"I was wondering when you'd wake up and receive me properly."
"Aunt Constance," I said, brushing off the debris of ashes from my cigarette. She went over to the windowsill to fish for it.
"Had a good nap?" She asked, winking.
"The best," I said, handing her the lighter. "Mom said you'd gotten in some trouble . . ."
"As we all must, from time to time. Gotta keep things interesting, right?" She exhaled victoriously, all smiles.
"Speaking of," she added, eyes darting conspiratorially to where I had K.O'd, "if you're holding, I wouldn't say no to a little sample . . ."
Aunt Constance was what you might call a thrill seeker. She had inherited the the family habit of drinking oneself into oblivion, and somehow was able to make the lifestyle look glamourous. But it didn't stop there; in addition to partying hard she was wide open to any other activities that contained the least vague hint of fun or danger. Whether it was breaking the speed limit, or into someone's house, you just named the felony and she'd have a story that tested the limits of your incredulity. It was crazy to think that my parents actually let her babysit me when I was little. I'd always liked her, and I like to think the feeling was mutual. She had grown up and somehow remained untamed, doing whatever batshit crazy thing popped into her head for no other reason than to find out if she could get away with it.
I sighed.
"I wish, oh how I wish, dear aunt, but I think I'm going sober for a while."
"Oh, boo." She scowled. "I figured, anyhow."
"Yeah, I heard you rifling through my drawers." I said, shaking my head in mock disapproval.
"So, what were you doing down there?"
I flashed back to my brief second life in that woman's body. The feel of smooth legs, couple with an entirely alien world view. The immense nurturing glow emanating from the rounded crucible of my midsection up to my chest, and the way that it flowed towards the tiny replica I'd harboured in my body for 36 weeks (Alex was a late preterm, and C-section).
Did I hijack her body? Had she jumped into mine and wondered just what the fuck I was? Or was it all just a fever dream that took place only between the walls of my skull?
I shrugged. "Napping."
"You're going to try and lie, to me?"
"Fine. But you first. What happened this morning?"
"Oh, it was nothing. This guy at the grocery store thought it'd be funny to solicit my services."
"What?"
"He was with his little buddies, and he thought he'd make them laugh by asking me how much for a little action?"
"Jesus, Aunt Constance. What did you do?"
"I told him to meet me in the alley in five."
Classic Aunt Constance.
"The poor asshole. What did you do to him?"
She pouted, acting hurt.
"Nothing too uncalled for. I just flashed my switchblade and asked if he felt like handing over his valuables, for safekeeping."
Then she sighed, adding: "But men, you know how immature they get when they lose. He called me a not-very-nice word, and I admit I lost my patience a little."
My eyes widened. "No, tell me you didn't, Aunt. C."
"Yep. Had to, it was a matter of principle!" Blowing out a final puff, she aimed the cigarette butt at the window, and flicked it through. "Anyway, from what I heard back at the station, it wasn't too bad, just a couple stitches. He'll have a cool scar to show off the next time he's flexing his bicep!"
I had to laugh, and it felt good. I almost leapt forward to hug her, to tell her to just stay right there, I'll run to the 7/11 and grab us each a beer. Laughter is good medicine, especially when you've just had a psychic-psycho episode.
"Alright then," she said, "You're turn. Spill."
I told her about my exciting new career path, the class, the exam. She looked like she wanted to throw up.
"I'm happy you're doing something," she said carefully, "but I never saw you as the suit-and-tie type, at least not without a guitar."
"That makes two of us," I said, "But after so long, maybe it was time to get real."
"Oh, fuck." She said, rolling her eyes.
"What?"
"What's real?" She spat, throwing her hands up in the air.
Wasn't that the kabijillion dollar question? I shrugged and walked to the window. The sun was blocked by the clouds, and the traffic on the road was picking up, all the happy worker bees back from another day at the slaughterhive, returning for the same meal that paired so well with the Netflix binge before crashing. Don't forget to say a prayer in thanks for this wonderful life, like they taught you when you were young. Wouldn't want the gods to think you weren't grateful for the opportunity to work until you couldn't.
She sidled up beside me and raised another cigarette to her mouth.
"It sucks, Aunt C," I said. "feels like I'm selling my soul."
"Why did you get into music," she began, eyeing me as she handed over the cig, "writing, drinking and all the other weird shit you're into that I don't know about, and probably don't wanna know about?"
I looked at her blankly.
"Seriously, stop lying to me. It's embarrassing for us both." She was staring at my chest now, and I immediately brought my hands up to cover them. Oh fuck, I thought, watching the corner of her lips form a side smile. She can see them.
But she continued, "In your heart you know exactly why you did what you did."
"By all means, fill me in," I countered, suddenly desperate to move the conversation forward.
"We both inherited the same family traits," she said simply. "You want to dance, in moonlight and madness. It's where you draw your strength, where you're most at home. Everything else is fodder."
I took a second to digest everything she'd said. It didn't make me feel any better.
"That's beautiful, Aunt Constance, but it's not a living."
"Then maybe forget about making a living. Just live, and spoiler: you get to name the terms. Either you do, or you let others do it for you."
I didn't say anything. It still wasn't what I wanted to hear, because it sounded like the truth. I realised then that I was afraid of the future, afraid of making a wrong move, and deathly afraid that the cost of being true to myself was suffering. Total irony, given that all of my attempts to evade it seemed to have only led to me suffering in spades.
"Well," Aunt Constance said, bringing her hands together in a clap. "That's all the wisdom I can spare. Gotta split now, kiddo."
"But what about mom?" I asked.
"She'll get over it. I can't stay, I gotta be at the Invisible Scorpion."
"You're going to party there?" I asked, my voice lifting into the stratosphere from disbelief. I really shouldn't have been that surprised though. The Invisible Scorpion was not the hottest club in town. It was a shithole. Someone had the bright idea to turn a patio into a dive bar, with a grand view of nothing in the form of the woods, where jackals prowled, and the occasional mountain lion came down to say hi and maul reckless teenagers.
So of course the young punks congregated there to unwind and be stupid together, all of them trying to one-up each other, taking turns to do stupid shit like setting tables on fire and actually hopping on their bikes and splitting when they heard the sirens.
As all that ran through my mind, it made sense that she'd want to go to the Scorpion. The place was a perfect fit. She'd be like the resident deity. And despite being only a couple of years younger than my mother, she could've easily passed herself off as thirty something, maybe even twenty something once all the lunkheads started seeing double.
I smirked and said, "Have a blast. I already feel sorry for any guys who might cross paths with your."
"I'll behave," she said, flashing a toothy grin. "But just in case, I think I'll pick up a shiny new switchblade on the way."
She came forward and embraced me in a hug that would make a bear back off. Dread filled my body and threatened to drop me to the ground again. There was no way that she couldn't feel the mounds that'd grown on my torso. But then again, she hadn't said anything about my voice. I tried to think. It had been months since we'd last met. And given that she subsisted almost entirely on a diet of narcotics, the odds were high (heh) that she believed this was how I'd always looked and sounded. This brought relief, but all the same it meant that I was still alone in whatever it was I was going through with the subliminals and the mini Freaky Friday moment from earlier.
Too cool to use the door like regular folk, she released me and made for the egress window.
"Aunt Constance?" I said.
She turned.
"My lighter, if you will?"
Not a trace of guilt adorned her face as she placed the Zippo in my palm, but rather a look more like child's glee.