All the Different Ways Read online

  All the different ways

  R.J.Lee

  Contents

  TitlePage

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Excerpt from ALL THE OTHER REASONS

  About the Author

  The characters in this book are fictitious. The story and words of All the Different Ways belong to the author, R.J.Lee. Any likeness to persons or events, living or dead, is coincidental.

  ONE

  Violet

  I sit on the edge of the tub staring at the brown shag carpet on the floor. It smells like mildew and Lysol in here. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get rid of the damn spores imbedded in the frayed loops of a twenty-five year old floor covering. What a coincidence. I slump forward—head in hands, elbows on knees—just trying to remember how to breathe.

  I can feel him approach the door, but I don’t care. It’s his fault I’m in here… hiding. I specifically remember throwing those trashy, whore outfits away two years ago. So why were they in my panty drawer this morning?

  It was our honeymoon, and we had just unloaded our suitcases in our hotel room. It had been a long flight and an even longer drive into Malibu, but we had made it. I was so excited to show him west coast sunshine. Then I noticed an extra bag tucked inside his luggage. It was pink with black hearts on it, so I asked what it was. He tossed it to me and said it was for us. I looked in it and nearly vomited.

  “What’s this?” I ask, pulling out a red leather crotchless getup with holes where the boobs go and tassels hanging off the front of the crotch. There is a whip, cuffs, fishnet stockings, more outfits, dildos, and other paraphernalia in the bag, too. I look up to see Anden smirking.

  “That’s what you’re going to wear for me whenever I want.” He pulls a camera out from his back pocket. “And I’m going to take your picture, so when you’re old, I don’t forget how good you looked.”

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “Put it on.”

  My skin prickles at the memory; bile rises in my throat and burns as I swallow it back down. I look at the door; it’s locked but experience negates the importance of such a tiny lever. Anden’s a hard man to keep out.

  He toes the door with his boot. “What the fuck are you doing in there? The baby’s crying.”

  I sigh. “So pick her up; it’s not that complicated.” Jackass.

  “Whatever. Just get out here.”

  I fake flush the toilet and run the water. I look in the mirror and make sure that the fraudulent look of calm and control that I’ve been perfecting for two years is in place.

  Opening the door, the first thing I see is my niece dangling from outstretched arms and two giant hands under her armpits. Her legs kick in tandem and her pink onesie with faux ballet slippers printed on the feet stretch tight over her tiny toes with each thrust.

  Hollyn starts to whimper, not at all happy with her position. Me neither, baby girl. I reach for her and Anden shoves her my way at the same time.

  “There we go, sweet girl,” I coo as Hollyn nuzzles into my neck. “You just wanted to see Auntie Violet before Mama gets here, huh?”

  “She just wanted to lay on those tits again.”

  Yep, there it is. I whip around to defend myself. “Why would you say that to me? So rude.”

  Anden’s eyes shift from grey to blue, a good sign that he’s pissed. I should apologize and walk away, but with the hooker outfits reappearing and the memories of the disgusting fucking pictures he took of me all right at the surface, I just can’t do it.

  “Settle down, Letty, you’re always overreacting.” It’s a warning. I fail to heed it.

  “Stop calling me Letty. My name is Violet.” I have now fucked up and should go back in the bathroom to the safety of the shit carpet and flimsy lock, but we’re not alone. Hollyn’s here. Even as I clutch her, Anden grabs my upper arm. Immediately, I avert my eyes and hold my breath.

  “I’ve told you, I like Letty better so that’s what I’ll call you. You’ll answer to it because you’re my wife.” On “wife”, he gives me a hard jerk, then lets go. “’Violet’ is a pussy name. You’re Letty.”

  I look into Hollyn’s big brown eyes and kiss her soft hair as I turn and walk away. There is a stabbing pain in my chest like it’s cracking. Violet’s a pussy name. I guess it is because that’s what I feel like. So much for standing up for myself. Short, shallow breaths are the closest I get to tears as a feeling close to agony tightens my ribcage. I don’t cry anymore. I gave that up a few weeks after the wedding when Anden’s nice-guy mask came completely off and my “I’m fine” one went on. It won’t help me anyway. Crying is weakness, and weakness makes it easier for Anden to chew through me.

  I fix Hollyn’s bottle, chatting to her while she blabbers back and pats my face. My phone dings; Charlotte is on her way. I shudder thinking about “alone time” with Anden once my auntie duties are over. Sweet gurgles and a tiny tug on my hair pull me from my darkening thoughts.

  “Ok, baby girl, let’s go have girl time over your lunch. Mommy is on her way.”

  ***

  Once Hollyn leaves with a quick, reassuring lie that I’m fine to Charlotte, my house is quiet. Anden keeps to himself, so I head to the front yard to relax with some flower planting. I’m dying to get to the planters I picked up a couple weeks ago and finally put flowers in them. The pottery is mossy green with large hummingbirds etched into the ceramic. I fell in love with the yellow, blue, and purple accented birds immediately, not just because of the amazing detail and beauty but also because of the symbolism of the hummingbirds themselves.

  I have everything I need on the porch to get started, so donning my gloves, I start with packing peanuts for drainage at the bottom of the pots. Working, I think about how phenomenal it would be to transform into a hummingbird and just fly away in my own independence, enjoying life tirelessly.

  “Now what are you doing? Jesus, every time I want you, you’re either sitting in the bathroom or outside. You should be in,” Anden’s voice travels from behind the screen door.

  “Why? It’s a nice afternoon, Hollyn just got picked up, and I have these flowers to plant. The beds need raked out, and I want to put in stone instead of mulch. There are things to do.” I tighten my grip on my trowel and look down at the floor of the porch.

  “I don’t want you outside so much; stay out of the sun. And you know I’m just going to end up taking care of all these flowers myself. You’re no good at maintaining anything.”

  Yeah, there’s the support I need.

  “Thanks, Anden, for reminding me,” I say to the porch, “but I think I’ll go ahead and try this year.”

  “Whatever, Letty, but the mulch stays.”

  “It bothers my allergies…” But he’s already walked away. I sigh heavily.

  Going back to my planters, I fill them with soil and leave just enough room at the top for my flowers. From the flats I purchased a few days ago, I select a spike, three asparagus ferns, and three lavender wave petunias. I secure all of the plants in the soil of one, then the other planter, and step back to admire their color. Truly, the combination of light purple and celery green against
the deep brown stain of the porch and grey sand tone of the planters is breathtaking. These have to be my favorite part of this house… I just need to get rid of that mulch. The fungus growing on those woodchips is just awful; I can smell the tanginess from here.

  I make up my mind to bring it up again later when Anden is in a more generous mood. There are times when he’s not such a bastard and I can get things to go my way…kind of.

  ***

  I stay outside until my stomach growls obnoxiously, a warning that Anden, too, is probably going to start getting restless about dinner. Before I have to deal with that beast, I start up the porch steps. On the second step from the top, as I’ve done two times before, I catch my foot on a loose plank and fall hard on my hands and knees. Since I try to catch myself, pain rips up my arms, through my elbows, and into my shoulders. I can feel the pulsating of bruises forming over my kneecaps.

  “Fucking hell!” I roll to the side and sit down inspecting my knees and arms. Yep, definitely bruised and sore but nothing that will keep me from anything spectacular…if I were to do anything spectacular. I breathe a few deep breaths trying to let the burning that’s now fizzling down my arms dissipate before going inside.

  “When’s dinner?”

  I turn towards Anden, standing, once again, behind the screen door.

  “It’s when my limbs stop burning from falling over this goddamn loose plank on the stairs again,” I’m too sharp. I know it. I swear the hole I’m digging myself into rivals the Grand Canyon by now, but I just can’t handle his shit today.

  “You know it’s there, so why don’t you be less clunky and pay attention to what you’re doing, hmm?” So patronizing. Acid rises in my throat as I think of all the different ways I want to off him right now. Pursing my lips, I stare at his round, freckled cheeks and mass of blond hair with absolutely no words able to come to my lips. I want to throw my gloves at him, better yet my trowel, just for being a useless ass.

  “What are you staring at?”

  Not much.

  “I’m thinking,” I say as I get up and take off my gardening gloves. I’m thinking about choking you.

  I open the screen door and brush by him as he cracks out, “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  I roll my eyes and head to the kitchen. Some comments just aren’t worth entertaining. Besides, I have fun things to think about while making dinner…poisonous mushrooms, cut brake lines, gas leaks and explosions, stalling on train tracks. I imagine all kinds of cartoon-like scenarios from falling off a cliff to Acme bombs exploding over Anden’s head. I snicker to myself over the absurdity of my imagination as I work on dinner. At least I haven’t lost my sense of humor; if I haven’t got that, I haven’t got anything.

  As the thoughts of the revenge and payback I’ll never get provide me with a bit of lightheartedness, I announce that it’s time to eat. I hand Anden his plate and he takes it to the living room. I give brief pause to the fact that at some point, it would be nice to have a meal at the table with a conversation, but then I realize that would most likely involve me listening to my shortcomings and acquiring suggestions for improvement. I shake my head, audibly exhale, and take my own plate out to the TV.

  Anden has stopped mid-chew by the time I arrive. There’s cheese from his spinach-artichoke quesadilla collecting in the corner of his mouth. I lurch a little and fight not to walk out.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, standing there holding my plate.

  “This tastes different. What did you do to it?”

  “Nothing really. I was a little low on cream cheese, so I had to use a pinch more sour cream. Everything else is the same.” My leg starts to tremble. I just want to eat my dinner, shower, and go to bed. I don’t want to defend myself anymore. I don’t want to battle. I don’t want any of this.

  “Well, I guess it’s fine, but I like it better the other way so don’t make it like this again. This will do for tonight, though.”

  Something like drain cleaner is climbing up my throat again, as fast as my leg is shaking. I have no desire to eat. Making sure my fork is secure on my plate, I turn to go back to the kitchen while asking, “If it’s fine, why did you say anything?”

  “I don’t want you to make it this way again, that’s why.”

  I’m in the kitchen, putting my dinner in Tupperware. “Anden, it was a chance occurrence, not the recipe. You didn’t have to say anything.” I let out a frustrated breath, snapping the lid on.

  Anden’s voice booms from across the counter. I didn’t know he followed me and I jump at the unexpected intrusion. “Why are you being such a bitch?”

  I squeeze my teeth together to flex my jaw a few times. It’s a habit I’ve developed to try to relieve tension so I basically do it all the time. My dentist says I’m wearing my teeth down but it’s better than screaming and throat-punching people. The first time I did it, I was bathing suit shopping at Target before we were to go on vacation. I was pretty positive about the whole experience despite the fact that I was essentially putting my size eight, hourglass frame on display around a bunch of skinny teenagers. Of course, Anden had to approve of the suit before I could buy it, but I had found a cute blue and white gingham tankini number that had a modest top and covered my supple ass pretty well. I figured even Anden could appreciate it.

  I have a big grin on my face as I open the door. “This is it! I love it!”

  In perfect Anden fashion, he grunts, “Eh, it’s ok. I don’t know. Are you sure you’re beach ready? I mean, I don’t want to hear you bitching and comparing yourself to other girls the whole time.”

  I press my teeth together harder, then spit out, “Why are you always up my ass?”

  Anden leans into the counter so that his face is inches from mine; I smell quesadilla and malice. My heart is pounding behind my ears at his proximity.

  “I’m just helping you be a better person, Letty. I’m not ‘up your ass’, but maybe that’s what you need.”

  I know they’re just words, but they scare the shit out of me. I take a step back in silence, put my dinner in the fridge, and walk quickly out of the kitchen. Fortunately, I don’t hear or feel Anden behind me as I navigate to the bathroom for a quick shower before bed. I think I will feel better if I can just wash off the frustration of today, along with the sweat and salt from planting flowers.

  I take a towel from under the sink and start the water in the shower. I’m using the main bathroom for more privacy and since I’m only in need of my favorite body wash and not my hair products or makeup, it makes sense to try to distance myself from my husband as long as possible. After I undress, I stare at my reflection in the mirror until the shapes of my face blend together. I glare at where the large, circular blurs of my eyes are supposed to be. It seems fitting that what makes me distinctly me has lost its outline the longer I stand here not doing anything. My whole person seems to be just standing here, immobile, fading away. The mirror starts to fog, and it complicates the whole process of me staring myself into oblivion, so I swipe at the cloudiness, ashamed. If I were stronger, I wouldn’t let him get to me. Frustration and disappointment have me stepping into the scalding water without feeling a drop.

  I grab my lilac sandalwood soap and let it foam up around me, clearing my head and skin. I soak in the scent and feel the silky lather coating my body like a shield. Too soon, however, I rinse and step out so as not to indulge too long and cause even more problems today.

  Fully covered in cotton pajama bottoms and matching top, I crawl into bed where Anden is already settled. He appears calm, which makes my heart absolutely pound. I know he isn’t done with me for talking back to him and aggravating him today, but instead of bringing it up again, he gives me a quick peck goodnight and turns off the light. I’m paralyzed for a minute then turn on my side, back always facing him, and pull the covers up to my ear. I roll forward, then back again, collecting extra blankets under my side and laying on them. It’s my blanket burrito, and it acts as a protective barrier between me and Anden’s w
andering hands and cold feet when I’m sleeping.

  I stare at the dark wall, heart still pounding. I can’t believe he is going to let this go. He’s mad, I know it. I keep running the events of the day through my head until I hear Anden’s deep even breathing. He fell asleep? I dare a peek over my shoulder at him. With my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I can see clearly that his eyes are closed, lips slightly parted, right arm up above his head and resting on his pillow. The sleep seems legit. I roll my head back over with an exhale and close my eyes.

  ***

  I blink awake; the bedroom light is on. I slap my hand around on my nightstand feeling for my phone. It’s one o’clock in the morning, and Anden is standing at my side of the bed, staring at me.

  “What the hell, Anden?”

  “I’ve been thinking and apparently you need to understand your role around here a little better.”

  “My role? What the fuck are you talking about? It’s one in the morning.” I sit up.

  “You can’t seem to keep your mouth shut and just do what you’re told, and you certainly aren’t trying very hard to make me happy. So, we’re going to talk about what you need to do to improve.”

  My head and armpits start sweating, while goosebumps rise all over my limbs. I knew he wouldn’t let it go.

  “I know, Anden, I have a lot of things that you can help me with, but we need to sleep now, it’s time to sleep. We can talk in the morning; come to bed.”

  My sentences are running together because I’m starting to panic. These nighttime lectures can go for hours and I already know all of the things he’s going to say. I need to do more to make him happy. I need to limit his frustrations by having dinner ready before he gets hungry, spending less time in the yard, initiating sex more often. I need to wear more lingerie; I need to ask him to take pictures of me. Yes, I already know.

  “We’re going to talk now when you’ll listen,” he starts to pace. “I don’t understand why you make me do this, why you make me have these discussions with you. It’s like you can’t learn. Aren’t you a teacher? Doesn’t that mean you have the skills to learn, too? What I need isn’t that hard, Letty.”