Free Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 by Happy Hour of the Damned Page A

away your daddy, didn’t you?”
    Ethel dumped my father in a whirlwind of china shards and chilly barbs about scabrous floozies and infantile earnings. I braced myself in a doorjamb and waited for the earthquake of foot stomping. My mother wore a crisp housedress patterned with black roses, the perfect choice. It said so much, her demeanor, her thorns, and that heady perfume she wore: Evil by Satan.
    Mr. Shutter was replaced. Ethel took up with a horse-faced financier named Asher Fable, who lived up to his name on both counts. Ash, as Ethel renamed him, turned out to be a low-level con man with ties to the old Vegas mob. So the money, too, was a fairy tale. The ashy part was too, too true. I found this out after a cocktail party, which left Ethel passed out on the davenport, her arm draped unapologetically over the squared-off pillows. An extinguished cigarette held its burnt cargo for the full two and half inches, ready to drop and gray the shag, but had stamina. At least that wasn’t true of Ash. He crawled into my bed that night and fondled me with hands that had never seen moisturizer.
    I was twelve.
    The therapists that my mother gathered to deal with the situation were the first positive men in my life. It’s probably why I’m drawn to them, now. If anything the whole experience made me resilient, and, only a smidge bitter. I didn’t need to be around people.
    I became a loner. I carried this into my adult years. Don’t get me wrong; I was social, when it suited me. I accumulated very few friends, but plenty of glommers. So cutting people out of my life would be a quick process.
    Martin .
    He would be the only real loss. My family was better left in the dark about my present condition. I hadn’t spoken to Ethel since high school graduation, anyway. That exchange had gone like this (I’m paraphrasing):
    “Why couldn’t you wear the pearls I left out for you?” Ethel’s lips pursed in perpetual disappointment.
    “Why couldn’t you use your big-girl words and ask?”
    “Look.” Mother pointed across the courtyard to Stickgirl, the only anorexic in our class that had managed to avoid inpatient treatment. “Your friend Andrea looks so nice in that silk dress.”
    “Yeah. Like a praying mantis. What are you trying to say?”
    “Oh, nothing.” Ethel turned to snatch a glass of champagne off a passing tray.
    “C’mon. Spill it,” I demanded.
    “Just that you could look nice, if you tried.”
    I clenched my jaw, and fists.
    Right about then she grabbed me, spun me around and embraced me for a photo op. Rocky Kornblatt, her latest bunk-buddy had a thing for 35mm cameras—collected them, or something. The result: an expression on my face somewhere between startled from sleep and saying “alfalfa” rather than “cheese”. My mother looked adorable, straight from a Disney movie—only this Mary Poppins came with shark teeth, standard.
    This was totally representative of our interaction. Her: flippant and denigrating. Me: angry and defensive. I couldn’t take it anymore; I was packed and gone before Ethel made it home from one of my own friend’s graduation parties.
    As you can see, severing ties with Mother wasn’t going to be a problem. We didn’t have a relationship, anyway. Certainly, nothing any normal person would call loving. Dad was outtie, who knew where he’d settled. Ash was long gone, which was too bad, really. I’d like to think I could sort him out, in my present condition.
    Which brings me back to Martin.
    What to do with Martin?
    I walked alone through the city streets, taking notice of the dark places and individuals and creatures that were never visible before the change. A romantic couple in the sloppy throes of passion became a vampire sucking his struggling victim dry. A stray dog reared up on its hind legs, stretched to the height of a burly lumberjack, and howled at a moon hidden by heavy clouds. A zombie roamed the streets, with sluggish tired feet, but sexy-ass heels.
    I