The Hawthorne Sentence

My implant says I’m a killer.

Sometimes I picture long fire red curls cascading down her bare shoulders; how they’d slip to reveal more of her and the black tattoo vine splitting her back into two lovely halves. I try not to remember how soothing and deep her voice was - the part of her that weakened me the most.

Yesterday, I ventured outside again, only after the kiss from a wet dog’s nose reminded me we’d been stuck inside my little apartment too long – nine days so far. We both required a small dose of sunshine. I don’t know why I chose this peculiar looking Pekinese, he proves to be more trouble than my old Rottweiler, Sammy. He shits on the floor and I refuse to give him a name; it’s a continuous and quiet loathing for each other. I suppose I should’ve just accepted being alone when they took Sammy (a new law prohibits us from having large dogs). I wasn’t given the luxury of knowing his final destination but I imagine he’s dead.

For six years I’ve done nothing but conjure feelings of disgust and hate from others.

My sister Jamie tried to support me for a couple of years. She stuck it out longer than most would have been able to, so I didn’t see it as a betrayal when she changed her name and moved to another state.

The first letter she sent me, under the name Tabitha Romilly and ten months after she’d fled, was layered with guilt and open apologies for having left before I had a chance to find a suitable place to live. The biggest danger of living on the streets is not harsh weather or even lack of food, but the nature of people to believe what they’re told. Her envelope had no return address.

I looked once more at her new identity, scribbled on the top left corner, and laughed; Tabitha. I was happy enough she didn’t feel the need to alter her last name. As long as she wasn’t Jamie Romilly – Seth’s sister – she would be free from public ridicule. But Tabitha? Tabitha was the object of her high school jealousy; a girl who made it a point to date any guy Jamie was interested in. The girl whose glaucous eyes were more original than Jamie’s green.

A picture fell onto the floor when I shook the envelope to make sure it was empty. I was taken aback by the formal wear she and the man next to her were dressed in. My stomach churned when the back of the picture informed me they would be married in the fall. It felt manipulative that she should not include the information in her letter. Her recently acquired, lackluster smile was joined by her fiancé’s trimmed red beard surrounding pristine white teeth. His grin was plastered smugly on his face as though he knew who I was and wanted me to know he was the only man in Jamie’s new life.

I foolishly anticipated an invitation but the season passed and the only thing in the mail was a letter and package from Tabitha Greene. In the poorly taped bundle was a blue leather photo album with pictures from the wedding and their honeymoon in Scotland. This time there were no apologies.

When she was a sweet sixteen beauty queen I was her quiet, twelve-year-old protector, or I believed myself to be. One particular night, resembling so many others, I stood fatefully in the hallway gripping the doorframe and peeked into her room as she made the final touches to her makeup. Through the mirror, she fixed me with a jade gaze behind loose strands of dull black hair — the color of inactive TV screens.

Then she laughed, “Don’t worry Seth. Robert’s a cool guy.”

She made sure her test laugh in the mirror suited her expectations and whirled around clenching her hairbrush.

“Actually, you’d probably get along with him! He dirt bikes too. I’ll see if he’ll let us watch him and his friends sometime.”

She pointed to her brown suede jacket while taking quick glances at herself in the mirror and tracing her partially opened lips with her fingers to make sure there was no excess gloss. Clutching her warmth of choice, the harsh odor awakening my senses, I handed it to her gingerly as though I were handing her to Robert.

Jamie would often smile at me when I watched her fix her hair and bend down to kiss me on the top of my head. Then she’d laugh and use her thumb to wipe off the lipstick, “Sorry squirt.” Her affection didn’t bother me; she was more than a sister. She was my surrogate mother and she was beautiful.

I regain my former fear as I descend the first flight of steps, clutching onto the cold, chain leash to stay alert. My Pekinese yelps at each space between the next set of stairs to hurry me along. My heart is pounding, my muscles tense in anticipation of the inevitable pain that accompanies every trip outside.