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File ruthenpress.info; Original TitleMud Vein; CreatorTarryn Fisher; Languageen; IdentifierMud Vein; PublisherTarryn. Two years ago, Billie Tarrow's husband left her for another woman. Shamed and divorced, Billie retreated to her family home in Port Townsend. Best Of Tarryn Fisher Labels: awesome, best books, Dirty Red, Epub Tarryn Colleen Hoover, Mud Vein, Opportunist, Romantic ebooks.
The Sociopath Chapter Twenty-Six: Seuss Chapter Twenty-Seven: Something Harder Chapter Twenty-Eight: Misfits Chapter Twenty-Nine: Little Fool Chapter Thirty: Fit Fig Chapter Thirty-One: Metallics Chapter Thirty-Two: Ryan's Lips Chapter Thirty-Three: Wink Wink Chapter Thirty-Four: Poem Chapter Thirty-Five: Win an Oscar Part Three: The Writer Chapter Thirty-Six: Bored Chapter Thirty-Seven: Strangler Chapter Thirty-Eight: Third Wheel Chapter Forty: Stalking the Stalker Chapter Forty-Three: Gamer Chapter Forty-Four: Snakes Chapter Forty-Five: The Dentist Chapter Forty-Six: Sociopath Chapter Forty-Seven: Genre Switch Chapter Forty-Eight: Parade Chapter Forty-Nine: Wink Chapter Fifty: Mona the Whore Chapter Fifty-One: Chapter One Acknowledgements The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately sick; who can understand it?
Jeremiah It fucking sucks. I feel resentful because I deserve it more than you do. I could be a better you, that's what it boils down to. I'm every woman; it's all in me. The little girl had blonde hair. When the wind blew, it rose around her head in a tickled cornsilk halo. I imagined I had hair like that as a child.
I wouldn't know because my mother was too busy working to take any pictures of me. Why have children if you don't have time to take pictures of them, you know?
Different day, different issue. Though, let it be known that my mother is a cunt. I lifted my phone and took a picture of the little girl mid-run, hair streaming behind her. It was the type of picture you had blown up and framed. I marveled at my eye for beauty. As soon as I saw her I woke up from a very long slumber, bones creaking, my heart beating with renewed strength.
I closed my eyes and thanked the universe for delivering this gift to me. Then I lifted my phone and took another picture of her because I wasn't going to be a shitty mother. It was her. I knew it.
All I'd wanted, all I'd hoped for. I was paralyzed as I watched her walk to a car with a tall, dark-haired woman. Was it the mother? A nanny, maybe? There were no shared features between them aside from their eye color-brown. But, then I heard the little girl call the woman Mommy, and I cringed ,,, wilted ,,, died.
She's not who you think she is, kiddo. I followed them home from the park in my white Ford Escape, freshly washed and gleaming-sticking out like a sore thumb. I was afraid it would draw attention and the mother would notice someone following them.
I overthink things, yes? My mind is like a computer with too many tabs left open.
I'm very clever, so there's that. Very smart people have lots of thoughts, but they're all brilliant thoughts. I calmed myself down by opening a tab of reason in my mind-most mothers didn't notice things, not the right things, anyway. They were too busy, too fixated on their offspring: They were too comfortable in the bubble of the modern world, if you asked me. Back in the day, mothers were afraid of everything: Now all everyone worries about is if there's too much high fructose corn syrup in their kid's juice box.
Get a grip, you know? Everyone is always getting salty about the wrong things. Assume there's a stranger following you home in a very clean, inconspicuous white SUV, assume you're raising a narcissist, assume in twenty years your kid will hate you because you didn't set up enough boundaries.
They stopped for gas, so I circled the block then waited in a parking lot next door, ready to pull out at a moment's notice. A homeless man knocked on my window while I tried to watch for their car. I gave him a dollar because I was in a very good mood, and also I wanted him to go away. I could see the mother from where I idled.
She re-latched the gas pump, her hair falling all over her face, and walked around to the driver's side. I slipped my car into drive and off we went. I wanted to see the father's hair, assuming she had one, of course. Nowadays anything went in regard to parenting: Nothing was the same as it used to be. Not that I was homophobic or anything, but it was unfair that the gays were being given babies and I was not.
When their car pulled into a driveway, I parked across the street, under a tree heavy with fat, pink cherry blossoms.
It was the time of year when the world was bright with life, all the new things peeking through after a hard winter. Except me. I'd watched the blossoms coming, knowing I was void of life, but that wasn't really my fault.
Humans were leeches, deserters. I felt lonely and isolated because there was no one like me. People said, find your tribe.
But, who was my tribe, and where were they? The small town girls I'd grown up with? The women in the office where I'd held my first job? Hell no. I'd accepted at a very young age that I'd be alone. I played with friends who only I could see, and as an adult most of my relationships were through the internet.
I watched as the mother unbuckled the sleeping girl from her car seat and lifted her to her hip. I felt a pang of jealousy, but then the child's head lolled off her shoulder, and I wanted to rush over and ,,, and what? Fix it? Take the child? I tsked behind the wheel at the oversight. Bad Mommy. Some people shouldn't have children. They lived in a grey brick Tudor, a mile from my own modest house.
What a coincidence! I added up the dates in my head again. Two years, two months, six days. Could this be the child? I felt certain it was, but there was always that nagging doubt. I'd seen a psychic after all the bad things happened. She told me that I'd stumble across the soul of my child one day, that I'd know it was her.
I'd imagined it so many times, seeing a teenager, an adult woman, I'd even imagined that she would be my nurse as I lay dying in the hospital of old age. I pulled a baggie of goldfish from my purse and began compulsively shoveling them in my mouth. I was about to doze off when a gold sedan pulled into the driveway at exactly six fifteen. No one is suspicious of gold sedans because only boring people drive them. People who don't have enough personality to go with, say a ,,, red, or white car.
They're the neutrals of society. The blenders. I tossed my baggie of goldfish on the passenger seat and sat up straight, dusting crumbs off my chin. A man got out. I squinted against the fading light to see his hair. It was too dark to see the color. Another example of daylight savings ruining lives. I considered getting out of the car, I could pretend to be taking a walk, maybe pull up outside the driveway and ask him for directions somewhere. No, I couldn't risk being seen. He held a briefcase in his hand, swinging it back and forth as he walked.
Was he whistling? Happiness in his shoulders, happiness on his lips, happiness in his step. None of what he's doing is real. I wanted to reach out and warn him that it'd all be taken from him one day. It's just the way of things. When he reached the porch, a light flickered on and I leaned forward in my seat. His hair was dark! Greys were probably starting to thread through his temples, but from here all I could see was the dark helmet of hair under the glowing yellow porch light.
I sat back, breathless. I was right. I pressed my fingertips against my eyes and started crying.
Wet, sorrowful tears leaked down my face and dripped onto my sweater. I was crying for what I lost, for what I'd never get to experience. I slid my fingers under my eyes to clear out the tears and watched as the door opened.
The woman threw her arms around his neck. They looked like the perfect family, like happiness came easily to them in their grey house. I could already tell she didn't deserve it. I touched my throat, made a little eh-eh sound before I continued. I feel ,,, connected. But, I'm not crazy. Was it because they were all so normal, so boring? I looked down at her shoes instead, also red.
She was like a little matchy-matchy dolly. It's like no one cared to have a little personality. I tapped my finger on my rose gold watch then reached up to finger the silver hoops in my ears. Maybe she'd notice and feel inspired. That's what life was all about. Making others want to be you.
That was the danger of seeing a therapist. They live really close. But convincing her to walk away from her heartache is proving more difficult than Satcher anticipated. Already have an account? Sign in. I remember, sign in. Most of our books are stored in elastic clouds, and traffic is expensive. So we have a limit on the number of downloads. If you want to increase this limit, your can make a donation:.
Donate Now. Search Home About Donate. But sometimes in the midst of heartache, hope suffocates the pain. Book Details File Name f-ck-marriage-by-tarryn-fisher. Title Page 2. Copyright 3. Dedication 4. Contents 5. Acknowledgments 9. Tarryn Fisher. Read Online Swipe version. Read Online Continuous version.