Rage

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Ian

F rom the united front that we were, I now feel like there are miles between us. And it’s tearing me apart. My heart is in shambles and, for the first time in my life, I have this daunting feeling that I can’t reach my wife.

That she decided to shut me out for months or maybe years, and that now is the time when she’ll completely shut that door and let me be alone in this cold, dark room that life without her is.

I thought she’s enjoying our endeavours. I thought she’s as keen on punishing the abusers in this world as I am. Until I realized she isn’t. Or not in the same way or for the same reasons as she did. There’s a fear that guides her mixed with the determination I saw in her eyes all those years ago when she killed her ex husband. And that fear makes her reckless and makes both of us vulnerable.

And maybe I was wrong to goad her. Maybe I should’ve tried talking to her and put her demons at rest. Maybe I should stop playing games just to get the result I want, especially when it comes to my wife. But for that I need to know what scares her to this extent. Is it the fear of losing me? Losing our children? How could that be possible since she knows I would never allow that to happen, and I proved that to her time and time again.

“Talk to me,” I say, pulling my seatbelt and ignoring the way my wife reves the engine.

I’m met with silence.

“Baby—”

“Do not baby me, Ian.” Her voice is laced with venom, and I feel the poison dripping on my heart. “I’m not in the mood to argue.”

“We’ve never argued.” I scoff, waving my hand dismissively. “Ten years. Not a single argument.”

“That’s a lie and you know it.”

“Do I?” My head turns abruptly looking at my wife. “Because I’m not sure what I know or what I don’t anymore.”

“We argued, Ian.” She sounds exasperated. With me. And it’s killing me. “We argued when you found out I killed Gabriel. And we argued even worse after that. We argued when I was pregnant with the twins. We argued when we were in Romania trying to keep our ghosts from haunting us only to create new ones to add to the collection. We argued for a lot of times.”

“Not like this,” I sound just as exasperated as she does. “Never like this.”

The silence in the car is deafening, the tension so thick not even the sharpest knife could cut it. I feel it and I know she feels it too. I see it in the way her jaw ticks and in her bottom lip that’s already bleeding from how much she bit it.

It’s a battle of egos and of wills, but I’m not one to keep fighting these types of wars. Not with my wife. So I clear my throat before saying,

“I want to know what is it that torments you, pretty girl. And please don’t say it’s me. I might have contributed to it, but you and I both know that’s not the case. So tell me.” I lower my voice. “What is it that makes your heart bleed, and what can I do to make that wound form a scar?”

Her chin is trembling and tears are pooling in her eyes. I hate seeing her like this. Absolutely loathe it. But if we want to move past this, to sort out everything in our hearts and souls, we need to walk on this dark road.

“I—” she inhales sharply. “I think I lost myself along the way.”

“Meaning?”

“I want to kill so, so many people, Ian,” she whispers. “I can’t seem to stop. I have all this,” she waves her left hand chaotically, the diamond on her wedding band shining brightly in the otherwise dark car, “ rage. It’s building and boiling inside me more and more with every day that passes, and I’m starting to wonder if this is what a mother should feel.”

“Baby—”

“Let me finish. Please, just let me finish.”

I nod and stay silent, my head tilting to the side so I can see her better.

“I have all these thoughts running rampant in my head. That a mother shouldn’t be a serial killer, but at the same time a good mother should do anything to protect her children. We have a daughter, Ian!” she says the last sentence louder, pushing the acceleration pedal even further. “We have a daughter and I have dreams about her going through what I did. Or worse.”

“That could never happen.” My hand instinctively goes to the collar of my shirt, pulling it hard so I can breathe. Because what my wife just told me made me feel like I’m suffocating.

I know I told her that could never happen, but I don’t believe that. I just said it to reassure her. But deep down, I know that our Corbin could easily become a victim of an abuser. It just takes one wrong person to fall in love with and it all goes downhill from there. And no matter how we raise her, no matter how much we try to protect her, at the end of the day she’ll be the only one to take care of herself once she grows up.

“And two boys,” she continues, completely ignoring what I’ve just said. “Three innocent souls that are susceptible to going through all the horrendous things we did or even more. So I want to kill everyone who might hurt them before that actually happens. Is it immoral? Most probably. Am I going completely insane? Absolutely. But I can’t control it, Ian. And I think the best thing to do is stop altogether because otherwise this thirst, this need , only grows and grows and fucking grows. Before we had the twins every kill satiated something in me. Like a junky who got their hit and for a while they’re happy. But now I feel the exact opposite. I kill Larry and the next things I want is to see my children and make sure they’re safe, have sex with you, and then go find the next Larry.”

“So why did you get so upset with me?” I voice the question that’s been haunting my mind for the past hours. “Just because I made a joke? Just because I tried to lighten the mood or make you see things for yourself? I’ve always tried to help you, Echo.”

“I know.” She nods swiftly. “I know, Ian. But I guess I can’t tell right from wrong anymore. Because again, I have all these emotions running through my bloodstream and I’m losing control over them more and more with every day that passes.”

“I need you to let me in, baby,” I whisper, flinching when I’m met with silence.

I don’t know what else to say. If she decides to shut me down for the first in her life, so be it. But this isn’t the way we function. We’ve always been a well-oiled machine, a tandem dance taken to perfection. Suddenly, I don’t feel like that anymore. And now I’m the one who has a spectrum of emotions that he can’t handle.

“You are in,” she finally says, and her voice—just her voice—soothes my soul and makes my demons scream less. “But if I don’t know who I am anymore, how could you possibly be familiar with this place you are in?”

“Because I know you, Echo Beckett.” Determination is dripping from my voice when I unfasten my seatbelt, grateful that we are finally home. “I know you better than you know yourself. And I know you’re scared and vulnerable and raw now because you sense this shift inside you. I know that shift. That’s what happens when you decide to bring small versions of yourself into this world. You change because it’s not about you anymore. It’s about innocent lives that you would sell your soul to the highest bidder for. I know that shift because I’ve felt it too.”

A pensive look takes over her face, and I let her sit with that. I let her remember the times when I was going through the same thing as she is now. I had the same thoughts when Noah was born, but I reacted differently. I wasn’t enraged, I was scared out of my mind that something would happen to her or to my boy. And because of that fear, I tortured the corpses of the people we killed just to make sure they were dead and stayed dead.

I was scared, yet my beautiful, strong woman is enraged. I’ve always said she’s far better than I am from all the perspectives one might think of. And this is just proof that I’m right. Because instead of letting her dark thoughts scare her, she takes them and twists them, turning them into something productive and into something that helps us make this world a better place.

I know a lot of people disagree. I know according to the law we deserve to rot in jail. I know all of that, and I’m sure she knows it too. But we also know that at the end of the day, we are doing this world a service. And if before that was reason enough to cover our tracks and never become suspects in any of these murders, now we have more important reasons for that. Reasons made from our flesh. Reasons that have our blood circulating through their veins. Reasons created by our love for each other and the desire to bring more good people on this planet, to try and tip the scales in the direction of what we consider as decent.

Getting out of the car, I run towards her side, opening the door before kneeling next to her. The light on our porch is bright enough to allow me to see the tears pooling in her eyes and the way her nose is scrunching, the inner conflict she’s going through bright as day.

“I think I know what I want, Ian,” she whispers, turning her head in my direction. “I think I want to wait for them to grow up and teach them how to continue our legacy.”

I feel my stomach churning when I hear her words, but I can’t say she’s completely wrong. Because no matter how much we do our best to protect them, there will come a day when they will need to protect themselves and—hopefully—each other.

“Do you want to teach our kids how to kill a man without leaving tracks?”

“I want them to learn everything you taught me. I want them to know that killing your abuser—hell, any abuser—is the right thing to do, consequences be damned. I want them to fight, Ian. I want our children to never allow others to step over them and their dignity, and I want them to punish the ones who even dare to dream of that.”

“Okay.” I nod, standing up and taking her hand, pulling her out of the car. “Okay, baby, let’s do that.”

And then she kisses me. The type of kisses that melts my heart and mends my soul, bending it to her will. The type of kiss that reassures me that everything will be alright. That come what may our small world we fought so hard to build will stay together. And if telling our children everything we did is the way to achieve that, then so fucking be it.