7. SEVEN
SEVEN
SNOWMAN
The late afternoon sun cast a warm, golden glow across the horizon as it began its slow escape. The kind of peace I once cared for, felt so far away now, like a distant memory.
Ever since I saw her, peace had become a stranger to me. My mind was tethered to hers, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She was faint yet vivid, as though she were both a ghost and a dream—something I could see but never touch. Something I could never truly have, not with the life I lived, not with the lies I carried.
I was lying on my bed shirtless, the cool air barely brushing against my skin as I glared at the wooden ceiling over me. The wall lamp flickered once in a while, light throbbing like a pulse as if trying to convey something to me.
She wants to see me again.
Then, I closed my eyes, just for a second, her face disappearing, but everything else sharpening.
She was everything I'd ever imagined perfection to be, yet I knew she'd never see herself the way I saw her. She didn't know the spell she had cast, the way she haunted my every thought. Her long blonde hair, streaked with shades of sunlight and shadow, shone like fresh snow under a winter sky. Her ocean-blue eyes, the deepest and darkest I'd ever seen, were now my favorite color. Blue.
She fitted together so perfectly that she seemed to have been made for some specific purpose. The soft outlines of her face, the slight shine on the tip of her small nose, and her skin were smooth and blemishless. Her lips, full and soft, held a gentle pink that gave them an almost surreal appearance. But it was her eyebrows, curved delicately over those sad, stormy eyes, that stayed with me. They gave her the look of a porcelain doll; fragile, innocent, perfect.
She stirred something in me that I had not felt in years. Her sorrow reached into me, where the cold had taken permanent home, and started to melt the frost. I was a man who rarely felt anything at all, and now I found myself longing for something I wasn't even aware of.
I wanted to see her smiling; I wanted her to smile a lot more.
I rolled onto my side and faced the window. The woods were still and silent, dark silhouettes against the fading light. They reminded me of everything I'd left behind, everything I thought I had escaped. But a sudden knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts, scattering them behind.
I let out a heavy sigh, the weight of the moment settling back over me, and got up. My bare feet hit the cool floor as I made my way out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.
Even before I saw her, the smell of chicken soup greeted me. She was standing near the stove, her grey hair all braided, her back to me. The familiar smell filled the little kitchen, warm and comforting.
"They found her, you know," she said, turning to me now. Her face was more wrinkled than the last time I'd truly set eyes on her.
"I know," I replied, walking into the kitchen island that stood proudly in the middle of the place, its polished wood glowing shyly in the evening light, two chairs up front.
She moved to lift the pot from the stove and set it down on the counter. The lid clanged softly upon being set down, and then she reached for a spoon from the drawer, dipped it into the soup, and brought it to her lips.
"You know Joe's back?" she asked casually before leaning over to taste, her face screwed up and went pale. "Damn, it's hot." She blew on the spoon before setting it on the soup plate 1 and sliding it onto the island beside the pot.
"Yeah, I saw him," I said, standing and going to the cabinet. I pulled out another soup plate, with a silver spoon from the drawer. The kitchen was small, and cozy in a way that sometimes felt suffocating.
I set the soup plate down. She didn't wait but poured soup into it for me, the ladle making soft ripples as it moved through the broth. I walked around the island and sank into the chair across from her.
"Did you see the oldest one?" she asked, blowing softly on her spoon of soup before taking a cautious sip.
"Yeah," I muttered, dipping my own spoon into the soup. The liquid scalded my tongue as I took a hasty sip, but I didn't flinch.
"You know why he brought them here?" she started, her voice laced with curiosity. But before she could continue, my fist came down on the wooden surface of the island, the sudden, sharp sound cutting through her words.
"Let me stop you right there," I said. My jaw tightened, all the muscles in my face rigid. "Mother."
She threw her hands up in defeat, her face smooth except for the flicker of mirth in her eyes. "Okay, okay," she said much softer now. "All I am saying is, he's different. He barely recognized me. And Laura—" she paused, rolling her eyes "Laura thought I was the housekeeper."
A dry chuckle escaped me, tinged with bitterness. "How rich of her," I said, my tongue clicking against my teeth. "He didn't recognize me either."
"Who would?" she shot back with a smirk, her eyes crinkling. "With that beard?"
I huffed a laugh, the corners of my mouth pulling up briefly before falling flat again.
"What do you think I should do?" I asked, leaning forward as my gaze sharpened. "Let him be? Or should I stop him once and for all?"
She tilted her head, studying me. "He is your father's son," she said, every word a careful choice. "He is no blood of mine, never will be." Her voice gentled and she leaned in and placed her hands like fall leaves on mine. "But he once was your brother."
"Stepbrother," I said, shaking my head. My voice lowered, "And that is no answer."
She stepped back, smoothing the folds on her dress before reaching for the knitted bag which rested in the corner of the table.
"I am off," she said, her tone all at once brisk, all practical, and she walked to the door, suddenly turning to me.
"Oh, and…." she added, one brow rising. "Do you think he is smart enough to figure it out?"
I clicked my tongue again, "Nah."
She hummed and pressed her lips together, weighing my response. Then, without a word more, she turned and left. The door shut with a firm click, bringing a faint breeze in her wake.
I sat down, again, and stared at the bowl of soup in front of me. Steam spiraled upwards in diaphanous curls, then disappeared into the air, just like my focus.
An hour nearly passed, with me still behind the shadows of her window, watching and waiting. Waiting for something, I don't even know; just a simple silhouette of her. Yet, the window remained as empty as when I'd begun. It was the silent stillness that gnawed at my soul.
I had to see her, even from afar, even if it meant risking everything.
The snow crunched beneath my boots as I moved closer, the cold biting through the fabric of my clothes. My coat weighed on me, heavy and restricting, so I pulled it off and buried it in the snow. The sharp chill bit at my skin, but I didn't care.
I pulled my hood over my head, the dark sweatshirt clung to me like armor as I slid a white mask from my pocket. I glanced over my shoulder, scanning for any signs of movement, any eyes upon me. The woods were silent.
Satisfied, I reached back and laid the mask on my face, its cold surface pressing against my skin.
I moved slowly, crouching low as I followed the faint lines of the narrow path leading to the rear of the house.
Leafy branches and thorns acted like a barrier across the yard. Concealed behind them was the rusty creaking of old ladders. At the very top sat this large circular attic window that was always left slightly open, inviting me in. You could easily fit through a gap that narrow yet nobody ever managed to glue it shut. A spare key would be something I had with me, though with a mask looking like this, front doors weren't the best choice.
It was a silent climb, my hands clasping the icy wood of the ladders until I reached the attic window. I eased it open, careful not to make a sound. The glass creaked slightly as I slid through, my feet landing softly on the wooden floor. I knelt, pushing the window back into its usual crooked position.
My heart jumped as I turned.
She was there.
She was kneeling at the far corner in her red coat, her body shaking. Her hair spilled down her shoulders, glowing with that weak light filtering through the cracked window. And she did nothing. Didn't speak. Just sat on and on, her eyes fixed somewhere as if she neither saw me nor cared.
I raised my hand weakly in a small awkward wave. Twice. Really idiotic.
What the hell am I doing? I silently scolded myself.
She glanced at me, then crossed her arms before lying down on the floor, moving slowly, ignoring me. Like I wasn't even there.
"Were you waiting for me?" I asked, my voice breaking the heavy silence. I stepped toward her cautiously, unsure of myself.
"Don't flatter yourself," she snapped out, her voice whetted to a sharp edge though her head remained unlifted. "If you came to kill me, do it."
I froze, the words striking harder than they should have. I crouched beside her, studying her face, her body, for some evidence of fear or even care. But there was nothing. Just emptiness.
I reached out tentatively and brushed a strand of her hair away from her face. Her skin was pale; her lips were chapped. She didn't pull away immediately, but as I whispered, "Why would I do that, birdie ?" she threw her head sharply to the side, moving out from my touch.
Her body shuddered, wrapping her arms tighter around herself, and her whole frame shook like a fragile leaf in the middle of a storm. I tilted my head to the side, trying to read her, trying to understand. Something was wrong. I reached for her hand, gently pulling her up, but the moment she moved, she winced, clutching her ribs. My stomach sank.
"What happened?" I asked, my voice low, steady.
"Please," she whispered, her tears spilling down her cheeks. Her voice cracked, as if made of glass, barely holding together. "Just go."
I bit my tongue, knowing I shouldn't be here. This was wrong, everything about it. Yet something in her made it impossible to leave. I needed her. I needed her close to feel alive again, even if only for a moment. I sank to the floor against the wall, pulling her head gently onto my lap.
"Better?" I asked, my fingers threading softly through her hair.
"No," she whispered, her voice cracking with the burden of her pain. A jolting laugh tore from her lips as she choked over the words. "Do you do this to all of them?"
Her gaze fluttered up to me shining with unshed tears. "Before you chop their heads off and turn them into snowmen?"
I chuckled low and sharp. "Not to all of them."
She reacted in an instant, disgusted and furious. She pushed my hand away and turned her face from me, pressing her cheek to the cold floor.
"Disgusting," she spat.
"They were all bad people," I said so casually, as though that somehow excused it, that with one simple justification, the truth should be rewritten.
"I doubt that," she shot back. She pushed herself further away, creating more space between us.
She was a defiant one, and it irritated me, needling under my skin.
I blinked twice, my patience fraying. "I first torture them," I said, my tone growing darker and colder. "Before I cut them to pieces."
Her body went stiff. She turned back to me then, kneeling. Her eyes scanned mine, but I wouldn't meet them, facing instead the window I came in through. I could smell her fear, rising out of her, thickening the air around us. It was an infectious thing, it made me feel the need to keep going; to confess, to lay it all bare.
"It's so good to tell someone," I said, my voice smooth, almost amused. "To finally confess."
"You're mad," she said, her voice trembling as she fell back onto the floor. She crawled away, inching toward the opposite wall, her eyes wide and unblinking.
I moved my head to one side, observing her reaction with detached curiosity.
"No," I whispered, lying through my teeth as a faint smile curled my lips. "I just have a bad reputation."
I knelt again, my palms pressed flat against the floor as I crawled closer to her. The movements were slow.
"You know what I love the most?" I asked, my voice dropping to a near whisper. "When I get in while they're asleep when they're most vulnerable."
Her breathing was in sharp, shallow gasps, her chest rising and falling in quick succession. She did not move, frozen on the spot.
"I take my knife," I said, my fingers brushing the floorboards. "And I place it right here." I reached out, tracing a line along her leg, my touch light but intentional, moving toward her inner thigh.
She swallowed hard, her lips trembling as she pushed my hand away. Her movements were shaky, panicked.
I chuckled, leaning in closer. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, birdie ?" I growled lowly, tauntingly, my voice low. "C'mon, admit it."
"Stay back," she stammered, her tone cracking. Her breathing now, frantic, came with a raw fear in each uttered word.
"Imagine," I said, my voice all but dripping with mock seduction as I leaned in closer. My hand moved onto her back, tracing along the line of her spine downwards to the curve at the bottom. "Imagine how it would feel inside of you. The way you'd twitch… but couldn't move."
I took a single, rapid step to pull her all the way into me; falling backward onto the hardwood floor and bringing her down with me. She lay on top of me shaking, my palms planted into her sides, urging her closer into my body.
"Can you imagine it, birdie ?" I murmured low against her ear.
But as I shifted, rolling her beneath me, something inside her shifted. Her hand flew to her ribs and her face twisted in a silent scream into her palm. She pushed weakly at me, tears welling up in her eyes. I froze. The tension bled from my body as I stared at her.
Slowly, I rose to my feet, my eyes dark and searching. Her coat was loose on her, the zipper calling my attention. In one swift move, I yanked it down, revealing her shirt underneath. My hands lifted the fabric instinctively. Her skin was a field of bruises, dark and angry, sprawling across her ribs and sides. Faint red marks told the story of her pain and my chest tightened.
"What happened?" I demanded, my voice low but edged with fury.
She shook her head, her trembling hands pulling the shirt back down. Tears were streaked across her face as she whispered, "I fell." I snorted loudly, a harsh, acid sound.
"Aha," I hummed. My fists clenched as I stared at her, my mind racing with possibilities.
I stood, my body rigid as I moved toward the stairs. My blood was boiling in my body, my fists so tightly clenched that my nails dug into my palms. But before I could take a step, her voice stopped me.
"You can't," she said in a weak voice, shaking. "It's locked."
Locked. Beaten, and locked.
The words rang in me like a blow to the chest. My vision blurred with anger.
I will burn this place to the ground.
I pivoted on a dime, walking away toward the window in silence. My hands clutched the edges of the glass, preparing to pull it out of its frame, but before I stepped through, she rose. Barely, but she stood. Her legs trembled under her weight, her ribs rising visibly under every shallow breath.
"Can you kill me?" she whispered, her voice breaking as the words slipped out.
A moment, and I stiffened, my fingers tightening on the sill. The air in the room seemed to thicken, my chest aching, anger and sorrow battling within a storm I couldn't contain. My heart thundered, the heat of my fury threatening to spill over.
He hurt her, and I couldn’t bring myself to hurt him—not yet.
I just pushed the words out through my teeth, my voice low and heavy. "Tomorrow," I said. "I can kill you tomorrow."
"Walk to the woods at five. I'll find you."
Her broken figure shook, staring at me, but she said nothing. She didn't need to.
I climbed onto the windowsill, pulling the sliding glass back into its crooked frame. Cold night wind smacked my face once I swung my feet to the ladder and started lowering myself. Every step I took down felt heavier than the last; my mind rewound her whispered plea with every step.
As my boots hit the snow below, I glanced back up at the attic. A dim light seeped through the crack in the window, casting faint shadows inside. My body screamed to go back, to tear the place apart, to take her with me. But I couldn't stay. If I stayed, I would do something I'd regret. Something that wouldn't make her safe but would only make things worse.
So I walked away.
Each step crunching through the snow felt like a fight against myself. My fists clenched with every step I took from that house, my chest constricting as though the air had turned to ice.
Then I saw it.
In the kitchen window, the light was on; the dim light focused on the man, with no shirt, the broad shoulders hunched over. He was plunging into a woman underneath him across a kitchen table, her body arced. The thrusts of the two movements were raw, like two animals.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. My hands fisted at my sides, the blood roaring in my ears.
It wasn't just any man. It was him. The man raised by my father.
And then the woman turned, just enough for me to see her face. Blonde hair spilling across the table, her lips parted, moaning. It was her, the girl in the wheelchair.
He did it, he did what Father always did.
My stomach twisted in knots as the truth clawed its way to the surface. The taint of my father's sins had spread, like a disease passed down. He had taught this man and shaped him into the monster now inside that house. The same monster now taking her, holding her captive, using her, just like Father had done to my mother, to the others, to the ones who disappeared, one by one.
A part of me, of course, wanted to rush back inside, to rip him off her, to carve into his face the same sort of ruin I had managed with others before. To make him feel the agony he created. But a wiser part of me, a part of me that had learned to play the long game, stood back.
Watched. Learned just how deep the sickness ran before I struck. Because when I did strike, it would not be quick. It would not be merciful. This was far from over.
1. Soup can be served in both soup plates and soup bowls, and the choice between them depends upon different factors, including the type of soup you serve, the thickness of the soup, the size of the plates, and the presentation you want to display for your guest.