Story of My Fucking Life

Even her moral position was not totally undermined. Her lawyers revealed David's mistresses in Portland and Salem and both Vancouvers (Canada and Washington) - and he often visited brothels featuring underage boy+girl teams, the perv.

Cissy was convicted of negligent discharge of a firearm, endangering public safety, and lewd and lascivious conduct, all misdemeanors. The courtroom gasped at the verdict, and at the judge's sentence of one year, reduced to just sixty jail days.

Was Cissy home free? Not quite. She paid the ten percent bondsman's fee for the ten million dollars bail. Her lawyers cost another million. The families of David, Les, and Sheila filed civil suits and won virtually everything in her savings accounts from writing both kid-lit and erotica. And they attached all her future publishing earnings.

You like irony? One source of funds the victims' families could NOT touch was David's assets. As the innocent widow, Cissy inherited everything.

Sheila's brother Arnie blamed Cissy for his sister's death. Just after the civil trial, Arnie tracked her down at her hideout apartment in Salem, the state capitol. He shot her as she walked down her building's front steps. One .32 slug in each knee, one in each thigh - and he would have put one between her eyes, but his cheap Berretta jammed. He cursed and threw the pistol at her head, hard. It broke her nose.

Cissy's legs were no longer steady enough to walk smoothly; she staggered and limped for the rest of her life. Plastic surgeons mostly restored her nose and legs. Nobody did anything to repair her mind.

The stress and notoriety were too much for Cissy. She fled from Oregon.

--

Two years. Cissy's former agent Kira needed two years to find her former cash cow. Searching near and far, high and low, yada yada, a long and seemingly fruitless quest. Finally, paydirt!

Well, not quite. Crissy had fled the country and found a home near Guadalajara, Mexico. She lived at first in a Gringo expatriate community, ironically next door to Gail Collins Pappalardi, another expat, notorious for having 'accidentally' shot her husband Felix, a rock'n'roll bassist and producer. (Cream's SUNSHINE OF YOUR LOVE sounded like it did because of Felix.)

Cissy visited the old woman often before Gail died of cancer. They never spoke of their married pasts.

Gail's death seemed to cut Cissy loose from her old moorings. She moved into a plain adobe shack in a tiny highland village. She employed a Huichol Indian housekeeper and lived very modestly. No car, no electricity (and thus no TV or computer or refrigerator), no luxuries. Very basic.

Kira was shocked when she found Crissy. The author still looked young, beautiful, and physically healthy in her long white cotton dress embroidered with flowers. She spoke fairly coherently. But her spark was gone. She was dully spaced, unfocused, only half-there. Each question was followed by a long pause before answering.

"Cissy! What are you doing here? Are you all right?"

Cissy gazed into space for a minute and then seemed to notice Kira in her bright pink sundress and wide straw hat.

"Oh, buenos dias, Kira. Yes, I'm fine, just fine..." Her voice trailed off and her eyes again found a distant target.

"Cissy!" Kira took her hand. "How are you living here? Are you writing anything more? Please tell me you have more Pooper stories, at least."

Cissy looked down at her hand held in Kira's, then up to Kira's face. "Oh, hi Kira, how are you? Living here? Oh, I just let Luisa buy food and clothes for me. It's all so nice here. Everybody is nice to me. Not like back in Oregon..."

Her face clouded. "Oregon, yes, that was bad, very bad, wasn't it?" She fell silent.

"Cissy, Cissy, listen to me! Are you writing anything else? People are asking about your writing. You must have more stories to tell!"

Another long delay. And then...

"Oh yes, stories, lots of stories. Have I told all my stories? Isn't the story of my life out there already? I don't know if I can tell any more stories. I don't know if I have any life left for telling stories."

Kira pleaded and promised and provoked, all to no avail. Cissy sat at the rough-hewn oak table outside her front door and basked in the late afternoon sun. Her housekeeper Luisa brought them fresh lemonade and buttered bolillo rolls and hard white cheese to snack on. Cissy mostly nibbled and murmured.

Kira was disappointed but not hopeless when she left at sunset. She would try again tomorrow.

Cissy let Luisa lead her inside when the evening air cooled. She sat at her little pine-plank table and nibbled a bit more food. A notepad and pen hid under a cotton towel. She lifted the cloth, put a hand on the paper, and held the stylus with a stranger's touch. She stared at her fingers for some minutes before looking down.

Writing, she thought; do I have anything more to write? She fingered her dry pussy with one hand and the pen with her other. She scratched at the notepad:

How I Fucked Up Everyone's Life - I had it all, and I shit it all away. Don't we ever know what's enough?

She dropped the pen and reached into the big straw handbag next to the table. She pulled out a small revolver. She looked at it closely. Don't we ever know what's enough?

--

Author's note: This story by Hypoxia is copyright (c) 2014 and likely has no redeeming literary or social qualities. If the ending bothers you, that's because it's supposed to. Keep a watch for more standalone Sellwood pieces. If you like these, join the 1% and VOTE!