by G. , Whitney
“I think that’s quite obvious, Meredith,” he says, looking over at me. “Seeing as though you’re still breathing.”
“Is that what you do when you’re not running your nightclub and investing in Broadway plays? Take out people?”
“I make the world a better place.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means we still have several hours to go, and that’s the end of that conversation.”
“Did you decide not to do it because you felt sorry for me?”
“I did it because I fucking liked you, and then I made the huge mistake of fucking loving you.” He looked upset. “Happy?”
“No…What about the people you don’t fall in love with? Do you go through with it on them?”
He doesn’t answer me. He turns the music up, leaving me alone to a mess of my thoughts for longer than I can bear.
* * *
Another several hours later
The Sonoran Desert stretches ahead of us for miles, and I realize that we’re nearing the border of Mexico. The sun has yet to rise over the horizon, and the early morning clouds hang low.
We’ve been driving in silence for hours—occasionally stopping for drinks and stretches, bits of “Are you okay?” here or there.
His hand has clasped mine several times, the mere touch of his fingers making me feel a bit more secure with ease. He says the words, “It’ll all make sense in the end,” under his breath, ever so often, but I don’t ask him what that means.
“You know, if your ultimate plan was to save me from my father, and run away together to start new lives, I would’ve been fine with that. All you had to do was tell me that in advance,” I said, trying to start a conversation. “The kidnapping was a bit unnecessary.”
He doesn’t answer. He just stares straight ahead.
He pulls the car over into the parking lot of a small bed and breakfast. He steps out and he motions for me to follow suit.
“It’s time for you to check in.” He pops the trunk and grabs a bag. “Make sure to request a room with a good view.”
He doesn’t grab a bag for himself. There isn’t one for him anymore.
“Aren’t you coming?” I ask.
“Does it look like I’m coming?”
I look down at the bag he hands to me and realize that this isn’t the bag I packed.
This new bag is stuffed with hair dye—strawberry blond, sweaters and hoodies, a disposable camera (Who still uses those?), and toiletries. There are envelopes and money inside, but my journal and personal mementos—things I actually wanted, are nowhere to be found.
“Where is the bag of my real stuff?” I look at him. “The stuff you insisted that I pack?”
“I saw what was in it,” he said. “You won’t need any of that for where you’re going.”
“So, what was the point of you making me pack it?”
“To see if you were willing to trust me again.” His voice is deadpan, and the warmth that was in his eyes earlier is long gone.
I stare at him for several minutes, each moment of silence marking a realization that I’m just now getting to see.
“This is what you were planning to do the whole time, isn’t it?” my voice is hoarse. “This is your idea of saving me from ruin and being my so-called hero?”
“I never told you that I was a fucking hero.” He sounds offended. “I have eight more things to handle, and I would’ve been finished with them by now, if you weren’t in my way. I can’t afford to let you be a burden to me anymore.”
“I’m a burden?”
“I didn’t stutter.” He pulls a wad of bills from his pocket and stuffs them into my jacket. “I have more important things to do than deal with a romance that’ll never work out right now. I’ll handle the divorce and make sure you have access to an account that’ll never run dry.”
“You’re leaving me in Mexico?” I narrow my eyes at him.
“This isn’t twenty-one questions, Meredith,” he says. “You need to listen very carefully, and you need to follow every direction to the letter.”
“Or else what?”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“Michael—”
“Meredith.” He cuts me off. “Stop fucking talking, and just do what the hell I’m telling you to do. Now.”
He presses his finger against my lips before I can say another word. “If you don’t, you’ll die, and you’ll have wasted my fucking time.” He glares at me. “Eight o’clock check out. Cab to Naco. Pay in cash and show the Harriet passport. Check into the Rio Grande Hotel, and tell them you’re meeting someone named Benny. There won’t be a Benny, but at noon, you’ll need to swim across the lazy Azul river to avoid the number of protestors that are going to storm the city that day. Traffic will be at a standstill all week, so this is the best way. You’ve been doing one hundred laps a day for weeks, so you should be able to make that swim easily by now…”
I stare at him in utter disbelief.
“When you get there, you’ll tell them your name is Anna,” he says. “You’re a tourist who got lost, and you’d like to visit your security box. It’ll have everything you need. Transportation, more directions, currency, everything. And then four days from now, you’ll need to get to the airport and check in for an eight o’clock flight to Geneva, Switzerland. The receipt for the first-class ticket is already in your bag. The second you get there, you can start over living happily ever after.”
I shake my head, feeling tears fall down my face.
He repeats his instructions, three more times—each time more painful than the last. When he finishes, he has the audacity to ask me if I have any questions.
“Fuck you, Michael.” I step back. “Fuck you.”
“I never told you that this would be a fairytale,” he says. “I told you on the night we met that we couldn’t go any further. It’s your fault for getting your goddamn hopes up.”
“I thought you said that you wanted me to trust you.”
“You should trust me,” he says. “I just helped you get a whole new goddamn life. You can’t go back to New York, and you damn sure can’t live in the United States,” he says. “You can make something of yourself overseas, though. You once said that you could live anywhere and do fashion, so now’s the chance to see if you’re right.”
“Michael, please tell me that this is some type of sick joke. What about us? All the things you said about restarting what we had?”
“This is the end of us, Meredith.” He shrugs. “I said all of those things because at one point I thought I could mean them. Now, I’ve realized that I don’t, and I think that’s for the best.”
I don’t respond. I just let my mind remind me just how big of a fool I am for ever trusting this man.
“I need you to listen very carefully to this final list of directions I’m about to give you.” He starts talking again. “I wrote you this letter explaining the first part of everything I’ve done in detail. Should you take my advice and arrive at all the locations on time, a second letter will arrive explaining the rest.”
I take the letter from his hands and rip it in half. Then into smaller shreds, again and again.
“You’re going to regret that, Meredith.”
“The only thing I regret is falling in love with you.”
“So, you don’t enjoy living?” he hissed. “Because that’s far more important than some relationship. I’ve just ensured that you’ll get to keep doing that. You can say, ‘Thank you’ at any given time.”
I stand still, shocked to my core. First the news of my father, and now this. His way of ensuring I have a new life doesn’t sound like “living” at all.
“Who burned you this badly?” I say, looking at him. “Who fucked you up to the point where you can walk away from someone who loves you enough to be fucking okay with everything you’ve done?”
“You don’t know half of the things I’ve done, Meredith…”
“I’m willing to assume,”
I say, stepping close to him as more tears fall down my face. “I feel like there’s a reason for what you’ve done, and you can trust me enough to tell me.” I stare at him, waiting for him to come to his senses. “I’m sorry for whoever or whatever burned you so badly in the past, but mark my words, Michael. I will never forgive you or take you back if you leave me here like this.”
“I’ll never beg for you to take me back, Meredith,” he says. “We both know that’s not my style. You’re welcome for everything. I wish you the best in your new life.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“If there was more, I would’ve said it.”
I nod and bite my tongue; he can have the last word.
He can have the last glimpse of me because I’ll never let him back into my life again.
Taking a step, I look this man over one last time. I silently scold myself for getting my hopes up, for ever thinking that “we” were ever anything more than a planned game for him. He’s always been the far better player than I am, and this is the ultimate checkmate.
He looks at his watch, and then he walks to his car and slips into the driver’s side, pulling off without word.
He disappears into the distance and although I’m struggling to hold back tears, I can feel my heart shattering in my chest.
I was such a fool for ever trusting you…
Michael
Now
I stare at Meredith in my rearview mirror as I drive forward and leave her in my past. That’s where she’ll remain for the rest of her life.
She was a mere chapter in my book and this is our final page.
No happily ever after included.
I watch as she wipes her eyes, as she moves to the middle of the road and throws up her middle finger.
I consider throwing it back, but I don’t.
I just keep driving.
As I move farther away from her, I feel a familiar pang return to my chest—the same one I felt once before when I almost completed the intended job and killed her.
I can also hear a voice in my head, begging me to go back and get her—to come up with another alternative, where we can perhaps be together, but my job is done. I’ve done far more than I’m supposed to do for her, and one day she’ll be able to see that.
Truth is, I’ll never be whole or able to completely care for anyone besides myself until I finish dealing with the people who have brought me years of pain. I need to spend the next few months focusing on trying to put it away once and for all, even if I know that it’s hopeless to dream of a night when it won’t haunt me in my sleep.
Meredith may be just as broken and lonely as I am, but she’ll never know the same type of pain. She’ll never know what it feels like to cope after being “burned so badly”…
Michael
Long Before
When Someone “Burned Me That Badly…”
Trevor trembles in the cold, looking at me with tears in his eyes. “Did you win your chess match up there today?”
I don’t answer.
We both know that he doesn’t care. He’s just asking a question to pass the time, trying to make me think about something other than the hellish state of our existence.
“I’ve managed to make a few new friends down here,” he says. “I mean, granted they can’t talk, but it’s been the highlight of my day.”
I say nothing. I can’t play the ‘let’s pretend this isn’t happening’ game right now. The signs of reality are far too strong, too unforgiving.
“Michael?” He shakes my shoulder. “Michael, you’re zoning out again…”
I can’t help it.
He’s currently chained to the metal pole behind the washing machine, and I’m free to roam about this small, windowless room. For now.
Five hours from now, I’ll be chained and he’ll be free. It’s a rotating punishment, a twisted, psychological experiment that weighs heavily on my mind every single day.
“Michael, can you please talk?” He begs. “Say something…Anything.”
“What did he make you do earlier today?” I ask him a far more important question. “Who was up there when you went?”
He shakes his head, and he starts to answer, but no words come out. Just cries.
He’s always been the more emotional one between us, although getting passed around and sexually abused will break down any person. Even me at this point, but I’ve stopped letting it show.
Tears have never saved me or given me any grace. They’ve never stopped our Uncle Avery from using us like pets, torturing our minds on a daily basis, or offering us up as options for his sick and perverted friends.
They come every other day like clockwork, dressed in their thousand dollar suits with pictures of their families tucked into their designer leather wallets. They exchange pleasantries over a cup of coffee or tea on the “luxurious” side of the house, and they say things like, “Lovely weather we’re having,” or “How many rounds do you think you’ll go today?” It’s all coded conversation, a way to ask which one of us they want, how rough they plan to be.
That part of the house is right above us, and we’re only privy to see it when these men stop by. Our uncle always has us ready and waiting for them. Freshly groomed and showered. Left alone naked with packs of condoms, a bottle of lube, and a soundproofed bedroom.
For most of the men, me and Trevor are just sex. For others, we’re the subjects of the pictures that they store in the hidden folders of their phones. And for the more depraved group, it’s a mix of sex and a side of violence—a session of jaw punching and forcible submission, the kind that lingers in the mind years after and shows up in the middle of morning breakfast.
There’s nowhere we can go, no one we can tell.
Occasionally, he lets us upstairs to watch crime shows and cook food. He also allows me to use one of his laptops to play chess whenever one of his dogs chews up one of the real pieces. (“You’re one hell of a chess player, boy…”) From the newspapers that he lets us keep from time to time, I’ve caught sight of the world outside this hell a few times.
Our lives revolve around his basement, and no matter how many cans of air freshener I spray, it always smells like rotten fish and dried vomit. The scent is trapped under the wallpaper, woven into the threads of the fraying carpet.
The scent of hopelessness…
There are a few rats that join us here or there, but they always die after a few weeks, thanks to the boric acid and antifreeze drops that he occasionally sprinkles in the corners. It’s enough to weaken them at first taste, to drain them of their energy should they try to make it up the steps for water, but it’s never enough to kill them at once; he does this to constantly remind us of who is in control.
The only things he can’t seem to kill—besides us yet, are the spiders that roam freely. They come and go at their will—slipping under the tiny cracks of the wood near the far end of the basement. They avoid the poison and weave their cobwebs under the abandoned furniture—trapping their prey and staying focused solely on themselves.
They’re the ultimate survivors, the smartest players in the game.
“She’s going to come back for us…” Trevor finally stops crying, wiping his eyes. “She’ll eventually come back and get us, right?”
I nod, even though I don’t believe at all.
I stopped hoping for our mother’s return years ago.
She was gone, and I never wanted to see her face again. I’d never be able to look her in the eye and give her any form of forgiveness for dropping us off here and moving on with her life. For never coming back.
I doubted that I would ever be able to accept that she honestly thought that we’d be “far better off” with Uncle Avery. I wanted to believe that she had no idea how big of a monster he truly was when she dropped us off at his doorstep in the middle of the night, but something told me that she knew.
Beepppp! Beepppp! Beeppp!
The timer on the washing machine goes off, the signal fo
r us to switch places. It’s time for Trevor to roam freely and be at my uncle’s beck and call if he needs something upstairs.
I unlock Trevor’s handcuffs, but I don’t let him lock me in.
Instead, I slip the key into my pocket. Walking upstairs, I leave the basement door cracked, not sliding the lock it into place like usual.
“It’s Trevor’s turn to be up here, Michael.” My uncle scoffs as I walk into the living room. He’s still dressed in a suit, poring over this week’s edition of The Wall Street Journal. I notice that he’s stolen a few new pens from his company, where he sits on the board of directors: Goldman Sachs.
“Do I need to remind you how this system works?” he asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“No, sir,” I say. “He’s throwing up, so—”
“Ugh.” He cuts me off. “Of course. Sometimes, I wish you were more of a weak bitch like your brother. Go take him a towel and a cup of water when you’re finished cleaning. I still want him to sleep with me tonight. Not you.”
I grab a towel and start to head downstairs, but he stomps his feet—forcing a plate of china to fall to the floor.
“Make me a glass rum and cherry coke first,” he says. “Pour it over some ice and make me a sandwich to go along with it.”
I nod and head to the kitchen.
Opening the fridge. I start to make his drink, but I realize that I can’t wait anymore. I need to take my chances on escape now.
I reach into my pocket and grab all of the boric acid as I can, all that I’ve saved over the past several months. I sprinkle it into a glass and make sure to wipe off the rim.
This won’t be enough and you know it…
I look over my shoulder to make sure he isn’t watching, and then I reach far back behind his collection of beer—looking for the bottle I filled with antifreeze a few weeks ago.
I pour it into his glass and add the coke and rum on top, swirling the liquid around with my finger.
