Try Pink Read online

  Try Pink

  Max Ellendale

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Try Pink

  Copyright © 2015 Max Ellendale

  Cover Artist: Victoria Miller

  Editor: Deadra Krieger

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  Max Ellendale

  www.maxellendale.com

  Table of Contents

  Gash

  Pain

  Better

  Spatter

  Rumble

  Practice

  Gash

  Coffee splattered over my shoes, jostled from its cozy position in my hand a moment prior. The empty cup rolled off the curb and settled beside a sewer cap.

  "Shit, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

  "It's all right," I said, drawing a mournful gaze away from the spill to its cause.

  "No, it's not. I'm sorry," the woman said. Piercing blue eyes flickered in my direction from under a mane of red hair. "I… I can get you another one. Shit." Her bag tumbled to the ground, spilling half of its contents.

  "Don't worry about it." I crouched down to help her scoop up a few coins and a hairbrush.

  "Thanks," she said as I handed her the brush. She held my gaze as she accepted it, her grip trembling around the handle. An angry bruise darkened her cheekbone. She stood up as soon as I noticed.

  "You're bleeding." I gawked at the saturated gash in her jeans that revealed a small portion of her thigh.

  "Oh." She glanced down at herself. "I'm fine."

  "What's your name?"

  "Jillian. You?" She shifted her weight awkwardly, one arm crossed over her midsection. Her posture told me that she couldn't wait to get away from the situation.

  "Jeslyn." I smirked at our similar sounding names.

  "Nice name." She pressed her lips together in a thin line. "Sorry about your coffee."

  "You said that already."

  "I know."

  "Do you need a ride somewhere? You look like shit, and you're bleeding," I blurted out because well, what else was I supposed to say?

  "I don't take rides with strangers." She returned my smirk with one of her own.

  "Well, if you change your mind, I'm there." I nodded toward my lone black car parked beside a gas pump. "It'll take me at least thirty seconds before I drive off."

  "Thanks," she said as I stepped around her.

  Birds chirped heatedly in the early morning sunlight of late August. Fog matted my windshield in just the few minutes I'd spent inside fetching a morning fix. On the rare occasion that I decided to venture out for necessities like food or gas, something always seemed to have a way of reminding me of my finiteness. Today, that was my lost coffee.

  The passenger door opened just as I turned over the engine.

  "Changed your mind, have you?" I asked, lifting a brow at her.

  "Yeah."

  "C'mon then," I said.

  Jillian closed the door lightly, buckled herself in, and set her bag across her lap. The wound on her leg continued to bleed. I pulled away from the gas pump and drove north toward Eddington. "Where am I taking you?"

  "Um…the bus station is fine."

  We drove for a while in relative silence. The tires rumbled melodically along the pavement. I lifted the armrest between us and pulled out a handful of paper towels. Jillian kept her gaze straight ahead, even when I placed the towels on her leg.

  "Hold it there," I said and she did so. "Does it hurt?"

  "A bit."

  After a good fifteen minutes, she slouched in the passenger seat and closed her eyes. I couldn't tell if the pain from her injury finally got to her or something else. It took another ten minutes to get to the bus station. Morning commuters bustled past my car as I pulled into the space. A set of marquees reported on the comings and goings of the busses. The parking brake creaked and Jillian opened her eyes.

  "Where are you headed?" I asked.

  "Boston, I guess."

  "You guess?"

  "Yeah."

  "Are you from Boston?"

  "No."

  "Where are you from?"

  "Mexico."

  "I bet you blended in just fine with your very blendy non-stand-out red hair," I said which got her to at least glance at me. "Why Boston?"

  "It was the first city I could think of."

  A fraught silence fell around us as we sat there listening to the idling engine. Jillian didn't exit and I didn't ask her any more questions. Again, she leaned her head against the seat and closed her eyes. Maybe she was trying to hold it together more than deal with the pain. The paper towel on her leg now rivaled the bloodied jeans. I took a deep breath and set the car in reverse, backing us out of the space. Jillian looked up as I turned on to the road.

  "What are you doing?"

  "You clearly have nowhere to go and you're bleeding a lot worse than you think you are."

  "Please don't take me to the hospital." Her voice seemed to beg and she pressed the towels harder on her leg.

  "I'm not."

  "Then where?"

  "I've got a condo up the way." She didn't fight me on it and I drove the remaining distance home.

  Jillian limped down the hallway, nearly falling into the chair I pulled out for her by the dining table. I left her there to retrieve the first aid kit from the bathroom.

  "You're obviously not from Mexico," I said, crouching in front of her, gauze in hand.

  She rested her elbow on the table, her head on her hand as she tried to control the trembling in her body. Was it fear? Pain? Something else? I couldn't tell. As I opened up the kit, she glanced around my condo. It wasn't much. A small kitchen attached to the dining room and a living room beyond that. My master bedroom and a guest room sat adjacent to it along the hall that led to the laundry room and bathroom.

  "What's upstairs?" she asked, ignoring my statement.

  "My studio." I pulled back the fabric of her jeans to reveal a fresh, deep two-inch gash. She cringed and bounced her other leg while I cleaned around it after the bleeding slowed. It could use a stitch or two, but I wasn't going to push my luck just yet. "Did you fall or get stabbed?" I glanced up at her.

  She pursed her lips and continued to gaze at the ascending stairs beside the front door.

  "It's going to burn when I clean it," I warned.

  "Just do it."

  I bit my lip as I sprayed the antibiotic from the kit. A near-whimper escaped her, but she remained steadfast, staring straight ahead. Some ointment and a bandage patched her up for now. I dabbed away any excess mess around her leg and left the torn jeans dangling. When I looked up at her, a tear trickled down her cheek. I snatched a tissue off the table and sat down in front of her. She took the tissue when I offered it, but said nothing.

  With her face turned away from me, the intensity of her bruise heightened. I stood, closing the few steps between the table and the freezer, and grabbed a bag of frozen peas. On my way back, I poured a glass of water and retrieved a bottle of pain relievers from the drawer. I set them down on the table beside her, stepping in front of her to nudge her chin upward. She let me and a soft sob escaped her when I pressed the icy bag to her face. She held it there as I poured out a few pills onto a napkin. She downed them and sat quietly, nursing her injury.

  "Pittsburgh," she said.

  "A lot closer than Mexico," I said. "I've got a spare room. You can stay the night if you want, while you figure out if
you're still going to Boston or the next city you can think of."

  Jillian offered me a smug smile from under the bag of peas. A moment later, she nodded.

  "Don't rob me or beat me up, deal?" I lifted a brow at her, fighting the sardonic smile that made its way to my mouth.

  "Yeah, deal."

  "C'mon." I nodded toward the hall.

  Jillian picked up her bag and followed me.

  Pain

  She slept for two days as her body struggled to heal. Only once did she rise to use the bathroom and I listened to her as she cried. In her haze of sleep and pain, she let me help her back to bed and guide her battered body into a pair of clean sweats. Before her head hit the pillow, the second day of sleep found her. I fought my better judgment and twice considered strong-arming her into going to the hospital, but by the third day her sleep was less tortured and she seemed to actually rest.

  For the first time in five years, I wasn't alone in my own home. The added presence had me on edge, but on routine as well. Instead of sleeping all day and staying up all night, I found myself existing in a more usual manner. Waking at daybreak instead of getting into bed. Part of me worried what I would find each morning. I used to wake up worried every morning. Five years ago, all of my worries ceased.

  "What day is it?" she asked as she ambled into the kitchen. I expected her arrival today, as there's only so long a human can exist without sustenance.

  "Saturday," I said as I set down a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. She joined me at the table and swallowed an entire glass of water before taking her seat.

  "How long have I been asleep?" she asked, slightly out of breath. I poured her another glass and set it beside the orange juice.

  "Three days about."

  "Shit. I'm sorry."

  "For what?" I sat and began eating in hope that she would follow suit. The bruise on her face had settled to a nasty yellowish black eye, sallowing her already pale complexion.

  "I've been here too long," she said, lifting her fork to stab some eggs. The moment the food met her lips, she ate fervently which wasn't unexpected considering…

  "Just relax and eat. Your ticket to Jess's house hasn't expired," I said as I crunched on some toast.

  Jillian ate two plates of food. Human nature has a way of compensating, which overrides humility and shame. By the time she finished her toast, some color returned to her skin and she didn't walk like she was about to fall over.

  "How's your leg?" I asked, gathering up the empty plates and placing them in the sink.

  "Not bad." She rested her head on her hand as she watched me. "Thanks."

  "Welcome."

  Crimson locks tumbled over her shoulders, cradling her face in a heart-shaped wave of ginger. Her image, downtrodden yet striking, would make a great painting. I considered my studio and the blank canvas that waited on my easel.

  "Why are you so nice to me?" she asked, ocean-blue eyes meeting mine.

  "You look like someone who hasn't experienced a lot of niceness," I said.

  "Who's with you in that picture in the guest room?"

  "What picture?"

  "The one behind the bureau. Your hair was lighter in it."

  "I forgot that was there…" I leaned back in my chair, draping my arms over my middle.

  "I walked into the corner and saw it sticking out. Who is it?" she pressed.

  "My fiancé."

  "Oh. Does he live here?"

  "He used to."

  "Used to?" She tilted her head, brushing a bit of hair from her shoulder.

  "I'll tell you my stories if you tell me yours," I said as her final question tightened my stomach, sending a ball of anxiety through my torso. I used to worry. I didn't have to anymore.

  We sat there in quiet contemplation, neither of us breaking yet. My thundering heart softened back to normal. Whatever she'd been through had to be worse. I decided I'd share at least a little first.

  "Want to see my studio?" I offered.

  "Yeah." She nodded as relief cooled her demeanor. "Are you an artist?"

  "I am now," I said and stood, gesturing for her to follow me upstairs.

  "What were you before?" she asked on the way up.

  I pushed open the barely-hinged wooden door and led her into the expanse of the studio. Half of the peaked roof was a weather-stained skylight that stretched the entire length, ending at a window seat that overlooked the hills in the distance. The other wall held shelving for canvases and supplies. Brushes, paint tubes, and clay blanketed the butcher-block table in the center of the room. My easel sat in the center of a drop cloth between the table and a mattress with fluffy white linens that I used as a makeshift bed. A canopy, draped from the ceiling, covered a corner of it. On the rare occasion that I used a model, the bed, or the stool beside it, was the ideal space.

  "I was a cop." I perched myself on the stool by the easel as Jillian wandered over to the window, staring out over the trees.

  "Really?" She glanced over her shoulder at me. "What kind of cop?"

  "A regular one. Nothing special." I shrugged.

  "Now you're an artist. Do you sell your work?"

  "Sometimes. I sell it online or show it in a gallery downtown."

  "For tons of cash I bet."

  "Not really."

  "Why don't you have any of your work displayed in here?" She turned around, gesturing toward the room.

  "Some of it's around." I nodded at the vertical cubbies along the back wall. "In those holders there."

  "Can I look?"

  "Yeah." I watched her as she fingered through the thick canvases. Some she lingered on longer than others. "These are amazing," she said, sliding one of the larger canvases out of its space. I kept note of her expression as her eyes darted across the painting of a woman sprawled out in the sand, her eyes never leaving the midnight sky above. Even in the darkness, the subtle blacks and purples swirled in an oil-based dance.

  "Thanks."

  "Did you see this or just paint it from your mind?" She glanced at me before sliding the canvas back in place.

  "Just thought it up one night when the sky was unusually clear," I said as she pulled out a slightly smaller painting.

  "This is your fiancé." She held it up in front of her then turned it toward me. The silver plating of his dog tags drew my attention to the center of the painting. "He's in the military?"

  "Army, yeah." I nodded, fighting the surge of sickness that swirled in the pit of my stomach at the sight of his image. Standing there proud, honorable, beside the American flag.

  "He's handsome. Is he deployed?"

  "He used to be." I held onto my breath as I answered her questions, desperately trying to keep the quavering out of my voice.

  "Where?" She slid the painting back into place and made her way toward the table. Her steps slowed when her gaze met mine. "Oh…"

  "Afghanistan," I said, keeping my stone-cold face in check. A tear betrayed me and slid down my cheek.

  "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked," Jillian said, her voice barely a whisper.

  "No, it's all right." I swiped at my tears and cleared my throat. "It's been five years so, it's not like it was yesterday or anything."

  "I bet it feels that way sometimes." She reached out to touch my shoulder, but I spun around on the stool and gestured toward the bed.

  "Go sit there."

  She didn't bat a lash as she obeyed. Maybe guilt prevented her from questioning the directive. Maybe it was something else entirely. With caution, she sat down on the edge of the mattress, crossing her legs on the floor below. The fluffy down blanket welcomed her, swallowing her hips. I sniffled and turned my attention to the canvas, lifting a black-handled brush and swiping it over my palette. Jillian sat quietly, gazing out the window as the sun rose over the trees, eventually disappearing behind the house. We remained there, unspeaking, barely moving, with only the sounds of my brush strokes. Her hair was the most difficult color to match. Too much red or too little orange; I couldn't g
et it right. She watched me as I struggled to mix the paints.

  "Try pink."

  "What?" I looked over at her.

  "Mix a little pink in."

  On a separate spot, I mixed white and red until a light pink left a splotch beside the orange. When I added it to the reddish mix, her perfect ginger hue emerged. My attention returned to the canvas, though her speech opened the floor for more conversation.

  "How'd you know?" I asked.

  "My mom used to tell me that when I was a kid. A pink crayon helped when I drew her hair or mine."

  "Is she still around?"

  "Yeah. My parents live in Texas. I haven't seen them in a couple of years. You?" She stretched her fingers out, gripping her knees after.

  "They're local but I don't see them much. Sometimes Mom comes out to bring me something. She's really just checking to make sure I'm still alive." I set the brush down and switched to another one. "You can move if you want."

  Jillian shifted her position to lie on her side. She winced until she settled comfortably, resting her head on her hand as she watched me.

  "Are you?" she asked.

  "Am I what?"

  "Still alive."

  Good question. Was I? In half a decade, she was the longest company I'd kept. And the recipient of the longest dialogue as well. I settled for… "Sometimes. You?"

  "Sometimes."

  "What happened to you?" I asked only after a long period of quiet.

  "Bad relationship," she said, her lips pursed.

  "I'd say so. You were pretty banged up." I glanced at her again. She remained staring out the window.

  "Yeah..."

  "Want me to shoot him for you?" I lifted a brow at her.

  "Sounds good." She laughed a little bit. "You have a gun?"

  "Ex-cop here, remember?"

  "Oh, yeah. Have you ever shot anyone?" she asked, her attention returned to me.

  "Yeah, but not kill shots. We don't need much of that up here."

  "True." She sat up again, stretching out her legs. "How'd he die?"

  "Same way a lot of them died. IED took out their convoy." Answering her this time wasn't as difficult. "All I got back was his bloodied dog tags."