58. Montana
58
Montana
T he sounds of a hushed crowd await behind a thick crimson curtain. Everyone on stage is so focused on themselves, their instruments, and their preparedness that no one even notices me. The rustling of papers and the random screeches of the metal musical stands on the stage are all that remain.
Caressing the cello before me, I finger the strings gently before wrapping my hands tightly around it and holding it to me, embracing it like the home I always needed. Comforting. Stable. Shane gave me that. A true sense of home in a world where that word felt like nothing more than a myth.
The elegant black gown exposes my arms, and the thigh slit gives just enough away to be able to situate the cello between my legs, showing off a moderate flash of my toned thigh and two bloody slashes through the skin just above my knee.
The seats are filled, the musicians silent and still as the curtain slowly rises before us. Joy vibrates within me, knowing Phil and Kathy are stuck in the lobby and unable to gain access to tonight’s performance. Even more glee radiates within at the realization that after this, I’ll never have to see either of them again.
Higher and higher it goes, we wait as the crimson fabric finally reaches its destination in the heavens, and the spotlights shine down upon the remaining members of the Montgomery Fine Orchestra. Nothing but a soft cough from someone in the audience and a screech from a moving chair fill the air as Conductor Hopkins appears on stage.
He addresses the audience with a quick bow, then turns to face us. Deep admiration has his round cheeks filling with a hearty blush. He smiles, looking all around at the members with a sense of pride in his stance.
Making his way toward the cellos, he pauses for a half beat when our eyes connect. He blinks once, looking at the filled chairs beside me. I cock my brow in question, almost hoping to provoke some sort of response to my presence, but he surprises me with a grateful grin. He nods amicably, averts his eyes, then peers back again, his face pulling back in horror. Quickly gripping his baton from the musical stand before him, he steadies his hand.
We all simultaneously prepare our instruments, situating ourselves in our seats, ready and awaiting his command. A man to the left of me gasps, but there’s no time for conversation.
Conductor Hopkins does a quick count with the baton before swinging his arm and striking through the air.
With crimson-spotted flesh, a swollen left eye, and bloody encrusted fingers, I run the bow across the strings, my eyes falling closed as I play with every bit of emotion I can muster.
I visualize Alek’s arms and legs strapped to the wooden chair with his own cables as the rich notes vibrate from the wooden instrument into my body. The nails from his nail gun, puncturing through his bones as his throat shrilled in horror, holding him upright in the chair. With every pluck of the rapid pizzicato, I visualize the gaping holes where his eyes and tongue used to be, enthralled by the destruction of his once handsome features.
We play through song after song of the repertoire, the audience seemingly enamored by the rich elegance of each piece.
As the concert comes to a close, my blood-splattered face slides into a beaming grin when The Isle of the Dead ensues. With every emotive note, I pour my soul into the piece, vigorously playing my cello as if it were a live animal being wrestled into submission. We dance together to the warm, thrilling tone as I get flashbacks of split flesh and the words Killer of Gabby Marxon engraved on a dead man’s chest.
The song comes to a triumphant end, my last note finalizing with the richest sounding vibrato, my pulse in tune, heart beating simply for her . Conductor Hopkins swings his wrist, his eyes anxiously drifting back to me as his baton rises for the final stroke. I play through the finale, my note lasting far beyond the others. Breathless and coated in another man’s blood, I stand, staring out into the bright light of the abyss.
It is the duty of the living to maintain justice for the dead, no matter how they chose to live their life. I smile to myself, proud to have protected her secrets to the end while still fighting the injustices she’d endured. Ella Marx can finally rest in peace as she deserves, and I can breathe easy knowing that the twisted, diabolical nature of a true monster ended at my hand.
The wild applause begins and then quickly fizzles out as an alarming hush sweeps over the audience. Someone screams, and there’s a shuffling of shoes and the rustling of bodies. People flee the theater in a mad dash, pushing past each other, hopping over rows of seats, and scrambling for various exits.
A warm sensation encompasses me because I know he’s there.
Shane’s out there, covered in the same blood of retribution, gazing right back at me.
For the first time in my life, I’m not simply being looked at. I’m not being watched for simple pleasures or toyed with for disturbing satisfactions. I’m not being used to fill the void of some fratboy’s reduced expectations of women, presented like fine china for a father who never cared, or even expected to save my adult mother who can’t keep her addictions at bay. I’m not sacrificing pieces of myself for the sake of simple-minded sanity or dulling down the complexity of who I am to appease others.
With my every flaw and imperfection, there is a man who embraces my darkness, fosters it as his own, and craves the madness of my twisted mind as chaotically as I do his. A man who walks that same line of depravity as me, flirting with the edge of corruption, our moral compass adjusting toward the justice we see fit.
For the first time, I know that the depth of me is reachable by the only one who dug into my dirt and made it his own.
I’m entirely exposed, and finally seen by the only one who’s ever mattered.