Aunt Téa’s Addiction
A Demontorium short story
Copyright 2011 by Naima Haviland
It seems like yesterday that Téa carved a big circle out of her belly and tried to scoop her entrails into the toilet. Before starting, she’d put duct tape over her mouth so her screaming wouldn’t bother the neighbors.
Téa had everything. Talent, personality, and a handsome husband who adored her. She had cherry cola colored hair, dark red lips that smiled often, and long legs. Dressed up, she took your breath away. But even dressed down, she had an inner blaze that made people notice her.
No matter how many years we knew each other, no matter how many times a week we talked, she always announced who she was on the phone. When people said she looked like Anne Hathaway, she’d say "oh" with wide, polite eyes. The person always got a little uncomfortable, then said, "I meant that as a compliment," and Téa would brighten and thank them. "I don’t want to assume," she told me. They might not think Anne Hathaway was pretty.
People’s horizons don’t broaden, have you ever noticed that? Children’s do, because adults move them from group to group – from soccer to football, from gymnastics to band, and so on. But unless adults try different hobbies, the circle never widens. Who we know is how big our world is. It never changes. So a horrible death like Téa’s, all that blood on the bathroom floor, blows a big hole in the atmosphere. Changes the climate forever. Mutates the tiny universe. We went about our business. Life goes on, but it always seemed like yesterday since Téa died.