The Truth We Tell Ourselves

I was right. I did the right thing. Didn’t I? Of course I did. She will thank me for it eventually. Of course she will. It wasn’t working. We were not working. Somebody had to make the hard decisions. Someone had to make a choice. She would never have done it.

I can’t blame her, it’s not her fault. It’s the world we live in, a world of easy choices, easy options. Everybody takes the easy option. The lazy option. It is a human foible to find the easiest path.

It’s fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of the possibilities, only seeing the bad outcomes, the possible negative futures. But…just as bad can follow bad, good can come out of something bad.

Too many believe life just happens. Like we have no option but to follow some predestined path. It’s fate, they say. Everything happens for a reason, they say. Idiots.

Control your life or somebody else will, that is the truth. I would rather mess up my own life than have somebody else mess it up. At least that way I won’t have anyone else to blame, even if I get it wrong. Pain is temporary. Even if the only thing that ends it is death.

TEMPTING. TESTING.

They had travelled to her mother's home in silence after an initially sterile conversation on first getting into the car – are you okay? Not in too much pain, it's no trouble picking you up – civil pleasantries. Stella had been glad for the silence. She was not sure she could maintain a conversation for as much time as the drive would take.

For his part, Claude just sat, corpse-like – the best description she could think of – looking out of the window. Twenty-five minutes after leaving the hospital, Stella was turning into her mother's street.

Though he did not have much in the way of luggage, such was Claude's condition, Stella felt obliged to carry the little luggage he had. She quickly gathered his belongings and struggled to hide her impatience as he slowly tried to unbuckle his seat belt.

A sudden guiltiness washed over her. What was with her attitude? The man had suffered both a stroke and a heart attack! He had just gotten out of the hospital! Could she not find it in her heart to be a little compassionate? She helped him unfasten the belt.

"I'll... I'll get the chair." She said somewhat unnecessarily. She helped him into the wheelchair and hung his belongings off the back of the seat as she wheeled him up the path.

In the house, Stella's mother had rearranged the house to accommodate Claude. The bedroom had been moved down into the main living area, making the house look somewhat upside down to Stella's mind.

He would still have to go upstairs to use the bathroom proper eventually, but for the necessary bodily functions, her mother had bought a - what Stella could only think of as - toilet chair.

She placed his belongings by a wall in the new living room-cum-bedroom. Claude sat in front of her, his body leaning awkwardly in the chair. His eyes took in the new surroundings.

“Mum did not want you taking the stairs...” Stella said, filling the silence. She wheeled him into the room. He nodded slowly.

“This is…nice.” He murmured. Stella was feeling uneasy again, not that the feeling had ever really left her. She looked at her watch even though she had nowhere to be.

“Will you be alright? I mean do you want me to help you...do anything for you?” she offered. Claude glanced up at her. There was something.

RONNIE Souleigh-Marks loved Stella Braden. It was an unrequited love. He was not even sure if she knew his name. She always referred to him as Mr Marks whenever they met. He had never corrected her, so delirious was he at the moments of acknowledgement of his existence.

He knew this besotted-ness was the stuff of schoolboy adolescence. Real men say what they want, take what they want – so Ronnie had read in the women's magazines – but that simply was not his character.

Ronnie had met Stella through her mother, Alanna, whom he had a professional relationship with, designing outfits for her in his capacity as a clothes maker. Fashion was a natural fit for Ronnie.

He had always been a fastidious dresser. Neat and dapper at all times, many had assumed he was gay. He was not. He was particular when it came to people. Women. He liked exquisite things, beautiful objects. He was used to the best. His home was filled with art and furnished from the best stores in the world.

He was a perfectionist. It was one of the reasons he worked well with Alanna. She liked things just so. Ronnie did things just so, with an attention to detail Alanna appreciated. In his profession, he was used to seeing beautiful women.

Young, fresh-faced beauties, quite sweet some of them, though not being much more than walking clothes hangers, never particularly engaging and always obsessing over food.

Stella was different. For one, she was not a model. She was not even mildly impressed that he was a designer. Not that she treated him with disdain, she just accepted that he was a friend of her mother's and that was enough. She saw the person, not the profession or the clothes, just the person.

Ronnie loved her for that. He also loved that she was the most beautiful girl he had ever met. It was something he would never tire of, he thought, as he watched her carrying her mother's boyfriend's suitcase from the car.

Claude Hampton. Ronnie's expression was momentarily disdainful and furious. He could not understand how a woman as wonderful, luminous and intelligent as Alanna could pick a person as odious, soulless and entirely unsuited to any sort of civility, as Claude. He watched as Stella helped the frail Claude.

He wondered whether it was to amuse himself or as a punishment, that God had made him the neighbour of a customer with a daughter he could not help but fall in love with.

He watched her as she struggled with Claude’s belongings and the frail man himself, her focus on pushing the wheelchair safely up the path. The door closed behind Stella as she disappeared into the house. Ronnie's heart sank at her disappearance. He retreated from the window, busying himself with work.

Stella was standing in front of the mirror. She was completely naked and staring at herself smiling.

This is amazing, Claude thought. As he looked at her body, through her eyes, he lightly ran her hands all over. The breast, abdomen, thighs and bottom. He turned her body slowly, looking over her shoulder at her back, bottom and legs.

Her body was fabulous. He twisted her body and craned her neck as he struggled to view her body from every conceivable angle. He felt frustration and fascination in equal measure. There was undeniable arousal looking at her body. Even looking through her eyes, he could feel her body tingling as his mind got aroused.

He/she frowned as he focused momentarily on a small mole below the left breast. Probably should have that checked out, was the fleeting thought in Claude's mind. The thought was quickly gone.

The voyeur in him was frustrated. There seemed a perverse sort of personal worship about the situation he found himself in. He wanted to feel these sensations in his own body. The arousal, longing, anticipation. He pondered in front of the mirror, still marvelling at her body.

A grin spread across her face and his mind. Stella/Claude quickly left the bedroom and trotted down the stairs. In the living room, Stella/Claude surveyed the scene. Claude's immobile body was propped up on pillows on the bed in the makeshift living room-cum-bedroom. His legs were stretched out, taking up most of the bed.

He/she looked at his broken body with disgust. He looked terrible, haggard, old. Stella/Claude went over to the body and folded the legs, creating more room on the bed.

An excited Stella/Claude clambered onto the bed in front of Claude's body. Claude's mind felt nervous and eager as Stella's body got more and more aroused. She spread her legs in front of Claude.

He took her hand once more over her breast, the flat abdomen, caressed the pubic hairs ever so gently before using a finger to explore the vaginal regions. Stella/Claude gasped.

He was back in his body, frail but alive, sexual arousal still in his mind. Claude focused quickly, drinking in the exquisite form of a naked, masturbating Stella, her head thrown back, enjoying herself, oblivious to her situation. He groaned, as his heart worked overtime pushing blood to his groin.

Stella's head snapped forward at the sound. She saw Claude leering, grinning, his face drained of colour, a light sweat on his face. She recoiled at his face in such proximity, the movement causing her breast to jiggle with a freeness that only came with nakedness.

Her brain put the jigsaw together quickly, even as confusion washed over her. She had no clothes on and she was masturbating in front of her mother's repulsive boyfriend.

Stella scrambled off of the bed, rushing out of the living room-cum-bedroom. Behind her, a contented Claude tried to steady his overworking heart.