C H A P T E R 16
C H A P T E R 16
LOVE IS WEAKNESS
Puppeteer
“ Y ou can keep that.” I taunt, looking her up and down before drinking the last of my now cold coffee. I must admit, I never get tired of seeing her drowning in my overly large clothes, I can excuse the lack of water just this once. I forgot how short she is. She looks down at my black tee, scolding in disagreement but I think secretly she likes it too. She's scoffing my food like a beggar and I'm internally grinning at how stupidly adorable she looks trying to pretend she doesn't like it.
I make banging pancakes.
“Wow, thanks. How kind of you.” Her sarcasm angers me as much as it amuses me and that fucking word is not letting up. She's a tough cookie when she's not crumbling. I'm not sure where exactly we stand right now but I'm hoping for her sake she realises that this is for her benefit. Does she think I enjoy keeping her cooped up like an animal? No. But she hasn't exactly been the easiest to work with. I don't hurt women. All I've ever done is protect them. Well… Tried. Maybe that's why my instincts took over when she tried to hurt herself. Because of me . I clench my jaw slightly at the thought. This all goes against everything I fucking believe in, but she gives me no choice. The quicker she works with me the quicker this will be over, and she can go back to whatever life is waiting for her outside my walls. Her humour has started to peep back in and she's glaring at my empty cup like she wants some.
“You want one?” I'm trying to treat her more like a guest than a hostage, I guess I'm delusional and probably far too lenient for my own good.
“No. Thank you.” She finishes off her last mouthful and puts the plate down gently on the side. She actually finished it all. Before walking past me towards the table and her scent is intoxicating. It's far better than the stale must of death.
“Offers there.”
She takes her insulin as instructed like a good girl. Facing away, talking towards the wall at me as I dish a bowl for Shep.
“So what now. You think because we shared a bed that we are friends ?” Friends are the last thing I want out of this. She's a victim, my hostage. My plaything . It's sweet that she's thinking about friendship, although I know she's being sarcastic.
“I don't do friends .” I rock on my feet. Gripping the side of the counter before pushing off to open up the fridge.
“Good. Neither do I.” Uncertainty laces her words. A false security. She sounds like me, the little girl inside of me that would beg for friendship and come up short, betrayed and left on my own. I built a wall and told myself I was ok with being alone when really I craved company. She leans against the chair staring at the grooves in the wood between her feet which only confirms my suspicions.
I pull out a beer. Offering her one but she shrugs, turning her nose up.
“I don't drink.” She means. She's never had a drink. Her purity runs so deep even angels cannot compete. I close the fridge door, shrugging off her decision, remembering when she craved alcohol to numb her pain as I turn to face her, opening the cap with my ring as I cross my arms and legs, leaning my lower back into the ridge of the counter.
“What's his name?” She gestures to my little tornado, chowing down on his beef and I already know where this is going. I’m about to be replaced. She’s already clung to him but I was expecting that. It might mellow her out a bit, it’s why I let him sleep in there last night.
“Shep.” She pulls her lips in, trying not to find amusement in that. Yes it’s basic as fuck, but I’m a simpleton. Ain’t got time for that shit.“So what do you do?” I ask boldly as she cuddles herself, protecting her body, glaring at me in confusion, most likely wondering why I am asking such a normal question.
“What do you mean?”
“You must have things you like to do. Friendless .” I emphasise the friendless to remind her that that's exactly what she is searching for and it worries me that I'm asking questions to learn more about her when she means fuck all to me.
“If you must know… I like to write.” I wasn't expecting her to actually tell me, but now she has, her bedroom makes a lot more sense, as does her want to escape reality. She lives in the clouds just to get through the day. We all have our ways of coping and sometimes putting your mind somewhere else is the only way to get past the loneliness.
“You're a Dreamer. ” I wonder what she dreams about. I'd love to pick at her brain. Writing is led by incessant amounts of creativity we cannot contain so we scribble it out on paper. It's like a superpower.
“A what?” She questions me almost in disbelief, like I'm the first person to pay interest in her and understand her.
“You want something far greater than you can comprehend, you live in a realm unknown to the human eye just to escape.” Her eyes light up a little, letting her shallow dirty graves bloom into the ocean at sunset as the light hits them through the kitchen window and they are all I seem to be dreaming about lately , my realm to get lost in.
“I can't tell if that was a compliment or an insult?” She twirls her fingers through her messy hair unaware she's even doing it and my mind jolts, imagining my hand running through it for a moment. Snap out of it Hays.
“It's beautiful. Unique. Different.” I take a swig to drown away the betrayal leaving my mouth. In reality I don't even know what beauty entails anymore but something is telling me, THAT is and I don't know what I'm referring to anymore, writing or her .
“Are you already drunk?” Her expression is bewildered, trying to make sense of my words, but a subtle smile graces her face revealing dimples I've never seen before and my stomach knots, I've not seen her smile before. She's not been conscious around me long enough for me to notice. Her response only tells me she's never been complimented by anyone but her parents which makes me want to compliment her all the more and that just pisses me off. I never compliment anyone. I wasn't even complimenting her; I was referring to her hobby.
“Just honest.” I watch her swallow, taking in my words, suddenly embarrassed to look at me.
“What do you do?” She asks shyly, like she shouldn't be asking but she is anyway. This has turned into a fairly normal conversation and it's weirdly unfamiliar to me. I'm so used to gouging out eyes and interrogating my victims for answers, not asking them what they enjoy doing.
“Do you want the serious answer, or the not so serious answer?” I finish my beer and place it down beside me, cracking my neck to release tension as my eyes fall on hers and if looks could kill, I think they might actually out dagger mine, and that's saying something.
“I like to game?” I've never done this shit in my life. Is this what they call the talking stage? I don't even know what my favourite colour is, let alone my hobbies. I can't exactly tell her I murder domestic abusers for a living as it will stir questions she's not ready for answers to yet, but what I said seemed to deter her as she let's an adorable snigger slip.
“What, like… Crash Bandicoot?” The devilish little grin on her face tells me she wants to laugh but she's holding it in and part of me wishes she didn't. It's been awhile since I had a good laugh.
“I will have you know that it is a very good game. Have you even played it?” I'll be honest. I can't even remember the last time I played my PlayStation, it probably wouldn't even turn on now but it's all still sitting there under my TV along with my Moms record and video player.
“Absolutely not.” She shakes her head, mocking my interests and I want to take her over my knee for laughing at me, not with me.
“Diabolical.” I see nothing else better to do so I make my way back to the fridge to grab another beer, running out of bottles, moving onto cans as I glare at the empty shelves. I should probably stock up now that I have a guest in the house.
“Is that your Mom?...” A wave of sickness raises my temperature, closing the fridge door to see her standing there holding a picture frame of my mom, stroking the glass gently. My heart rate increases like she's holding a knife to her throat. That image is all I have left of her and it's in someone else's hands.
“Yes.” My nose flares and the metal can is slowly crumpling underneath the palm of my hand. The laughter subsides and there is a heavy shift in the atmosphere.
“She's really pretty.” The way she speaks of her as if she's still alive makes my beer go down in one.
“Was.” I've barely shared my past with anyone, but I feel I owe her that and this could go one of two ways. Not that I want her to sympathise. I took her mother from her just as he did mine and I punished her for something that was not her fault but my past is no excuse for that.
“Oh… How did she?…” She's hesitant to ask but she is curious. I've relived that night in my head more times than I spent nights in that prison cell, which was 3,810 days. But I've never said the words out loud.
“Someone killed her.” My empty can feels my abuse, crushing it with anger as I picture her lying there with a hole in her heart when it should have been buried inside me. I didn't even get to say goodbye. She has no gravestone and her ashes were spread across Lake Michigan by my Grandmother who unfortunately passed during my time in the cell. His side wanted nothing to do with me after they found out I murdered their son. Not even my own flesh and blood believed I was innocent, even after my statement was aired about his abuse. None of them visited or phoned. He was their golden boy who could do no wrong. It made me sick to listen to the praise they would shower him with on our one family holiday a year. I've not heard anything since my release and I intend for it to stay that way. I never fucking liked them anyway; they are all blind to the fucking Devil they spawned.
“I'm sorry.” My mouth parts as I hear those words come from her mouth. She's sorry? I killed her mother in cold blood and she's apologising for my loss? I urge to smack her for being so fucking naive. I don't want her to apologise for shit. I want her to realise it was her father’s fault. “Was it accidental?” I won't tell her the ins and outs of her demise just yet, or even at all so I just go straight to the point.
“No.” I wish it was an accident. I wish she had drifted off into a deep sleep so she didn't have to suffer, or even better, still be here with me. But she's not and she did suffer. She suffered for four minutes and fifty-two seconds. It doesn’t sound long but when those are your last moments alive and all you can feel is pain, it doesn’t feel like it's ever going to end. Luckily for her the suffering eventually stopped but mine didn’t and it still hasn’t.
“Oh…” Her expression holds a thousand different emotions, ones that feel everything I'm feeling and one's that rebel against me for putting her through the same pain.
“If I knew what I know now, I would have killed the bastard that day but it would have meant missing things I've grown to like.”
“What things?” She is peace in the chaos I've slowly built and she doesn't realise the war she's waging against my darkness, but it's peace I've slowly come to enjoy the company of. My silence. An innocence that is corrupting the monster inside of me. She makes me feel something worse than pain. She makes me feel the child inside me left dormant, the child I abandoned when she needed me most. She is getting under my fucking skin and distracting me from the bigger picture.
“Doesn't matter…” I shake off my thoughts, too afraid to admit that she's starting to have a positive effect on me. It's the last thing she needs. I take a seat on my sofa, legs spread wide as I lean into my elbows trying to block out these feelings that keep creeping up on me like an illness.
“Was she a good Mom?” She wasn't perfect. But she was good. She cared for me when no one else would and she stood up for me even when her life was in danger. She would have killed for me and on many occasions she almost did, but I took that responsibility from her in hopes to save her, to save us . To keep her safe and in the end, I lost her anyway.
“She was.” She finally puts the picture down, being gentle not to break it as she slides it back onto the shelf next to another. A picture that holds her breath for a brief moment. She glides her finger, smearing the dust from the glass to reveal the face of a little girl.
....
“Is that you?” She looks for me in the room as she picks it up, comparing pictures like she will find any resemblance.
“What if it is.” I don't know why I kept it. I practically removed all pictures from this house besides Mom and the albums in the loft somewhere, but that picture stayed. It was taken a week before he first laid his hands on me and I suppose it holds meaning. It's to remind me that I will never be that weak again. It holds the innocence I once inhabited, the pain I endured, the beatings I suffered all in the name of Love. All because I was too scared to fight back. It’s a lesson.
“You looked cute.” I mimic a gag in response, making her contagious smile nearly slip onto my face.
“Your definition of cute and mine is rather different.” I rummage around the sofa looking for the remote trying to ignore the compliment. She's stalking me, trying to figure out where it all went wrong and the truth is, there was never a good period in my life, we just covered it up with photos to hide the prison we were both trapped in, this prison. In some ways me and her are a lot alike.
“Do you miss the old you?” An unfaithful laugh escapes me at the thought. She died along with them and I'm much better for it. Why would I miss years of mental and physical abuse? Why would I miss being a punching bag and an experiment to someone sworn to protect me? Why would I miss the fear and the relentless pain, the sleepless nights?
“Not even a little. The old me was weak. ” Weakness is a sickness. If you're weak you're hopeless. Only the strong survive and I'm still here, much to my detest.
“Because you kill people you think that makes you strong?” She bites softly, her approach timid but forceful and my anger spikes, shooting me off the sofa. I stalk towards her slowly until her backs pressed against the shelves of DVDs, she’s clutching to the picture of me in her little hands like I'm going to jump out and save her. I inch towards her face, stroking the woody hair from her heated cheek, now raw, red and vulnerable as she peers at me through frightened eyes and I whisper gently through my teeth.
“It's power I can control.” I clutch to her forearm and she grips the picture harder. Part of me wants to punish her for pushing all the wrong buttons, all the buttons I've kept untouched. I've given her a voice and unleashed a brat , I should be happy, this only makes things more fun for me but she's too soft for the sins I would commit on her body, she wouldn't survive.
“You said you wouldn't touch me.” She rips her arm from me and I'm heaving heavily through my nose in frustration. I don't want to touch her to hurt her. I want to touch her to claim her. She has the same loss in her eyes as I and it's addicting. It's terrifying. It's dangerous. It's fucking consuming.
She is a power I cannot control.
“Do you want to hurt me? Will that give you power?” She has me all wrong and I want so desperately to show her that I'm not one of them but I see the Devil in me every day.
“Don't push me Little Dreamer… ” I lick my teeth, squeezing my jaw together trying to contain this unbearable urge to rip her fucking clothes off.
“Or what? You'll kill me?” I'll do far more than kill her, I'll bury myself 6ft inside her and listen to her beg for her fucking life as she makes our grave.
“Is this your plan? Push me until I give you what you want?” I ask sternly. She wants to die so badly, even when I'm trying to make this situation more comfortable for her, what fucking more does she want?
“What I want is for you to let me go.” My paint cracks as I roll a smile into it, pulling my hands up from my sides, waving them in a mocking fashion.
“Then why are you still standing here…” She huffs harshly, scolding me before pushing against my chest, slipping out from beneath me and heading straight towards the bedroom. I pursue her with little effort as my stride takes up two of hers and my boot wedges between the door as she slams it shut in my face, gripping the edge to stop it from flying back into the already abused wall.