by M. N. Forgy
I reach for another. It’s a dress, a beautiful black dress. Like one that would belong to a beautiful wife in Manhattan.
I open another: A blouse.
Another: A shirt.
After opening all the packages, I stare at the neatly folded linens in front of me. I have clothes. Outfits even.
He grabs the box, collapsing it with his hands so he can shove it into the trash.
I reach for a hoodie from the pile and slip it on. If my skin could talk, it would sigh at the softness inside the sleeves. It fits perfectly. It makes me want to cuddle up on his couch with some sweats and just watch TV, like a normal person.
He scratches his head, looking the pile over, a glaze of uncertainty in his eyes.
“Do you have everything? Does the hoodie fit okay?” he nervously asks.
I smile and suddenly feel the urge to hug him. But I don’t. I pull my fist to myself to feel the softness of the sleeve against my face and nod. He forgot panties, but maybe he did that on purpose. My cheeks warm thinking about it, wondering if he deliberately forgot to get me underwear so I would walk around without any. As quick as the promiscuous thoughts come, it goes. He doesn’t want me. I’m used up and no good. He’s just being a nice guy. That’s who he is.
“It does. Thank you.”
A blanket of silence comes over both of us, neither of us knowing what to say or do next. My head slowly draws downward, my hair shielding my face and the emotions I don’t want him to see.
“Nobody has ever done something like this for me,” I whisper with sincerity in my voice.
I hear him moving from the other side of the kitchen and I peer up through my hair, he’s a foot away from me before our eyes collide. The intense stare that flares through his brown eyes, a moment I can’t identify passing between us. He reaches out, touching a strand of my hair and my breathing hitches in my chest, butterflies swarming in the pit of my stomach. It occurs to me I didn’t flinch or jerk away from him, then again, he didn’t really touch me. It’s just my hair. As long as it is, everyone is always touching it.
A ringing sound breaks through whatever is going on between us and he looks over his shoulder at his phone sitting on the bar stool. Walking away from me, I pull both my arms back up, the hoodie cocooning me into security.
“Hello?” He glances at me and then looks back down at the floor. “She’s where?” His voice has a high pitch of alarm in it.
Something is wrong. Who is he talking about? Who is she?
“I’m on my way.” He pulls the phone away from him and looks to me.
“I need to go, to leave.”
My eyes widen. I can’t go with him. I don’t want to go out there. I’m not ready.
Noticing my face pale, he runs his hand over his hair, slicking it back.
“You think you’ll be okay here?”
Relief makes me almost audibly gasp. I nod, but being here by myself without him is still a scary thought. What if the keepers are waiting for him to leave, to take me back. What if his dad comes to retrieve me? Something tells me his dad is nothing like him.
“Does- does anyone know I’m here?” I ask.
His brows pull together with concern. “No,” he simply replies, heading into his room.
Pulling my sleeve up, I run my hand over my arm until my fingertip comes across the grain-size bump conveying the GPS chip under my skin. I’ve seen women tear their own flesh to get theirs out, only to have it replanted in a place they can’t reach. But there’s nobody to replant one, this is my chance. I need it out, and now.
Romeo
Leaving the apartment, I hesitantly shut the front door behind me, my hand still on the knob as an uneasy feeling sits on my chest. I don’t like leaving her behind. What if she runs? I wanted her gone before, but now… I don’t. I can’t explain it. I just don’t want her to leave, not yet. What if my father knows I still have her and comes and takes her just to get at me?
Re-opening the door, I find her still standing in the kitchen. Her long blonde hair cascading down the front of the hoodie, one of her hands curling around the fabric of the sleeve, resting on her chin. I bought her, claiming her small frame. I’ve never seen someone so grateful for clothes, it made me feel good inside. My dark heart not knowing what to do with the felicitous feeling, I suddenly felt anxious and went mute.
The sun beams from the window behind her, making her look like a flower in the midst of an impersonal condo.
“Lock these doors. All of the locks,” I demand, my tone coming out harsher than I intend. She nods, those fucking green eyes making me want to stay, but my mom needs me. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
I shut the door and make haste to the elevator. It’s day time, so Jannet will be working. Great, she’s about as observant as a sloth. When the elevator opens to the main lobby, the large glass chandelier hovers over the golden shiny marble flooring. The cream-colored walls toning down the extravagant gold atmosphere, it somehow works. I find Jannet sitting behind the desk with her nose in a book, her hand reaching for a cup with a straw. She has on a tight black shirt with her hair pulled back into a dark slick braid today. She never wears the uniform that Henry does. I bet the owner of this place has their hands full with her.
“Jannet.” She either doesn’t hear me, or ignores me.
Reaching over the counter, I grasp the book and jerk it from her hands. She jumps up from her chair.
“Boy, I’ll slap the shit out of you, you do that shit again!” she sneers, her head tilted to the side just slightly. Her dark eyes looking at me like a pissed off parent and I’m one of her kids. God, I hope she doesn’t have kids. I can see her now beating their ass with one of her books for interrupting her reading.
“Pay attention. Nobody goes up to my apartment. Got it.” I hand her the book back, the cover plastered with a half-naked man.
“That’s all you had to say, damn.” She shakes her head, snatching her precious romance back. “What you got up there, a dead body or somethin’.” She holds her hand up to cut me off before I can get a word in edgewise, her eyes closed for a second. “Actually, I don’t want to know. Don’t tell me.” She sits down, readjusting herself in the chair.
“Just don’t let anyone up there. No one!” I repeat and she waves me off, her nose back in her book as she sips on the straw from her cup.
Jesus.
Going to the garage, I find my Navigator parked in the front, remembering I had Henry park it last. Getting in, I head to my childhood home, that’s where Markcowsky told me to meet him. He said Mom had broken into someone’s home.
Arriving at our house, Kieran pulls up right behind me. A cop SUV sitting curbside of our yard. Getting out, a light mist falls from the graying clouds above, dreary weather seems to be New York’s specialty, but the air hear smells like fresh cut grass instead of fumes from an old bus passing by or garbage that is overflowing on the corner of Ninth Street.
The driver’s door opens and Markcowsky gets out. He adjusts his duty belt with all his weapons and shit, and looks at me. He’s tall, slender, and his dark hair cut short to the scalp, his clean-shaven face reminds me of a drill sergeant rather than a cop.
“Kieran, Romeo,” he greets, walking to us. He spreads his feet, one arm across his chest while the other rests on it, his hand rubbing his chin as if he had a beard there.
“Neighbors said they woke up to her in their bathtub. She seemed a little out of it, but wasn’t doing no harm, so I figured I’d just call you guys to take care of it,” he informs us. Doing us a solid. Last thing we need is to bail mother out of jail, the press would be all over the place. Our last name precedes our reputation and anything anyone can get on us is always a hit on the newspaper stands.
Looking down, I find Mom in the back seat, a lost gaze on her face. Her hair looking more silver than black. It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve seen her, it’s disturbing how much her appearance has changed in that little of time. Then again, everything that went on wi
th Kieran and Dad probably isn’t helping the situation. Our family is falling apart. A mother’s worst fear.
“I appreciate that, thank you,” Kieran says, shaking Markcowsky’s hand.
“I called your father first, but he didn’t answer,” Markcowsky informs, and my jaw tics. He should have been the first one here.
Going around the SUV, Kieran opens the back door and Mom looks up at us with relief in her eyes. She’s in a bathrobe, and nothing more.
Taking her hand, I help her out of the car, her bare feet plant onto the sidewalk, her nails unpolished, making my eyes narrow with concern. She was always hell-bent on having a pedicure when we were kids. She’s obsessed with looking her best and materialistic things.
“Come on, Ma,” I encourage her, the empathy in my voice surprising. I didn’t know I had that emotion in me. But even the toughest of sons will break for their mother, that I know. She’s the only female I’ve ever loved.
“I’m sorry. I-I—”
“It’s fine. Don’t be sorry. It’s okay.” I shake my head, trying to comfort her.
Leading her into the house, reaching the front door, I notice the red paint chipping away, it’s lack of maintenance telling the story of our household. Stepping inside, the smell of home greets me; cigar and last night’s dinner. Kieran is right behind me, shutting the door.
Mom sits on the couch and leans forward, her head in her hands.
“I don’t know what happened. I just…”
I cross my arms.
“Have you been drinking?”
“Romeo,” Kieran scolds, stabbing me with a narrow stare as if Mom’s drinking habit is a secret or something. She’s been drinking ever since Dad became the Don of New York. His power going to his head, he left her behind and she found it to be a little less lonely at the bottom of an expensive bottle of booze.
“Not since last night,” she says, still looking at the carpet. She holds her hand out and it shakes, she’s due for a drink.
She sighs loudly and then looks up at us, her hands sliding over her legs anxiously.
“I might need to call the doctor. I don’t know. Something isn’t right.” She weeps, tears falling down her cheeks. I hate seeing her like this.
I nod, thinking it’s a good idea. Her mom had early onset dementia, I’m nervous Mom might be heading in that direction. Drinking doesn’t help, I’m sure. The worst part is Dad won’t be here to take care of her.
“Why don’t we get you up to bed, and you can worry about that later?” Kieran offers. He loosens his tie around his neck as if it’s suffocating him, and offers his hand, Mom takes it. I watch them both go up the stairs, and bite at my bottom lip with worry and anger.
“So, when are you going to bring by that girl? I want to meet her,” Mom asks Kieran halfway up the stairs. I’m surprised that Mom wants to meet Leona, she’s a rival to our family. I guess it goes to show that a mother will bend for her son, make exceptions… unlike our father.
The need to break or fuck something almost unbearable. I have all this pent-up… feelings and nowhere to project them. Shit, I forgot my meds today. Closing my eyes, I head into the kitchen to look for a drink, something strong.
9
Luna
My heart beat with a sharp edge as I look around the kitchen for something to slice my arm open with. Am I scared? Most definitely. But it has to come out and be destroyed. Opening a drawer, I find silverware and some other cooking tools but nothing sharp enough to cut into skin, so I shut it back up, the silverware clanking against each other. I turn and open a cabinet and find a knife block. That’s what I need. Pulling it down, I grab the smallest knife, thinking it would be the closest thing to a scalpel, like a surgeon would use. Pressing my fingertip to the point, I test its sharpness and it sticks into my fingertip. I hiss and pull it back. A spot of blood sits on the tip of my finger, I bring it to my mouth and suck on it. The taste of metallic filling my mouth.
I think this will work. Pulling my hoodie off so I don’t stain it with blood, I remember I have his shirt on and take it off too. the smell of clean laundry and tobacco wafting across my face when the soft fabric slips over my head. Now that my tops are off, a fresh terror rears up within me. I can do this. Taking the knife I place the blade right before the small bump in my skin. I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
“One. Two—” I push in to my skin, a sharp burning sensation racing up my arm as it slices through my ivory skin like butter.
My mouth parts, a weird squeal vibrating up my throat as I slip the knife over the small bump before stopping. Blood slips down my arm, down my elbow and splatters on the floor. Oh shit! I place my arm over the sink and drop the knife into it. My whole arm is tingling with pain, feeling as if I doused it in gasoline and lit it on fire. But the job isn’t done yet. Using my fingers, I push into the small gash, my eyes filling with tears, and finger out the glass tube. Pulling it out, I hold it between my shaking fingers and look at it. The GPS that tells the monsters where I am.
Dropping it on the counter, I pull open the drawer with the silverware and tug out the meat cleaver. Using my uninjured arm, I slam it down onto the glass, it smashes into dust. It reminds me of a smashed candy cane. I hit again and again, the coil and chip smashing into practically nothing. Dropping the heavy hammer-like kitchen tool. Looking at my small wound, I’m surprised by how much it fucking hurts. Why is it that the smallest of cuts hurt and bleed the worst? Turning the faucet on, I run it under cold water, closing my eyes, my foot stomps on the floor. Teeth gnashing, I try to push through it. I start going through the drawers to find something to stop the bleeding. There’s Saran Wrap, batteries, magnets, and then I come across one with hand towels. Jerking one free from the pile, I wrap it around my arm and grab one end with my teeth to tie it tightly. The light blue fabric starts to shade the color of my blood, making it appear a purplish color, but it stops for the most part.
I slide to the floor, holding my rag on my arm. That was so stupid, but I had to do it. I had to.
My toes curl into the floor, the pain seeming to get worse rather than better. I remember when they put it in me. I was asleep, put under with some medication and woke with a few stitches in my arm. The process seemed a lot more simple than what I just did. I mutilated my arm, a scar will surely be left behind. I feel the urge to get up and clean my mess up before Romeo gets back, but I can’t. It hurts so much. I should have looked for something for the pain before I started, but I don’t remember it hurting so much when it was inserted, so I didn’t think about it.
Standing up, I slowly tug the drawer open with the towels and drop one to the floor. Using my feet, I swipe it back and forth to soak up the blood droplets, but little circles from it already drying won’t wipe up. Bending down, I pick it up and toss it in the sink.
I need to get my mind off the pain. Off the blood. Pushing away from the kitchen counter, I wander into the living room. There’s a TV but not a remote to be found. My eyes sweep the area one more time. The coffee table, the couch. I don’t see one. But I do see something on the wall, I can’t tell if it’s a fancy thermostat or a stereo. Stepping to it, there’s a ton of buttons and switches. I press what looks like the On button and feel a tickle on my palm. I squeeze my hand in on itself and feel cool wetness, glancing down it to find blood. The towel now soaked. Shit. I hold my arm above my hand, trying to focus on the… whatever this is. I press an arrow, and the screen lights up with little green words saying, “’Hey You’ by Pink Floyd.”
The walls rumble and music begins to play. Turning my back to the wall, I slide to my ass and lean my head against the wall and listen to the lyrics. The sound of music. I haven’t heard it in a long time. I don’t even know who Pink Floyd is, and I don’t care. Closing my eyes, I let myself slip into the words, the beat, the soft voice of the lead singer and ignore the slice in my arm.
It’ll stop hurting soon. Any and all pain comes to an end; eventually.
Romeo
Bac
k at my apartment building, I stand in the elevator waiting for it to make its way to my floor. I tap my foot, growing impatient by the second. Since when did this damn thing go so slow? I can’t help but wonder if Luna is still there, if she’s okay. What did she do while I was gone. Finally the double doors slide open and I quickly dart through them. Keys already in my hand, I unlock the door and the deadbolt. The sound of music blaring from inside making me turn my head to the side to make sure that’s what I’m hearing. Opening the door, I race inside feeling as if something’s wrong. I don’t know why, I just do. My eyes sweep to the kitchen first, noticing drawers and cabinets open. Tossing the keys on the counter, I follow the music and find Luna against the wall under my stereo with no shirt on, a towel tied around her wrist. Her chest so white, I can’t help but notice how pink her erect nipples are.
I rush to her side and grab her injured arm. Did she cut herself on purpose? Why? I turn the music off and her head raises, her green eyes looking into mine.
“What’d you do?” I ask. Anger and concern mix together in my voice making me sound like another man but when my eyes fall to her bare breasts, I know I’m still the same old Romeo, the look of a naked woman making my heart double-tap. Reaching behind me, I grab the buffalo check throw blanket from the couch and press it against her chest, covering her from my lingering eyes.
She clears her throat, using her good hand to hold the blanket up. I notice white silvery scars on her arms, and across her chest, the marks telling a rough tale of her past.
“I cut it out. I cut out the GPS,” she informs me. Mouth parted, it takes me a second to process what the fuck she just said. Her wrist in my hand, I undo the tied towel and find a small deep cut in her arm. They chip women? Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse. Jesus Christ.
