DESIRED PYROTECHNICS Chapter Two--Lust for the Ambitious

Artwork by Felicien Rops

My mood had not brightened by the time I went to pick Haiden up from the train station. 

After receiving one terse email with his train times, he must have miscalculated, or there'd been 

a problem at the airport, because I sat there for over three hours watching as train after train 

pulled into the station and left again. Finally, I saw Haiden lift his hand against the window as his 

train rolled in, but I couldn't look him in the eye. There was a cold, black wind blowing around 

inside of me that tasted like bitter ashes. 

Once inside the car, I waited for him to roll a cigarette. After sitting at the station for so 

long, I was freezing and wanted to hit the road so I could turn the car heater on, but I was afraid 

to do so without his permission. The atmosphere felt tense to me and I didn't want to be 

accused of trying to rush him. 

“Was your plane delayed?” I asked. 

“No,” he answered. 

“Was there a problem at the station?” I tried again. 

“What is your problem?” he countered. 

“I was just wondering why you were so late,” I explained. “I was sitting at the station for 

over three hours.” 

“I just flew half way across the world, can you give it a fucking rest? God, you always 

pick your moments to attack,” he moaned. “You were a miserable bitch when I left, and you are 

still fucking miserable now. I had really hoped some distance would make you less crazy.” 

18 

Toying with the car key, I bit my tongue. I couldn't defend myself against his claims 

because to do so would cause things to further escalate. Reasoning didn't work. Leaving 

worked for a while, but I was in no position to do so at that moment. 

“Can we get going?” he demanded. 

“No problem,” I answered, turning the key in the ignition. 

Gripping the steering wheel tightly, I navigated the narrow, winding roads. The 

countryside was wild and untouched by human hands. Street lamps didn't exist, and without the 

light pollution, the stars sparkled overhead like a vast network of jewels. 

“Can we stop somewhere and get something to drink?” asked Haiden. 

“It's after ten-thirty,” I answered. “I don't know if anywhere will still be open.” 

“There has to be somewhere,” he demanded. 

Dance, Anabelle, dance, I thought. Make the impossible, possible. Find a solution – and 

quickly. “We can try the lower village. Maybe something will be open there,” I offered, although I 

doubted it. 

“Fine.” 

To my surprise, I was wrong – there was a store still open. Strolling inside, I grabbed a 

tall can of beer from the cooler to calm my nerves and Haiden bought a couple of cans of soda. 

Wandering to the concrete steps of a nearby derelict movie theater, we sat down. Or at 

least I sat down. Haiden stood above me with his arms crossed. I didn't want to fight with him 

and only wished we weren't continuously stomping on each other’s fault lines. 

Cracking open the beer, I took a long swig. “Did you see any good artwork?” I asked. 

“Some,” he answered. 

“Which was?” 

He launched into a synopsis of a new Latin artist on the scene, which turned into a 

twenty-minute diatribe. I found myself tuning him out. Over the years I'd learned if I reiterated 

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the words of his last sentence he would think I was listening. A glowing pair of feline eyes 

peeked out from underneath a parked car. Leaning forward, I tried to get a closer look. 

“You're not listening to me,” he complained. 

“I am too,” I protested, sitting back up. “You were talking about how creepy the line work 

was and you said the series was a little heartless.” 

He continued, satisfied I was paying attention. 

A streetlight across the parking lot blinked out as a wind blew through the alleyway. 

Clutching my coat tighter, I tried to cover my bare legs against the chill. Earlier, when I'd gotten 

dressed, I hadn't expected to be out after dark and had grabbed a sheer cotton frock. “Can we 

go?” I asked, fairly convinced he was done. “I'm getting cold.” Finishing the last of the beer, I 

stood up, rubbing the gooseflesh on my legs. 

“You're always cold,” he responded. “You must have the worst circulation of anyone I 

know.” 

“Quite possibly,” I laughed. He wasn't being mean - my hands and feet were always 

freezing. Maybe because I didn't have much body fat, but I had little defense against inclement 

weather. 

Back on the road, I breathed a sigh of relief. The tension had dissipated. By whatever 

means only Haiden knew, but his mood had lightened. Up and up we drove toward our remote 

abode. The night was moonless so I could see neither the canyons nor the ancient stones that 

made the region famous, but I didn't need to see them to know they were keeping an eye on us. 

At home the next day, life settled into sullen silence. Sipping freshly pressed coffee, I 

messed with a stamp on my passport, smearing it slightly. I'd already overstayed by a couple of 

years, but lucky for me, the document was a mess, and the multitude of stamps weren't in 

chronological order. We were traveling to Dublin in the morning and I was worried after having 

20 

been given a hard time by immigration there before. But, we had another festival featuring 

works from the both of us and I didn't want to miss it – I didn't want to be left behind once again. 

Satisfied with my handiwork, I held the passport toward Haiden, and asked, “Can you 

read this date?” 

Tearing his attention away from his laptop, he took a cursory once over and answered, 

“no – I think you are good to go.” 

“I think I am too,” I agreed. “But I'm kind of nervous,” 

Looking back at the computer screen, he sighed, “I don't have time for this, Anabelle. If 

you want to go – go. If you don't – then don't.” 

Thanks for the support, I thought to myself. “Fine,” I responded, shoving the document 

into my bag. Pouring myself another cup, I attempted to change the subject. “I wrote out the 

special thanks section for the program tomorrow. Do you want to hear it?” I asked. 

“Sure,” he replied, not bothering to look up. 

Grabbing my notebook from the coffee table, I read, “to my co-creator Anessa for her 

support and conjurations. To Haiden for his creativity and genius...” Glancing up, I smiled, 

assuming he would be pleased. 

He was shaking with rage. 

I set the notebook down. 

“Why the fuck would you credit that bitch, Anessa? What the fuck has she done to 

deserve anything?” he asked, rising from his chair. 

“She did a bunch of the set ups and modeled for some of the images. I have to credit her 

– she worked hard,” I responded as the warning signal began to flash in my head. 

“Your sanctimonious partner worked hard?” he reiterated, starting toward me. 

“She's not my partner,” I answered. “You are my partner. She's my co-creator...” 

“Who fucking paid for you to sit around on your fat ass and dream up that stupid series,” 

he replied. 

21 

“That's not exactly true,” I protested. “I started that project and finished three-fourths of it 

while I was staying elsewhere. The rest I finished on my own time. Except for the ending – you 

were working on a commission while I finished the last two images.” 

“You fucking ungrateful bitch!” he shouted, fists clenched in rage. 

In as even a tone as possible, I asked, “Why do we have to do this? The last thing in the 

world I am trying to do is make you mad. Anessa is no threat to you.” 

Slamming his fist into the side of the chair, he warned, “Someday, I will strangle that 

bitch and give her exactly what she deserves.” 

Stay calm, I told myself. Do not show him any fear. 

“Why can't you write the truth about how you owe everything to me? You know, without 

me,” he sneered, “you would be nothing.” 

“I can rewrite it,” I heard myself say. But I didn't want to rewrite it. There was nothing 

wrong the special thanks section. Nor had Anessa done anything offensive other than stand up 

to Haiden when he was being unreasonable a couple of years back. One incident had been 

enough for banishment. Then, I'd continued to collaborate with her, despite hearing how much 

he hated her all the time. The crazy thing was I thought he'd be proud of me for finishing the 

work; like an ignorant puppy craving its master's attention. I should have remembered when I 

completed my first big series he refused to believe it existed. At the time, Haiden told me I had 

no right to call myself an artist or photographer, and that I was mentally ill, even though the 

images had been booked into a gallery. 

Rising, I said, “I don't want to do this. I don't want to go to Dublin if it's going to be like 

this. It's not worth it.” 

A glass ashtray shattered against the wall next to my head. Flying up the stairs to the 

bedroom, I closed the door, and lodged a rickety, old chair against the handle. My clothes were 

already packed into a black overnight case. Eyeing the window, I knew I could easily jump out of 

it because our house was built into the hillside. The problem was the window squeaked when 

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opened. Deciding to chance it, I gave it a tug, and it creaked loudly. Hearing Haiden's footsteps 

echoing up the stairwell, I thought, fuck this! Placing the overnight bag on the sill, I started to 

clamber out. 

The chair at the door flew into the corner as he crashed into the room. “I'm not going to 

let you pull a runner!” shouted Haiden, grabbing me by the hair and yanking me toward him. 

“Don’t...!” I squealed. 

Slamming his hand over my mouth, he dragged me into the bathroom. Pain exploded 

behind my eyeballs when he ripped a chunk of hair out of my scalp. I tried to push him away 

from me, but he punched me in the head so hard my knees buckled and I crumpled to the tile 

floor. Then, I began to drool before it went black. 

Thump! Something hit me in the back. Thump! It did it again. The cell phone rang in the 

distance. It took me a moment to figure out I was being dragged down the stairwell by my hair. 

“Stop!” I pleaded, trying to get my legs underneath me. 

“I don't know how to answer the new phone,” replied Haiden. 

“Just stop! Please! Let me do this myself,” I begged, but I couldn't get my legs to work. 

After being dumped at the bottom of the stairs, I managed to crawl to a chair, and pull 

myself into it. My teeth chattered and my hands shook. Staring at them, I willed them to stop – 

but they wouldn't stop. 

“Unlock the code and tell me who called,” demanded Haiden, shoving the iPhone in my 

face. 

It took a few attempts before I could focus enough to swipe the screen, remember the 

key code, and read the number. “I don't know who it was, but it's a Spanish number.” I cried, 

dialing the voice-mail. Looking up, I noticed the front door was open. 

Catching my gaze, Haiden locked the front door from the inside, putting the key into his 

jean's pocket. Then, he shut the windows. 

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Listening to robotic voice on the message, a wave of hysteria washed over me. “It's from 

a telemarketer,” I sobbed, hanging up. Drawing my knees to my chin, I begged him, “please 

don't do this – please let me go.” 

“You're not going anywhere, you treacherous bitch!” he yelled. “You owe me!” 

My breath grew shallow as I panicked. No one had ever held me captive before. Stay 

quiet, I said to myself. Stay calm and you will make it through this. “I will give you anything,” I 

pleaded. “If you just let me go. Please...” 

“No,” he answered, circling around me like a shark smelling blood in the water – violence 

radiating off of him. “You are not going anywhere. I'm watching you like a hawk and you will not 

be out of my sight.” 

“Please...” I implored, drawing myself up tighter. “I will give you anything.” 

“You have nothing to give me, Anabelle. You are too stupid and are incapable of making 

money. So the best thing you can do is sit there and shut up,” he instructed. 

I did as he said. My ears rang as I willed myself to breath. I knew I had to do something 

to stop the madness. Rising, I grabbed the nearby scissors off the table and peeling off the gray 

sweater he had torn, I cut it to pieces. Stepping out of my black slip dress, I did the same. 

Naked, I set the scissors down and faced him. 

Haiden took one look at me and calmly grabbed a broom and dustpan from out of the 

closet. Then, he began to sweep up the remnants. 

Leaving him to it, I struggled up the stairs to the bathroom, locking the door. With my 

adrenaline shot, I slid down the wall, passing out again. 

BAM! BAM! BAM! Opening my eyes, I realized my head was resting against the closed 

toilet seat. It was freezing cold and the pain I felt was worse than any hangover to the power of 

ten. Literally, I thought my skull had been split in two. BAM! BAM! BAM! Glancing at the door, I 

wondered if the wood would splinter under the weight of his blows. 

“Anabelle! Get up!” shouted Haiden. “I need to use the bathroom!” 

24 

Night had fallen and the room was dark. How long had I been there? I wondered, slowly 

rising to my feet. Sliding the latch, I stumbled out into the blinding brightness. 

Brushing past me, Haiden slammed the door. The sound of it was deafening. 

Shading my eyes with my hand, I staggered into the bedroom. Grabbing a long sleeved 

kimono from the bureau, I wrapped it around myself, sitting down heavily on the edge of the 

bed. Everything hurt – my head, my hands, my back, my heart – every-single-fucking-thing. 

Peering at the window I'd tried to escape out of earlier, I thought, if only I hadn't hesitated then 

none of it would have happened. The rationalization didn't make sense, but I would have given 

anything to be taken back in time. I couldn't accept what had happened and none of it seemed 

real except for the pain. Staring into the mirror on top of the bureau, I didn't recognize myself, I 

looked so hollow-eyed and frightened. On closer inspection, I noticed a bloody chunk about the 

size of a dime at the front of my hairline. Parting my hair further on the side so it wouldn't show, 

my fingers ran across a bump the size of a bird's egg a little further down. There were no 

bruises on my face, but my back would be another story. What surprised me was how calm I 

felt, like it had happened to someone else: like I was a detached third party observing the brutal 

aftermath of a deadly storm. 

Entering the room, Haiden sat down on the bed next to me. Wrapping his arms around 

me, he started to cry. “I love you,” he said, stroking my hair. 

Hearing those words was worse than him hitting me. Something broke inside and my 

soul went flying out the window I hadn't escaped through. Where was the tough woman I'd once 

been who had always held her own? I wondered, as I sat there like a deer in the headlights. 

Why he was the one fucking crying? It was beyond insane. We had entered unknown hellish 

terrain and every single boundary crossed. Granted, he had been mean with me before – 

shaking, or pinching me – and had destroyed my stuff when angry, but never anything close to 

what had transpired. 

25 

Disentangling myself from his arms, I went downstairs. Picking up the tobacco pouch, I 

walked out the now open front door, and sat down on the stairs. Drinking in the cool night air, I 

rolled a cigarette. 

Haiden followed me outside, and announced, “I need you to print up the tickets for 

tomorrow.” 

My shoulders slumped. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to do anything other than crawl 

into a hole and die. How was I going I pull myself together? 

Somehow I did manage to pull my shit together the next morning. Compartmentalization 

was a specialty of mine, and I'd been taught from an early age that no matter what the show 

must go on. All one had to do was put some Vaseline around the gums and plant a perma-grin 

one's face – be a swan amidst the chaos – even if you were a black and blue one and felt rotten 

on the inside. 

The whole way to the airport I tried not to think about my immigration status and the risk I 

was about to take. After the events of the last 24 hours there was a part of me that would be 

relieved to be caught and sent back to America. The only problem was the possibility I would 

never be allowed back into my beloved Spain again. 

As fate would have it, there were numerous planes departing at the same time from the 

airport in Valencia and the security lines were jammed with passengers. The middle-aged 

woman stationed at passport control looked through my booklet once, and then again. In broken 

English, she stated, “I don't see your point of entry.” 

“It's right there,” I insisted, pointing to the mass of stamps and the smeary British one. “I 

came in on August 22nd.” 

Sighing loudly, she stamped the passport, motioning me through with a contemptuous 

wave of her hand. 

26 

I breathed a sigh of relief. Step one of the plan was completed. Now all I had to do was 

clear Irish immigration, and I prayed there would be a male agent at the counter when I arrived. 

Lodging his hand down my shirt, and planting it on my breast, Haiden tried to make out 

with me on the airplane. I didn't respond and wasn't feeling amorous in any kind of way. 

“What is your problem?” he asked. “No one can see and they're not paying attention 

anyway.” 

Looking up, I noticed the stewardesses had eyes like automata, glazed and distant as 

they walked down the aisle. It was true they weren't looking at anything. Normally, I wouldn't 

have given a flying rat’s ass, being shy was not exactly my bag. “There's no problem,” I replied, 

closing my eyes as he kissed me. But my movements felt wooden, like I was watching someone 

else go through the motions. A part of me recognized it was a safety mechanism; like a dog on 

a Skinner box who'd been zapped so many times it had laid down and given up, not caring 

about the pain anymore. 

Haiden stopped, pulling his hand away from my breast. “Why do you have to be so frigid 

all the time?” Turning his head, he stared out the window. 

Ignoring him, I picked up the magazine from the pocket in front of me. Pretending to read 

an article about some fashion designer I'd never heard of before, I bit back the tears. 

It was a short hop across the channel, and we landed in Ireland in no time at all. 

Queuing into the line for non-EU residents, I filled out my incoming form. The young woman in 

front of me was Muslim. She was gorgeous with a face like a dusky Madonna, but for some 

reason when she went to the counter the border guard gave her a hell of a time. An intense 

discussion broke out before the only female guard got up and led the Muslim woman to another 

room. My palms began to sweat as I waited my turn. A clean-cut looking chap waved me over 

to the open counter. Putting my best poker face on, I handed him my passport. Flipping it open. 

he glanced at the Spanish stamp. Then, he looked at my form. 

“How long is your stay in Ireland?” he queried. 

27 

“About a week,” I answered. 

He read down further. “You're a photographer? Are you here for business?” 

“Not really,” I explained. “See, my new partner has a painting exhibition premiering at the 

Arts Festival and I've come to surprise him. Seems kind of silly, huh?” Widening my eyes, I 

attempted to look as naive as possible. 

The man smiled. “What do you photograph?” he asked. 

Bingo! I thought. “Mainly weddings and celebrity portraits,” I replied. “It's kind of 

embarrassing.” My gaze hit the floor as I willed my cheeks to redden – which, of course, they 

didn't. Little did he know, I photographed graphic images, full of terrifying light and shadows. 

Although, he might dig them as my audience often surprised me. 

Chuckling in a patronizing way, he stamped my passport. “Enjoy your stay.” 

“Thank you!” I flashed him a shy smile. The adrenaline rushed through me and I felt 

downright giddy when I met up with Haiden. 

“What did you tell passport control?” asked Haiden. 

“I gave the guy there some spiel that I was a wedding photographer,” I replied, “and I 

was coming to Dublin to surprise my partner who had an exhibition premiering. It's not that far 

from the truth and the wedding photographer part works every time.” 

He gave me an odd look. “You're so good at getting what you want, aren't you?” 

I wasn't certain if that was a dig or not, so I chose to think it wasn't. I was still high from 

making it through. “It's a talent,” I said. “Besides, you get nothing in this world without being 

bold.” Of course, there had been every chance I might have been crying in custody at that very 

moment. 

“Uh huh,” he remarked, still giving me that look, “let's go smoke.” 

Outside the airport was dismal and gray as we stood smoking and waiting for the bus to 

take us into the city center. After a couple of aborted attempts, I realized the cell phone 

wouldn't connect, so we had no ability to let anyone know we had arrived. The bus port number 

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was thirteen, which I took to be a good sign. I loved any building that had thirteen floors. 

Superstitions could be damned – thirteen had always been a lucky number for me. 

We made it into the city proper, and found our hotel, which was shockingly up-scale. 

After checking in, my jaw nearly hit the floor when I saw the suite we were booked into. There 

was an over-sized jet tub in the bathroom that I stared at longingly, wondering if I had time to 

indulge. Baths didn't exist in our ancient abode and I was lucky if I got in one shower a week. 

“We should get online to let someone know we're here,” called Haiden from the other 

room. 

Popping my head out of the bathroom, I saw him sitting in a fancy office chair in front 

of huge desk which had more plugs on it than I'd ever seen before. 

“Okay,” I answered. Grabbing my battered laptop from my overnight case, I plugged it in. 

Veteran of a thousand creative wars, the computer was neither fast, nor fancy, but it always got 

the job done, and I was more than sentimentally attached to the piece of machinery. 

Haiden did the same with his sleek, new, compact notebook. 

Neither of us could figure out how to get onto the hotel internet. 

Running downstairs to the lobby, I found the concierge who acted like it normally wasn't 

a problem. I could tell by the tone in his voice we were earmarked as potential trouble. They 

were right – we were trouble, and would probably come crashing in at the wee hours of the 

morning on various substances. Heading back upstairs, I tried to get online again – still, no luck. 

“This is exactly what happened in Buenos Aires,” complained Haiden. “That's why it took 

me so long to get ahold of you. I finally had to give up and use Nero's computer.” 

You fucking lying asshole, I thought, as my bullshit meter shot through the roof. “Really?” 

I replied. My eyes narrowing as I tried to keep the steam from coming out of my ears. “That's 

weird because I know Nero left the festival on Tuesday and you didn't email me until Thursday.” 

If there was one thing the Haiden would not tolerate it was to be caught in a lie. 

Becoming defensive, he attempted to backtrack. “What is it with you?” he demanded. 

29 

“With me?” I was indignant. “What's with you?!” 

He quivered with rage. 

Inside my head the flashing, red warning light went off. Fuck! I thought. I hated being in 

the position of backing down when I had the right to be angry. 

“I went to the media booth and emailed you, all right?” he explained. 

I said nothing. It wasn't all right. Not by any means of the imagination, but I knew better 

than to open my mouth at that moment, so instead, I picked up my makeup bag and started to 

touch up my face paint. The bath would have to wait. 

“I hate it when you act like this!” he shouted, before storming into the bathroom and 

slamming the door.