by Monica James
I have so many questions. I don’t know where to start.
“Yer so big,” Imogen says in awe, unable to take her eyes off me.
“Aye, yer a big mawn. How old are ye?” Keegan asks, which has me arching a brow.
“Twenty-one,” I reply, needing to address the obvious. “Did ya know I was alive all this time?”
Imogen draws the lapels of her dressing gown across her chest. “Aye, but yer da—”
“We tried, lad,” Keegan interrupts, sensing the sudden shift in the air.
All I hear are excuses.
“You should have tried harder. How can ya live in there?” I ask, peering at the bungalow with disgust.
“This isn’t our home. It’s our son’s. Yer uncle’s.”
An uncle? I have another uncle.
“He’s on holidays with his family. We’re mindin’ his dogs.”
I don’t know how to process this. I have this entire other family, and they’ve moved on, moved on without me. They’ve made a life without me when all I ever wanted was to make a life with them.
“Come inside,” Imogen begs when she notices me processing what they’ve just shared.
Clenching my jaw, I can’t hide my rage as I spit, “Are ye jokin’ me? I don’t wanna set foot in there. Do ya know what I saw? What this house represents? This place should be burned to the ground. It’s soaked in my mum’s blood.”
Imogen muffles her cries, while Keegan lowers his eyes, ashamed. “Cara was awful stubborn,” he says, shaking his head with regret. “We told her if she married that hallion, we’d never speak to her again. She didn’t listen.”
“And that excuses ya for abandonin’ her?” I ask, barely reining in my temper. “She came here to escape my da? Am I right?”
“Aye.”
“She had no one,” I state, nothing but anger filling my words. “Her family disowned her because she chose the wrong man to marry. And she died here—alone. Ya may as well have killed her.”
“Don’tcha say that,” Imogen cries, wiping her tears away with trembling fingers.
“Why not? It’s the truth. She didn’t come to ya because she obviously didn’t think she was welcome. How old was she when she got married?”
“Sixteen,” Keegan replies with regret.
“And my dad?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“For fuck’s sake, she was only a chile. How could ya allow her to marry him?”
Keegan doesn’t appreciate me pointing fingers, but what the fuck? Why didn’t they stop her? She’d need the consent from a parent or guardian to be married at such a young age, but I suppose the church was happy to bend the rules for a Kelly.
“Ya don’t know yer ma. She—”
“That’s right,” I interject, curling my lip. “I don’t ’cause she was murdered in front of me.”
Imogen crosses herself with fresh tears in her eyes. “Yer dad has told ya nothin’ ’bout this?”
“Naw, but he should have done. I know nothin’ about her. The only memories I have are of her covered in blood!”
“Oh, Puck, I’m sorry. We tried to see ya. But yer dad wouldn’t allow it. He’s a Kelly.”
“And so was yer daughter,” I counter, like that excuse is supposed to make everything all right.
“We’re not perfect,” Keegan says, running a hand over his thinning, gray hair. “And we should have done more. But there was no stoppin’ her.”
“Why did she buy this place?”
“’Cause she was leavin’ yer da,” Imogen reveals, confirming the blanks I’ve tried to fill in for years. “And she was takin’ ya with her. You were her life, Puck. But leavin’ Connor Kelly wasn’t an easy thing. She knew he’d kill her, so she planned carefully.”
“But not careful enough,” Keegan adds with anger.
“The day before she…she was killed, she called me. She told me she knew somethin’ that would ruin the Kellys if it ever got out. I believe she thought this was her way out. But she never told me what it was.”
The hair at the back of my neck stands on end. “What’re ya saying then?”
Keegan levels me with nothing but sincerity as he rattles my world forever. “Whatcha think, lad? Yer da is responsible for yer ma’s death. She wanted to leave him and had a secret that could ruin him. What do ya think he’d do?”
I’ve heard him loud and clear, yet I can’t accept what he just said.
This isn’t possible. Aye, my dad never avenged my ma, but he didn’t kill her.
Or did he?
The past sixteen years overwhelm me, and I hiss in a winded breath. The unanswered questions which plagued me night after night…Have I had the answers all along? Has my ma’s murderer been under my nose this entire time?
I think I’m going to be sick.
I don’t want to believe them, but this makes more sense than my da laying down arms and not avenging his wife’s death. He never took vengeance because he was the one who killed her. This story of the Doyles being responsible was merely fabricated to placate the rumors. And to pacify me.
Better I believe our rivals are responsible—who I’ve been raised to hate—than my own father.
I wanted answers. And I got them.
“Who’s D. Morrison?” I ask about the “owner.”
“It’s a friend of ours,” Keegan replies. “We didn’t want yer dad knowin’ we bought the place.”
Imogen sniffles, before turning around and going inside.
“And why did ya? No offense, Grandpa, but that’s awful fucked up.”
He nods, his fight no longer thriving. “This was the last place yer ma was. It’s the only thing we have left of her.”
He realizes what he just said, but it’s too little, too late.
“My uncle Sean was right. Yer not worth knowin’,” I state emotionlessly. “You shoulda been there for her when she was alive. Now, yer holdin’ onto memories instead of her.”
Imogen comes hobbling back out, something in her hand. “We just got ya back. Please don’t go.”
With a wrathful smirk, I affirm, “Y’ve never had me in the first place. Ya could have, but ya turned yer back on me, like ya did my mum. I’m a Kelly. I’ll never be a Foster. And for once in my fucking life, I’m proud of that.”
She nods, accepting my insult because how can she refute the truth?
With nothing further to say, I go to turn, but she offers me the photograph she has in her hand. “Y’ll always be a Foster, Puck. Yer ma’s blood runs through ya whether ya like it or not.”
Accepting the photo, I don’t look at it. Instead, I shove it into my pocket and leave. I don’t bother with goodbyes because I didn’t even say hello. Cian and Rory’s footsteps alert me that they’re following, but I can’t talk to them right now.
I can’t do anything but think about what Keegan said.
“Whatcha think, lad? Yer da is responsible for yer ma’s death. She wanted to leave him and had a secret that could ruin him. What do ya think he’d do?”
Those words haunt me, and I break into a sprint, wishing to escape the pain they bring. But the faster I run, the deeper they cut, and I know only one thing will center my world once again. The gravel kicks up under my feet as I run toward my car, and when I’m within reach, I unleash my anger the only way I know how; the only way I was taught by the monster who murdered my ma.
I bate my fist into the car bonnet over and over again, but it does nothing to subdue the demons. It only feeds them. And they’re hungry.
“Ah, stop it, y’ll break yer hand,” Cian says, attempting to calm me down. But that ship has sailed.
Only when I’m hitting or destroying something do I feel better. However, there is only one person who will be able to stop me ragin’. I need to go home. I need to look my da in the eye and ask him if he killed my ma.
And if he says yes…then I’ll do unto him what he did to my ma.
“Whatcha gonna do, Punky?” Rory asks, keeping far back, knowing better tha
n to touch me.
“What I have to,” I reply, lamping the bonnet one last time.
“Ya believe them?” he asks, but that’s the thing—I don’t know who to believe.
With a roar, I kick the tire and finally contest defeat.
Breathless, I dig into my pocket to retrieve the photograph, and although it’s dark, the moonlight allows me to see the image is that of a woman and a wee boy. That wee boy is me.
With bloodied fingers, I bring the photograph closer so I can look at the woman sitting in front of an easel with a set of paints close by. Her blonde hair matches mine in color and so do her eyes. I trace over her kind face, unbelieving this is my ma.
The images of her in my head match this woman perfectly. I didn’t even know I knew her…until now.
I remember her tender voice, singing to me as she rocked me to sleep. I remember her sweet smell; she always smelled of roses. I remember how she shoved me into that wardrobe, protecting me with her life.
I remember…
And I’ll never forget.
Digging into my pocket, I give the keys to Rory. “Well there ya are now.”
He nods, realizing this is far from over.
I want nothing more than to kick open my dad’s bedroom door and beat the truth outta him. But I can’t.
When that happens, and it’ll happen soon, the twins can’t be here. Neither can Fiona. It just needs to be me and my dad because this is between us.
On the drive home, I thought about calling Uncle Sean and confronting him with what I’ve uncovered. But honestly, I am fucking knackered. I need a clear head when I tackle this because I know I have one chance, and one chance only.
The boys left some hours ago, and although they offered to stay, I told them to go home. I can’t be around anyone right now. I can’t even be around myself.
I’ve showered, but I haven’t left the bathroom. I’ve stared at my reflection for hours, hoping to see the resemblances between my ma and me. Her photo is taped to the mirror, and as I stare at her, memories begin to materialize.
I remember bouncing on her lap as she sat in front of her easel, painting colorful images which made no sense to me, but they did to her. Regardless of how unhappy she was, her paintings helped her escape, just as mine do for me.
Gripping the sink, I arch my back, measuring my breathing as I attempt to calm these images racing inside my head.
“Ya need to be quiet. Quieter than a mouse. Okay, my wee son? Promise me.”
The harder I try, the more predominant they become.
“How ’bout a dance, Cara?” one of the men says, walking over to the radio to turn up the song. “C’mere to me.”
Elvis suddenly replaces the deep voice of Ma’s attacker.
Kiss me, my darling…
That song…it’s the song that was playing on the radio.
I scream, slamming my fist into the side of the sink, squeezing my eyes shut. This joyful song is the perfect oxymoron for what horrors the smooth voice of the King was concealing.
It’s now or never, indeed.
Jolting up, I race through my bedroom and turn on my laptop. I search for the song which is on a loop inside my head and press play. The moment it sounds, I stagger backward, clutching my chest.
I want to claw out of my skin.
I see my ma’s bloody face as she reaches for me, her twisted body as the knife cuts through her flesh with ease. I see it all. The memories I tried so hard to remember come flooding back, and I do the only thing I can.
My room appears ransacked as I hunt for them, and when I find them, they tremble in my hand.
With Elvis on repeat, I collectedly walk into the bathroom and sweep everything off the vanity. Staring at my reflection, I laugh maniacally, certain I’ve lost what small shred of sanity I’ve clung to.
Reaching for the container, I unscrew the lid, humming in happiness because I’ve come home. Picking up the brush, I dip the bristles into the makeup—appropriately named clown white—and commence spreading the paint across my face.
Before long, my face is slathered in white paint. The starkness concealing the red and purple bruises allows me to be someone else. But this is just a blank canvas, just like my mum needed to create the paintings which transported her away from this cruel thing they call life.
I swap the white paint for the black, and with a thinner brush, I draw a steady line from the apple of my cheek to my mouth. I repeat the same action on the other side. Once I’m done, I paint across the black line, so I have downward slashes along my cheeks. I then stroke vertically across my lips—silencing my screams. My grin is sinister.
But it’s not enough.
Coating the brush bristles in black, I color in my nose, paying homage to the white makeup I just applied.
My eyes are next.
With precision, I paint around them, accenting the darkness with strokes branching out from the blackness. They come out like tentacles, and when I join one with a single stroke to my nose, I smile, happy with the brutality.
I shade in the strokes, adding depth, adding carnage to the grotesque man beneath this mask. My skull face represents the demons inside of me.
It’s perfect.
The white container drops into the sink, going round and round, the imagery similar to what’s going on inside my head.
Reaching for the tube of black body paint, I unscrew the lid and squirt it over my neck and chest, where I run my fingers through it, coating my skin black. With the leftover paint, I flick it over my ear and down my face, envisioning it red as it resembles blood—the blood my mum spilled.
I leave black handprints on the white sink as I grasp it and lean closer into the mirror, studying my creation. This is who has remained hidden all these years. Hidden away in a wardrobe, waiting for the memories to revive him.
Now is that time.
However, there is one last thing I need to do. A mask is never complete without any wounds.
Unscrewing the container, I peer into the red paint, the slickness singing to the depravity which lives inside me—it always has. I smear three fingers in red and stare into the mirror as I slowly sweep downward across the middle of my forehead.
These signify the three lives who ruined mine. But after tonight, I wonder, how many more I need to add?
My hair is still wet from my shower, so I run my fingers through it, styling it so it’s tousled. The tattoo on my knuckles catches the light, and my ma’s name almost shines.
“I’ll avenge ya. I promise ya that,” I avow to my mirror image. “I don’t care what y’ve done. If he was the one who took yer life…then I’ll take his.”
My entire life has been based on a lie.
This is the first time I’ve painted my face this way since that night. I remembered because of the photograph, but tonight, I painted it from memory, and that only ignites my need for revenge.
My face is the canvas, and this painting is one I wear with pride. Each stroke is in honor of my ma, and I will bear this mask to punish those who hurt her.
Suddenly, the hair at the back of my neck stands on end, and without a sound, I reach for the gun in the top drawer of the vanity. Elvis muffles my footsteps as I creep through the bathroom, peering around the doorjamb into the living room, gun poised and ready to use, but who I see has the depravity reflected on my face burning my soul.
Why is she here?
She stands in front of the charcoal sketching hanging over the fireplace, her head cocked to the side as if attempting to decode what each stroke means. Good luck to her. This is a look inside my mind. It doesn’t make sense—up is down, down is up. Nothing is what it seems…just like me.
Her blonde hair is loose, and I have the urge to wrap it around my fist as she drops to her knees before me. These thoughts need to stop, but I lost control the moment I met her. She intrigues me because without a doubt, she’s not who she says she is.
I sure as shite don’t trust her, but that doesn’t stop me from wa
nting her. And so, I do the one thing I’ve not done before—I give in.
With a measured pace, I walk into the living room, and the closer I get to her, the hotter the fire burns. She is pure sin wrapped in a big red bow. When I’m feet away, she spins quickly, her trance broken, but when she sees me, she gasps, taking a step back.
I wonder what she sees.
I come to a stop, thrilled by the way her heated gaze openly examines me. I’m in nothing but ripped black jeans. But I imagine my face is what she’s most intrigued and…terrified by. A breath escapes her as she walks forward, closer and closer until she halts.
We stand face-to-face, inches apart, not saying a word.
Wearing this mask allows me to study her without reluctance because I feel like someone other than me. There has always been an attraction between us, but something feels different. This feels like we’re at a crossroads, and the direction we choose to take will change the course of everything.
Babydoll bites her bottom lip, appearing to weigh over her next move, and when she reaches out with hesitation, I realize why that is. With two fingers, she cautiously caresses down my cheek, examining the design beneath her touch.
She doesn’t know the story of why I would choose to paint my face this way. This war paint is as much a part of me as my neutral face, and I suppose in some ways, I wear two faces.
“What does this mean?” she whispers, her eyes chasing her touch.
“This is my true face,” I reply, standing perfectly still when she runs her fingers along the line across my cheek and traces the slashes over my mouth. “Everythin’ else is just a pretty distraction.”
She strokes over my lip piercing, taking a moment to digest what I’ve just shared. “Why does this face look so…sad?”
Sad?
To most, this makeup would appear frightening, monstrous, but of course, Babydoll isn’t like most.
“Why’re ya here?” I question, peering down at her, the closeness between us suddenly not close enough.
Her fingers are leading to my forehead, but my hand snaps out, capturing her wrist. “What do these three lines mean?”
