‘Seven Stories Down’

Jack Bordnick’s sculptural and photographic imagery is a reflection of my past and present forces
and the imagination of his life’s stories. They represent an evolutionary process of these ideas and how that all of life’s forces are interconnected, embraced and expressed thru creative art forms.
These works, represent he has accomplished with this art form. It is his quantum and metaphoric moment, the changing from one form to another.

Seven Stories Down

“You’re behaving just like your mother!” 

He had finally just said it. Lain had felt it stewing for months, each time she had stumbled through the door at an ungodly hour to find dinner in the microwave. He used to leave notes until this became a habit. “Always a seat at the table for you,” “Saved you the chewy bacon! Love you!” Lain remembered the way her stomach turned with guilt as she finished off every painfully delicious bite. She knew she had been distant, and Uncle Will had figured her out.  He had been trying to avoid breaching the subject, knew that acknowledging it would only send Lain tumbling down.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—" 

“You…”—she paused, taking a moment to balance herself against the kitchen doorway— “don’t have to say another word… to me.” Lain found it hard to breathe, turning to lean her head on the wall. Sweat dripped from her brow; she watched the droplets crash onto the wood beneath her feet. She could feel her uncle’s eyes burning a hole into the back of her head.  She was nothing like her mother. She never would be. Right? Her mother had chosen to abandon her life for drugs, the whole reason why she ended up with her uncle in the first place. The years of neglect, however, had left Lain stunted and she never really recovered.  William had told her the whole story one late evening, finally deeming her old enough to know why her mother was behind bars and never called. This was different. She was never born to make it, and everyone knew it. Lain Elizabeth Brookes did not ask to be born, not into this cursed life. She had been a troubled child, but Uncle Will had always been gentle and patient. Even William had given up on her. Balancing herself again, Lain stood up straight. The man who raised her couldn’t even look her in the eye. 

High and agitated, Lain slipped her uncle’s keys from the kitchen counter and into her jacket pocket.  Not stopping for any of her belongings, she bolted. She couldn’t stand in that spot, in the agonizing silence of her uncle. She had been deemed a “delinquent” long enough, guess she’d better prove him right. Her uncle made no moves to stop her. He never did. He just stood with his head lowered, ashamed. Coward. Something in Lain’s chest tightened thinking about it; the last person she had was giving up on her. Had she really fallen this far?

Not another word was spoken, per her own request. She found herself almost hoping Uncle Will would come out chasing after her, carry her back inside to her bed, but there was only stiff silence. Perhaps William knew she was a lost cause. Crawling into the driver’s seat, she fumbled with the ignition, eyelids threatening to close as drowsiness took over. She was in no condition to be driving. Not now, not now… Her breath stilled at the sound of the key clicking into place, turning it forward and gasping when the vehicle’s engine came alive and began to vibrate. The only thing on her mind was getting away. She was far too prideful, and rational thought had abandoned her hours ago. Despite the drowsiness and shock, Lain scrambled for purchase on the steering wheel and gingerly tapped the gas with her boot. Reverse, she needed to get into reverse… 

~~~

Lain found herself waitressing in downtown New Jersey, across the country from William. “This is NOT how you earn tips” was written in black ink across the last party’s receipt. Great, Lain sighed. Another empty table.

She had made the venture out here after meeting touring guitarist Aspen Black. His band, Ashes to Ashes, stopped by her favorite bar after a show. Lain had been living out of her uncle’s Taurus, spending what little money she had on booze and cheap drugs, her refuge from a painful reality. Her blonde locks curled around her neck. Her short, leather dress clung tightly to her skin, broken out in sweat from either the pills or the dancing. Likely both. Heeled boots clacked as she crossed her ankles, catching her breath.

Somehow, she must have gotten Black’s attention. The lead guitarist had asked her if she wanted a bite to eat, and she said she would very much like that. Aspen bought them hot dogs and booze, and she needed little more encouragement to leave with him. Anyone who could whisk her away to a better place would do, even better a beautiful rockstar with black hair that cascaded over his shoulders and that tuft of chest hair that always peeked out from his low-rise shirts. Lain loved him. Loved him like a chapel in a hospital, desperately. This far into her shifts was when the withdrawal would start to take its hold. Hyper aware of each and every mistake, she needed to go home; she was hardly making a dime anyway.

If only. She sighed, scratching at her thin arms. It temporarily eased her anxiety, the familiar scrape of edge against skin. When she got home, maybe Aspen would scratch her back. If he was in a good mood, perhaps. Lain could never tell; he kept her so doped up. Sometimes she wondered if he was lonely, broken just like her, just searching for a companion. He didn’t like to talk about it, but Lain knew he was scarred. His parents were never present, either.  He looked to the guitar to distract himself from their absence, eventually skipping town when he realized his guitar playing couldn’t replace a mother’s or father’s affection. He would never tell her much more than that, but Lain understood his sadness. Other times she felt like she was drowning in his presence, his silence weighing heavy in the air. He got antsy between shows, his anxiety taking the form of frustration. But he loved her so much, he took such good care of her. He kept her pretty and quiet, just the way they both preferred. She never had to worry about a thing with Aspen.

“You know, baby…” he had mumbled to her once. “We could get you on stage sometime, in somethin’ real blingy.” Lain’s heart had jumped at that, icy blues fluttering open. The dark yellow walls of Aspen’s apartment greeted her and she wondered why they hadn’t turned the lights off before laying down. A collection of their clothes kept the floor buried, and the holes in the walls were never a pleasant sight. Candy wrappers cluttered the end table, the edge of Aspen’s aviators just barely visible. Crushed beer cans collected in the corner of her eye. As much as she wanted to just close her eyes again, the idea of the stage brought a foolish hope to mind. The waitressing gig was less than ideal, and it was only a matter of time before her poor customer service got her fired. On the stage she could be herself, free of judgement. Showcase herself in all her unholy glory. Bring the spectacle of her cursed existence to light, for all to see. Everyone would hear her voice. The idea was liberating to her.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His calloused fingers ran through Lain’s freshly dyed hair. He had felt that pink suited her much better than blonde. Lain remembered nodding, she would’ve loved that very much. Aspen played lead guitar on brilliant, bright stages, while Lain waited offsides. She had always been drawn to the stage, the performance… She had spent years crawling around bars watching spiteful, punky rock bands. Perhaps because they felt the same frustration and isolation she had been feeling all this time. Not one had enraptured her like Ashes to Ashes, in all their trashy glory. Lain admired their confessionalism, their transparency. She understood the mess of being alive. The idea of joining them onstage excited her like no other, though that had been months ago. 

Maybe this time. Lain just had to brave this shift and then she could escape to Aspen’s embrace again. Maybe now that it’d been a year… 

Lain flipped the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED.” Freshening up in the restroom, she smoothed her skirt down in the mirror, picking apart her own reflection after closing time. She had grown thin; the serving job made little and Aspen only made a chunk of his flashy band’s income. Groceries could be a luxury. But they were happy, weren’t they? Lain was no longer sleeping in her uncle’s Taurus, no longer fighting the stigmas of reality. No longer trying to catch up to an ideal that seemed unattainable. She couldn’t even speak until she was seven. How was a kid like that meant to survive? Things got better when Uncle William became her guardian, he had taught her everything, loved her like his own child, but…

Lain produced a black lipstick from her skirt pocket, shakily applying it to her lips. William could not have filled the role her mother abandoned. Though she never got to meet her father, deep down she knew he couldn’t have done it either. Lain knew he had only the best intentions at heart, but Uncle Will was too soft, too afraid of responsibility. He wanted to create a quiet and gentle life for Lain, but it just wasn’t that easy. She had been doomed from the start. The adults in her life had failed her as a child; what was she to become? Failure became her middle name. Perhaps this was where she belonged. Lain took a deep breath as she closed the lipstick, gently caressing her cheek as she gazed in the mirror. The woman who gazed back terrified her. At least she could go home and close her eyes, just for a little while. She had found her escape in Aspen.

~~~

“Baby-doll.” Aspen beckoned from the couch, noticing her return. He sat with his electric guitar in his lap, all plugged in next to the open window. Nancy, he had named it. No one stood between him and that beat-up instrument. He had shattered the window with it in a drunken rage, and they had yet to get it replaced. Lain worried that the landlords would evict him, though Aspen assured her she needn’t worry her silly little head about it. It had become his new favorite practice spot, in fact, “Come hit this, c’mere honey. I missed you; I know work was rough, wasn’t it?” He patted the spot on the couch next to him, reaching for a small glass pipe on the coffee table. Lain padded over to him quietly, knowing better than to take the place of the precious instrument in his lap.

“It was,” she breathed, taking her spot on the couch. She smoothed her skirt out again, shifting her weight to catch his eye. “Writing new stuff or practicing?” Lain took the pipe from his hands. The rock offered her an escape, both sublime yet spineless. Aspen had been on a kick lately, of course, dragging her down with him.

“Practicing.” He grinned and shook his head. Had he even noticed her pretty lipstick? “Nothing you would understand, sweetness, you just relax.” Lain felt a hand on her back and let herself dissolve all over again, letting the stress of the day melt away.

~~~

Knock, knock, knock!

Weightless. Lain crumpled to the floor only hours later, heart thrashing around in her ribcage like it was trying to break out. What was happening to her? She writhed in pain, struggling to breathe. 

“Aspen.” She tried to cry out for him, though he was absent from his signature spot. Even his precious guitar was missing, how would he hear her wheezing pleas?  It was hard to think, did he have a show tonight? Would he have just left her here, in this dump? The stench of sweaty clothes around her flooded her nose, accompanied by stale beer. She had to get up, but her brain was failing her. This was worse than the shakes, far worse. Lain could faintly hear someone knocking on the front door, but her eyelids were fluttering and her chest was on fire. She still couldn’t breathe. This was too real; it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Aspen was supposed to keep her safe, protect her from the harsh reality that seemed to follow her like a thick fog. The knocking became banging. This wasn’t it; this wasn’t what she wanted. Lain panicked as she faded in and out of consciousness, unable to will her body to stop convulsing. Was this going to be how she died? A nobody, nothing more than a punk band’s groupie, dead from a crack overdose. Her heart crept up her throat, blocking airways as she continued to shake, looking up at the couch where her lover had sat just hours ago. Freezing cold air migrated in through the shattered window. Cold, it was getting so cold. This wasn’t right. She wanted to get away, but she didn’t want this…

She tried to reach for him, for anyone, but her body shut down and not a sound was heard.

~~~

“Baby, I’m just glad you’re alive,” Aspen mumbled, guitar propped in his lap once again, relatively unconcerned after Lain’s discharge. He had driven her home from the emergency room with a look of mild inconvenience across his face. “I’m sorry, I’m just tired, I spent all morning talking to the tour manager, we can’t afford to miss this show tonight. You know that though, don’t you, darling?” Lain felt her heart sink, staring at him from her spot on the couch. Only three days had passed since the overdose, and she could still feel the bony touch of death around her heart. Its nails scratched at the organ, and she was reminded of her uncle’s lack of concern. Better yet, her mother’s neglect. At least her Uncle Will had been there, had cared. She remembered the smelly, dark room she had struggled to sleep in, immobile. A small child incapable of even navigating to the bathroom, while her mother sought to escape her. She must have resembled her father too much, caused her poor mother too much pain… She had always been an inconvenience, one to be forgotten. Perhaps Aspen was no different.

“How much did you give me?” she asked bluntly, the accusation cutting through the heavy air. Perhaps it had all been too good be true. Aspen was still for a moment before turning to look back at her, eyebrow raised.

“Angel,” he breathed. “I know how much you can handle—“

“How much did you give me?” Lain repeated the question, the chilling, skeletal hand squeezing around her heart. She was awake now. Aspen fiddled with his guitar, pretending he couldn’t hear her. Lain would no longer be silent, not after this. Part of her prayed it wasn’t true, that the bond she shared with the leather-clad rock star meant at least something.

“Aspen.” She stood up, looking down at him. She might have been intimidating if not for the familiar sting of tears building in her eyes. She could see Aspen avoiding her gaze behind his sunglasses, the same way William had lowered his head in guilt. His silence spoke volumes. “We gotta stop doing this. You’d let me die; I would have if it wasn’t for the woman in the room below us!”

Aspen sighed and removed his glasses. If she could just save this, maybe they could clean themselves up and she could finally be onstage, and… 

“Honey,” he finally spoke. “You didn’t die. I wouldn’t let you die, let’s be serious.”

Lain simply blinked. Why wasn’t he worried? Suspicion and fear crept up her throat. 

“Can you at least tell me where you were?” she asked, trying to ignore the way her voice trembled. “If you wouldn’t let me die, where were you while I was dying?” Now that her eyes were open, Lain couldn’t close them again. Something had gone terribly wrong; this wasn’t where she was meant to be. Aspen looked at her as if he would rather her really be dead than interrupt his practice one more time. Perhaps he was never a good man…

“Just calm down, have a smoke, dear. It always relaxes you.”

“Have a smoke?” Lain stepped closer, nudging his beloved “Nancy.” The rose-colored glasses were gone now. He had drugged her, left her alone while she danced with death. Now he wanted to sweep it all away like a little accident. “I’m not touching anything you give me until you give me a damn answer!” It was clear the musician’s patience was running thin but Lain wasn’t giving up this time. Something had to give. All the months spent wasted in this landfill he called a home chalked up to nothing, not even an apology. Had the apartment always smelled this rancid?

“Lain,” Aspen warned, setting his guitar to the side and standing to meet her gaze. He was still slightly shorter than her, and his intimidation did little to change her mind. “I need you to calm down. Now, please.” 

“How much did you give me?” Aspen did not speak, pushing her away by the shoulders. “Why won’t you answer me? Do you care at all?!” Lain batted his hands away, tears pooling in her eyes again. She understood now. It was never about love with Aspen. “You’re no different than my mother!” Her uncle’s sentiment erupted from her own mouth as despair and regret overcame her. Perhaps she had never been any better than her mother to begin with, giving up hope on herself time and time again, relying on the kindness of strangers. She had devoted herself to chasing escape, but no one else could give that to her. Aspen’s attempts at manipulation allowed anger to eclipse sadness and Lain placed her hands on his temples. The dam broke and salty tears began to sail down her cheeks, coalescing at her chin. “Please, just answer me!”

“Enough!” Aspen barked, headbutting her. Lain held her head, blinking in response to the impact. “You want an answer so bad? I’ll give you one.” Free from her grasp, he approached her slowly. His once calm demeanor had become violent and irritated. Lain had seen this before, when she had been too intoxicated to fight back. When she had made the mistake of considering herself more desirable than old “Nancy,” her sobs background noise for Aspen’s next track. “This is all I have! I’m tired, Lain!” She already knew where this was going. Regret became fury as she recalled every time she wept for his forgiveness, endured the bruises he painted on her skin. Once, she would have compared them to art. “You never learn! No matter how many times I teach you, you just keep getting in the way of my music!” Aspen’s façade was broken. He reached for Lain’s hair. “How else were you supposed to learn your lesson?” Disgusted, she pushed him back. He stumbled backwards toward the window. She had found herself the target of his madness in the past, but now he was hers.

 Clearly perturbed that Lain managed to stumble him, she watched him try to steady himself. Lain could tell he had been drinking; he always was. She felt the blood rush to her head, the rage and adrenaline combined more intense than any high. This must be hatred, she thought. She had dedicated herself to the guitarist, moved across the country to be with him, yet she was still nothing more than a hopeless groupie to him. A year together and still he knew nothing. It was never love with Aspen; he had no love to give. He loved control, playing Lain like that damn guitar.

Blinded by rage, Lain took hold of “Nancy.” No one stood between him and that busted instrument. That was all she had been to him, as well. Just a beat-up object to show off until she broke. Until she was nothing. 

Lain didn’t miss a beat as she swung, slashing at Aspen with his prized possession. The scumbag tumbled as he tried to get purchase on his real favorite girl, losing his balance against the window frame. Both hands reached out for the guitar, but it was too late for Aspen. Too late for him to steady himself again. White-hot hatred filled Lain’s mind as she continued to hack at him, vision blurred by her gushing tears. She could hardly hear Aspen’s voice anymore. Deep down, she knew she was meant for more than this. If her mother could not love her, if the terror that was Aspen Black could not love her, she would do it for herself. Aspen never wanted a lover; he wanted arm candy. A woman young and damaged enough to fall for his harshness. Lain just so happened to be exactly that. Her mind continued to race, thought and reality blending until she noticed her lover stood before her no more. Panting, trying to catch her breath, Lain failed to process what she had done. How long had she been standing by the window? Aspen was nowhere to be found. Until Lain’s gaze shifted downward and there he was, the fallen angel. He had collided with the pavement seven stories down while Lain filled his signature space. The guitar remained in her hands. Aspen would never pluck a string again.

The dawning realization of her actions left Lain terrified. She had killed a man, murder in cold blood. Her only instinct was to flee, get as far away as possible. Aspen’s band would come by to get him eventually, and she couldn’t stay here. As panic set in, Lain scrambled to the kitchen and dug Aspen’s keys from the bottom of the silverware drawer. Rotating the key in her hand, she knew she had to leave this behind. Though she had little to live for, she knew it wasn’t her time to go yet. Death still breathed down her neck; Lain had felt its warning. She took one last look at the landfill she had once called a home, then bolted out the door and down the stairs of the apartment building. The other tenants wouldn’t question her erratic behavior, at least, unless they happened to glance out their windows and witness the corpse that once was Aspen Black. 

“See ya later tonight, Lain, darling!” called a voice that Lain didn’t even recognize. She didn’t say a word as she left the building, the image of Aspen’s body fresh in her mind. She hadn’t even seen it happen, her vision clouded by furious adrenaline. It was only now that the weight of it all began to crush her. Her hands were sore and littered with cuts, tense as she opened the car door. Lain crawled back behind the wheel, breath stilling as she turned the ignition. She just had to get away, far away… As the vehicle’s engine came alive and began to vibrate, she fumbled anxiously with the mirrors and windows. Her gut twisted and turned; her head still pounded with rage. She had no choice. She had to take the wheel, get out of there quick. Knuckles white and lips blue, she shifted into reverse.

Lain could feel Death’s eye on her, but she fled the scene. Maybe one day her sins would come back to haunt her, but this time she had to break the cycle. She had been driving for what felt like days, watching each streetlamp blend into the next. The chilling night air blew through her hair from the open window. She drove aimlessly, alone with her thoughts. A strange sense of vindication had come over her. It wasn’t until the gas light came on that she was forced to address reality again. Lain sighed. She didn’t have the slightest clue where she was. The road stretched on a while longer before she found herself approaching a dimly lit gas station. A simple convenience store was attached. The lights were on, but not a soul occupied the building or the parking lot. A lone phone booth stood against the side of the building. Lain stopped the car and got out, almost drowning in the emptiness. The breeze had been a comforting confidante to her racing mind, but she grew colder the longer the night went on. She recalled Aspen keeping a jacket in the back seat. Slipping it over bony shoulders, Lain cringed. The barren parking lot reminded her that she was alone again, the exact thing she had been running from. Precisely how she ended up in Aspen’s clutches. The lonely, dingy gas station reminiscent of their time together. Catching another glimpse of the phone booth, Lain knew she had to get help. Help from someone who cared, the only family she ever really had. Shoving her hands in her jacket pockets, she abandoned the gas pump and entered the black booth.

Lain wasn’t anticipating the pipe. Scarred flesh met glass inside the jacket pocket, but she threw it as fast as she found it. The same small ornament that caused her overdose. Lain stared at it for a moment, then another. She remembered that night, remembered thinking she would be found dead the next morning. Blue eyes remained fixated on the glass pipe, even as Lain dialed the familiar number of William. Craving and fear mixed dangerously in the pit of her stomach as the dial tone rang, and she wondered if her uncle was even awake. Would he answer?

“Hello?” Lain started, but her gaze didn’t shift.

“Uncle Will? It’s Lain,” she began, continuing to stare at the pipe’s solitary spot on the booth’s floor. “I owe you a big apology.”

Julian Macke is a Creative Writing major with a soft spot for the dark and macabre. Specializing in pieces that highlight stigmatized human experiences, he dabbles in both poetry and prose.