Vanessa traced her eyes up the grey-white wall in front of her. There was a crack running along the baseboard that she’d never noticed before, and a few scattered patches where her photographs had once hung. There'd been a photo of her and her childhood friend Emily jumping through the sprinkler, their knees scraped and their faces painted with innocence. Another of Mouse, her yellow tabby cat, curled up on the tattered blue window seat. Then Logan, her first boyfriend (and continued love of her life), his hazel eyes shining and lips curling just so. Logan was like the Mona Lisa; people were always left wondering what was going on behind his smile (she'd never forget the day she found out it was his way of concealing and celebrating his lies). There had been a few horse race ribbons on the wall, too; purple, orange, and white, each one a symbolic way of saying “better luck next time.” A yellow and black Nirvana poster with a funny smiley face had hung over her poster bed, the corners ripped and frayed from having been moved so many times. But now, the wall was completely bare. And there she was in a crumpled heap on the brown shag carpet.
Had it been seconds, years, or a lifetime ago that she’d spoken to the man in the tweed suit, standing right there in front of her with his left hand casually propped up on the dresser? She couldn’t remember. It was the first time she’d met him. He’d brought along with him the faint aroma of cigars, which she’d found preferable to the usual scent of dust and rotting apple cores, and he’d told her his name was Eddie. His voice had been deep and soothing, like Papa’s, and there was something familiar about the creases around his eyes. She’d known right away that she could trust him.
“Ness,” he’d said, his face softening, “I know you’re feeling really alone and like nobody cares about you, but I do. I’m here for you.”
That was it—the end of her memory. She didn’t know if she’d thanked him or if he’d said anything else. She couldn’t remember how he’d entered the room, or how or when he’d left. She didn’t even know anything about him; who he was or how he’d known that at that moment, those were exactly the words she’d needed to hear.
“Nessa!” The shrieking voice wafted in through the open doorway and interrupted her thoughts. How had the man known to drop the ‘a’ in her nickname when her own mother couldn’t remember? “Nessaaaaaaaaaa! You forgot to clean up your dishes!”
No one in her house ate together anymore. Since Papa had died two years ago, her mother and sister had had to get jobs to pay the rent, and claimed to be too tired at the end of the day to bother with cooking family meals. Vanessa, although more than old enough to work, was under strict doctor’s orders not to. She used it as an excuse to get out of household chores, too.
“Sorry, Ma! I’m not feeling too well. Could you do them? Please?”
An aggravated sigh, followed by the sound of running water, emanated from the kitchen. Vanessa smiled to herself. “Works every time.”
Eddie. She found herself rolling the name around in her mind, wondering whether it was short for something—maybe Edward or Edmond or Edgar—but then quickly decided she didn’t care. She’d liked that he’d called her Ness. Eddie was the only name that mattered.
Still needs work, but I'm pretty excited to find out where it's going.
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