C H A P T E R 19
C H A P T E R 19
UNRAVELLING TRUTHS
Puppet
I wake to the beaming sun warming my face through the living room window, lifting my head to realise I'm not in her room. I’m in the living room. I must have conked out after my insulin. A weighted duvet hugs my body. She literally left me here? I assess the room and she isn’t in the kitchen making pancakes, I peer down to find Shep lying on the floor beneath me as if he’s guarding me. Am I alone ?
Last night’s conversation creeps into remembrance and I suddenly realise she said she was out today but I am still shocked she left me access to everything. Maybe she's in her room and isn’t up yet? I leap off the sofa, eager to find she trusted me enough to leave me unsupervised and I freeze. The bedrooms empty. This is my chance , right? I trundle into the kitchen to find a cup left on the side with coffee granules already inside and I assume that was for her, but it would be a shame to let it go to waste so I make myself at home and put the kettle on. I forget how noisy the damn thing is, even that sounds old.
I sit at the dining room table drinking my coffee from her ugly mug until it’s cold thinking about yesterday's gappy conversation and I am left wanting more answers. I'm angry. She refused to talk to me about my father when I know there is more than meets the eye, and she owes me that at least because I'm going crazy here. This was no accident; their deaths were intentional and I want to know why .
Glaring at the mysterious door for what feels like ten hours, I think of all the horrendous things that could be lurking behind it and my curiosity gets the best of me. I haven’t a clue how to pick locks, but today I am going to learn.
I raid the kitchen for things I could potentially use. Draws and draws of clutter and antique looking kitchen utensils fill them to the brim, wondering how many things have been used as torture devices. I spend the next few hours using every method possible to get to whatever’s behind that door. Finally, I crack it with a pathetic piece of wire I found and it clicks open, drawing out its squeak through the building like something from a horror movie and my curiosity peaks as I walk in, closing it behind me to keep Shep out.
It's a garage filled to the brim with tools and a bike perched in the middle of the room on its stand. It's old. A Harley Davidson, pristine gloss black with a tire currently missing. I dread to touch it and break something, so I tiptoe around the chaos, careful not to step on any of her equipment as I catch two doors on the back wall. More rooms? I turn the knob of one and it's locked so I try the other, the knob turns in my hand slowly until the latch lets the door break free and I'm not so eager to push it open. My hand hovers for a moment, taking in a deep breath before pushing it gently to reveal a dark room. I fumble for a light switch and my gut hits the floor along with my jaw when the warm glow lights it up, as I creep further into the lion's den.
Play - ‘Black Out Days - Phantogram’
I analyse the sea of paper on the wall; pictures, documents, pins, writing, string, all coat it like paint. My eyes scatter amongst the information before me and I feel violently sick.
It's a case board for my father .
His face is plastered all over it along with every possible piece of information he has. CCTV footage of him in stores and streets, time stamps dating back to 2006. That was three years ago? Hospital appointments, court cases, w hat court cases ? My fingers trace the words, reading faster than my brain can process.
Words scream at me.
Murder.
Self-defence.
Involuntary Manslaughter.
Chicago police department.
Mother.
Mrs. Lillie Moore.
1999.
Revoked.
What is all this? What am I missing? What the hell am I in the middle of? I'm churning, fighting the need to pass out. I can't be found in here. Breathe Alora. 1999 was the year we moved? That was the year he told me he walked away, that it was all too much, that he wanted to start fresh and leave detective work behind? I don't understand any of this and I want to scream so loud I shatter the windows. I examine what else I can find, turning to find a computer and a phone line. A phone ! I don't even give my feet time to register before lunging for it, trying to dial 911 into a black void, so shaky I don't register it's doing nothing until I press the green button.
Silence .
“No, no no no, please.” I scramble for the lead, following it towards its plug socket only to find it's been cut halfway.“FUCK!...” You've got to be kidding me! There is no way she took that much precaution surely! I plant my ass in the office chair, glaring at my reflection through the monitor. I'm sitting in the seat of a killer and ice runs through my body.
She's smart . Calculated . None of this is coincidence anymore. I'm in amongst a much bigger picture with pieces missing. I am Collateral Damage in a game I was not playing. All of this only makes me want to run faster but now I can't, not until I know what I'm dealing with, not until I get into this computer and collect evidence I could use. I press the power button and it does nothing. Come on!
Fifteen minutes go by and I've yet to turn the bastard thing on. Scrambling through stacks and stacks of files piled beside the screen, hundreds of cold cases from what I can tell. My heart sinks. These are all domestic abuse cases? My Father was never abusive, if that is what she was targeting then she's got it all wrong but that can't be it, she said I was never in the picture? Or not that she knew of anyway.
I sit my forehead in the palm of my hands trying to collect my thoughts but it's a shamble. This past month I've lost all sense of my time and sustainability. Trying to piece this puzzle together is like a psych patient trying to seek sanity. I feel like I'm losing my mind. I tune into the sound of my own heartbeat, focusing on the movement in my feet like my Mom taught me when I realise the rumble I hear isn't within me.
Shit .
She's home and the sound of her bodged up old truck gurgles from behind the door. I have about two minutes to get myself back in that living room and I choke from lack of oxygen, frantically putting things back in their places, papers nearly flying everywhere. Shit shit shit. My adrenaline is piping through me, sending me marching through the door as I close it quickly behind me, clicking it too, nearly tripping over her bloody bike as I run for the living room. I can hear her keys from behind the front door and my hearts humming in my ears, muffling my hearing as I reach for the TV remote and slam the power button finding the sofa just as the door pushes to, followed by her heavy boots breaking the wood beneath her, she’s holding a brown paper bag, drenched in black. The smell of petrol overwhelms my senses as she traipses in front of the TV to hand me the bag.
Play - ‘EDWARD SCISSOR HANDS – Nessa Barrett’
“Thought you might be hungry.” I stare blankly at the bag hovering in front of my face like a homeless man being given a cheque of a million dollars. Did she actually bring me home food?
“Thanks.” I slowly grip it, taking it out of her hand timidly, opening it up to find a Wendy's inside. I've literally never eaten fast food. Mom always said it was bad for me, but right now I don't really care, I'm starving.
“I see you helped yourself to my coffee.” I pause rummaging through the bag as I look over like a guilty child with my hand in the cookie jar.
“I'm sorry.” That was probably too bold of me, never mess with someone's coffee.
“What did I say, Puppet .” She groans deeply, pausing what she's doing, frozen solid making my hairs stand on end remembering her words yesterday. Say sorry again and I'll wash your mouth out Puppet. I feel a pulse where I really shouldn't and it repulses me, pushing it to the back of my mind as I look at her grubby wear, quickly changing the subject.
“You look like hell.” My hand finds the fries, shoving them in my mouth trying to savour the taste of a proper meal, or as good as I'm gonna get anyway. Shep glares at me from his bed.
“I thought I looked cute?” She questions my statement, and I can feel her grin through the back of her head. Very funny.
“Key word. Looked . I.e. past tense.” My fries find my mouth, unaware that she's turned around to see me stuffing my gob like Oliver Twist.
“And now?” I pause, fries halfway in my mouth glaring at her god awful attire and smeared face paint trying to fight the urge to want to punch her in the face.
“Hideous.” My cheeks puff out as I talk with my mouth rammed, chewing to swallow.
“Much better.” She praises me for an insult. She wants to look intimidating and unapproachable and it works, it also makes me wonder if she went to Wendy's looking like that? They must have had a few questions.
“How was work? ” I break the ugly tension laying thick in the air with another laughable question, playing on our little roleplay.
“Tiresome. And you drank my coffee.” Her tone becomes cold, glaring at me from across the living room through crossed arms and for some reason my mouth speaks without permission.
“I'm-” she breaks me halfway, cutting me off with a jump, nearly choking on my fries as it takes her three strides across the floor before she's hovering over me.
“Say it again Innocence . Say it and so help me God.” My blood runs cold, missing a few beats as I swallow my food hard, peering into the portal of hell as she finds the death sentence in mine.
“You won't hurt me. You said it yourself.” I talk back out of nowhere, shocking myself with this sudden bite I seemed to have acquired.
“I said I wouldn't hurt you. No one said anything about making you question your morals, Princess .” Her hand reaches into my bag, now free from her gloves to take a hand full of MY fries, eating them like a heathen and for some perverted reason my eyes are glued to her inky hands as the stench of paint and gasoline suffocate me.
“I'm going for a shower…” She finishes her mouthful, pushing off the sofa towards the bathroom and I'm left sat in utter confusion. Question my morals? What does that even mean?
My backs leant against the sofa as I finish off my junk food, surfing through the channels for something semi-decent to watch but there is absolutely nothing interesting. I should be trying to run out the door right now but I remain glued to the sofa, listening to the water running. She hasn't even bothered to shut the door? What a weirdo. Does she not care about privacy? Apparently neither do I because I find myself turning to catch the mirror in the bathroom, looking for signs of life. I desperately want to see her face and it's driving me insane. I want to see the coward underneath the mask she hides behind. I continue watching the TV until the rush of water stops, turning on instinct to the noise coming from behind me when I catch her back in the reflection of the mirror, or what I can see of it. It's smothered in tattoos I cannot decipher from this distance. Omg Alo, stop looking you perv.
I can't. I'm waiting for her to turn around, resting my head on the top of my pillow like a needy puppy to see her face but instead, she walks out of view leaving the mirror empty and a slight wave of disappointment washes over me. She's a woman. Why am I even looking at her? Isn't this forbidden or something? Wait…oh my god. My morals… Does she mean? No. Surely not…eww, absolutely not. Yet I can't seem to look away, fixated on the hazy mirror embodying her through the steam like my own personal entity, always looming, always watching. In some ways it’s like she’s dead. She’s hollow inside. Sometimes I question if there's a beating heart inside her chest, but then she wraps me up in her duvet and brings me food and something tells me I'm wrong, but I don’t want to be wrong. She hurts people, she hurts me, she hurt me.
I recap the office, the mysteries between paper, the answers right in front of me I can’t seem to decipher and I'm furious externally, but internally I'm mourning the simple me, the me that stuck my head in the clouds and tried to drown out the depths of reality in fear they may become mine. The me that only spoke when spoken to, the me that daren't ask questions, the me that would write until the sun came up and head to college on no sleep but it was ok because in my little world, the princess married the prince. The me that saw me getting married one day and slow dancing with my dad. The me that is now just a distant memory and the me that has now become the survivor in my little world, wielding a blade and learning to fight, learning to understand pain and how it affects us. Some wear it, some don’t.
She wears it like a trophy yet the achievement has been etched out, unreadable , and it fascinates me.
“Have you taken your insulin?” She bellows from the mist and I suddenly feel all warm inside. She doesn’t have to care but she does and both are equally as terrifying. She’s going about her daily life as if I was now part of the furniture, no longer a prisoner and I should be grateful, but I can’t shake the stains she’s washing off, the remnants of somebody else beneath her fingernails.
“ Dreamer ,” what did she just call me? I feel a yank at my heartstrings, flopping back into the sofa fighting with this endless war in my mind. It’s exhausting being able to feel the suffering shared amongst you. My mom used to say it was a gift, but how can it be when I feel empathy for her executioner? Why am I even considering the option? I should despise her. I do despise her. For all the wrong bloody reasons, this is ridiculous.
“Don’t ignore me.” She strolls out the bathroom in a fresh coat of paint and a shoulder cut T-shirt this time, my jaw parts slightly. This is the first time I've seen her arms out. Although she may as well not have them out. Her tattoo’s cover almost every inch of her exposed skin. I knew she had tattoo’s but there’s more ink than flesh on her and they are the size of tree trunks, what the hell does she do between greeting the Devil? Her pockets are hanging out yet again and I stare at them with annoyance. Who wears their pockets out like that ? It's so dumb.
“It’s annoying isn’t it.” I taunt. Now she can know how it feels when she avoids all my important questions, although it doesn’t last long before I tell her yes. She preaches she won’t hurt me and I've pushed a few times, but the reality is she could kill me in one quick headlock and my body shudders at the thought.
“Enjoy the show?” she rubs her towel through her soppy hair as she walks toward the fridge.
Yes. You guessed it, another beer. I don’t think I've ever seen her eat a proper meal, all she lives on is Corona. Her remark repulses me with a subconscious arousal licking at the surface, eager to get a taste as her grin riddles with ego. The bitch kept the door open on purpose.
“Not really, your channels are awful.” I play it off, referring to the telly. Which only seems to amuse her further. She knows I saw her and I can feel my cheeks burning. Burning with anger obviously.
“I see everything is intact this time.” I roll my eyes white, wanting to smash it all up just at that comment, but I refrain. The TV needs to stay intact at least so I can bore myself to death.
“For now.” I refrain from a smile, letting my heart smile for me and it kills me.