by R. R. Banks
“Oh, you're gonna regret that,” he gasps. “You are gonna fucking regret that.”
Against the wall near the front door is a baseball bat – our home defense weapon. Though his legs are unsteady, he slowly gets to his feet, murderous intent burning in his eyes. I turn and rush for the door, Victor hot on my heels. I grab the bat and quickly dance to the side, just out of his reach.
I cock my arms back and take a vicious swing. The bat connects with his elbow and he howls in pain. Victor doubles over, clutching his arm, screaming like I'd just stabbed him or something.
“Bitch,” he snarls. “You goddamn bitch, I'm going –”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before I deliver another blow, this one to his head. I'd been aiming for his arm again and accidentally crowned him with it, but whatever. I won’t lose any sleep over it. A high-pitched pinging noise rings out as the aluminum bat bounces off his skull, immediately dropping Victor to the floor. He’s still. Motionless. Out cold before even touching the floor.
At least, I think he's out cold. I hover over him, and honestly can't tell whether he's dead or alive.
“Victor?” I ask nervously, nudging him with my foot.
I move closer, my body tense, my heart racing, just waiting for him to rise up like Jason Voorhies or Michael Meyers do in those damn horror movies. Victor doesn't move an inch, though. Not even when I'm less than a foot from him.
I nudge the bastard with my foot again, and he still doesn't respond. He lays there, completely still – like a corpse. Feeling nausea rising in the back of my throat, I carefully place the bat on the floor and fall to my hands and knees. Turning my head to the side, I lean in as close as I can stand, listening for his breath.
It takes a minute, but I finally hear it. It's faint, but he's alive. Thank god. The rush of relief I feel is overwhelming. Not because I care whether he lives or dies. No, I'm relieved to avoid the possibility of murder charges. Of course, if I'm still here when this son of a bitch wakes up, I’ll be facing a reality much worse than prison.
It's not ideal and it absolutely destroys my entire plan, but my time here is up. I need to leave. Right now. If he wakes up and I'm still here, he's going to kill me. Not just beat me or threaten me, but actually kill me. And, since I really don’t feel like dying in this shithole, I need to pack my stuff up and get out of here. Quickly.
Getting to my feet, I dash to the bedroom, and grab some old duffel bags and the one piece of actual luggage I have out of the closet. With all the delicacy of a bull in a china shop, I start throwing my clothes, knickknacks, and few other belongings into the bags, taking as much as I can. Stepping out of the bedroom, I jog down the hallway to check on Victor, half-afraid he’s recovered and waiting for me. I let out a small sigh of relief when I turn the corner and find him lying prone on the ground, still dead to the world.
I have no idea how long he's going to remain unconscious, though. Part of me almost wishes I had killed him. But, that would only cause problems and complications for me. And that’s the last thing I need right now.
Sweeping the house one last time, I quickly go through my mental checklist. I’m pretty sure I have everything I need. Picking up my bags, I hustle to the front room. I grab my keys off the table next to the door, before running outside and tossing them in the back seat. I'm almost ready.
Running inside one more time, I check on Victor and go over my mental checklist a final time. I planned my escape in meticulous detail months ago. I thought every single possibility was accounted, and planned, for.
But, I never could have anticipated how tonight has gone down. So, my entire plan has crumbled to shit, and I’ve been forced to wing it. That’s OK.
Although I'm being swept up in the chaos around me, I need to slow down. I can’t let it overwhelm me. I need to think clearly and avoid making any mistakes. I can’t forget anything that might point Victor to where I’m headed. The small journals I used to outline my plans? Check. My shitty cellphone and decrepit laptop? Check. Meaning, the house should be clean of any incriminating detail.
A few minutes pass before I'm finally satisfied that I've gotten everything I need. If I forget anything, it’s too bad, I guess. I can always pick up new stuff later. Nothing I own is worth sticking around any longer for and risk Victor waking up. Picking the bat up off the ground, I take one last look at his unconscious, pathetic form.
“Good riddance, you piece of shit.”
I leave the door wide open and walk out to my car. The constant dread I experienced at home – so oppressive, it was almost smothering – starts to disappear with every step I take. I throw the bat in the back seat before climbing inside, and by the time I'm behind the wheel, I feel light. Good, even.
Best of all? I feel free.
Driving into the night, I crank up the music and sing along at the top of my lungs, feeling happier than I have in a very long time.
Aidan
Present Day...
“Did you see her face when the fat Elvis came out to walk her down the aisle?” Brayden laughs. “That was totally priceless, man. Priceless.”
I smile and chuckle. “She looked like she was going to pass out,” I say. “It was classic, B.”
Flying in the same Elvis impersonator who married them in Vegas to surprise Holly is quintessential Brayden. Of the four Anderson boys – Liam, Brayden, our youngest brother Colin, and myself – Brayden’s always had the most outgoing personality. He’s the most whimsical and gregarious. He’s probably the only one of us who'd pull a stunt like that at his own wedding, of all places. But, that's just who he is.
Brayden values creating lasting memories more than material things. He cherishes his memories and experiences more than anything else in the world. Brayden always tries to portray himself as gruff and unaffected, but he's actually more sentimental than the rest of us combined – even if he won't admit it. I’m pretty sure he got that from Mom.
I love my brother, but as he speaks, and I hear the happiness coloring his voice, I can't help but feel those old, familiar pangs of jealousy and grief – my constant companions over the last few years.
I'd once thought I would create lasting memories to cherish with Madeline. Maybe nothing as outlandish as a fat Elvis impersonator at our wedding, but plenty of other lasting, loving memories. Things we'd laugh about or feel a warm nostalgia for when we talked about them when we're old and gray.
Of course, I'd also foolishly believed that we were going to have all the time in the world together. Naively thought we'd spend decades enjoying life and growing old together.
Shows how full of shit I am. Or, used to be, anyway. I know better now. Life comes at you without any mercy or compassion. And, I learned that you had best not go through life with any hope or expectations, because in the end, you'll only be disappointed. Life doesn’t give a shit about your plans.
“I was really glad you could be there, little brother,” Brayden says. “It meant the world to me. And to Holly. It's so seldom we can all get together at the same place at the same time. So, thanks again, Aidan. Thanks for coming.”
“I wouldn't have missed it for the world, B,” I say. “You know that.”
“Well, I still appreciate it, man,” he replies. “I know it was tough for you, and I get it. I really do. I would have understood if you decided to pass. But, I'm really glad you came down off your mountain. I mean, other than Christmas, it's not often we get all four of the Anderson boys into one room at the same time.”
“True enough,” I say and chuckle. “Though, it's probably best we're not all in the same place in the same time all that often. I don't know if the space-time continuum could handle it.”
Brayden laughs, shaking his head onscreen, then takes a sip of his amber-colored drink, and sets it back down on his desk. It is true though. We don't get together all that often. Holidays and special occasions are pretty much it. We're all so busy with our lives, the business, and everything else, that it's just not fe
asible. Other than Brayden's wedding, we haven't gotten together since last Christmas, when we all gathered at Colin's place.
It's just the way life has worked out for us. It's my one regret about how our father divided up the empire. I know he wanted to make sure we didn't fight over the company or destroy our family over it – our father was always a “family first” type of guy. But, by sectioning it out the way he did, he scattered us to the four corners, giving us our own slices of the empire to rule over – which keeps us more than a little busy, and from coming together as often as we'd like.
And now that Liam and Brayden are married – and in Brayden's case, starting to raise a family – it makes it almost impossible for all of us to get together for a casual weekend or something.
Of course, the fact that I've been hiding out on my mountain for the last two and a half years, almost three now, hasn't made things any easier. Other than going to my brother's wedding – because there was no way in hell I was going to miss it – I'm not ready to make a full-blown re-emergence into the world yet. I don't think I've reached that point in my healing.
Honestly, I don't know if I am healing. Each and every day is filled with pain. With memories. With that overwhelming, crippling feeling of loss. I sometimes get mad at Madeline for leaving me behind. Upset at the detectives who have yet to make a single arrest in connection to the case. Furious at whoever took her from me – and completely impotent to do anything about it.
Most of all, though, my rage is directed inward. More than anything, I'm furious and disgusted with myself for not being there to protect her. For not being able to save her.
“You'll have to send me the video,” I say. “I'd love to see the whole thing again. Knowing you, I'm sure there are some Easter eggs hidden in the ceremony I didn't catch the first time around.”
“You know it,” he says and smirks. “I may have added in a few small touches. A few inside jokes I'm surprised none of you picked up on. Bunch of slackers, all of you.”
That's not surprising at all. Brayden is a tough nut to crack, but once you do, an entirely different side of him opens up. He comes off as cold and aloof but loves to pull pranks and is always good for a laugh. Knowing he put some secret visual gags into his ceremony for us is a very Brayden thing to do.
About thirty seconds of silence passes as we stare at one another on our respective computer screens, and I can see his mind turning. Can see that he wants to say something but is holding himself back. Just by looking at the pensive expression on his face, I already know what he wants to ask me. It's the same question he's asked me every time we've spoken for the last three years now.
“I'm doing okay, Brayden,” I say, preempting his question.
“Sorry,” he says. “I know better than that.”
I know he means well. Everybody means well when they ask how I'm doing, or if I'm okay. Honestly, I hate answering the question. Though well-meaning, it's a stupid question. I found my fiancée brutally murdered – I'd say I'm pretty fucking far from okay. In fact, I think it's fair to say I might never be okay again.
Worse than the well-meaning but trite questions are the looks of pity and sympathy I receive from everyone – well, those who chose to remain in my life, anyway. I can't count the number of people who quietly ostracized me after Maddy's death, like some sort of social leper. Friends and family shunned me, terrified that any contact with me would somehow result in their loved one suffering the same grisly fate. Like a murdered partner is some communicable disease or something.
But hey, if nothing else, it's weeded out the people who weren't really my friends to begin with, so at least I have that going for me.
If I'm honest, I know I’m also responsible for losing some of those friendships. After Maddy's murder, I shuttered Fleury House and left Savannah. I couldn't bear to be there anymore. Couldn't handle the lingering traces of her perfume in the air. Or seeing her clothes hanging in the closet because I didn't have the heart to donate them. To see a chair, and know that it was her favorite place to sit and read a book in. To make a meal for one person.
To escape the memories, and the ghosts that haunted me, I bought a small, isolated estate up here in the Blue Ridge Mountains of South Carolina and bunkered down. I've been here ever since.
I'd originally wanted to move to someplace like Timbuktu, or maybe even the moon, but those weren't viable options. Unfortunately. No, I needed to remain relatively close to my headquarters in Savannah.
A few talented employees handle the day-to-day affairs for me, and they do a great job. But, I still need to be around for the major deals, and available to sign off on various projects. As much as I'd love to run away, I have obligations and responsibilities that need attending to, no matter what.
“Yeah?” he asks. “How's life in the Fortress of Solitude up on Lonely Mountain?”
I chuckle. Brayden knows how much pity irritates me, and he does his best to avoid it. Which means he usually relies on sarcasm and humor – and, honestly, I much prefer that over pity. Sarcasm I can deal with. I'm a connoisseur of it myself. Not to mention the fact that Brayden wouldn't be true to himself if he didn't give me shit. It's been our way – the way of the Anderson brothers – since we were young. It's how we deal with tragedies and uncomfortable situations – heavy doses of sarcasm and snark.
“It's about everything I need it to be right now, brother,” I say.
And truthfully, it is. I moved to this spot in the mountains because it's remote. It's private. Isolated. I can be truly alone. And that’s what I want. For the most part, I can't stand to be around people right now. At least, not anyone who knew me as Maddy's fiancée. It’s too painful. Going to Brayden's wedding was a big step forward – but I immediately took two steps back. That one event showed me that I wasn't ready for a bigger dose of society.
“Yeah, I know,” he says. “But, too much isolation isn't good for you, man. You need social interaction.”
“Not there yet, B,” I say.
“It's been –”
“Almost three years,” I say. “I'm well aware of how long it's been.”
“I just worry about you, man.”
I let out a long breath and lean back in my chair as my brother’s eyes bore into me. Although the four of us are all close, I've always felt the strongest connection with Brayden. He seems to understand me in a way other people don't – not even our other two brothers. He seems to instinctively know just when to push me and when to back off.
“I know you do,” I say. “But there's nothing to worry about. Honestly. I'm doing okay.”
“Yeah, okay. Because moving into some lonely old mansion, high up in the mountains, where you live all alone, seeing no one, talking to no one –screams that there’s nothing to worry about. In fact, it’s perfectly healthy and normal,” he says, a teasing grin on his face. “I think the last person who lived like that was the Unabomber.”
“Please,” I scoff. “My place is much nicer than that shack he was living in.”
Brayden laughs and nods. “Touché,” he says. “But, the point still remains. You're living up there all by yourself. When was the last time you talked to another human being for more than thirty seconds?”
It's a question I have to really think about. Almost everything I need is delivered, so it's not like I'm running to the grocery store a few times a week or anything. Instead of going out, I choose to prepare my own meals. I don’t have an on-call staff to tend to me or my house, either. I have a service come in bi-weekly, but that's about it – fifteen-second conversations with delivery drivers and housekeepers. There are times, I will admit, that it does feel a bit lonely up here.
Although I don't necessarily crave human interaction, I do sometimes like to go out and sit in public places where people gather. I don’t go out of my way to talk to anyone, but being able to sit there amongst the crowd, listen to the murmur of their conversations, and watch them interact with each other, makes me feel less alone – like I’m still
part of society.
Maybe, people watching is kind of creepy, but it helps me retain my sanity – knowing there are other people in the world and witnessing their mundane comings and goings. Not often, but sometimes, I'll leave the estate and venture down into the town of Ashton Mill. It's a sleepy, small town, but it's got some nice restaurants and other places. It's a nice place. Quaint. Cozy. I think back, and realize, with a bit of shock, that it's been a couple of weeks since I've gone down there.
The days tend to blend together now, and truthfully, time has almost no meaning for me. One day is just about the same as every other day. I get up, do some work, read a bit, go on long, extended hikes... Basically, I'm just doing my best to pass the time. I feel like a ghost wandering through the world of the living, leaving no imprint of my presence behind.
“I dunno,” I say. “I guess it's been a while.”
“That's what I thought,” Brayden says. “Dude, I know it's hard –”
“No disrespect intended, B, but there is no possible way you know how hard it is,” I say. “No possible way. You've never found your soon-to-be wife cut into pieces, laying in a pool of her own blood before.”
He lets out a shaky breath and reclines in his seat. I hadn't intended to put so much heat behind my words, and I know I made him feel bad. That wasn't my intent. I run a hand through my hair and clear my throat.
“Listen, man, I didn't mean to –”
Onscreen, Brayden shakes his head. “It's okay,” he says. “I’m just worried about you, Aidan. You don't go out. You don't see anybody. You're locked up in that place tight – and locked up in your own head even tighter. It can’t be healthy. You’re right. I don’t understand what you've had to endure. I can’t even imagine walking in and finding Holly like that. And the fact that you're suffering alone is what has me worried the most. I'm worried you’ll never be able to escape this.”
“I'll find my way out, B,” I say. “Don't worry.”
