercing through my entire being during the night struck a chord in me. Didn’t he look somewhat familiar?

Shouldn’t I have been startled by the fact that the angel looks exactly like the kind of man I would like to have? Didn’t he look like a man I met recently? Oh, God! Shockwaves jolted my consciousness like the tail of an electric eel. Instantly I sat upright, the blanket was still over my face. The blanket – Thank God! I was quite happy with this oddity because if a man was really sitting there on my bed, I would need something to instantly hide myself in. Nervously, I began to pull the linen away from over my head. But before I had fully revealed my face, relief came. If the blanket had been covering my head all along, I couldn’t have seen anything real. I always covered myself from head to toe when I slept. So it was my imagination, a tricky little dream.

A-ha! I laughed. A dream inside of a dream! What confusion!

It may be hard for anyone to believe such nonsense, a dream inside of a dream and waking up while dreaming, but that was usually my nights—chaos, chaos everywhere, chaos every time, chaos in everything. My mother is convinced that these torments spring from my lazy, selfish, drifting away from God attitude. However, I am quite sure that it is because of the pride I feel in considering myself as an agent of deception. I have been working on a theory that I called truth deception. The idea is so intense that it seems that I even practice it in my sleep.

Feeling quite groggy, and stupid, I sat there for a moment feeling helpless. But then I decided to throw myself back onto the bed for more repose. Instantly, my head began to throb again, this time with a piercing stab from the back of my head to my forehead. Why was I having such severe headaches? I couldn’t fathom what could be the cause of a severe headache until my own voice remonstrated, That’s what you get for drinking that much alcohol in one evening.

Alcohol? Me drinking alcohol? When? Where? And with whom? I searched my dying brain cells frantically for a few seconds. Then finally… oh shit! Yes! I remembered! Coolers first, then mudslingers, and eventually beers! Last night! What? This realization zapped me like a voltage bite, and involuntarily I leaped.

Good God! I must be still drunk!

Chapter 2

I acknowledged my inebriated state but was unwilling to dispel the thought that an angel had attended to me during the night. I began making convincing arguments as to how it was possible for an angel to visit a reprobate like me. Didn’t angels sometimes appear in people’s reality as dreams? Didn’t they sometimes make a person sleep in order to deliver the message? Didn’t the visionary appear drunk to most people? Was there anything to make me unworthy of being visited by an angel? Didn’t a whore wash Jesus’s feet? What? Wait… no! How is that relevant? I don’t know. All I am trying to say here is that it was possible for me to enter into the spiritual realm of reality. I could have been a Jonah. A Jonah!

Oh no! My stomach churned, and I felt like vomiting. There was no place for me to hide in, not even a whale. I don’t want to be the chosen one! Please, Lord, not me! I begged. That is too heavy a burden. I am a coward. I am not pious. I am not chaste. I have a very bad reputation as a Christian. I am selfish. I am heartless. I hate babies and dogs. I was even planning to boycott Christmas this year. No one will listen to me. Please, Lord. No! I pleaded. God’s messenger? Nobody believes this sort of things anymore, not even me. Oh, God! Please let this task pass from me! And I promise I will try to live a better life. I will start being nice to ugly children. I will play with them and encourage them. I will give them candies. I will compliment the parents of every ugly baby I see. I will stop cursing at those Canadian geese that mess in the park. I will feed all the nasty wild animals in my neighbourhood. I’ll even buy doggie cookies for that ugly, little part-terrier part-poodle dog with the overbite that my niece has. Please, God! Please!

Questions were bombarding me as stones thrown at a medieval adulteress. I felt frightened. Why would God choose me? I was a backslider, only two steps away from the gates of hell. I’d be useless to him. If only the animals listened to Noah, I was sure that not even the bugs would listen to me. In fact, I hated bugs and took every opportunity I could to step on them. The whole idea of me as the intercessor between God and man or the human and the spirit world was preposterous. I was sweating with fear, and I made one brave attempt to redeem myself.

There’s no freaking dream and no freaking angel! I cursed courageously, although fear still roared violently, slobbering like a wild beast in my belly. You’re the worst kind of sinner, and God is not stupid. The devil might come for you, but definitely not God, I told myself this, but in no way was it consoling, and so I continued opening the cupboards and laying out my dirty laundry. I am nasty and unclean, Lord. My house is a mess. My bed is a mess, and I sleep naked. Angels don’t visit people that sleep naked. That is what my mother said… and You Yourself said that You ‘hate to see nakedness.’ I was tortured into condemning myself by my own admissions. It was cruel and unusual punishment. It was plain and simple suicide.

Look around the room for evidence of a god, you drunken fool! A bid for clemency interrupted my self-abuse. Immediately, I opened my eyes and looked around the room. To my great relief, there was no one, not on the bed beside me or anywhere else in the room.

I knew I was dreaming! I said excitedly. A mild nightmare. Thank God I woke up before being swallowed by the whale! I giggled childishly feeling quite alleviated. But how did I get to this round of arguments after I had already agreed that there were no angels? Am I that drunk to be giddying around and around a dead issue? I chuckled, celebrating like an underdog standing at the top of the podium with a golden pendant hanging from his neck. Evidently, the beads of sweat at my temples and the sticky feeling in my armpits told the tale of drunken insanity and sleep deprivation. I laughed at the idea of how crippling fear could be. I had little time to settle on the negative now and flushed it out right away. The time was right for celebrating the pleasures of sweet dreams and self-confidence. I promised myself to go back to sleep instantly, but I sat for a minute to ruminate on my victory. Being amused by the thought of my stupidity and self-inflicted terror, my headache and nausea disappeared.

Isn’t this the essence of what Andre Gide said? There are very few monsters that warrant the fear we have for them. I smiled disbelievingly, looked around the room cheerfully, and for the third or fourth time, the balloon pooped. My champagne glass dropped to the floor and shattered. Something was strange… everything was strange, and time froze into a capsule sealed by a lame grin on my face as my head spun like a carousel around the room.

The room! It was massive—and the design layout, an archetype of simple architectural elegance. The eggshell-coloured wall, not my choice of colours. The bedroom deco, my ideal but definitely not the kind I could afford. The furniture was top-notch, very nouveau. Stiff creamy canvas curtains hung with a degree of gentle grace and obedience in front of two massive glass windows. A huge, perhaps 120 by 180 centimetre painting of farmers gleaning wheat in the afternoon sun hang off the wall. The lamps, their shades, and the king-sized bed I was sitting on told a thousand more unfamiliar tales. The tidiness and the vastness of the room were not traits of mine either. But the most revealing were the tales the book, and the opposite side of the bed told.

An opened book was lying on the nightstand and a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses sat loftily on top of it. The pillows resting against the headboard and the creases etched on the bed linen in the area beside me clearly suggested that someone other than myself had been in the bedroom. I measured myself in the outline of the crease. It was definitely longer than I was.

Where was I? And whose book was sitting on the nightstand? What the hell was this? I was irritated now. Was I still dreaming? This was too much now! Or was I waking up to someone else’s dream? Could I have been transported? Was this the latest in sleep science? But whose dream was it then?

I hesitated; for a minute, I had no thoughts, but a sinister feeling began crouching towards by consciousness. Did I just have a one-night stand with someone? Ripples of embarrassment began muddying the waters and traces of flith began trekking towards my shores. Swiftly they were turned away unrealised. There was nowhere to materialise because my thoughts could go nowhere past the moment. My head was dark and cold like the other side of the moon. There was no data for me to access. I was numb. I was dumb. I was dazed, spinning like a top in waterlogged mud. My mind was foggy. Silently I tried to capture and recapture the scenery again and again. I didn’t know whether I was in heaven or hell, reality or fantasy. I couldn’t think straight. My mind was bouncing around like a kayak in the rapids of a river flowing to nowhere. My thoughts were like earthworms chopped into bits, twitching with life, desperate to hold on, blindly trying to evolve into something when there is nothing. I tried and tried but could not think one full thought. I felt quite stupid, fallible, like a ghost hovering about without a body to settle in, like a thing. Thoughts came and left without any form of permanence, like pillars of clouds or smoke forming into nothing recognisable or verifiable and rapidly fading away. I didn’t know what I was to do next. Should I scream? Pull my hair? What the hell! What the hell! Why am I here? What am I doing here?

My stomach began heaving. I wanted to puke. Where is the bathroom? Whose place is this? Should I go back to sleep and hope the problem sorted itself out? What? What? What? I need an answer. I began to badger myself. What should I do?

Pray, a voice uttered to me.

P-pray? I stuttered as I cast my eyes about the room looking for the voice. I found no one but felt the need to get a confirmation.

Pray? What am I praying for? I asked.

Yes, pray. Just pray, pray for anything.

The sense of urgency in the voice matched the acuteness of my budding distress. My assessment was obviously biased by my desperation, but I felt that I had to follow its advice faithfully.

Pray! Yes, pray for anything! Helplessly, I rolled over and hit the floor, enveloped in the bed linen. Lord, grant me the strength to accept the things I cannot change. I began to utter a semblance to Reinhold Niebuhr’s Serenity Prayer. It was the only prayer I could remember. But tell me, why am I waking up in someone else’s bed? . . . Help me to see that this is all a dream, a sweet dream in a nice big room. Lord, Help me! I was in a state of ataraxia for the first morning in my entire adult life. I liked it. The courage to change the things I can. Yes, the courage to change the things I can, so please release me from this state of confusion. I need to wake up and leave here before it enters the darker stages of nightmarism… I hope I didn’t do anything I can’t take back. And the wisdom to know the difference. Amen! Amen!

The end of the prayer meant it was time for me to open my eyes and face the day. But I still felt drowsy and confused. I sat on the floor and laid my head against the edge of the bed when abruptly the earth quaked.

Awake now? A tall slender man entered the room carrying an undressed wooden serving tray. A carnation flower in a glass of water was instantly visible.

Aaaah! I cowered in fear as his predatory eagle eyes gawked right at me.

What’s wrong? He shuddered and froze.

You! Who are you? I tracked backwards onto the bed, grabbing the top of the sheets and stuffing it in my mouth.

Uff. A glib smile infested his lips as his body relaxed, and he came towards me.

Don’t come any closer! I warned, casting my eyes around the room, looking frantically for a pair of scissors or something I could use as a weapon.

Silently, he ignored me, advanced, lowered the tray into the side table, picked up a glass of something with a golden complexion, and began moving towards me with it. Clinging to the bed linen, I tried to continue my retreat and soon came up against the headboard of the bed. Then it occurred to me to hide myself within the sheets, and like an idiot, I turtled into the bedding to hide from the invader who, I might add, not too long ago was the angel in my dream. How was this whole scenario possible? I was more confused than ever before; if I was still caught up in a dream, it was no longer enthralling or amusing.

I could sense him gaining on me, not aggressively like an army but, all the same, robbing me of my space and my rights to privacy and quiet enjoyment. I am a Canadian for God’s sake! I have a right to these basic things. So I screamed, Ahhhhhhh!

Then. Go away! I screamed again as he barbarically removed the sheets, forcing me to face him. He peered into my eyes and smiled with the pretext of sympathy, but I could sense that my agitated state was amusing him. He meant to frighten me, it seemed. He was quite uncongenial.

You’ll be all right,. He said casually. His voice was melodiously soft as that of the angel in my dream, and instantly my spirit was quieted.

Oh, that voice! The primary essence of sublimation and seduction, it was water to a thirsty pilgrim. His voice sounded how I imagined Arion’s voice sounded. A voice so sweet… as some soft chime had stroked the air to borrow a line from Ben Johnson. But as allured as I was with the volubility of his elocution, it was only temporary. I was hastily wrestled back to the severity of the situation and there was no time for sentimentality or romantic fantasies.

A sweet voice was not enough to entice me to be civil to this stranger. He was no angel, but a man—uninvited and in my bedroom, or so I thought at that moment when I screamed.

What the heck are you doing in my room?

Huffing and puffing, I stared furiously at him, waiting for an answer.

Drink! He said calmly, promptly ignoring me, and right there in his action, I saw a man that was quite accustomed to a woman’s bark. He was in no way threatened by my threat to bite.

Drink? I queried and attempted to push him off.

I said drink! He insisted. Nothing had changed in his attitude towards me. He adjusted the edge of the sheet around me with one hand while still holding his offering in the other. He was, as sure as day, making it known to me that he was in charge and in no mood to humour me. He gave no consequence to my why are you in my room? question. My indifference to his portion was also beneath his concern; inferior, his attitude spoke loudly.

What an arrogant ass! I thought. I studied his behaviour momentarily before being diverted shamefully as our eyes met and locked. Oh, you’ll drink it, his eyes threatened and stubbornly refused to avert its gaze. Within seconds, I realised that I was no match for his audacious attitude and promptly looked away. I was inferior to the task. I had been weighed and balanced and found wanting. His hawkish gaze made me feel uneasy about myself. It was quite insinuating.

What was he hinting at? I began to wonder. Was I caught with my hands in the candy jar again? I cannot fully explain the uneasy and minute feeling that was consuming me, but soon I began to get the sensation of a chill, my pride melting away like a snowman. Soon, the uncomfortable sense of bare skin being violated by a cool winter morning breeze began to absorb me.

But wait! This feeling was beginning to feel physical rather than psychological. A real sense of nakedness encompassed me. Why did I feel so exposed and small at the same time? Was I in the nude? I usually sleep naked, but… I looked underneath the blanket and—

Hah! I gasped. I was naked! I was startled and never more disgusted with my own nakedness than at that moment.

What’s wrong? He asked dispassionately.

Nothing! I answered hastily.

What was happening? My mind was emptied of all but the sight before me. Did I have sex with this real man? I was not licentious! I… I… How on earth could I have betrayed my own dignity so? Who is this man? What have I done? I lamented silently, too ashamed to remove my head from beneath the blanket.

I was naked, and this was not a dream. Bashfully, I withdrew my head from beneath the blanket, thinking the only natural thing a girl thinks of in this kind of situation: did he drug me?

I could not look at his face or any other part of him. In a frenzied ineloquence, my eyes scoped out the chamber. Quickly I realised that I was not in a hotel room but rather the bedroom of this guy. But why was I in his room? Why did he take me to his home just to have a one-night stand? I was no great catch. But all the same, any man that was good enough to conquer me had to be a man that uses low-down dirty tricks, and a man like that would have surely wanted to flaunt his triumph by depositing me in an $8 motel room.

I look again at my host. He was definitely an A-lister. This kind of man would have no need to drug a lowly creature like me. I would have given myself to him willingly, but I could not remember the transaction. On the other hand, he could have been a psycho and drugged me. But if he did drug me, why would he take me to his fancy home?

Shamefully I had to face the harsh reality. I probably walked into this man’s bedroom on my own accord, undressed, and offered up myself to his angelic looks in sacrificial reverence. He was alluringly handsome, and it was possible for an asexual hermit like me to stumble or be snared in Cupid’s little games and be carried away. Although, it was uncommon for me to act contrary to my natural instincts of self-preservation and throw myself at him. I had seen too many women lose themselves in a man’s ambition for me not to guard myself from it. So what happened this time? Why did I, on my own volition, allow him to have me? And here he was, within the rights I had bestowed upon him, claiming ownership. He stared possessively at me like a gawky old Turkish peasant that had won a prized young virgin princess for the price of a cheap old whore.

Oh, God, how could I? How could I have spent the night with a stranger? And what did I do with him? Was there a tattoo or a piercing too? Was I on a video clip somewhere else in the world? Oh, God!

I closed my eyes in disgust as I tugged at the sheet that was bundled up beneath me. I piled more and more of it over my head whilst sliding deeper and deeper beneath it, away from the pillows, towards the bottom of the bed. I needed to pray again. I needed to pray for God to take back the morning or erase the evening gone.

Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! What happened? What happened? What the hell happened? I bewailed the loss of my morality. My head began to go splat, splat, splat with multiple attacks like the loose strips of a broken shinai. Oh, God, help me! Who is this guy?

Oh, come on, June. I could hear a giggle in his voice. Maybe he heard me praying and now he was laughing at me—and oh my God! He knew my name. Who am I? Some kind of desperate hormonally challenged, sexually famished teenage girl? Why would I tell a stranger my name? But wait! Does that mean that I also knew his? If so, what was it? I continued to draw nothing but blanks. My memory had escaped me. My head was like a pot of boiling water, bubbling with suggestions that exploded then evaporated into the air and disappeared forever, never to return.

Chapter 3

Are you okay? He asked. His tone was softer now.

No! I shouted rudely.

What a dumb question to ask, I thought to myself but had no time to dwell on his stupidity. I felt sinful and was naked. I needed something to cover up my shame, a coat of skin or a fig leaf and a paper bag for my face. I could truly say I was experiencing Eden during the fall. I prayed that the earth would open its mouth and swallow me up. I hoped for fire to come down through the ceiling and devour the very spot where I laid quaking like an aspen. I prayed for God to turn the whole situation back into a dream, but my prayers availeth little, as things got only worse.

Here, you’ll need to drink this first. He grabbed the sheet as I clutched onto it for dear life.

What are you doing? I screamed vehemently, cowering away from the mirror of my shame that was threatening to be reflected in his eyes.

This is honey water, he said calmly, ignoring my dismay. I heard it’s good for headaches and hangovers… you seem to have one. I’ve never had to try it myself, he continued. But my friends swear by it.

His tranquil demeanour angered me, and I was red with rage.

No! I dragged the sheet back up over my face.

Startled, he shouted, No! Are you throwing temper tantrums? How old are you? Two? Do I have to tell you? You’re a big girl now. We even had a sleepover last night. Stop acting stupid and drink up!

No! I reiterated. How else could I communicate that I was still in shock and dry on words for a real adult conversation? How else could I say that I didn’t want him in the room just then because I needed time to collect my thoughts?

He placed the glass on the nightstand, sat down on the bed beside me, and, exercising his masculinity superiority, forcibly tugged the sheets from my clutches. Then exerting his authority over me, he lifted me up and sat me against the headboard of the bed. I felt shamefully exposed and minimised.

What the heck are you doing? I tried to snatch the sheet back from him.

Aye! He shouted a stern warning, and temporarily, I was shocked into behaving. But as he dropped his guard, I grabbed the sheet again.

So you want to wrestle? he said as he swiftly seized my hands and held them tightly in his grip.

I fought vigorously but lost. He subdued me by wrapping my arms tightly with the sheet, rendering me motionless. Slightly exhausted, his breath was blasting as he adjusted my head against the pillows, and I was obliged to watch him man handle me like a psychiatric patient in a straightjacket.

Don’t tell me that all of a sudden, you want to be shy? What’s there to be embarrassed about between us? he mumbled with a touch of mocking humour in his voice. The angel was now perplexingly evil and a devil of a man.

What? I asked rhetorically. It was just a gesture to save face.

I said stop being foolish! he replied. There’s nothing about you that I didn’t see over and over again last night, and don’t flatter yourself. It’s very ordinary, nothing special. Nothing I’d force myself to see again. He grinned sheepishly as he reached for the glass and placed it against my lips.

Drink! he ordered as if I was truly his patient.

Defiantly, I turned away from the glass. It was the most I could do in my incapacitated state. The sharp movement produced an instant headache.

Ah, my head! I groaned.

Tsk, tsk, tsk. He gazed disappointedly at me, then as a flash of lightning, he released my hand from its bondage and clasped it around the glass.

Drink! he commanded again.

Drink? I was fretting.

Yes! he insisted.

Yes? I questioned his apparent authority over me.

Yes, he reaffirmed.

Ha. I laughed in disbelief. I was quite astonished. Did he mistake me for a well-trained puppy? Who was he to tell me what to do? I stiffened the edges of my jaw and resolved to go to battle with him. Our eyes met ready to duel. His black, penetrating pupils were infused with something I could not interpret, darting around like a brazen bull in the midday sun.

Are you… ? My wrath was no match for the hard intensity in his gaze, and there was a bit of a pause on my part. The fires of my anger were quailing involuntarily. Unconsciously, I was surrendering. All of a sudden, his eyes softened. His continence was benevolent, but still to some degree, it broardcasted that he was the lord and I the serf.

You…, I attempted another rally.

Yes, he answered combatively and swiftly, and with very little effort on his part, I was conquered. Tamed, and now I had to make the best of it. Strangely, I didn’t feel as though I had lost as much as I thought I would, surrendering to a man. Maybe it was because he was a stranger and someone I was never likely to meet again.

Tyson Dumont, an old friend of mine, always used to try seducing me by saying that he believed that I had a soft and romantic side to me that he could help explore. When that approach did not work on me, he retaliated by saying that he was sure I could be tamed and that he would give up all his savings to be there to see it happen. I’d love to see you whimper like a lion in a trap when the right man comes around, he’d say. And you’d be so shocked at who he is, you might kill yourself, he warned.

In turn, I would say to him that I was willing to bet against the pride of all my ancestors and lay down all my inheritance and other worldly possessions to make sure that such a thing would never happen. I am the great huntress, I would boast. I’m nobody’s catch. As often as Venus would rise in me, Diana was able to snuff her out and give me charge of myself.

This was true because I was sure that there was no one in my acquaintance, and even in my non-acquaintance, who could subdue me. I was crafty with suitors and would boast about writing a book on exactly how to turn suitors into friends. Disgracefully, I have to admit my failure in the last evening. This stranger must have had a new technique, one totally outside the realm of human understanding. Shamefully, I was captured, and I cannot tell a tale of the battle. Did I surrender without a fight to this superior force, or was I just overpowered? Did I let my guard down? I believe that I made a miscalculation and allowed myself to look into the eyes of this stranger. Although he shouted at me and appeared to be deserving of my censure, his eyes had an underlying warm and seductive tale to tell, and I paused to read it. I was sure that his approach to victory was hardly different from Medusa’s.

My fears and possibly shame began to melt away in his sunbeam glow. I felt tenderness towards him, and love and longing immediately bonded me to the pair of eyes engaging mine. This stranger must have been a mythological legend. I was sure he must have had some type of symbiotic relationship with Medusa, Adonis, Apollo, and Aphrodite. You stare into Medusa’s eyes and become a stone; he stares into your eyes and you become a sap.

Good, he whispered as my weapons fell to the ground in a bloodless surrender. His smile was deceptively appreciative because his eyes seemed boastful. The predator always knows when to make his move and the exact moment when he receives a full submission. Calmly bidding me to follow his gaze, he cast a quick glance at the glass in my hand, instructing me to drink with a nod. I looked down at the glass and then up at him just in time to catch a smile in his eyes. At the same time, a sedative aroma burst forth from the glass, and I was inclined to think of drinking; feeling quite assured that it was the right thing to do. But being aware of the traits of the classical libertine, for that is what I thought him to be, I looked at him and smiled warmly, flattering his confidence a little before driving the stake into his heart.

I looked at the glass, held it firmly, looked up and smiled at him again but did not drink. A smidgen of myself had remained in me despite being hopelessly delusional with him. It was my genetic code, the DNA for defiance that I had inherited from my mother. I could not drink just then.

Try it, he coaxed, nodding his head with an encouraging smile.

Being flattered by the proceedings and lured by the fragrance of the cup, I thought to try it for real. I held the glass up to my lips but instantly thought to milk the attention a little more.

No! I said, holding the glass away from me whilst turning my head away from him.

What? Still being shy? he mocked. That’s just useless nonsense. You’re too proud for your own good, Miss June Mitchell.

June Mitchell. He said my name again, and I loved how it sounded.

Why shouldn’t I be proud? But it not about pride, I don’t need this right now. I am fine. There’s no hangover. Here take it away. What else can one say when the opposing archer hits the bull’s-eye?

I tried to return the glass to him, but he swiftly moved away from within my reach. My head was about to explode, but stupidity was my watchword for the moment, and I grimaced secretly rather than drink.

You feel light-headed, don’t you? He read me like a book. He must have been a psychologist. Whatever you are feeling now while resting on the bed will be ten times worse when you try to stand up if you don’t drink it. Just take a sip and you’ll see. He sounded quite supportive. But for the sake of my feminist values, I had to avoid the trap of an easy surrender. I am being truthful. He smiled.

I studied his face to see if my sentimentality was justified in his continence. He was enchanting, gentle, and adoring like an April sunrise. His eyes waved a flag of truce, and behind it, banners of sincerity and devotion fluttered. His demeanour was compassionate, and my anxiety flattened like an over-exposed cola. I felt comforted; he instantly became an old friend sharing his wine with me. I felt consoled and deserving of care and attention. I relaxed a bit and took a sip of the cup.

You see. He smiled again, and I pursed my lips and returned an appreciative smile.

Speaking strictly from a thespian point of view, that little scene settled my nerves, and it should have been the end of the act. But my mind, the hesperiidaen inquisitor, wasn’t accustomed to being an object at rest, and so it began to wonder: how did he seem so experienced in this regard? Was it a common thing for women to wake up in his bedroom in such a state of irreverence? What was his charm? How did he get them here?

Silently, we looked at each other whilst I tried to finish up the honeyed water concoction. Finishing the sweet potion meant that all that was left for me to do was to ask the inevitable question.

How did I get here?

How? He restated the question as he smiled contemplatively, making no effort towards an answer. Methodically, he