by Harlow Hayes
“It means what it means. I fucked Josh.”
“Hannah, how could you? How could you, you …”
Something crashed.
“Get out, Stephen. We’re done!”
“I need some air. I’ll be back for my stuff later.” Elsea imagined him fighting through tears.
When she heard the door slam, she walked over to the window and watched him walk down the driveway to his car. She opened the door and walked downstairs. Hannah sat on the couch watching TV as if nothing had happened. Elsea coughed, and Hannah turned around an looked at her, startled.
“What are you doing here?” Hannah demanded.
“Listening to you and your boyfriend, you slut,” Elsea quipped back. She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth, and a wave of heat flushed over her. The whiskey was talking for her while she hid in the back of her mind, terrified of what would happen next.
Hannah looked at her long and hard. “You must be drinking again. You’re really bold today. Go sleep it off. You probably won’t even remember this conversation tomorrow.”
“You are a little slut,” Elsea repeated, but this time she wasn’t so sure that it was the whiskey making the accusation.
Hannah reached behind her and grabbed the back of the couch as she turned toward Elsea. “I don’t have time for your shit. You’re not supposed to be here at all right now. Why don’t you go somewhere else and be a loser. God.” She tuned back around, reached for the remote, and paused whatever it was she was watching on television. She stood up and walked toward Elsea, bumping her on her way to the kitchen.
Elsea reached out and grabbed her arm.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” Hannah yelled, yanking her arm away.
“Well, don’t walk into me, bitch!”
Hannah pulled her arm back and smacked Elsea across the face.
The slap stung, burning like alcohol on a fresh wound. It felt as though her face was on fire, not only from the slap, but from the anger as well. This wasn’t the first time Hannah had hit her. She remembered hiding the bruises from her parents over the years, and she was happy when Hannah went off to school because she had finally had some peace. She had been bullied by her for too long. She remembered trying to tell her parents once, and they’d ignored her, not thinking that their perfect little Hannah could do something like that.
“What is wrong with you?” Elsea demanded, holding her hand to her face.
Hannah approached her, forcing Elsea to retreat back into the living room. She bumped into the couch as she retreated, pushing it out of place.
“There is nothing wrong with me.” Her eyes were filled with anger. “It’s you. It’s always been you. Why are you even here? Why do you even exist? I can’t stand you.”
Elsea tripped over her mother’s weights, afraid of what was about to happen next. She was brave one moment, then lost it all in the next. She saw how her fear excited Hannah, how it only made her all the more eager to hurt her. The look in her eyes was the same pathological look that she had in her eyes the last time and the time before that, and the time before that. The cycle continued. Hannah’s rage was something that Elsea had never understood, and she knew that she would never understand it. She braced herself for the blows that she knew were coming, but one came that she wasn’t expecting.
“That’s why I fucked Peter,” Hannah said, laughing.
Elsea’s eyes filled with tears as Hannah continued to taunt her. Through the blur of water that had accumulated in her eyes, she saw Hannah ball her fist. The same fist that she had seen ball up against her many times. It was a ritual for her in every way. It would start with the insults, and then once Elsea saw the glee in her eyes, she knew that the first blow would follow. After all of these years, she still could not escape the hurt, the abuse, the pain.
Then suddenly Elsea’s fear transformed into anger. She was tired. She was beyond tired. Her mind was chaotic, filled with so many different thoughts. She remembered how it felt to hold the brick in her hand while she was at Peter’s. She’d felt powerful and liberated. A feeling that she had never felt in her entire life because she was always in fear, but not anymore.
But Hannah got to her before her courage. She grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to the floor, then kicked her in the stomach, and Elsea felt the air leave her body. Her eyes bulged and her face turned red as she tried to catch her breath. She reached out for the only thing that was in front of her, and that was one of her mother’s five-pound hand weights. She swung it around with full strength toward Hannah’s head. It struck Hannah in the temple, and she collapsed, holding the side of her head with her hand.
“You bitch!” Hannah screamed.
Elsea knew that she only had a short window before Hannah raged toward her again. She grabbed her mother’s jump rope and tackled Hannah to the ground, straddling her, restraining her arms with her legs pressing the weight of her body onto her chest.
Hannah struggled beneath her sluggishly, still trying to recover from the blow to the head.
Elsea took the jump rope in her hand and wrapped it around Hannah’s neck. All she could do was squeeze tighter, even as the rope slipped through her fingers from the sweat of her palms. She fought harder to retain her grip on it. She knew that the tighter she pulled, the sooner she would be out of her misery. No more worry. She wouldn’t be afraid anymore, and that was what pushed her to keep going. And she kept going until Hannah stopped struggling beneath her and the light went out in her eyes.
CHAPTER TEN
The Witch is Dead
Rhema pulled her cookies out of the oven and set the baking sheet on the stove top. She didn’t know why she was making cookies. She didn’t even like the Kellys. Bringing the cookies to the Christmas party was too much of a nice gesture after all she had already done. As always, she was doing it for David, but she would never admit it, so she played nice and baked cookies for his sake and smiled in the neighbors’ faces, but more than anything she wanted to get away from them.
It was always the same boring conversation. Always about the neighbors, always about redecorating, work, or their children and how they were so perfect. How their lives were so perfect. Always the same hollow lies. Then, once they got comfortable, the truth was too boring to bear.
“I just don’t understand why I’m not happy.”
“It isn’t supposed to be so hard.”
Rhema would look at them like the idiots they were. They were like children that had never grown up. Life was never supposed to be easy, and she knew that because her life was never easy. She’d had to work hard for everything that she had. Mommy and Daddy didn’t have a legacy to pass down. They never doted on her, either. The domestic conversations irritated her, but she was satisfied that they suffered. She knew the reason that that their lives sucked, and it was because they weren’t “real” lives. They were just some Betty Crocker, Martha Stuart flops, and after keeping up the charade for so long, they had finally tired of it.
It didn’t matter if they were housewives or worked shitty office jobs. Some did enjoy what they did, but most didn’t, and the primary reason for that was because they were doing what everyone else wanted of them and not what they wanted. The perfect life didn’t exist, and it never had. It had always been a fantasy, a way to escape the mundane and the same stagnant daily ritual of what it meant to live an unoriginal life.
Sure, Rhema made cookies for David, but when it came to the big stuff, she had no interest in following anyone else’s agenda but her own, and God bless the soul of whoever stood in her way.
Rhema jumped when she heard banging on her patio door. She looked over and saw Elsea standing there, face white as a ghost, eyes bloodshot. She walked toward the door, face suspicious and painted with confusion.
“How can I help you?” she asked, cracking the door.
Elsea’s mouth moved, but the words didn’t come out.
“Spit it out, I have cookies to tend to for you parents’ stupid party.”
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Elsea jumped at the command, and her face tightened and curled on one side.
“Are you having a stroke? If not, speak. It’s cold, and you’re letting my heat out,” Rhema said, frustrated, but Elsea stood there silent, still unable to find the words.
Rhema shook her head and started to pull the door closed.
“I killed Hannah!” Elsea blurted out.
The words didn’t come out smoothly. Her voice was hoarse, and Rhema could hear the snot blocking her breathing. She opened the door wider.
“Excuse me? I don’t think I caught that.”
“I killed Hannah. She’s dead.” Elsea’s leg started to tremble. “I killed Hannah. I killed Hannah. I killed Hannah …” She kept repeating it over and over until the snot flowed from her nose and tears ran down her cheeks. They all steamed in the cold.
Rhema thought Elsea would collapse right there on the porch.
“Get in here,” Rhema demanded.
Elsea didn’t move, so Rhema grabbed her by the shirt and pulled her in. “Are you bullshitting me right now? Is this your idea of a sick, twisted joke?” Rhema could smell the whiskey on her.
Rhema could not take Elsea seriously. She just doesn’t have it in her, she thought. She couldn’t. “If you killed her, where is she? I have to see this for myself.”
“The living room …” Elsea said.
“All right, killer,” Rhema said, leading Elsea to the kitchen table. “Sit down and stay. I’ll be back.”
“Use the back door,” Elsea spurted out.
Rhema looked at her, confused.
“You know, to make sure no one sees you,” she said, her voice lifeless.
Rhema looked back at her. “I’ll be fine.” And she walked out the back door.
She creeped over into the Kellys’ backyard. The patio door was swung wide open, so she walked in slowly, calling out Hannah’s name. She stepped into the kitchen and saw nothing, so she went further into the house.
When she made it into the living room, she jumped at the sight of Hannah’s lifeless body spread out across the living room floor. It wasn’t that she was dead but she didn’t believe Elsea had done it, and so violently, too. It was obvious that they had struggled, as the furniture was in disarray.
She did it. She actually it. She turned on her heels, eyes wide, and walked back through the yard to the house, very careful to not be seen.
Rhema walked back into the kitchen and sat down next to Elsea, throwing her leg up on a chair. “Well, you did do it, didn’t you?”
Elsea’s face turned green.
Rhema leaned back, resting her arm on the table. “Well, I hate to have to break this to you, but I am going to have to call the police on you. You came over here and got me involved, and I can’t harbor a criminal.”
Elsea sat in silence, shame and guilt all over her face. Rhema stared at it, absorbing the pain that it displayed. She wanted to cement it in her memory, and it reminded her of her own pain and how she had vowed never to feel that way again. A large welt across the right side of her face drew Rhema’s attention.
“Did she do that to you while you were fighting?”
Elsea nodded.
“Well, it could have been worse.”
Elsea hunched over in pain.
“What’s wrong?” Rhema asked, startled.
Elsea stood up and ran over to the trash can and vomited, holding her stomach and wincing in pain with each heave.
Rhema had seen vomiting before, but she knew that it shouldn’t have been that painful.
Elsea fell to the floor, writhing in pain, and her shirt caught the edge of the trash can. Rhema walked toward her, unbothered by the display, so she took her time helping. She couldn’t have a murderer dying on her kitchen floor because the last thing she need was the cops snooping around her house.
When the episode passed, Elsea rolled over, exposing her stomach. Then Rhema saw it. The bruising, some new, some old. Rhema looked at Elsea in dismay.
“Who did this to you?” Rhema demanded.
When Elsea regained her breath, she finally spit it out. “Hannah,” she whispered. “It has always been Hannah.”
Blood bubbled inside of Rhema. Beating a person was unacceptable. She knew what kind of pain that was. No matter how weird Rhema found Elsea to be, she knew that she didn’t deserve that.
“Are you still calling the police?” Elsea asked.
“No, I’m not.” She grabbed Elsea by the arm and pulled her to her feet. She threw her arm across her shoulder and helped her upstairs. Rhema took her to the guest room and helped her to the bed.
“Stay here. I’ll be back,” Rhema said.
“Where are you going?” Elsea asked.
Rhema walked down the hallway and into the bathroom. She turned on the shower and pulled some towels out and set them on the counter and walked back into the guest bedroom.
“I need you to take a shower and give me the clothes that you are wearing.”
“What?”
“Don’t question me. Just do it.” Rhema walked out of the room again and came back several minutes later. In her right hand was a bottle of pills, and in her left hand was a bottle of vodka. She sat down on the bed next to Elsea.
“Now, this is what we are going to do.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cookies Are Delicious
Rhema ran back into her house, up the stairs, and jumped into the shower, cleaning every inch of her body. She doused herself in peroxide first, then lathered up with her best soap. When she got out, she draped herself in a bathrobe and went to check on Elsea. She stepped into the room and found Elsea hunched over on the floor in the corner, crying. She was clean, her hair dry, and her face freshly made up, and the welt from Hannah smacking her was gone.
“Get up!” Rhema said.
She walked over to Elsea and grabbed her by the arm and dragged her over to the bed.
“Call the police,” Elsea pleaded. “I don’t think that I can live with myself.”
Rhema grabbed her by the jaw. “Look at me. I know that you feel terrible right now, but I just risked my neck to save yours. She beat you. She took everything away from you. Your confidence, your happiness. Fuck her. She is exactly where she should be.” Rhema grabbed Elsea’s hand and opened it. She poured out two Xanax pills and handed her the bottle of vodka. “Take these.”
Elsea hesitated, but Rhema’s stare put the fear of death in her, so she did what she was told, and fast. Rhema left the room and went to finish cleaning up after herself. When she came back ten minutes later, Elsea was out cold.
Perfect, she thought.
Rhema left the room and went downstairs to the kitchen. The only thing she could do now was wait. It was only a matter of time before the Kellys came home and found the girl. Rhema sat at the kitchen table and rewarded herself, eating the cookies she had made. A smile stretched across her face as she chewed. They tasted pretty damn good, and she was slightly disappointed that there wasn’t going to be a party.
***
Rhema heard the Kellys’ cries, and ten minutes after that, the sound of sirens made their way down the street. She knew that there would be no peace for a while. A young, beautiful suburban girl who had just been murdered in her own home was going to make national news, especially in Carmel. She pulled back the curtains and took a peek at the spectacle outside. The street was being blocked off with crime scene tape.
Then she saw David and Julian trying to get past the blockade, but an officer pointed them in the opposite direction. She let the curtains fall back in place and walked out of the front door and down the driveway toward the mailbox. The rest of the neighbors started to congregate on their lawns. It was almost six o’clock, so it was dark, and the red and blue lights coming from the emergency vehicles were blinding.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to go back inside your home,” a young officer said, pointing her in the direction of her house.
Rhema was distracted by how handsome he
was, but she had a role to play. She brushed her hair away from her face before she spoke. “Excuse me? What is going on here?” Rhema demanded.
“I need you to go back inside your home, ma’am. An officer will be over to speak with you shortly,” he said, towering above Rhema.
“Wait, that’s my husband and son,” Rhema said, pointing down the street.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but they are going to have to wait there until we are done. This street has been closed. This is a crime scene.”
“The whole freaking street?” Rhema asked.
But he ignored her and walked away.
Rhema flipped him off when his back was turned, then walked back into the house and called David. After she told him that she was fine, she went upstairs to check on Elsea, and as she hoped, she was still knocked out cold.
Rhema sat at the window for what seemed like hours, watching the officers go in and out, carrying clipboards and all other kinds of stuff. She was growing impatient, so she stepped outside again to see if David was still parked down the street. As she walked down her driveway toward the sidewalk, an officer started walking toward her. With him was a woman in some dress slacks, a white button-up, and a wool leather coat. That was the detective, and she was ready for her. It wasn’t her first encounter with one, and at the rate she was going, it probably wouldn’t be her last.
“Hello, ma’am,” the detective said, reaching out a hand to shake hers. “I’m Detective Merch.”
“Hi—”
“How well do you know the family next door?”
“I mean, pretty well. I was just at their daughter’s graduation party the other night. Is everything all right?” Rhema asked. “Has there been a robbery? I know this time of year—”
“No, ma’am, there’s been a murder.” She looked down at her notes and back up at Rhema.
Rhema pressed her hands against her face in dramatic fashion. “What! Oh my God! Who? Their daughter is asleep in my guest room right now. I was trying to tell one of the officers, but he kept brushing me off.”
