11. Beatrix
11
BEATRIX
ONE WEEK LATER
“ Y ou’re looking tired, Beatrix. Are you alright?”
The heat in my face feels scalding. This is the fourth time someone’s said something to me today, and I’ve only been out for a little over an hour. Do I really look that bad? I’ve put on my favorite outfit, threw on some makeup, and even decided to forgo my typical Dutch braids for a strategically messy bun. I thought I looked good when I left the house.
“It’s, ah, been a long few days.” My excuse sounds uncertain but plausible.
Mrs. Anderson hums with faux concern as she scans my groceries. “I couldn’t help but notice how stiff you’re moving. Pull something?”
I fight back a wince of shame, not wanting her to see it and allow her imagination to run wild. The people of Chasm are painfully aware of my situation. They know how abusive Patrick and my mother can be. Sometimes, if they’re unfortunate enough, they might run into both Mom and Patrick who have somehow stumbled their way into town to harass everyone— bringing our personal issues into the light. If Mrs. Anderson knew how close I’d come to being on the receiving end of Patrick’s fists last night, she wouldn’t be surprised. Nor would anyone she told about it the minute I was out of earshot.
“It’s nothing,” I lie lightly, grabbing the bags she hands me and placing them back into my cart. Thankfully, my only injury from that brief encounter is a swollen ankle. I can still walk on it, which means running errands and working are doable.
“You know, Doctor Atwater is a great physician. I say make an appointment to see him now and maybe he can get you in later this week. I’d hate to see you out of commission. With all that you do for your family, you can’t afford to be nursing a bad leg.” She rips the receipt out of her machine and hands it to me. “But most importantly, you should seek out God. I can’t help but notice how absent the people in your family are at church every Sunday. Maybe if you came, God would forgive your sins and heal your soul and body. I mean, being a young woman around death all day, you must be stained with sins.”
I nod at her unsolicited advice.
“Thanks, Mrs. Anderson,” I placate softly as I push my cart away from the cash register. “Have a nice day.”
“I’ll pray for your soul, darling!”
I keep my face a mask of polite indifference. There’s no point in telling her that if there is a god up there listening to prayers, he’s abandoned me. As I push my cart out into the parking lot, I can feel the stares of people entering and leaving the grocery store. So used to being the town’s pariah, I hardly even notice them anymore. It’s easy enough to slip away into my own head and pretend I’m far away from here.
“Look who’s left her cave,” I hear someone murmur as I pass a parked car.
Someone else whispers loudly as I move close, “She’s such a freak.”
“Why does she always wear black? It’s so morbid.”
I make it to my car, parked in the furthest reaches of the grocery store’s parking lot, with my dignity still intact—if not a bit frayed. As quickly as I can, I load the groceries into the trunk. Just as I slam it shut, someone calls out to me.
“Hey, Trix or Treats, looking good today.”
My stomach drops. Oh god, there’s only a handful of people who call me that, and it’s no one I like. My limbs lock up as I brace myself for trouble. Slowly, my head swivels to look over my shoulder.
There, leaning against his car with his arms crossed over his chest, is Trevor Michaels. Dressed in a crew neck sweater, khakis, and donning his typical charming smile, there’s nothing overtly menacing about him. In fact, with his mouse brown hair that he keeps a little messy and his soft jawline, he looks a lot like his father, minus a few decades. But I suppose evil doesn’t always take the shape of a menacing being.
The blood drains from my face quickly, leaving me lightheaded. My stomach twists, and despite it being early February, sweat gathers on the back of my neck.
“Been thinking about you a lot lately,” he says and pushes off his bright red sports car.
Immediately, I turn all the way around, not trusting Trevor at my back. My teeth snap together as I watch him saunter over to me. Around us, there are a few people in the parking lot. Usually I can’t stand an audience, but Trevor gets attention wherever he goes—the hardship of being Chasm’s perfect guy, I guess. And me? Well, the attention I receive isn’t great, but right now, I’m thankful the few people out here are being nosy and watching us closely.
Trevor stops right in front of me, and his smile grows a little wider. I force myself to not show him fear. With a steadying breath, I lower my shoulders and glare up at his towering figure.
“What do you want, Trevor?” I am proud of myself for keeping my voice even despite the frantic rioting of my heart.
“All I want is to say hi. What’s wrong with that, Trix?” His smile shifts ever so slightly, turning coy.
My stomach twists tighter. The toast I had this morning threatens to make a return as he steps subtly into my personal space. I don’t back up. I won’t let him intimidate me. But I want to. I want to cringe away from this washed-out quarterback who went nowhere after high school.
“You know, I find it rude that you haven’t stopped by the house lately. You’ve been home for months, and you haven’t taken my dad up on his offer for dinner once. It’s like you don’t like us or something.” Trevor places a hand over his heart as if the thought pains him.
“I’m glad you’ve caught on.” My cool words only make his smile grow larger. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have groceries that need to be refrigerated.”
I don’t make a move to turn around. I don’t trust Trevor, even with an audience.
“Of course, I don’t want to spoil your food. It’s just, I’d love to catch up sometime. I want to hear about your time away at college. Did you think of me while you were gone, Trix?”
He was the star of my nightmares the first year I was away. Given what he’d done a week before I’d left Chasm, those wretched dreams were unavoidable.
“Nope, not once.”
Trevor chuckles, as if he can sense my lie. He opens his mouth to say more but then someone calls out to him.
“Hey, Trevor, you coming?”
I look past him as Trevor turns halfway around. Waiting by the entrance to the grocery store is his friend Sebastian Heins. Sebastian’s long red hair that he keeps in a curly ponytail is always greasy, and he doesn’t seem to care that his pale, hairy gut also peeks out from beneath his shirt. I swallow hard. He’s just as bad as Trevor. I hate both of them.
“You should go, your friend is waiting,” I point out. “Tell your dad I say hi.”
Before he can turn back around, I’m moving. I open the driver’s door and slide into the van Bright Starr uses to pick up bodies with. I don’t have my own car, so I use this old thing to get around. It’s an eye sore and people know it’s me inside, but at least I don’t have a car payment to worry about. Just as I shut the door, Trevor appears by the window.
“I’m sure we’ll see each other again real soon, Trix,” Trevor promises through the window as he shoves his hands into his pants pockets. “You might not have thought about me, but I can’t not think about you.”
“Fuck you, Trevor,” I snap, feeling bolder with a barrier between us.
Trevor laughs as I turn the car on and throw it into reverse.
When I get home, I find the house quiet.
A smidgen of guilt beats at me as I unpack the groceries. The sedative I gave my mother before I slipped out this morning will keep her down for most of the day. It’s better this way. Despite the guilt I feel, I’ll take this over the bitter loathing I have for her when she’s awake.
Upstairs, I can hear the faint creaking and groans of the floorboards coming from the third floor. Patrick must be finally waking up. I glance at the clock. Up before noon? There must be something important on Patrick’s schedule for him to drag his lazy ass out of bed at this hour. A few moments later, the pipes in the wall rattle and hiss as he turns on his shower.
I have a few more minutes of silence before I have to deal with him.
As quickly as I can, I finish putting away the groceries. For a second, I consider hurrying down to the funeral home. He doesn’t come down there anymore; neither does my mother. I run it better than either of them ever could and they know it. So rather than chase off customers, they wait until I’m here to let their crazy out on me.
But this is my home. I shouldn’t have to run. And if Patrick is out of his drugs, he’ll be more pressed to go find some rather than bother me. Fingers crossed that he heads straight out of here once he’s done showering.
Speaking of showers… I go in search of my mother.
I find her right where I left her, sitting in the living room in her favorite wingback chair that faces the television. The coffee cup I’d slipped the sedative in now rests on its side beside the chair, the last of the coffee having soaked into the area rug. I make a mental note to grab something to clean that up with as I come to stand in front of my mother. Snoring softly with her head resting on her chest, she looks peaceful. Her thick, kinky, unkempt hair is a matted mess, and her shirt is stained with sweat, food, and now coffee. I can’t remember the last time she changed her outfit.
With her out like a rock, I probably could slip some clean clothes on her.
What she really needs is a bath though. I frown as I take in her too-thin arms, her bony shoulders, and the way her cheekbones jut out from her face. Most of the corpses I tend to look better than she does. Can I carry her up the stairs? With a twisted ankle, I doubt it.
Even if I wasn’t injured, does she deserve the energy I would have to spend on getting her up the two flights of stairs to her bathroom? I search for any lingering empathy or love I might have for the woman before me. If I find any, I’ll try to move her.
I come up empty handed.
When was the last time I felt love for my mother? It had to have been recently. She’s why I came back to Chasm after college in the first place. While I was away, she called me, begging me to save her from Patrick and promising she’d do better by me. I knew it was a lie then. She just missed someone to berate and belittle when Patrick got fed up and left her ass at home to go drink down at the local bars. But the calls continued throughout my entire time away at college. The consistency, the promises, the walks down memory lane she’d bring up—of the good times between us—had worked their magic.
How could I let my mom suffer when she so desperately wanted to get better? And my mom loves me, how can I possibly leave her to this miserable fate?
Except this is the life my mom wants. She enjoys the strife and gets off on dragging people into her personal hell. And as much as she says otherwise, she adores Patrick. He feeds into her madness, and she loves it. And Patrick? He loves that he has power over someone. It was easier to love this woman in front of me when it was from a distance. But standing here before her, staring at the woman she’s become? I just… I feel so hollow.
My bottom lip trembles as helplessness clamps down like a vice around my heart. This is exhausting. I hate this life I’ve been sucked into. Somehow, I have to break the endless cycle of violence and rage under this roof.
My gaze flickers to the hallway. My imagination takes me the rest of the way to the conservatory where my journal sits, hidden beneath the wicker couch, and to the offer written on the last page. The rose that waited for me between the pages is dried now, but it’s even more beautiful in its brittle state.
Don’t even consider that option , my conscience screams. Taking a life is wrong. You were just angry that night you ground up that poison. You weren’t really going to do it.
But they could kill you in one of their rages, a small voice in my head counters, as it has been for the past week.
They wouldn’t care if you died.
How many times have they mentioned they wished you were dead?
You’re the one with the future, not ?—
The smell of smoke pulls me out of my internal moral dilemma. What the hell? I run out of the living room and begin to cross the foyer toward the kitchen but stop at the sight of smoke billowing over the railing above me.
Smoke coming from the direction of my room.
Rerouting, I take the stairs two at a time—ignoring the pain in my ankle. I get to the top and start to turn the corner but stop abruptly. Patrick leans against my door frame, facing me with a cigarette in his mouth.
“Might want to put that out before the whole house goes up,” he says, pushing away from my door. “Then, when you’re done, I suggest you take whatever isn’t burned down to the funeral home. I don’t think I want you living under my roof anymore.”
“It’s not your roof, it’s my mom’s,” I hiss as I hurry toward him and my bedroom. He steps aside as I enter. I gape at the sight of my bed completely up in flames. “What is wrong with you? Are you a psychopath?”
“Hurry up before the walls catch,” he urges as he strolls back down the hall. “And just so you know, my attorney’s assistant came by a month ago to make sure my will was up to date, and I made some changes. Lauren did too. The house is in my name now, we got the deed and title changed and everything. The business and this house no longer belong to a Starr. You have to listen to what I say, and I say you got to get your shit and move out.”
I hear him, but I don’t have time to respond. Diving into the bathroom, I grab a bucket under the bathroom sink and turn the shower on. While it fills, I take the cup that holds my toothbrush off the counter and fill it with water from the faucet.
It takes ten minutes to put out the fire. By the time it’s out, the mattress and my vanity, where the fire managed to spread, are ruined. I stare at their charred remains. The rest of the room is covered in smoke and stinks. It’ll take forever to air it out. And I’ll have to wash all my clothes if I don’t want them smelling like a house fire. I don’t even have the time to start cleaning up the water and soot. I have a client coming to Bright Starr in less than an hour.
My hands clench at my side as my heart races.
Everything Patrick touches ends up ruined. The proof is everywhere. From the dilapidated house to my mother’s life and now to mine. He ruins everything. Not that life was great to begin with, but it was better without Patrick in it. I’m tired. So fucking tired. The heartaches, the drugs, the pain, the raping—it’s too much. I can’t keep doing this. I’m done.
The house is in my name now.
Patrick’s words echo in my head. In my heart, the cavernous hole that’s filled with resentment expands even further and continues to fill with hatred. My footsteps are light as I move toward the dresser. Crouching down, I pull the bottom drawer open and rummage through the articles of clothing there.
When I find what I’m looking for, I move to the window facing the road and open it just a crack. Carefully, I dangle half of the scarf outside and let the other lay down along the wall. When I close the window, the scarf dangles both in and out of the house.
The beautiful red wool is vibrant against the burned black wall.