Epilogue #2
I opened the door and stepped out, eyeing the broken-down trailer we were parked in front of. It looked like it was one good breeze from falling apart. There were no roads, houses, or anything to speak of for miles. Completely isolated, it was just that cigarette-stained rectangle and… Clint.
“Home sweet home!” he yelled, slamming the door behind him as he tossed my bag out of the car. It came to a rolling stop at the foot of the trailer. Clint pulled the door open then took a step back. Like an old-time gentleman, he waved me into his hovel.
“After you princess,” he said, his smile looking malicious in the dim evening light. Hesitantly, I climbed inside taking a few steps in so I could fully survey the surroundings.
The smell hit me first; musty and sour, like moldy towels and old beer.
There was trash littering every surface, the floor covered in mysteriously colored rugs, coated in dust and cigarette ash.
The vinyl of the counters was peeling in so many spots that it was hard to tell what color it was meant to be.
“This is where the magic happens.” Clint held a velvet curtain back, revealing a dark enclosed nook in the back of the space, the bed taking up all the real estate.
The windows were covered with faded red velour curtains, and I could barely make out the leopard print sheets in the waning light of the room behind me.
I saw Clint staring at me, monitoring my reaction, and I gave him a smile. Whatever I could muster.
“What about the bathroom? I really need to freshen up… I want to feel clean. Before we’re together. For you…” I batted my lashes, pretended to be embarrassed, when in reality my skin was starting to itch the longer I was in that dark room, the bordello curtains and cheap sheets smothering me.
“Sure, baby. Although, I don’t mind a little bit of dirty,” he said, giving me what I assumed was a wink. It looked more like a tic or spasm, but I hid my reaction. He pressed a sloppy kiss to my mouth, and I tried my best to relax, to not give in to the gags crawling up my throat.
The shower was nothing more than a small closet over a drain, but I made do.
I just needed to readjust my plan. We weren’t married yet.
Yes, the conditions of my parole tied me to that location, but I could make the best of it.
No rent to pay. I could start putting some money together, get out of there as soon as I can.
The weak pressure of the water was barely enough to wash away any of my anxiety, but at least I felt like I had a plan. I could pivot. I could make this work. Adapt, evolve—that’s what I had learned, after all.
A week into living with Clint and we had a routine, of sorts—or at least, I began to adhere to the one that Clint wanted.
“Now, I got you those clothes, I’m keeping a roof over your head.
The least you can do is keep this place clean.
Make us some nice meals with those groceries I’m paying for.
” Clint didn’t want a wife. He wanted a housekeeper, a mother, a wife, and a breadwinner.
I found that out when he came home barely two weeks later with some good news.
“Got you a job at the liquor store. $8 an hour and a 15% discount on anything in the store. You start tomorrow,” he told me. No asking, no debate.
“What? But what about your job? How will I get there?” Clint only had one car—something he had neglected to mention during our communication.
When he left for work, I was stranded out there, with over seventeen miles to the next house, not to mention more than fifty to town.
I was isolated, nothing to do and no way to do it. How was I supposed to work every day?
“I’ll drive you and take you home. The store’s a block away from the factory. We’re leaving at quarter to seven tomorrow. Best not be late.”
Men. This was where I had always failed; my biggest blind spot and biggest downfall.
I thought I was in control, that I was the one pulling the strings.
They always came out on top, though, and I was the one left behind.
This was the true meaning of karma; standing in the dilapidated rust bucket in the middle of nowhere, knowing I had no one to blame but myself.
A year later, I found myself still stuck in that trailer in the middle of nowhere, but even with limited resources, I could make chicken salad out of chicken shit.
...Clint tricked me, conned me into thinking he would take care of me, only to lock me into being his mother maid and wife.
So, now, I steal his money every month and fuck his boss three times a week.
Someday I’ll get out. My coffee can had $8,500 dollars in it.
Only three years left on parole…then I would disappear.
The world was my oyster, with plenty of towns and cities to start over in.
New opportunities, new conquests. It was all just another con to get me to the next stretch of what my life had become.
Maxwell
Women were my downfall. Behind every public humiliation I had to endure, stood the women responsible. My mother, Natalia, Sophie. If it weren’t for them, I never would have wound up in the situation I had found myself in.
The world used to be mine. Any door opened for me, anything I wanted—anyone I wanted was easily claimed. Now, I was ostracized like some leper, banished from the town I spent my entire life in because of the whims and accusations of everyone around me.
I went to prison! Because of Natalia! I never would have attacked Sophie if it weren’t for her, but no one wanted to listen to me.
“You paid Lindsey to come back from Los Angeles to assist you in a plan to isolate and coerce a conversation out of your ex wife. That shows premeditation,” my lawyer informed me, as if any of it made a difference. I pled guilty to a Class C felony, hoping I’d get out after the minimum five years.
Prison wasn’t kind to me; unlike in the corporate world, I didn’t have anything credible to stand on when I was locked up.
No money to my name, no visitors to put on the list or people to call.
The only person I spoke to regularly was my lawyer, who was handling both my divorce and criminal case.
He was bleeding me dry, taking the little I was left with after decades of work.
Forced out of the company and cut off financially, any money I made from selling my shares back were already gone. Keeping quiet and making myself smaller was the only way I got through those years. I didn’t speak, but that didn’t mean my thoughts were quiet.
Everything that had happened in the last decade played on a loop inside my head.
Each night I laid awake on the thin cot, fast forwarding and rewinding the events like my memory was a VHS.
The years of analysis left me with one thought; it wasn’t my fault.
This started with my mother, fueled by Natalia - I never had a chance!
Natalia was locked away, and the only contact I desired was her signature on the divorce documents.
Mother had fled town before my sentencing was even finalized.
Last I heard, her latest husband left her for a younger woman, taking the last of her funds with him.
Keeping my nose clean, kowtowing to power hungry guards and restraining my thoughts and comments finally paid off. I got out after six long years.
Forced to stay in the same state, but in a much different place, my life felt like a bad dream.
Like I had crossed into an alternate universe and was now living the life of an evil twin.
I refused to go anywhere near the people from my past life.
I wasn’t ready for them to see me. Not like that, when I was just a husk of a person, trying to put together some semblance of the life I once had.
It has only been an uphill climb since then. With my record, both criminal and personal, no one would hire me. Once the CEO of a million-dollar company, I was now working as a nameless middle man, living in a one-bedroom apartment in a rundown area of the city.
Most nights were spent slurping ramen noodles as I hid behind my computer screen, using anonymity to escape the baggage that came with my old name. Working remote jobs for companies in different countries that didn’t care what I did in my past life.
Jail was not a place I wanted to return to, but this life wasn’t one I ever expected to live.
It wasn’t that people were outright cruel.
I wasn’t hated or harassed. I was… nothing.
No one cared about me, when I went away, or when I got out.
They pass me on the street without a second look.
My generic clothes and used car blend in with the masses around me.
Dating was a fruitless endeavor. Without the allure of my family name and the money behind it, I realized just how little I had to offer women.
My looks were good enough, but didn’t make up for my dinky apartment and the mattress on the floor.
And definitely not enough to make them stay long enough for me to sort my shit and not have a complete fucking breakdown anytime I tried to get laid.
Because if all of this wasn’t enough, I was broken in more ways than one.
Everything from that awful night haunted me.
The way it tore my life apart in every direction, something I still haven’t reconciled.
When I was finally released from prison, in my mind, there were some basic pressing needs.
A hot shower, a clean bed, and the company of a woman after years without.
The first two were already a done deal; my lawyer had rented an apartment for me so I had a place of my own when I got out. After a shower and shave, I headed out.