Chapter 11
Katelyn
Violence is something I’ve lived with in one form or another my entire life.
From the stern hand of my father’s belt connecting to my brothers’ backs, to Henry’s volatility and sick nature, all the way to Eddie’s humiliation and torture.
All I’ve ever known is violence, and even my solace in the ocean vanished when its angry waves consumed my mother.
The only peace I ever had was the soft caress of Heath’s hand.
I never got any real love or affection from my dad or Henry.
Heath’s presence in my life gave me something to live for, a profound peace and adoration that was devoid of any brutality.
But last night proved to me that even he’s become contaminated, riddled with the need for destruction, too.
I place concealer on my bruised and battered skin with the practiced hand of an expert. Marks doled out under the supposed premise of love. But true love doesn’t bruise. The mark it leaves isn’t visible. It’s a tattoo on the soul, a permanent imprint on the heart.
Love that borders the edge of madness. Bruises landed not from one man but two. Eddie’s blows are direct like missiles with perfect aim that I accept as my penitence, while Heath’s creep up like a welcome soft rain that then hurls itself into an unexpected tornado.
I cannot believe he’s returned, and that the years have changed him so much.
He touches me in violence now, too, and in my heart, I feel like I deserve his cruelty for pushing him away.
The only problem is that when Heath touches me, even in violence, I welcome it like a baptism to wash away my sins.
I let him go.
For ten years I slept every night with his ghost beside me, comforted myself with ephemeral memories of him, pretended he was there with me, always.
Seeing him again last night was like being doused in ice water.
I am the one to blame for his absence, and perhaps if I didn’t live in the sick, twisted maze that is Wainscott Hollow, we would have had a chance.
It would be him I was married to now and I wouldn’t be going through my third stick of concealer in a few months.
My husband dresses for work and I watch him in the mirror, gauging his mood.
“On my way to the city today, I’m stopping by the precinct to report your little charity case for assault,” Eddie spits as he straightens his tie. “I’m sure the police department will give him a hero’s welcome on his return to Long Island Sound.”
I’ve taken Eddie’s abuse for years. I tolerated it because a part of me was indebted to him for saving me from my fucked-up situation. I could never give him what he wanted, a way to my heart, so I sacrificed my body instead, allowing him to do what he wanted to satiate his dark needs.
My heart was unavailable because it belonged to another, and I had no piece of it left over to share. Eddie has been a pauper, a starved beggar when it came to love, but I more than pacified him with my submission—flesh in exchange for an already occupied heart.
I liked Eddie, I’d even once respected him.
He saved me from an existence that would have been worse than death.
If it weren’t for him, I would be God-knows where.
Addicted, abused, trafficked, homeless even.
At the time, I would have done anything to escape my brother.
And that’s why I took his abuse because it was better than any alternative in front of me.
I know Eddie’s brutality comes from a place of pain that I caused. But I will never sacrifice Heath for him. I will never hurt Heath again. I’d rather die.
“You won’t be doing that Eddie,” I say, turning to face him from my vanity.
“Because if you accuse Heath, I’ll tell everyone about you.
About your peculiar proclivities, how much you need your little fantasies to perform, how rape and voyeurism are necessary to get you off.
How you might even be into an old high school pal, am I right?
How you attempt to beat it out of me, the loyalty and love I feel. Isn’t it all just jealousy?”
“Shut your goddamn mouth, slut. You love that shit, too. You’re always soaking wet for me and the games we play, so don’t act like you’re above it. Besides, that’s private business between a man and his wife,” Eddie retorts.
“Is it, though? Maybe not so much anymore.”
He puts his hand up to me, clad in his button-down and tie, and his navy-blue boxer shorts.
“What if I tell them you’re poisoned through and through with jealousy, that you can’t get over a stupid teenage crush and wet-dream threesome fantasy you jerk off to—”
In the blink of an eye, I’m on the floor as Eddie’s fist connects with my face.
He holds me down by my trachea like Heath did the night before, and the fresh wound surges to life again.
The difference being that when Heath’s hands touched my skin, I felt the burning inferno of desire, I welcomed the pain he inflicted on me, reveled in it as it became one with my need for him.
Eddie’s touch, however, invokes fear and panic.
Sometimes, I think he’ll take it too far and accidentally murder me.
Other days, I wish he’d pull the trigger and kill me because then I wouldn’t have to suffer the misery of the choices I’ve made.
Choices that have become the very bane of my existence.
But if given the opportunity, I would do it all over again because my sacrifice saved Heath, and that alone is worth all the years of pain, worth whatever humiliation Eddie throws at me.
“You fuckin’ bitch. After everything I’ve given you, you’re still an ungrateful slut like you’ve always been. Nothing but a pathetic cock whore. A bitch who spread her legs for her own fucking brother. You’re disgusting, Katelyn. I should break your neck and put you out of your misery.”
I push his hands down on my neck, adding to the pressure to my trachea. “Do it, you coward. Do it!” My voice comes out strained, crushed by his hands.
I cringe every time he touches me. Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend his hands are Heath’s, and those moments allow me to escape into the past, to a time when my life had meaning and still held the sweet glow of hope.
Eddie’s brow dips in frustration before he howls and stumbles back from me, his eyes haunted like he cannot believe what he’s done.
This is what it’s come to—we’re reduced to two dysfunctional people, suicidal, homicidal, covered in the emotional and physical evidence of our fragmented hearts.
It’s the same shame-filled look he always gives me after he’s taken it too far, almost past the point of no return, the end of the road, curtains.
It’s as if he sees me dead and himself in jail, a vision to finally shake him out of it,
I grip my mangled throat, rubbing away the violence he imprinted. Our eyes lock as our chests rise and fall with adrenaline. We’ve come too close to destroying one another. Our game of love and hate will be the end of us someday.
He rakes his hands through his hair, disheveling the loose blond strands from their gelled-back tenure. His eyes connect to mine, bloodshot, angry, welling with tears.
“Why can’t you love me?”
I feel bad for Eddie. I’ve tried to love him. I’ve given it my best shot. But I can’t lie anymore, so I tell him the truth instead.
“You’re not him.”
His impulsive fist sails toward me and connects with my temple; I welcome the ensuing numbing darkness.