Welcome to Hell: Rediscovering First Love

  Welcome to Hell: Rediscovering First Love

  By

  Lee Wardlow

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 by Lee Wardlow. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, redistribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  Dedication

  My mom and dad and my daughter Caitlin, you inspire everything that I do…

  Chapter One

  Close your eyes. Maybe he won’t realize you’re awake?

  The morning air was supposed to be brisk according to last nights’ weather report but the sun’s beams of light sent warmth through my bedroom window just to the right of the bed. Narrowing my eyes against the pain in my head I pretended to be asleep. It was supposed to rain today but I won’t complain about the weatherman missing this forecast. Outside was sunny as could be right now. Maybe the rain would be coming later? A severe sinus headache pounding like a jackhammer in my forehead had kept me from sleeping most of the night. A good indication rain was somewhere on the horizon.

  I opened my eyes squinting in time to see my husband’s bare ass as James walked towards his bathroom. His bareness once a delicious sight to behold held no appeal to me anymore even though his ass was firm and hard. Maybe I was dead from the waist down now? A nice ass belonging to a shit of a man. I hated the man that ass belonged to. Hate was really a strong word. Dislike was more like it. Distaste. Grown weary of. Desperate to get away from. Wanted to leave. Scared of? Why? Enough! I screamed to my inner voice. Just stop!

  He caught me. He knew that I was awake. Might as well get out of bed. When he observed the pained expression as I slipped from beneath the thick, down blankets covering me he scowled.

  “Do you think you can still manage to pick up my shirts today,” he snapped. No sympathy there. Fuck you too asshole my inner voice said to him. Something I couldn’t say out loud. Fearing his wrath.

  What a way to start the morning? James slipped into his heavy, velour robe covering his thickly muscled and naked body. Thank you God. I didn’t want to see it anyway. Been there. Done that.

  “Make the bed,” he barked before slamming the solid oak door behind him.

  As if I would break James’ rule number one…all beds in the Ellerton household are made before your feet have a chance to get chilled from the shiny-not a scratch-oak-perfectly-polished-hardwood floors. The sound of water flowing from the faucet into the claw-foot porcelain tub followed by a hiss as he turned on the shower let me know I had exactly twenty minutes before he would be out once again bothering me with his presence. James was precise in his morning routines. He never wavered from them. A twenty minute shower every morning not one second more or less prior to shaving. OCD ass.

  James insisted there was something the doctors could do for my chronic sinus condition. A doctor had performed outpatient surgery on my pesky nasal passages which had helped but had not completely gotten rid of the condition. Nasal sprays with topical steroids and saline sprays. All alleviated the symptoms but the inflammation never completely went away.

  Bending over the bed I pulled the silky, pale baby blue, Egyptian cotton sheets up and smoothed them with my shaky hands fighting back the urge to vomit from the throbbing pain in my head. The hospital corners make the sheets and blankets stay in place throughout the night. Oh God. My inner voice kept hearing James telling me over and over how to make the bed.

  “Makes my life easier,” I said to no one else, the room empty. But he didn’t need to know that particular fact. Oh hell no, he did not.

  James had taught me how to make the bed the way his mother had taught him; the way that he wanted it made now that he actually had a wife. I swear if he could screw his mother he would not need me.

  Before James, it was rare that I had made a bed. Who actually makes their bed unless you have a maid or housekeeper to do it for you? I wondered. There was always something more important than what the sheets and comforter looked like after climbing out of bed in a rush to start the day. Who really cared? I was just going to climb between the crisp, clean sheets tonight. Making the bed tidy is much easier than listening to James nag the hell out of me so I made the damned bed. I did it to avoid confrontation the way I avoided all the many other things in life that required a confrontation with James.

  Across the hall, in my own bathroom I took two sinus tablets from the hand-made, medicine cabinet hanging over the white porcelain sink. Separate bathrooms you ask? James couldn’t tolerate the curling iron, blow dryer, shampoos and other womanly things I required cluttering his bathroom. OCD, remember?

  Then, I started my usual routine. Face washed, moisturizer applied and my hair definitely needed brushing. Dark curls were flying everywhere about my face with a mind of their own, before I took a comb to them.

  In my mirror I could see James’ face, nose wrinkled in disgust, eyes more squinty than usual hiding the piercing icy blueness of his irises, “Can’t they thin your hair?” He had actually asked this once when I had returned from the salon.

  “At least I have all of my hair,” I replied meanly to the image of my husband that I saw in the mirror not that I would actually say that if he really were standing there. I didn’t have the balls. I had lost my cojones. I needed to grow a pair as my teenage daughter would say.

  James’s hair was thinning at the crown of his head. There was a perfect circle of missing hair the only imperfection on a nearly perfect specimen of man. Charm? The man had it in spades when he wanted to use it. It was like living with Sybil and her multiple personalities. You never knew which James you were going to get when you climbed out of bed and I was damned tired of his mood swings.

  I threw on some old jeans, the seat nearly white from wearing them so much and a plain lime green, long-sleeved, snug-fitting, tee shirt. The color looked good against my skin and dark hair. In the kitchen, the only room in the house that had been mine to decorate I began by making breakfast for Keegan. My daughter left for school long before James left for work.

  The kitchen, my room was painted Navajo White above a chair rail that encompassed the massive kitchen. The bottom half was painted Fired Brick Red. There was warmth in this room that was opposite of the starkness of the remainder of the house, which was painted screaming, ready-for-the-asylum bland, no color, white. I found towels of matching red color and a contrasting burnt orange plus some with a fading sun behind trees in an apple orchard hung from the handle of the stainless steel, expensive stove James had purchased. This was the only room in my dream home that was completely mine. Reluctantly he had given up control of the kitchen to me.

  Everything that I had ever wanted had been at my fingertips waiting for me to grab hold. James had bought the large, old farmhouse with five bedrooms for us to fill with children. The children would keep me busy while he was working. Keegan and I had horses, beautiful Arabian mares that were cared for lovingly sheltered in the two-story perfectly painted red barn not more than 100 yards from the house. As a child, my parents had provided riding lessons and I had always dreamed of having horses of my own. I had it all but I had nothing at the same time but Keegan and the horses.

  The hope of keeping me barefoot and pregnant became another disappointment on the James and Gabrielle laundry list of failures. James’s low sperm count left us unable to conceive. We had discussed in-vitro which might have increased our chances but I had balked. After one year of marriage to James I found myself wondering what the hell I had done. Why hadn’t I seen his controll
ing behavior? Why hadn’t I see the pure meanness of the man’s dark soul?

  The last five years of my life has been fantasizing about how to get away from him. The prospect of returning to Hell my hometown with my tail between my legs was not the future I had envisioned for myself just yet. I was staying put in this version of hell with James as the gatekeeper.

  Hell was where I had first met James. He had walked into the plant where I worked as a secretary to the plant manager. My hometown of Hell, Michigan where a placard painted in crimson with gothic, bold black letters greeted visitors with the words, Welcome to Hell. Hell is where Yancy Dawson, my mother still lives in the same old Victorian home her mother lived as a child.

  The stately Victorian rests on two acres of land just on the outskirts of Hell in what is known as Hell Creek where The Creaky Bones Motel is home to many tourists visiting the oddly named town. Winding, country roads lead into and out of town. Blink and you will miss the actual town of five hundred more or less local residents.

  Jack Dawson, my Pop mows every inch of every acre on every Thursday of the month, with his old John Deere riding lawnmower. Riding that lawnmower is the only place the man has any peace from my crazy ass mother.

  The house built in the late 1800’s is now covered by white vinyl siding with fiberglass black painted shutters adorning the twelve windows that face the front of the house, four windows on each floor of the house. Even the wrought iron fence that had rusted through in sections was now replaced with black, plastic fencing with latticework to look like the original iron one.

  The town is a small town, populated with second and third generation residents. My family had lived in Hell since 1895 when my ancestor arrived there by accident so the story goes. Great-Great, Grandpa Yates had gotten lost while traveling with his wife to Mackinaw Island. Mackinaw is due north of Detroit traveling by car for hours, which Great-Great Grandpa Yates didn’t have at that time. He had been traveling by horse. Hell is due west of Detroit. The Yates’ aren’t known for their sense of direction.

  He and his wife had liked the charming, modest town with the small country store and the old mill on Hell Creek. They put down roots and decided to raise their family in Hell. Together, they built a small bank in the heart of the town of Hell, which remained in my family until one of the national banks bought it from my grandfather before he retired.

  Granddad had stayed on helping them to maintain the relationships he had worked so hard to build. The bank was as important to Granddad as one of his children and the decision to sell had been a difficult one for him.

  There are accepted theories about how a town comes to be named Hell and then there is legend as to why the townspeople in 1841 chose the moniker of Hell. The townspeople are known as, Hellions or Hellbillies, which explains why most young Hellions don’t remain in Hell. Who would want to be known as a Hellbilly? I and my sisters had always preferred to be known as Hellions. Wouldn’t you?

  The town of Hell is up and coming because of its name, not fast enough for the young forced to work in the parks and recreation areas near the many lakes that surround the town or at previously mentioned The Creaky Bones Motel or one of the other establishments of the town.

  When one hundred Harleys ride into Hell to celebrate Halloween or some other satanic themed event the older residents who live near or actually in the town think it too fast. “We’re getting too damned much publicity,” they can be heard to grumble over the roar of hogs screaming on the narrow roads of Hell. I personally had loved the Harleys.

  There is a small country family-owned grocery store in town. The store belongs to the husband of my older sister Michaela. The Barber Shop, which my father’s father once owned is next door to the country store. Grandfather Dawson also sold his business when his son decided not to become a barber and there is a supposedly haunted tavern owned by my best friend Izzy’s father called Paddy’s.

  Then there is the small manufacturing plant where I had been employed. The plant employs the majority of Hell’s citizens plus many from the surrounding areas, when the height of tourist season is not in full bloom and work isn’t plenty. There is always the plant but it too is struggling, making textiles dumping waste into Hell Creek.

  Where better to make Halloween costumes, accessories and decorations than in Hell, Michigan? A Halloween factory fit in with the towns’ ice cream parlor, Ice Screams. All your favorite and unusual flavors. Who better than to take me out of Hell? What the hell had I been thinking?

  My name is Gabrielle Dawson Ellerton. Gabby to my friends. Gabrielle to James my husband and to Yancy Dawson my mother the other controlling person in my life but I prefer Gabby. It just suits me better I think. And Kerry McCoy, he always called me Gabby. He’s another story. God, how I missed that man.

  Chapter Two

  Why exactly had I married James Ellerton when I was still missing one Kerry McCoy? Father of my daughter Keegan.

  I had been alone too long and dating had not been at the top of my agenda with a daughter to raise. No adult female should be alone as long as I had been. It wasn’t normal. A woman could almost regrow a hymen in the time that I had been celibate. A sneaky thought snuck into my head. I was still hung up Keegan’s father? Not just hung up on him. Full blown madly in love with him. How do you ever really forget your first love? Really? Where the hell had that come from? True statement but not to be acknowledged by this heart or mind in this lifetime.

  James’ attentions had made me feel alive again. His attentions had woken up the part of me-below the waist which I had kept quiet for years hiding behind Keegan. I was far away from the dating pool and relationships were the last thing on my mind. Then this big strong man walked through the door of the plant’s office in an attempt to save the plant and save me from myself.

  Sounds clichéd I know but I was wasting away hiding behind my daughter, shriveling into nothingness on the inside. My girlie parts didn’t know what it felt like to be touched by a man anymore. They were lonely too. Going through the motions of life’s daily grind. It had been six years since I had sex with a man. No kidding. Six very long years. Talk about a draught. The only orgasms I had were the ones that I was responsible for and believe you me they are just not the same.

  Hell, Michigan had definitely been interested in marketing itself as a Halloween capital. Therefore, when James came to Hell, it was like the town had struck gold. The owner of the manufacturing plant where I had worked owned a great deal of the town. Bobo Gerig actually first name Bob but in Hell everyone called him Bobo and James had many appointments to discuss future opportunities that included a gift shop for tourists where he would sell some of James’s items. Every time James came into the office I was sucked in a little more by his charm as was Bobo who was seeing dollar signs out the ass.

  If I were really truthful with myself, I was hiding from more than my past, more specifically I was hiding from Kerry McCoy. Or was I really waiting for Kerry McCoy to return to me and Keegan? Which was it, hiding or waiting? I was never really sure. I wanted that man, the man, the one and only man to come back for me so bad but he never had. In seventeen years, I had been on a few dates resulting in a few very unsatisfying sexual experiences. After seventeen years one would think that I had given up? Not until one James Ellerton walked through the plant’s doors did I finally decide to move on.

  James. He had been kind to Keegan those months while I dated him, bringing her gifts to win her over. He had always seemed to know just what to bring her that would be pleasing to a ten-year-old girl. Later, his secretary had sheepishly admitted she also had a daughter Keegan’s age. His secretary had been buying those damned gifts for my daughter. If only I had known. He had fooled us or at least me. He had seemed so charismatic. So loving. He was so false, just a big fake phony baloney. He was also a cold hearted bastard.

  After our marriage and living with him for a month or two, I had discovered the real James not the man who had wooed and won me but the real man. James, the anal-r
etentive, perfectionist-asshole reared his ugly head. Every Saturday morning I casually watched as he inspected the house without inspecting it. Him doing what he was doing while thinking that I didn’t know what he was really doing. He so infuriated me that I wanted to scream. In my mind’s eye I could actually saw him with an imaginary white glove running his long, artificially tanned finger across the black marble mantel in the formal living room looking for dust bunnies wherever they might be hiding.

  This was our game. I searched thoroughly for cobwebs, dust bunnies and anything that might be construed as dirt but still he found something every single time. The dirt police won every time.

  His disapproval is never actually voiced out loud but I can see it clearly on his face and that is enough to ruin me for the remainder of the day. When he arrives at Keegan’s door, my daughter’s territory there is usually a battle. He is not inconspicuous when he makes his way to her room. He comes to me with his list of things that Keegan needs to do including wiping the toothpaste from her sink and picking up some books and clothes from her floor. Why can’t he just leave Keegan the hell alone?

  My daughter is messily tidy. Keegan’s room is cluttered but neatly so. Her space looks lived in not like the rest of our home. Her walls painted Shockingly Pink was such a vivid hot pink had knotted James’s panties into a twist then had infuriated him beyond speech. We had done the deed one weekend when he was away on business. There wasn’t much he could say when he returned to find the job complete. God what a rush pissing him the hell off with the nonconforming paint color! An actual color!

  Sheer purple sparkling material draped around her windows substituting for curtains. Multicolored heavy beads hung from the frame of the closet door replacing the actual heavy wooden sliding doors that were there and now resided in the barn. Keegan’s hardwood floors are perfectly polished just like in the rest of the house and strategically placed brightly colored shag throw rugs help with the cold bare floors in winter.