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    He Done Her Wrong
    He Done Her Wrong
    He Done Her Wrong
    Ebook130 pages1 hour

    He Done Her Wrong

    By Kali Amanda Browne

    ()

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    About this ebook

    He Done Her Wrong, the second volume in the Bloody Trail of Disenchantment series, includes vignettes about infidelities (real and perceived) and their effect on a variety of souls. Some stories have funny moments, some have tragic moments, some stories have horrific details that will haunt you.

    Some events in this collection of stories are based on real life—which only seek to portray a moment in time in the aftermath of infidelity—told without judgement (save for what the characters themselves have to say about it), and with a playful array of cascading details (see if you can identify them from story to story).

    The scenes of atrocity and names of the guilty have been changed to protect the disenchanted so that they may continue on their bloody trail until fully healed (who knows if that's even a thing!?).

    For the record: there are good and loyal people in this world. Folks who are honest, committed, loving, and ethical. These stories are not about those people.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKali Amanda Browne
    Release dateApr 23, 2019
    ISBN9780463395028
    He Done Her Wrong
    Author

    Kali Amanda Browne

    Kali Amanda Browne was born in New York City; grew up in Puerto Rico; and she came of age and currently resides in Brooklyn, NY. Above all, she tries to laugh even at adversity. She is a writer, food enthusiast, devoted daughter, nerd, pagan, wild woman...

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      Book preview

      He Done Her Wrong - Kali Amanda Browne

      THE BLOODY TRAIL OF DISENCHANTMENT

      Volume Two

      He Done Her Wrong

      By Kali Amanda Browne

      THE BLOODY TRAIL OF DISENCHANTMENT

      Volume Two

      He Done Her Wrong

      Some events in this collection of stories

      are based on real life—

      which only seek to portray a moment in time

      in the aftermath of infidelity—

      told without judgement

      (save for what the characters themselves

      have to say about it), and

      with a playful array of cascading details

      (see if you can identify them from story to story).

      The scenes of atrocity and names of the guilty have been changed to protect the disenchanted so that they may continue on their bloody trail until fully healed

      (who knows if that's even a thing!?).

      For the record: there are good and loyal people in this world.

      Folks who are honest, committed, loving, and ethical.

      These stories are not about those people.

      © 2019 BY KALI AMANDA Browne

      All rights reserved. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work and international moral rights of this author.

      The Bloody Trail of Disenchantment (Volume Two):

      He Done Her Wrong, 1st edition, 2nd revision expertly edited by the lovely and talented Lindsay Muir.

      Published by Amapola Press, Brooklyn, NY

      www.AmapolaPress.com

      Contents

      Coming Home

      The Scandal

      Past Imperfect

      Forever Yours

      Take Him Back!

      Best Friends Forever

      Coming Home

      I KNEW I WAS IN FOR a world of weirdness the moment mom stood at my door and gave me a fake little smile, and announced herself, Surprise!

      There was no point in asking any questions. I know my mother. She’d tell me when and if she was ever ready.

      I didn’t know you were coming, mom.

      Of course, you try to be polite and welcoming when it is your mother at your door at dusk, but I wanted an explanation and I am fairly sure my tone made that kind of clear.

      I’m sorry, honey, mom said and gave me a sad little smile as she walked right past me, leaving her bags on the other side of the threshold. Subtle.

      I grabbed her bags and closed the door. Mom was ahead of me down the corridor and heading for the kitchen. I threw the bags in the guest bedroom and followed her in silence.

      In the kitchen, having beaten me by a full 40 seconds, mom was going through my cabinets. She was huffing and puffing and sighing up a storm.

      What do you want, mom?

      "What-do-you-want-mom? Is that how you welcome your guests? she asked in that judgmental matronly way she took when my grandmother was in the room I taught you better than that!"

      I rolled my eyes and tried not to let her drag me back to my awkward childhood. She had this special talent of making me feel loved and special when I needed it, or like an ungrateful brat all of 12 and full of zits at all other times.

      "Mom, I just meant what are you looking for? What do you need? What would you like? I spoke as evenly as I could, desperately trying to keep my emotional state levelled, but less than two minutes into the visit already I wanted to bludgeon her. Stop fucking banging the cabinets! Sit. Just sit. Please, mom... Sit down and let me take care of whatever it is you need."

      She looked at me and I knew it wasn’t right. There was no fire in her eyes. There was something I am not sure I’d ever seen. There was sadness and—maybe she was just tired. The point is there was no fire in her eyes and she watched me pull out a chair on the little breakfast table and she dragged her feet to it and slid into the seat. She did so quietly but her body language screamed her displeasure. I tried not to make eye contact, to avoid the silent lashing.

      I have coffee, tea, chocolate, I rattled off choices and watched out of the corner of my eye for a reaction but she seemed far away and lost in thought. I immediately knew what was needed and excused myself for a moment.

      As I ran out to the dining room, I grabbed my phone from the counter and quickly dialed my brother. It went directly to voice mail.

      Go for Mark, his message said. I’ll hit you back latex!

      I found myself rolling my eyes again and grunted into the phone, Grrr! Your mother is in my kitchen. Call me. Get here! Come get her. I hung up and grabbed a bottle of red from the adorable wine bottle holder she’d given me as a house warming present when I moved in.

      A wrought iron objet d’art, it sat atop my faux marble mantle over my faux fireplace – all mom purchases. A small caddy that held six bottles decorated by metal, hand tooled grapes and leaves. An art deco reproduction, it matched the candlesticks and the small chandelier over my dining room table in a nook off the living room.

      That space had been entirely designed by mom in the hopes that I’d entertain more. It’d go a long way to help you find a man, sweetheart, she informed me.

      I grabbed a couple of wine glasses from the corner hutch and peeked at my phone screen, hoping that in the minute it took me to pick a bottle and grab the glasses, maybe Mark had called or texted and I missed it, or maybe time had stopped and this was all a nightmare.

      Back in the kitchen, mom sat at the little table, furiously buffing the top of the sugar bowl with a napkin.

      It’s pewter, mom, I said but she did not seem to hear me.

      That thing is filthy!

      It’s supposed to look tarnished like that, mom.

      I don’t like that, she said. There was anger and defiance in the pouty façade she put on.

      Well, you bought the piece of shit, I said. Take it up with the buyer.

      I wish you wouldn’t—

      She spared me the criticism and again I saw that monumental sadness and...something else. I put down the goblets and grabbed the corkscrew. She watched me open the bottle with the deadest expression I had ever seen. I poured the wine and sat down.

      I raised my glass and she half-heartedly returned the gesture and quickly turned the glass to her lips and took a swig. She ingested half of what I poured in one intake. I shoved the bottle to her side of the table and took a sip of mine.

      The wine was also a mom purchase and had been there since her last visit.

      Would you like something to eat, mom?

      She cracked a smile and shook her head. I watched her take off her leather jacket and hang it on the back of her chair.

      Mom?

      Huh? she looked at me as if I’d caught her by surprise. No, baby. I’m okay. I just need to wash the road off me. She stood and took her glass and the bottle. I think I’m going to run me a hot bath.

      She left the kitchen as I covered my face in both hands to stifle the scream that was growing deep within.

      Where are my bags? I heard her call out and knew she was in my bedroom. I also knew what my conversation would be like for the next five minutes.

      For fuck’s sake! I grabbed the phone and speed dialed that bastard Mark again. The same obnoxious message on voicemail. "Mark, so help me, I will kill her. You will have no mother. Your children will be grandmotherless. Do you understand me?"

      In the long corridor, I stayed in the lower half of the house. Your bags are in the guest room, mom.

      I heard the water running in my bathroom and sprang into action, running down the corridor. No! No no no no no. No!

      Sheila, this room is a nightmare.

      No, I repeated. Don’t touch anything!

      I ran past her and into my bathroom. I cut the water off and returned to the room.

      "Woman, stop! Put it down, goddammit. Put it down. I was a little louder than I intended, but she was holding up a delicate paper sculpture I was working on for a friend’s wedding. I told you not to touch anything. Give me that!"

      I saw her frown at me, her eyes narrowing into Clint Eastwood spaghetti western territory, as I took the piece out of her hand and placed it back on my drafting table. I should have been terrified but was too annoyed to remember my place.

      This is ridiculous, mom said. "You have space out there. Why keep this is your bedroom? It just cramps the space. What if you have, you know, company in here? Eh? she suddenly got coy with me, as if we didn’t both know what she was implying. This is a workspace and it does not belong in the bedroom."

      I stared at the ceiling and silently counted to ten, then replied, "Sometimes I let your grandchild stay over. She knows my bedroom is off limits, as do most of my friends, because they are polite. But if I left this out in the open, she’d touch and break things – as do nosy and handsy visitors."

      She shot me a dirty look (topping the Clint-squint) complete with curled lip for the perfect

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