An Unaccountable Reality

In the early hours of an otherwise mundane Sunday morning, James Lee Borden lay naked, sprawled on the floor of a nondescript three-room apartment, one hand holding his chest wound, the other his throbbing nuts, his mind spinning without purchase.

Late the night before, he had decided to surprise his ex-girlfriend with another visit. She had broken things off some months earlier, but James sensed improvement in their situation; she might be on the verge of taking him back.

He would climb in her bedroom window, recreating the romance of high school when hormones fueled their desire for nearly constant propinquity. While her parents sat watching Survivor or The Apprentice, he and Jennifer had starred in their own, private, reality show.

Over the past year or so, as they both stumbled towards graduation, Jennifer had grown distant. She complained of James’s “exhausting behavior.” His spontaneity, which once thrilled her, she now called “turbulent” and “erratic,” claiming his intensity frightened her.

Fed up, she broke it off.

He gave her some time, watching from afar but leaving her space to calm down.

She could not quit him entirely, he knew. Most evenings, she did nothing more than sit in her apartment with a bottle of wine and a book – he knew. If he stuck around, eventually she would take him back. She had to.

James had tested his theory just two nights earlier when he dropped by her apartment. A couple of broken glasses, some spilled wine, and a tussle around the living room proved him correct. After finishing, he left her lying in bed, still as the night around him, seemingly at peace.

For reasons he did not understand, they had not spoken since. Inexplicably, to James, she would not answer her phone.

Saturday night, he sat outside her apartment, watching. Anger rose in him to think of what she might be doing, especially after the evening they had just shared. After hours of nothingness, James’s frustration peaked and he returned home, his mind so cluttered by Jennifer’s disloyalty he had no memory of the return trip.

Curled in bed, sheets clenched between cramped fingers, inspiration hit. He could recreate the thrill of their teenage years and visit her in the old way. This would leave no possibility for her to disallow his love.

He parked down the street and stayed to the shadows. Somehow he had never noticed the shrubs planted under her window. This made jimmying the lock quietly more difficult. When it finally clicked free, he slid the window open just enough to slip through. Inside, only a sliver of silver lit the room.

He took a moment to watch her sleep, each shallow, languid breath stretching her tank top across her firm, rounded breasts. The darkness negated color, but the top felt pink. Below that, her panties - clean and new, silky and slick - shimmered a bright white, even in the low light.

Odd, he thought. Jen likes baggy sweatpants and hoodies. And lots of blankets.

He found it curious she had not only dressed lightly but also lay atop the covers. James let the thought pass as his eyes traced the curves of her body in and out of the room’s shadows. He hardened and decided to shed his clothing before crawling into her bed.

He dropped his gym shorts and shirt to the floor. As he pried off his boxers, he felt his thickening prick reverberate like a tuning fork in the still air of the room.

Inching closer, careful not to wake her, he noticed she had dyed her hair black.

When? he thought. Always a blonde, he wondered at the change. She had curled it tightly as well. So strange.

Shaking off the disorienting alterations, James eased onto the mattress. As he stroked and sniffed the dark hair shadowed across the soft pillow, her eyes shot open and the first, hollow notes of a moan rumbled within her. Sensing an imminent scream, James pressed his hand tightly to her lips and tried to calm her down. “Honey, it’s me. It’s me!”

With an increasing panic James did not understand, she struggled against him. Taking advantage of his exposed state, Jennifer grabbed his balls, squeezed, and, empowered by her fear and surging adrenaline, pulled as if to ring the world’s heaviest church bell.

As James let go to cup his injured testicles, she rolled backwards and fell to the floor. Regaining her feet, she ran through the bedroom door.

With little choice, James allowed the throbbing in his groin to ease then followed her into the living room.

“I only wanted to surprise you,” he called out.

As he rounded the corner, his chest accepted the bullet speeding imperceptibly ahead of the black powder explosion.

Now, as he wondered why the woman he loved had shot him, bewildered by the fact she even owned a gun, he opened his eyes and tilted his head backwards. No more than five feet away, and upside down from his prone position, she sat slumped in the corner, a pink and white blob aiming a revolver at him.

After a few deep breaths, the pain somewhat abated, he asked, “Why, baby? Why? Jennifer-”

“Stop calling me that! I’m not fucking Jennifer!” the woman screamed.

Somewhere beyond the dual pain in his chest and scrotum, he heard the hammer click.

Almost in concert with the next muzzle flash, signaling the exit of the .22 round which would soon enter his skull before ricocheting within his brain pan, James realized Jennifer not only had changed her hair, her skin had darkened noticeably in just over a day.

Without leaving him time to reconcile these discrepancies, one bullet pierced the murky grey matter James Lee Borden had long refused to care for, sparing him, finally, from the work of untangling the knotted threads which had long ago tied him to an unaccountable reality he never could discern.

BIO: Brian Hawkins lives in southern Indiana with his wife, Lacy. Brian's work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in The Barcelona Review, Jelly Bucket, The Brussels Review, Cowboy Jamboree, and After Dinner Conversation. He currently is taking a break from social media, dumpster fire that it is.