6. Beatrix
6
BEATRIX
ONE WEEK LATER
W ith every blow of Patrick’s fists, I sink further and further into the dark recesses of my own mind. It’s safe here. If I slip far enough away, I can pretend the explosive anger raining down on me isn’t happening. That I might survive it. Or that maybe… maybe I won't, and that would be ok too.
I’m so tired of this. Everyday there’s a new ache, a new pain so bone deep that I can’t fathom how it could get worse.
But it does. It always does.
It’s my fault. I allow the pain to continue. Every day I wake up, determined to start anew. To find a way to rescue a woman who doesn’t want to be saved. Who doesn’t love the daughter that’s been holding out for her. I don’t know why I bother. My mom is long past the stages of addiction where she hates herself for how far she’s fallen. She’s content with her life, and I hate that for her. What’s worse? I hate myself for holding on to something that isn’t there. I’ve allowed this misery to continue. All I have to do is walk out that door and run as far and as fast as I can into the horizon. I don’t have money, but I have a degree and experience. Surely there’s a funeral home that would scoop me up.
I know this. Still… I’m clinging to the past. Without Mom, I have nothing and no one. With a strange upbringing and years of dealing with the men who’ve lived under this roof—I know I’m awkward. Because of that awkwardness, making friends is nearly impossible. There’s no other family to lean on either. I have no aunts, uncles, or cousins to run to for help or guidance. Starting fresh somewhere new? The thought is more terrifying than I care to admit.
And I love Mom. As horrible as she’s been these past few years, I’ve been holding onto that in case she remembers that she loves me too. There were moments in her life where she was so full of life and ached for success. I remember that woman. That incredible human being made fleeting appearances in my life between relapses. She used to have a vibrant laugh. It used to fill the house. The joy and love that rang in it have long since faded away. When she laughs now, it’s like the cackle of a witch.
“What did I tell you about involving yourself in any part of my life other than Bright Starr?” Patrick snarls between kicks and punches.
I curl up on the tile floor into a tighter ball. I’m pretty sure a rib is cracked judging by the difficulty I’m having breathing and the pain that blossoms from that spot every time I try.
“How stupid are you, Beatrix, hmm? You went to the police to report me for assault and drug dealing?” He laughs as his fist strikes my side. He shakes out his hand and steps back. “Robert Copeland is my drinking buddy. He tells me everything. And guess who told me who walked into the station today to report me? You’re fucking lucky he didn’t file that shit.”
He straightens with a sniff of disdain. The sounds of shuffling footsteps capture his attention. He looks away from me toward the threshold of the kitchen.
“I need my medicine, baby,” Mom says. “You got it for me?”
“Go upstairs, I’ll be right there,” Patrick orders, expecting her to obey at once.
Curled up into a ball on my side behind the kitchen island, I’m sure she can’t see me. But it wouldn’t matter if she could. It’s not like I could ask for help. The last time I did that she ignored me, knowing she was about to get high if she didn’t step between us. Mom was going to be no help to me now.
“Alright, hurry up though,” she says.
There’s another shuffling of footsteps as she leaves the room. Patrick listens until they’ve faded before he looks down at me.
“You’re fucking pathetic. You know that, right?” Patrick snarls. “Do something like this again and you’ll end up in that graveyard behind the house. You’re more work than it’s worth having you around.”
He spits on me then. The loogie lands on my cheek. I don’t cringe or wince. I’m so deep in my mind and wallowing in my self-hatred for what I put myself through that I don’t care what he is doing to me right now.
Patrick Hunt stomps away, leaving me curled up on the kitchen floor to lick my wounds. I don’t do it right away. It’s hard emerging from the recesses of my mind. It’s safer there. Quieter, less painful than this world is.
As time passes and I get used to the pain in my torso, I roll onto my back. My soft groan is eaten up by the silence of the house. Thankfully, the cool tile eases the pain sprinkled down my body. The house is quiet. Mom must’ve gotten her drugs. I’m sure that means that Patrick got to fuck her before he got high, and now they’re both wasting away in their bed. I want to waste away. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to be alone, in pain, or scared anymore. All I’ve wanted was Mom back and for her to love me. For the one person in this world who could do that to give me it.
But I won’t get it. Each day that becomes clearer.
My eyes, trained on the decorative square tiles on the ceiling, drift to the left. They land on the knobs of the gas stove. One is missing, leaving only three left. There’s nothing special about them, yet I can’t stop staring at them.
I also can’t stop the idea that begins to form.
What if none of us suffered anymore? I could get rid of Patrick—the asshole doesn’t deserve to breathe anymore. I also know that if I did this, Mom could find peace and I wouldn’t have to work so damn hard to be loved. We just… didn’t need to be here anymore. I could steal away into nothing forever. It would be easy, and I could happily share the kiss of death with Mom. We would be there for each other on the other side, as dark and as cold as it might be. My heart doesn’t shudder in fear at the thought. I can practically taste the sweetness of freedom now.
I stare at the knobs as the plan grows crystal clear before my eyes.
There’s no need to run away from hell when all I have to do is sit and wait for death here.
Tears spill down my cheeks, but this time, they’re from relief. I can do this. With a shaky hand, I reach up. The pain that spikes through my body is sharp and steals my breath away. I push through it. I twist the first knob. The soft hiss of gas coming from the first burner cuts through the silence. I reach for the next one, but it sits just out of reach. Biting back a scream of agony, I force myself upward into a sitting position. When the room stops spinning, I reach for the next knob on the stove. Then I reach for the last one.
When I’m done, my hand drops into my lap. I wait for regret or fear to flood me. Where is my sense of self-perseveration?
This is self-preservation , a small voice in the back of my head says. It’s also how you’ll save Mom from any more bad choices .
Tilting my head back, I rest it against the front of the stove. This should be relatively quick. If I’m lucky, I’ll fall asleep right here and never wake back up. What better way to go?
I close my eyes with a sigh and wait for fate to take its course.
Pain jerks me awake sometime later. I can feel the world around me move. Cool air brushes up against my tear-stained cheeks. Lifting my eyelids is a chore, but I crack them open to see what’s happening. It doesn’t help. Both eyes are too swollen to see out of them. As I become more aware though, I realize I’m being carried.
“No,” I rasp out. “Let me… go.”
The person holding me says nothing. They simply continue on their merry way. We don’t go far. I’m lowered into a familiar bed with an unusual amount of care. I groan as the bruises on my back and my fractured rib screams in protest. The covers on my bed are pulled up and over me. Something lightly brushes across my face. A hand? Lips? I’m not sure.
I close my eyes, my blurry sight useless anyway, and groan again as despair amplifies the pain in my body and soul. Why couldn’t I be left for dead? Why did this mysterious person pick tonight of all nights to save me? Maybe I’m not being saved. Maybe they want me to suffer. That feels more accurate. I’m not lucky enough to have a savior. Tears make their way past my closed eyelids. My easy out has been stolen from me. Patrick’s death has been foiled. And Mom’s chance for peace is pushed out of reach. Tomorrow, when I inevitably awake, I know I’ll regret what I've almost done. I’ll have time and the clarity to second guess myself. The moment is gone, and who knows if I’ll ever feel low enough to try this type of out once more?
I allow the pain and exhaustion to pull me into a temporary darkness. It’s not death, but I’ll take this oblivion in the meantime.
When my eyes open again, sunlight is starting to drift in through the window. At least both my eyes open today. I suppose some of the swelling has managed to go down. I hurt more now than I did last night. Every breath I take is agony. Any little movement, as subtle as it might be, sends shooting pains up my spine.
I have to get up.
There’s a business to run and clients who are counting on me. None of that stops just because Patrick laid his hands on me. Though I wish, right now, that was the case. Judging by throbbing all over my body, I know I’ll have to wrap my ribs and cake on the makeup to hide the mess Patrick left behind. That’s going to take time. A lot of it. Which means I have to get up now .
Gathering my resolve to see the day through, I force myself to sit up. I don’t gasp at the pain, having prepared myself for it. I simply bare my teeth and grit through it. Gingerly, I start to turn to make it to the edge of the bed, but I stop when I find a black rose and white envelope waiting for me beside my pillow.
I glare at the offending items. For a moment, I consider tossing both into the trash and forgetting about them. My unjust anger is fleeting. Even as I think about doing it, I know for a fact I won’t toss these things away. These gifts are beginning to be something I look forward to finding. They’re the only bright moments in my life. I can’t go around tossing them to the side.
I reach out to grab the envelope, wincing as I do. Carefully, I break the seal and pull the note free. Inside, scribbled in the middle of a folded up piece of paper reads:
You’re beginning to coil, Little Viper, but you’re not ready to strike. Until then, behave.
My thumb slides over the ink lightly.
Just like the last two notes, I don’t know what this means. All I take away from this is that there’s someone out there looking after me who cares—at least just enough—that I don’t die. It’s not a lot, but I cherish that all the same.
With a small smile, I force myself out of bed and to face yet another day.