13. Thirteen
Thirteen
Sara
Iwake up with the taste of last night still burning the back of my throat, lots of different flavors ranging from vodka, adrenaline, shame, and the feel of my bed. After Liam's brutality, I went home. I figured I had raised enough chaos for one night.
Light slashes through my window with a vehemence that scrapes the inside of my skull. I roll over, clutching the sheet like it can anchor me to this new day, but the echo of his grip haunts places only bruises know the truth of.
The second I stand, I slip on a black tank and jeans, then knot my hair up.
I dab concealer over the shadows Liam’s exhaustive words have left under my eyes—not that it would fool anyone, least of all Mimi, who has X-ray vision for misery. She called me in to help at the store, a grateful distraction before the dead season of winter swallows the village and me whole.
When I get there, Mimi’s behind the register, chewing on a licorice stick, concentrating on something on her iPad and shuffling a deck of cards as if she’s taking a course to become the next… magician?
“Bonjour, baby,” she calls, her voice smoke and sunlight. “You look like you’ve been up all night breaking hearts. Do I look as bad as you do?”
“You look like you need to get laid. Not a good look, especially on you.” I smile, dropping my bag behind the counter and ducking so she wouldn’t see the aftershocks etching on my face.
“Look who’s talking!” Mimi winks, but something feels wrong in the way her eyes shine. “Pink dress needs steaming. Then we can box everything until next summer.”
“On it… hey are you okay?” I ask, grateful for a chore that doesn’t require words, but can’t help sensing something is a bit off.
“Yeah, I’m good,” she unconvincingly says and goes back to work.
The bell over the door tinkles now and then, each time sending my heart jerking. Half-expecting Liam’s silhouette in the frame, broad shoulders blotting out the sun. Mimi reappears with chamomile tea and slides it to me. I perch behind the register, pretending to tally receipts.
“But… are you okay?” Mimi asks.
I shrug. “Just tired. Maybe I’ll nap in the dressing room.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sure, and I’ll hire raccoons to run the shop.”
My phone buzzes against the counter and pick up the call seeing it’s my mom calling. Lately I’ve grown needing her, despite hating her for how she uncontrollably couldn’t leash her grief. I’ll never truly be angry. Just deeply hurt, above all, I’ll never blame her.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Ma Chérie.” Her voice is warm. “You sound tired. Then again, you came home at four in the morning, so I suppose you are.”
“At least it wasn’t six.” I try to laugh and Mimi chuckles, but my mom doesn’t think it’s funny at all. I tighten my lips before I blurt out more.
“Listen, I have news. I’m flying to Morocco. Your grandfather needs help with some paperwork on the farm. I’ll be gone a little over a week.”
The pit in my stomach twists. I didn't even know things in there could twist more than they were already twisting.
“That’s great, Mom,” I answer too quickly. “When are you leaving?”
“Tomorrow morning. I’ll send pictures of the baby goats.”
“O-Oh.” My voice cracks. “Okay.”
I turn away so Mimi wouldn’t see the tears pricking my eyes.
PTSD? Grief? Anyone I care about, not being close by, invokes anxiety that something bad might happen to them.
I don’t want to make her feel bad, so I stay quiet, but after last night, the idea of being truly alone feels like a bad idea even for me.
There isn’t anyone left to stop me from breaking.
“Sara?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Are you sure that’s okay? I can tell him no, and stay here. I just…” she trails off, and I sense her worry in her voice.
“Mom, I’ll be fine. I can stay over Artemis’s house on some nights —”
“Or mine!” Mimi chimes in.
“But regardless, I’ll be fine. Just bring some new recipes back, please?” I finish and hang up, setting the phone down slowly, lengthening the time I have between intrusive thoughts. I want nothing more than for things to be simple. Not to have to brace myself for every bell, every sudden sound.
The walk home after my day of work is quiet. No footsteps, no shadow, and I let out a breath when I walk into my house.
Once in my bedroom, I strip down to my underwear, catching my reflection in the mirror. Faint purple marks next to my small scars bloom high on my thigh where Liam’s hand had gripped. I touch it and the bruise aches instantly, hot, pooling low in my belly.
Shame scorches through me. I hate it… I want it.
As quickly as the feeling comes up, I shove it into the 'you are mentally ill' little box in my head and lock it up.
Three nights after Mom left, the house feels too big, too empty, too loud with its silence, and the solitude is getting to me. My thoughts loud and hazy, I had already read two books and binge-watched The Vampire Diaries.
I’m so team Damon it’s scary.
I catch myself staring at the drawer in my bathroom, where I still keep what I shouldn’t.
I stroll to it, craving the silence that I receive and deserve, the sight of blood pouring out my darkness drop by drop to liberate my screams, enmeshed between my bones and flesh.
Joe had been the only one to quiet my pain, and now he was the source of it.
I didn’t know how to breathe properly without him…
My shaky hand hovers, contemplating, when Artemis’s text comes through.
Artemis: Sleepover at my mom’s?
Feeling as though the drawer burned me, I snap it shut and immediately reply with a yes, realizing I shouldn't spend the night by myself.
Her parent’s house is nothing like mine.
It’s alive. Music always drifting from either speaker, the faint sour-sweet smoke of her dad’s joints sneaking through the back door.
He is almost comically thin but so strong, with this bird-like way of laughing at our jokes as if they’d been his idea all along.
Her mom is warm and always carrying a tray of snacks into Artemis’s room without knocking or a care in the world.
I adore her. She made us ham and cheese sandwiches, but I can’t look at a baguette without thinking of Joe.
A spoon of Kiri cheese in hand like a microphone, Artemis has the speaker blasting old-school Drake while she dances around the room in her small t-shirt and panties.
Mimi sprawls on the bed, laughing so hard she keeps smudging her mascara, making her blue eyes iridescent.
I sit cross-legged on the rug, stomach aching from the mix of crackers, laughter, and the way Artemis’s dad keeps drifting past the door to toss in jokes he’s convinced are genius; something about us starting a coven.
I feel as though nothing is broken for a moment, a mere flicker, though I struggle to remember the last time I experienced such a feeling. Even before my brother died, things were eerily difficult, and Joe had saved me. I miss you.
Then the air shifts, and the glimpse of the heavy weight of eyes pressing through the window sends my body into a catatonic stupor.
My throat closes. I had felt this before. I stand up fast, certain I’d catch him—Liam lurking behind the fig tree, but it’s too dark to see.
Mimi sits up on her elbows. “Sara? What is it?”
Artemis pauses, spoon still in the air, a frown cutting through her fun. She rushes to open one of her drawers, but she waits, carefully watching outside with a changed demeanor as if she's ready to protect. “Why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”
I can’t answer. My lips part, but no sound comes out. I stare at the window, every nerve screaming someone’s there. Where the hell are you, piece of shit?
But when I blink, it’s only branches swaying under the streetlight. I can feel it in my blood, in my bones, in every nerve ending that screams. Rage boils up inside me, threatening to spill over.
How dare he? How fucking dare he invade me when I’m surrounded by friends.
I feel exposed, violated, watched. And I know—I just know—it’s him.
His presence has become toxic in my mind, seeping into my every thought.
I need to confront him, to look into those cold blue eyes and tell him to get the hell out of my life.
I force a shaky laugh and shake my head, waving it off. “Nothing. I thought I saw something. Never mind.”
The girls exchange a look,
“Damn girl, you scared the shit out of me!” Artemis breathes hard, holding her chest and smiles faintly at Mimi, falling back into their chatter.
But the weight lingers in my chest, heavy, undeniable.
We aren’t alone.
My eyes open, another day in paradise. I am thankful, don’t get me wrong, but I am teetering on the fine line of understanding the depth between life and death a little too heavily these days, and even sleep doesn’t help.
The ghost of his eyes on me still drags against my skin.
Even brushing my teeth feels like he’s there, lurking in the mirror.
By noon I’d already lied to myself after leaving Artemis’s house with a warm croissant in hand her mom had made me hold on to like I was a starved animal.
The lies were along the lines of being restless, wanting to see the puppy, and needing to be close to anything belonging to Joe.
But my pulse knows better. My pulse knows I want to see Liam’s face when he realizes I am not afraid enough to stay away.
I swallow the croissant, and as I pass my gate, I pause, contemplating between good and bad choices, but I know it was him last night.
I feel it in my bones. I can’t take this cat-and-mouse game anymore.
I’ll just walk up, peek through the gate, maybe whistle for the dog if it’s out and have a few words with him to stop tormenting me.
Then turn back and watch my life go back to its unconscionable fairy tale.
When I reach his house, my feet keep going, and my heart breaks knowing Joe isn’t inside. With the gates ajar and no puppy visible, I enter the pathway and whistle lightly.
The sound of low, male voices drifts from the garage, making my heart stutter. Liam’s here and he’s not alone.
I should have left then, turned around and walked away. But my body disobeys, inching closer. I can’t help my curiosity, the thrill pushing me towards instead of backward.
This is how people get killed in movies. I’m that girl who dies in the first three minutes.
The closer I get, the heavier the air seems to press down on me. I edge closer to the garage door, cracked open just enough for me to peek inside.
The first thing I see is Damien. Everyone knows who Damien is; his reputation precedes him.
If anything, Liam is a boxer with an edge of bad mood, but Damien has murder on his hands written all over them.
Tall, broad-shouldered but leaner, every inch of skin inked with tattoos that climb from his knuckles up his forearms, crawling up his throat and disappearing beneath his collar.
His presence fills the garage like suffocating, inescapable smoke.
Dark hair falls into darker, haunting eyes; handsome, yes — so much so it’s absurd — but it’s a beauty threading with undeniable violence.
Beside him, Liam is a storm in flesh, flipping through what seems to be a folder of papers.
I squint my eyes and see photographs clipped together.
He’s standing with his back facing me, and I can’t make out what is in front of him besides Damien looking down with his arms crossed, flicking his tongue over his teeth.
I step dangerously closer, keeping my body out of sight, and tilting my head just enough to see through the slim opening of the door.
When, in my now periphery, in the middle of the room, strapped to a chair with duct tape across his chest and wrists, sits a man.
Mid-fifties, maybe. Sweat soaks through his shirt, head jerking every time Damien circles behind him like a shark.
I shouldn’t be here.
“I told you already, I don’t—” the man starts, voice cracking.
The sound cuts off when Liam finally looks up from the folder in his hands.
“You’ll talk,” Liam says in a voice I’d never heard from him before, so measured, trained to ignite control. He flicks one photograph onto the man’s lap.
“It’s only a matter of when. And when it comes, you’ll wish you were already dead.”
My stomach turns to ice.
I should run and never look back. Every instinct screams it, but my legs lock, my breath snagging sharp and shallow. They're not boys. No longer are they men. They’re in a league of their own, proving their reputation to be true. I almost stumble, making the door quietly creak on itself.
Liam’s head turns, and my soul leaves my body when his eyes find mine through the crack in the doorway, pinning me in place.
One hand still resting casually on the folder, but beneath it in his other, a gun gleams. He gives me the darkest, most animal stare he’s ever laid on me and grits out the words,
“Fuck it.”
pop
The bullet punches clean through the man’s skull. And everything inside me shatters.