Denial…
The gun pressed hard against her temple, she felt the cold steel dig into her soft flesh. A voice echoed around the room, it was a child; "Mummy, Mummy, Mummy." Fenny opened her eyes as a small boy ran into the arms of the fiendish Ritza Crispin. Ritza smiled at the boy then placed his small hands around the gun. His little fingers gripped the trigger.
Fenny woke panting and covered in sweat, she took several deep breaths and then fell back onto the pillows. She turned to look at the small glowing alarm clock. It was 7am. The sheets beside her indicated Brad had been home, but she hadn't heard, seen or even smelt him.
Fenny's world was a lot different now from what it had been before Australia and in Australia only four months ago. She'd been living with Brad since she had gotten back, but most of the time it felt like she was alone. He was never around; it was always "work," "meetings" or "nights with the boys." They rarely saw each other anymore and he'd become more secretive than she was comfortable with.
Still, Fenny persisted with her denial. What's to say she wasn't just being paranoid? The only upside Fenny had found was that of her new job. She'd scored a job as a set designer for a small theatre company. It wasn't the best-paid job and the actors were all pretentious bastards. But there was nothing better than getting covered in paint on a daily basis.
She slid out of bed and stopped in front of the mirror to brush her hair. If she didn't stop having the nightmares soon she was either going to (a) have to have counseling, (b) start taking some serious medication or (c) start wearing makeup to cover the bags. Fenny dropped the brush back onto the dresser and padded into the next room where she'd set up her computer.
She switched it on and waited for it to load, ten minutes later she managed to log on to the Internet and check her email. A smile came to Fenny's face as she noticed amongst the porn, free diplomas and horoscopes there was an email from Paul. This was how they'd kept in touch. Several times a week, or more depending on work schedules and boredom, they'd send each other emails trying to out do wackiness and anecdotes.
Fenny clicked on the new email:
From: paulmcdermott@hotmail.com
To: fennygrey@hotmail.com
Subject: never do dick tricks at rehearsals
Fenny,
How dare you say Elvis is dead, you of all people should know he's The King - The King of rock and roll, amphetamines and Happy Meals. I feel like weeping at your impudence or that could be because something seems to be biting a hole in my testicles.
Speaking of which, rehearsals have been going pretty well. Except for yesterday when we'd been doing the same goddamn song for like four hours. I was getting a bit fidgety and a bit bored. I may or may not have had a liquid lunch and I got a bit silly and started changing lyrics. Let's just say the director yelled at me and Marina Prior is avoiding me like the plague.
I haven't heard from Gina in weeks? Have you? Because if you haven't then I'm going to be more worried than I am. I'm starting to think she's been either (a) kidnapped by aliens or (b) taken by a dingo.
Paul
P.S. Don't you ever tell me Brad is in the room naked with you again – it’s burned into my brain - that image - Yuckyuckyuckyuck!
Gina was watching television. Nothing was going in, the people were opening their mouths but she heard none of it. The truth was, she was too preoccupied with her problems to even get a laugh out of "Whose Line." She hadn't been able to find a steady job, just a few script writing gigs and a bit of freelance journalism here and there. There didn't appear to be any work in the entire continent.
Also on her list of things to be paranoid over was Paul. She had, after a month, gone to Melbourne and her first night there had been glorious. In fact, things were the best they ever had been. But she couldn't help but feel like it was all going to go wrong. Not to mention with her looming financial worries, things couldn't possibly stay peachy. She spent a fortnight in Melbourne waiting for Paul to tell her it was all over. When he didn't, she made an excuse about having some work lined up and fled back to Sydney. Now, she felt like a total goit and didn't know what to do.
She brought her thoughts back to the television as Colin did something hysterical, and then jumped, as there was a knock at the door. Who knocks on your door at 12:30 am, other than psychos, murders and drunken ex-lovers? She gingerly made her way to the door, considered grabbing a baseball bat but instead just called through the door.
"Who is it?" she breathed.
"You're not going to believe it," was the reply, in a more than familiar American twang.
Gina opened the door and stood looking at Greg who was holding a bag and looking tried and emotional.
"What are you doing here?" Gina gasped.
"I left her," Greg mumbled.
"Left who?" Gina asked.
"My wife," Greg breathed. "I left her for you."
Gina wanted to close the door, hide under her bed and call her Mum and demand an answer to why they'd never discussed what to do in this situation.
"What? Just like that? You just…" Gina babbled.
"No, I left her four months ago and I couldn't wait on fate to bring us together again," Greg sighed.
Gina stood totally shocked for several seconds. "You'd better come in then."
Greg grabbed his bag and stepped into Gina's apartment. He stopped as his body brushed up against hers in the small hallway. They slowly looked up and caught each others gaze and then grabbed for each other, their kiss hungry and longing. Greg dropped his bag and his hands went instantly to her body, while hers slid into his hair and caressed his face.
"Are you angry?" Greg panted, his lips barely apart from hers.
"No," Gina breathed and started kissing his neck, her fingers working on his shirt buttons.
"I'm serious about being with you," Greg whispered.
"Me too," Gina purred and pulled Greg to the floor.