Page 44 of Tainted Love

Even in my sleep, my body sought contact with hers, and she allowed it.

Progress.

Chapter 19

“You Might Think”

Sascha - Age 18, 1988

Nope. No way. This is not happening. I hold the garish cheetah print bikini briefs between my thumb and forefinger, away from my body like they might bite.

I innocently gathered some things from the dryer this evening and found this ridiculous underwear. Unless my dad has taken up some kinky shit (pause to gag for a moment), these belong to Michael. He can’t be serious with this. What possible use could these serve? Do the women he hooks up with like these? Maybe they trade panties after the deed is done?

It’s bad enough that he brings his hockey clothes home once per week to be washed. They stink up the entire house. I’ve never smelled anything so bad in my life. It’s like a sloth crawled out of a dead man’s ass, got sprayed by a skunk, and then started rotting on the floor. And don’t get me started on his cup. I’m not sure what the hell he was doing with that thing the other night, but it was on the floor in the bathroom. I kicked it across the floor into his room, cursing him and his ball protector the entire time.

But back to these ludicrous underwear. I wonder if he cares about them at all. I guess we’re about to find out.

“Where are my cheets, Sascha?” he says, standing in the doorway of my room holding the ransom note I placed on his pillow earlier. It reads:

GIVE ME $5.00 IF YOU EVER WANT TO SEE YOUR BANANA HAMMOCKS AGAIN.

I thought it was pretty funny. Apparently, he does not.

“I’m sorry,” I say with a laugh. “Your what?”

“My cheets,” he replies. “Those are my lucky game day underwear.”

A guffaw rumbles from my chest.

“Shut up! Hockey players are very superstitious,” he argues.

“So you wear that underwear every single game?” I ask, barely holding it together.

“Haven’t we covered this?” he says, placing his hands on his hips. “They’re lucky, and they’re comfortable. Where are they?”

“You didn’t pay the ransom,” I reply off-handedly.

“This isn’t funny, Sascha,” he says as he marches toward my closet.

“Hey! You can’t go in there.”

“You took my lucky underwear. All rules are off the table,” he growls, his hands rifling through my neatly folded clothes, tossing them aside without care.

“Get away from my closet!” I demand, trying to assert some authority and failing miserably.

“What are you afraid of? That I’ll see some of your black clothes? Or purple clothes? Or navy clothes?”

“Stop!” I say with more force, grabbing his arm and tugging him back with all my strength. But he easily breaks free, determined to find what he wants.

His fingers delve into the depths of an old, worn hat box, filled to the brim with a jumbled mess of forgotten memories. There are letters, drawings, and even some dusty tapes I had received from Columbia House for only one penny, which I never intended to pay for.

Curiosity piqued, he pulls out a stack of drawings from kindergarten.

“What’s this?” he asks with a small smirk playing on his lips.

I scoff. “Just some silly drawings.”

He takes one and studies it intently. It’s a crude drawing of us sitting side by side on a playground slide. Though not my best work, it’s clear that it is meant to represent a boy and a girl.