Love Thy Neighbor Read online

  Love Thy Neighbor

  by

  Janna Dellwood

  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, locations, organizations, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 by Janna Dellwood

  Licensing Notes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

  Love is not blind, it just sees things differently. It sees more clearly. In the end, it sees only truth.

  Chapter 1

  The rumbling, quaking sound of a diesel engine interrupted Janna's sleep but did not wake her. She stirred in her bed, nonetheless, her long dark hair splayed across the pillow and sheets and some of her face.

  Whatever large truck that mean motor belonged to—it squealed to a stop right outside and ran idle for a moment before being extinguished by the turn of a driver's hand.

  The sound of doors opening, closing, and stuff being moved outside, pulled her from the deep depths of darkness. She did not stir, but R.E.M. sleep was gone, had fluttered away with the beginnings of a dream she would never know. Uuug!

  Lastly, the loud voices tore her from all relaxation, any chance of sleeping in. She was up, moaning, annoyed and uncomfortable.

  Janna knew she didn't need to sleep in, anyway. She slept in every day as is, waking when most working stiffs were stuffing their faces with lunch. Then again, the thirty-one-year-old woman had no job, no responsibilities, no boyfriend, no life. What was there to wake up to? The poster of David Beckham hanging on her closet door? (Sure, until you get bored of seeing the same pose and expression for the millionth time). The house that was so quiet it seemed ear-numblingly loud? The many empty rooms which had not been frequented for years? Not hardly.

  The noises.... the voices outside. They made her curious. There were two of them, both male, both possessing a sharp southern accent. Someone was probably moving into the house across the street. Finally. After two lengthy seasons. The place had not been occupied for the past five months, despite the hoards of people who'd taken walkthroughs. The grass around the premises was knee-high now; the For Sale sign was bent, discolored, dirty and looked years old.

  Getting lazily out of bed, Janna stumbled across the room toward the window that overlooked Smith Street, a narrow, paved one-way that was perhaps the most boring, uneventful street in the U.S. With a finger, she pulled down a slat from the blinds and peered out. The dying leaves of an oak somewhat blocked her view of the action, but through some swaying, rust-colored foliage she could see two black men struggle to carry a large cider chest from the back of a Uhaul. One man looked sixty, his short, puffy hair like the end of a Q-tip. The other looked eighteen, his head clean shaven and covered with tribal tattoos. They barely got the chest down the ramp. Once they did, they paused to take a rest.

  “Yeah, Mike, sucker weighs a ton. Gettin' too old for this shit, buddy,” she heard the old one say.

  “Aww, come on, Quin. You've lifted heavier than this before, for a much longer time.”

  “Yeah, a few years ago. Time catches up with you, believe me. Just be glad you're young.”

  Was this God talking to her? Sending her a subliminal message? Janna thought. Was She saying, “Fall in love and get married and have kids before you can't anymore? Start your life before you die an old hag, alone, depressed and bitter?” Or was it her paranoid mind saying these things with no relevance to the truth?

  I am so desperate.

  She waited for the neighbors to show themselves. Either they weren't here yet or were already inside. Was it a family? A couple? Another elderly person to add to the already ten thousand on Smith Street? A cute, single guy?

  Yeah, right. Very desperate.

  The chances were slim, of course. For all she knew, the person who was moving in could have been the next Jeffrey Dahmer.

  It could have been a priest.

  It could have been anybody.

  But pondering over it, if anything, sure was fun and exciting.

  Brushing her thoughts aside, Janna ran to the bathroom to rid herself of the several ounces of Mountain Dew still flowing through her system since last night. Relieved, she went downstairs to toast a couple of waffles which she ate on her living room couch while watching the Price is Right, her favorite game show. Plinko was her favorite game. She could watch those chips slide down into that pegged board and bounce around a hundred times, and it would always thrill her. The only better thrill would be to actually win the grand prize of fifty thousand dollars while playing it.

  An overweight woman spun the wheel—quite powerfully—and stepped back to watch, hoping she struck gold. Numbers came, went and repeated, all a blur. Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep! It took a while for the wheel to slow down, to return to its original position. Beep. Beep... beep..... beep..... The marker eventually came to stop on: 100. The woman opened her big flap in shocking glee. “You've won a thousand dollars, Jenna!” Drew Carey said.

  Janna almost choked on her last bite of waffle. For a second, she thought Drew had spoken directly to her through the TV. Maybe God really was trying to tell her to get her life in gear—to start a life, period.

  Easier said than done.

  Easier said than done.

  Janna had been leading an easy life for the last nine years. Of those nine, what had she done?

  Little to nothing.

  Between the two, the word nothing stuck out more prominently—like a beacon flashing her dawdling attitude and incompetent qualities over and over again.

  Janna set down her plate—sticky with blueberry syrup—exhausted. When you had nothing going on, sleep became an almost unbidden necessity. It killed the boredom, the time, the emptiness.

  Another dream began to manifest as soon as her mind turned off.

  It wasn't anything new or scarcely pleasing. Her ex, Ben Jillipi, who had the face of a puppy but the temper of a pit bull, cursed at her and cut her apart with his usual inelegant choice of words. The young man was constantly paranoid, constantly on a power trip, destination: me-me-me.

  “I wanna know the truth, dammit!” he shouted.

  “I'm telling you the truth, Ben,” Janna heard herself say. This fight had taken place back in the run-down apartment on Coax Avenue, nearly ten years ago. Still, every detail, every memory of the place (from the color of the walls to the way the sun shined in through the windows) and the argument (or argumentS—there were a hundred of them), felt fresh, very recent in her mind.

  “I'm not seeing him, Ben. Why would I? We're engaged. I'm supposed to marry you next month!”

  “You say it like you're obligated.” He raised his raspy voice. “Do you want to marry me? Really? You dress like... like that, and go out when you're supposed to be here and do things for me.”

  “What, I'm not allowed to have a life outside of you?”

  Ben, a five-foot-nine mechanic who always smelled of grease and cherry chewing tobacco, stuck his flushed face an inch from hers. His lips were pursed, his nostrils flaring, his eyes open in a way as if to say, You bitch, I will kill you!

  “What do you think marriage is?” he shouted. “Why do they call it ball in chain? I spent 2200 bucks for that ring on your finger. So, no, you're not supposed to have a life outside of me.”

  “Newsflash! I do!”

  Janna didn't see his hand flying toward her face—she expected it but didn't see it—until it already made contact.

  Smack!

  Her right cheek burned from the impact. Fou
r red lines stood out. Tears filled her eyes, but she didn't turn away from him. It was not the first he'd struck her; yet, every time he did something like this, it was always surprising, even when she knew it was coming. Maybe it was in every man's nature? Maybe it was supposed to be tolerated? Maybe it was somehow her fault? No matter the reason, Janna figured she could calm him down, tame him.

  Eventually.

  Eventually had been what? Two years?

  Nothing had changed.

  And Ben wasn't the first guy to smack her, either.

  There had been two others, three out of three boyfriends.

  Heath Headler had broken her nose during their short time together.

  Masson Sprike had knocked out two of her molars.

  Janna had told nobody about any of these instances, not even her parents. She'd lied and told them her nose got broke while playing basketball; that her teeth had gotten knocked out during a scuffle with another girl at school.

  “Go ahead, Ben, hit me again if you like! That's what I am to you, isn't it? A punching bag you can use whenever you want? Something to vent your anger out on. Well, if you want to marry me, I demand you treat me right! You hit me once more, this whole thing is off!”

  Janna had lost count of how many times she had said that to him.

  And his eyes, like so many times before, took on their oh well I really didn't mean to, I'll never do it again appearance. He hugged her, she half-hugged him back, and they cried in each other's arms. The teenage boy apologized for his outburst; the teenage girl apologized for aggravating him. Never did the girl believe his apology. She sincerely meant hers.

  Even though she had no idea what to be sorry about.

  “It's okay, honey,” Ben said, stroking her hair. “I love you, no matter what.”

  Does he—did he ever really?

  Janna doubted it. A week after that fight, she'd caught him humping her best friend. That was the straw that broke the camel's back, the catalyst strong enough to make her call the whole engagement off.

  ***

  Three hard knocks on the front door woke her an hour later. The disheartening feelings of the dream still lingered as she got up, scuffed across the floor in her bare feet, and looked through the peephole to see who the heck it could be. Probably Aunt Laura—that's the only person she saw on a regular basis. But her? Today? Normally she'd be at work.

  It wasn't her at all. It was the UPS guy, his face greatly exaggerated by the peephole.

  Janna, her face flushing from embarrassment, opened the door. She hoped to God the package he had in his hand didn't have a logo on it that gave away its contents. It could only be one thing.

  “Hello, Miss, here you go,” the dark-complected man in the crap-brown suit said.

  The first thing she did was examine the package as thoroughly as she could—before he handed it to her. To her relief, there was only her name and address on the small box, and no great pronouncement which screamed: Vibrator! Vibrator! The company had sent it discreetly, just as advertised.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking the box.

  He nodded, turned, and jogged down the steps back to his truck.

  At the very least, Janna thought, she could always dream and imagine and pretend—that's what the vibrator was for. If you couldn't play with somebody else, you could always play with yourself. Just as single men used their hands, women had fingers, too. Now she had pleasure in the form of an adult toy for only 39.99. Better to use it before the juices dried up.

  —These enticing thoughts scattered, broke, and disintegrated when she looked east, toward Elm. Halfway down the block, she saw two teenagers—a fit boy in athletic apparel and a thin girl in a tie dye T-shirt—walking hand in hand, smiling, kissing, talking, laughing.

  Happy. They were happy teens in love.

  Janna had not been happy, a teen, or in love for a long time. The enclosed vibrator in hand hand suddenly meant nothing. No sex toy compensated for a real man. No sex toy took the place of warmth, of communication. All a sex toy did was trigger a physical response. They didn't talk to you, hold you, or tell you you're beautiful.

  Yet, then again, what man did that?

  Why couldn't she have what those teenagers had? Why couldn't someone kiss her on the cheek like that?

  Maybe she wasn't worthy of such a type of guy.

  Perhaps she was meant for abusers, liars, cheaters and losers.

  Maybe she was below them, even.

  Nine years without a guy was eating her alive, breaking her heart, swallowing her in an ocean of hopelessness and loneliness. Nine years was a long time not to be loved and cared for. God had made men for women and women for men. The two were supposed to be together—even human anatomy proved that via Sex Ed in school.

  Janna closed the door, tossed the package on the floor, and slid down the wall, crying. Would the heartache ever go away if she never met somebody? Or would she one day be reduced to a middle-age woman with frizzy gray hair who hoarded cats and became the bitter weird lady on Smith Street?

  Only time would tell. Unfortunately, time would run out for her to bear children. It would also make her more undesirable in the years to come.

  Chapter 2

  The name of her vibrator: Orgasmic Delight. Yes, just another cheesy, laughable title for the many sex toys that create an experience both serious and pleasurable.

  For over a decade she had been using her fingers, sometimes (but not often) produce: cucumbers, carrots, zucchinis. After they came to room temperature, of course. At age seventeen she masturbated with a cold cucumber and thought her privates had nearly frozen shut. After that, she made sure whatever she stuck in her love canal was warm.

  Orgasmic Delight was over seven inches long, flesh colored—it looked like a real penis—with a girth of almost three inches. And, boy, did it do the job—way better than fingers or produce. As far as she could remember, it felt like the real thing when it was inside her, but the real thing was a distant memory. She had lost her virginity to Ben—he was the only guy she'd had sex with—and had only slept with him twice, back when hormones raged and judgment failed. At the ripe age of twenty-two, she hadn't been ready. Nor was she really ready now. The thought of having sex with a guy both fascinated and frightened her.

  Janna must have stuck her vibrator in and out of her body a few thousand times that day; but sadly, ever time she came, it only reminded her that it was just a toy, a piece of rubber without life or soul behind its fake, invisible thrust.

  Sleep took her early that night, into its cold, dark arms and into oblivion where life was much more tolerable. The place where she thought she belonged.

  ***

  A car horn—sharp and whiny—woke her at 11:22 the next morning.

  She sat up, her hair in messy tangles, and looked toward the window, to the bothersome sound. Why must you beep?

  It honked again, shorter in duration. What followed was a laugh, a male laugh. An attractive-sounding male laugh. The kind you might hear from a heartthrob such as Russell Crowe. The kind that makes you get out of bed even if you're tired as hell.

  Throwing the covers aside, Janna got up, glided across the hardwood, and drew back the blinds. There were two people, a guy and a girl, carrying things from a white Honda and into the house across the street.

  Womp-womp-woooooomp!

  -The Price is Right loser sound echoed through her head. Her heart instantly deflated.

  A couple. A damned couple. Why does it have to be a couple? Why can't it be my knight in shining armor?

  Then again, she couldn't tell what the guy looked like; she could just barely make out that it was a man. For all she knew, he could have looked like the Toxic Avenger, ugly and deformed and like fire ants on the eyes.

  I wanna see him even IF he IS married!

  Janna didn't remember hurrying out of her bedroom, rounding the banister, or descending the steps in one airless scuttle. Door. Knob. Twist. Pull. Warm air brushed against her face. The sunlight made he
r squint.

  She peered across the street. Her pulse increased, her soul burned, and her heart felt like it deflated again when she saw him. He took a box out of the trunk, carried it toward the now occupied house.

  Oh. My. God!

  Breathtaking.

  He was a pleasantly-scruffy, six-foot-tall hottie with lean muscles, bright-blue eyes—the color of Maui water—and curved, parenthesis-like dimples below his apple-shaped cheeks. His hair, part light brown and part dark brown, was shaggy, covering his head in waves. Stubble coated his face well, enough to make him look adventurous without making him look unkempt. The box he was carrying must have been heavy, because it made those biceps, triceps, and shoulders of his really pop through the fabric of his tight-fitting shirt.

  Janna wondered if she was drooling on herself, if her loins had exploded in a burst of... Orgasmic Delight.

  Was the man across the street a mirage? A figment of her unbridled imagination?

  Never, not once in her lifetime, had she had feelings for a guy this fast, based on looks alone.

  He blew her away. He blew every guy she'd ever seen away.

  Was this love at first sight? The fable that teenagers believed and adults dismissed as lust?

  No, this went deeper than that. Had to. Janna felt a connection to him within only seconds. She wanted to know everything about him, every detail abo—

  The woman...

  Janna forgot all about the woman, his darling wife.

  I could just claw her eyes out!

  The petite blonde, who was probably on a rector scale of an eleven in a man's eyes, stepped outside and went to the car to get some more things. She had big boobs, a cheerleader's face, an hourglass figure.

  I can't compete with that, with her...

  Janna's stomach churned, and a thousand negative thoughts—I'm ugly I'm fat I'm no good I'm a mess I'm worthless No guy could ever want me I'm dirt I'm meant to be alone I'm—circled through her mind like that flashing beacon had done earlier. Except this was much worse. These corrupt thoughts consequently led to one of the worst anybody could ever contemplate: suicide. The permanent solution to all her problems. Maybe, just maybe, she'd be better off dead; at least then she wouldn't have to deal with these desolate feelings anymore. The consistent pain would forever go away, forever begone. She wouldn't have to worry about anything ever again.