39. Ariadne
39
ARIADNE
M y body goes rigid as I watch the scene unfold. Caleph's finger tightens on the trigger, and my throat closes in a silent scream. I struggle to stay upright, my knees threatening to give out as I bear witness to the horror before me. I didn’t think he’d do it, but he has. He’s gone and blown a man’s brains out all over another man. I can’t get the image out of my head as bile moves up my throat.
I stumble to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before vomiting. My entire body shakes as I lay on the cool tiles, trying to calm my racing heart and catch my breath.
I never should have gotten out of that bed. But that’s precisely what I did when I heard Caleph screaming in anger. I stood by the window, almost on autopilot, watching as he took his revenge on a man he believed to have betrayed him. He shot him, at point blank range, splattering his blood all over onlookers so they would always be reminded that this is what happens to traitors.
I can’t reconcile the man that was comforting me a little while ago with this monster who now stands with blood on his hands. I start to hyperventilate as I realize how stupid I’ve been. How could I have let him fool me into thinking he was a good guy? I’d written an exposé about him, and in that reportage, I’d denounced the rumors that he had anything to do with criminal activity. I’d unequivocally stated that he had no hand in organized crime. I’d betrayed my own ethics and written untruths about a man who so clearly had more than a passing interest in the criminal underworld. What else was he a part of? And if it was so easy for him to kill a man that stood in his driveway, how many others had he killed? My credibility as a reporter will go to hell the minute that people learn the sort of cruel man that Caleph Rojas really is. A murderer. A madman. A deceitful liar.
My lips start to chatter as an overwhelming sadness invades me. How many emotions can a person go through in the space of a day? From being a prisoner believing my lover was dead, to being free and reuniting with my lover, to learning that said lover is a killer. It is too much to take in for one day. I curl into myself on the bathroom floor, putting my head to the tiles as I fight off the start of a fever. My body is on fire, burning up from the inside out, as I start to convulse before I lose consciousness to the world.
* * *
There is a soft beeping when I open my eyes again. And it’s painful, so painful, because one of my eyes is still swollen in pain, a tiny slit amongst the abrasions my face sustained in the car accident and ensuing kidnapping. Everything is blurry, and it’s hot, so damn hot.
I try to adjust my focus, but my vision has lost its sharpness, making things muddy. I can hear voices around me, and I think I hear the doctor’s voice again, talking to Caleph. Yes, it’s the doctor. Something about a fever, and infection, and stress. Or maybe he said mess? I think about the mess I made in the toilet bowl before I lost consciousness. Think about what got me there, and how I could have been so naive that I couldn’t see past Caleph’s clean facade to the person he really was. How could I have been so stupid?
He comes into vision, sits on the side of the bed and takes my hand in his, his warmth making me even hotter. I try to move my hands away from the hands of this killer, but I’m so weak, I can’t even manage to do that. I can’t pull my hands away from him, but internally, I’m repulsed. I slept with this man. I trusted him. I literally handed my life over to him. And all the while, he was a monster in sheep’s clothing. He is a murderer. A killer. In the most cold-blooded way possible.
* * *
I don’t know how much time passes, but I can see clearly when I awake. Caleph is sprawled in a chair by my bedside, his eyes ringed with circles. Something tugs at my heart, something I don’t want to feel. But I feel it nonetheless, despite fighting it back.
When he sees I’m awake, he moves out of his chair and comes to sit on the side of the bed and takes my hand in his, smoothing over my skin with his thumb. I try to fight the feelings that emerge, threatening to decimate me.
I wonder if he ever really felt anything for me. Or was I just a high contender for his plan to narrate his own version of his life to the world? Was I the lucky scapegoat who was willing to do that? Was I the prize he’d been waiting for when I wrote that damn stupid article that brought me into his world in the first place?
Damn you, Hinky. I think of my boss and his decision to make my life harder by giving me the impossible task of writing an article about a man who was considered a ghost. He’d thought himself so smart, giving me a task I was bound to fail at, just so he could fire me. But voilà, I had given him an article that put his whole publication on the map and brought unwanted attention to Caleph Rojas. That’s how he came into my life. But what was I doing in his life now? Was it merely a case of his guilt over having put me in a position where I was fending off assassins? But no, that couldn’t be it, because killers didn’t have remorse or guilt.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his voice a soothing balm to my beaten heart. His voice would always do things to me that I couldn’t explain. Which was just wrong on so many levels.
“I want to go home,” I whisper, watching as his face morphs from happiness to see me awake to one of confusion.
“You are home,” he tells me, and I know he’s wondering if the fever has played with my mind, and I think I’m still a prisoner with that other man.
“No,” and I shake my head. “I want to go home."