by Myers, Kelly
You entitled little prick.
My mind berates me.
Just because you desire her all the time… you think she’d want you with the same intensity? What juvenile path are you now exploring? I thought you’re a mature, centered man. You’re pathetic.
I don’t know where these impulses are coming from or how to tame them, so I rush toward the bar by the window and pour myself a glass of straight whiskey. With the other hand, I open the drawer underneath and pull out a joint.
It doesn’t matter where you are. What matters is where you’ll be.
An old motto resurfaces, fighting to push away all the self-deprecating contemplations that are quickly threatening to take over.
It doesn’t matter where you are. What matters is where you’ll be.
I repeat the thought as I put down the glass and the joint and pick up a pair of loose jogger pants, mindlessly putting them on.
It doesn’t matter where you are. What matters is where you’ll be.
Settling in the large, comfortable lounger on the other side of the wide window, I take a sip of the welcome brown liquid that burns down my insides as it cascades, aiming to wash away the distress. I light up the joint and take a long, slow drag as my eyes watch the orange sprinkles of fire burn fiercer, glowing brighter.
But it does matter.
My shoulders deflate as I reflect on how I’m feeling. All sensations in my body gradually numb down, leaving nothing but the pounding heartbeats in my temples.
Taking another drag and holding it in, I throw back my head as I revel in the memory of how Dina felt in my arms. We fit. We simply fit in the most invigorating and aggravating of ways.
I exhale, watching the smoke diffuse just like my sanity.
Another sip washes down the herbal flavor in my mouth, an alternative that serves as a distraction of sorts. I’m trying to trick my senses into feeling once again, to no avail. Not until the phone in my pants starts to ring. I stare at them carelessly tossed in a lump on the bed, yet can’t will my legs to move. The ringing soon stops, soon to be replaced by a vibrating buzz. And another. And another.
Resigning to the call of duty, I push myself up with the joint between my lips and the glass in my hand. I slide my other hand into the pocket and fish out the phone. Albert’s missed call is followed by two texts from him.
Great news, boss. Since the retraction of the gazette’s articles, no word has been published on the matter anywhere.
The desire to cry comes raging through my chest, contracting my throat and stinging my eyes. I toss the phone back on the bed and walk back to my trusty chair. Flopping down, I smell the scent from the shower gel I used on Dina. It’s all over my bare chest and in the hairs on my arms. It makes me ache.
Blinking a few times, I suck another drag, pulling it in and deeply inhaling. Feeling the sweet, soothing aroma as it invades my lungs and fills me with the empty yet relaxing sensation of nothingness.
“I’m damaged, too.”
Dina’s words ring through my head.
“I’m afraid I may have exhausted all of my tricks trying to crawl out of the darkness.”
I gulp another mouthful and get up, reaching for her phone. I launch the email app and search again for Joan Marks’ name. The conversation threads line up before my eyes, and as I make my way back to my seat, my gaze hungrily searches for a phrase. A line. A statement that can reveal to me what lies beneath Dina’s tough exterior and her weakness. What she hides behind those determined yet compassionate eyes.
I remember the way she held me tightly as I recited my life story.
“You were a child… Gabriel.”
And so was she, so what happened? What ill-fated events molded her into the woman she is today? And why does she struggle with a love-hate dynamic that pulls me closer then pushes me away?
There’s no way of knowing. Not from those cryptic messages in the form of emails and texts. Nothing on the horizon promises to help me solve this puzzle. There simply aren’t enough pieces.
I take another drag.
The sudden, scorching awareness of my alien sense of deprivation shocks me. I’ve never craved someone this much, and no woman has ever rendered me so unguarded. I’m dropping at the speed of light, falling down a dark, bottomless well, and my hands have nowhere to grip.
I attempt to resort to my usual methods of dealing with unwelcome ideas, but the harder I try, the more muddled my mind becomes. Another breath of herb. Another sip of alcohol. Another wasted breath with me working toward the impossible task of keeping my tears at bay.
And I break down…
The rupture of tears signals the betrayal of my best efforts, demolishing my last line of defense, making way for what I have been dreading. I lose all control of myself as I cringe into a miserable fit of weeps. I thank all the gods and powers that we’re all alone in the house.
I let go. Experiencing every shudder as a whip thrashing through my body, aiming to wake me up. Embracing every gasp as a lifeline, a critical breath without which I would simply drop lifelessly onto the floor. Accepting every groan as the remnants of my voice as it fights against oblivion.
Indulging in a white fog and running rivers of golden fermented grain, I cry until I can no longer distinguish my tears from the whisky. And I drink until all traces of consciousness abandon me.
Dina is a vision that tackles my illusions as her hand reaches for mine, but I’m climbing up, leaving her behind. I ascend and accelerate as her voice fades, eventually getting lost in the distance. My feet top the clouds, and I look down, failing to see a sign of her in the obscure void beneath.
An earthquake catches me off guard, and I waver, feeling the world around me rattle like a matchbox in the hands of a child. My grip loosens, and my fingers slip, and I begin to drop, fulfilling the ominous beckoning of gravity.
I am weightless. The wind against my back soon meets my face as I rotate in the air. Dina’s silhouette soon returns with her hand still extended, waiting.
“Gabriel, please,” she enunciates against the hurricane that surrounds us.
But is she pleading for my help, or is it her who will save me?
I’m falling.
Until I’m not.
I open my eyes and look around, seemingly in an endless white limbo with nothing around me but a pale space. I want to take a step, but in which direction? I don’t know where the edge is when everything is so blindingly bright.
“Gabriel?” Dina’s call returns, resounding as though I’m inside of speakers that emit her voice outward.
“I can’t see you,” I impatiently object as I turn round and round, seeking the slightest hint of direction.
“War is peace,” she recites. “Freedom is slavery, Gideon, and ignorance is strength.”
Frustrated, I press my temples with my hands. “What are you trying to tell me, Dina? I’m not sure if I have enough time for riddles.”
She doesn’t respond… and I’m left all alone in the empty, perpetual space.
30
Dina
Two days have passed with me locked up in this half-empty bedroom, driving myself insane. Gabriel’s men have been gradually sneaking in while I slept, removing every single item that I can use to escape or kill myself.
During waking hours, they periodically emerge, injecting me with unlabeled medications and refreshing the cannula drip with solutions. Since I’m still refraining from eating, we have reached a compromise where I occasionally drink some fruit juice or a green smoothie.
My raging mind—plagued with hopeless thoughts by day and ominous nightmares at night—is well aware that it is held captive within the confines of my body. This vessel only keeps getting smaller, weaker and shakier.
But what’s even more mortifying?
I miss Gabriel.
A recording of our last conversation reserves its seemingly eternal right to replay in my head like a song stuck on repeat.
“Off the record, Cormack. Do you unders
tand?”
It must have been immensely difficult for him to tell me those things. To confide in me the way he did. To let me into his private and painful world with all that it entails. It’s true. Nobody knew any of those things about him or his family. They must have dipped their hands deep into their pockets to cover up the suicide story and everything else that came with it.
To make my suffering worse, my mind retained the full reel of our lovemaking session to rerun without my permission.
It’s now etched in my consciousness with every detail and fleeting breath. Every bead of sweat crawling across smooth skin. Every nail leaving its momentary yet electrifying mark in flesh. Every glance or lingering gaze. Every spot in the lines of his deep blue irises twinkling as they take me in. Every heave, gasp and whisper despite the fact that it kills me—I never actually heard the words he so covertly murmured. Every minuscule moment is engraved within the landscape of my mind, blazing through me whenever the memory is revived.
Why did I have to listen? And why did I have to want him?
The second night ends with me crying myself to sleep yet one more time—a habit I can’t seem to kick as the blows keep coming.
Awakened by the door being slammed shut, I leap, sitting up as my hands instinctively collect my hair to the side, clearing my vision to receive the perfect image of Gabriel Palanick in all his glory. My stomach is in knots, and I turn to look outside the window. The sun has finally risen.
“Good morning,” he calmly says as he adjusts the elegant cufflinks on his flawless attire. “Sleep well?”
Convinced that I am now losing my mind, I dip my head an inch as I stare at him from under wrinkled eyebrows. I want to say something. To shout and cuss. To launch at him with punches that repeatedly target his face, chest, shoulders and wherever else I can reach.
I am furious, but the words refuse to leave my mouth, and the rest of me is paralyzed.
“Don’t worry,” he slides his hands into his pockets, lifting his chin up a nudge. “This is the last time you’ll see me.”
My heart drops. Has he finally decided to kill me after all? “How come?” I barely restrain my eyelids from fluttering in panic as his scent seeps through to my nostrils, invigorating and nearly mind-altering.
“Mission accomplished,” he shrugs matter-of-factly. “You’re going home, Didi,” there’s something unsettling in his smile.
For the first time ever, that nickname fails to upset me. Everything else is up in the air, and it’s as though I’m floating along with it all. The triumphant expression on his face is clouded by another emotion I can’t quite name.
My voice finally cooperates as I shake my head. “But I know who you are.”
“And I’ve got something even more exciting,” he pulls out his right hand, holding up a small flash drive. “Our very own film.”
I can barely feel my features as they wrinkle until they hurt. “What?”
“Right there?” he points at the large ornate mirror with the black frame across from the bed. “A high definition camera,” his smile gloats. “Top of the line.”
Widening my eyes in disbelief, I don’t know where I conjure up the energy to pull out the cannula, leap off the bed and bolt barefoot across the room. My palms violently land against the wall on either side of the mirror as my eyes rummage through every curve, hole and twist, until I see the damn thing. A tiny button-sized fine glass lens at the center of the top decorative detail.
I lower my head, leaning forward with my teeth biting harshly on my lower lip. I want to scream. No, I need to scream. But instead, I draw a deep breath and turn to face him with my hands in tight fists that whiten my knuckles.
“You are scum,” I hiss from between my teeth.
He smirks, but the visible grind of his jaws isn’t lost on me. “I told you I wasn’t going to hurt you.”
“No,” I resentfully chuckle. “Just keep your own version of me to jerk off to!” I say the last words with a yell that I can no longer stifle.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he drops the flash drive back into his pocket and turns around, opening the door. “Goodbye, Cormack. And thank you for your service.”
I sprint in his direction, but he closes the door before I reach him and my palms violently slam against the cold surface. My knees give in, so I descend to the floor, shaking my head in denial.
Why didn’t I ask about surveillance this time? Was I so consumed in our misery and in the midst of it all lost my wits? Or did I make the horrifying mistake of trusting Gabriel Palanick?
“No, no,” I mumble as I shake my head.
He has a sex video of you, my mind starts to ramble on. Don’t you think he’s going to use it whenever he wants? Not only can you not report any of this to the authorities, but you can’t even get on his bad side on anything in the future. You can’t mention his name in anything. You can’t reveal his wickedness to the world, not now and not ever. Do you realize what you’ve done?
And this creep is going to have this permanent recording of me… naked. In his bed. Doing all sorts of consensual… oh my God.
You’ve been outsmarted by Palanick… Didi.
I struggle to regain my composure—or what’s left of it—as I scuffle to get off the floor. My hands are shaking, and my head is thumping with that familiar stress headache that usually serves as the cherry on top of every miserable situation. As soon as I make it to the bed, I hear the lock click, and the door opens wide.
“Congratulations, doll.” One struts in with his mask on, placing down a cotton tote, my purse and my laptop bag on the bedroom bench by the foot of the bed. “You’re outta here.”
I eye the tote, hopelessly mumbling. “What’s this?”
“Your clothes,” he shrugs with raised eyebrows. “Washed, scented and pressed.” He then chuckles. “If that’s not five-star service, I don’t know what is.”
“Right,” my eyes wander in a daze.
“Go on,” he gestures with one hand. “change in the bathroom. I’ll be waiting right here.”
My muscles reject my brain’s impulses as I sit there staring at my belongings.
He clears his throat. “You need help?”
Does it even matter anymore?
“Just give me a minute,” I whisper.
“I know,” he scoffs, looking around the room. “It’s hard to say goodbye to this beauty, eh?”
“Yeah,” I shift and let my feet touch the floor. “Something like that.”
I grab the tote and head for the bathroom, closing the door behind me. As soon as I face myself in the mirror, the tears start to gush, and I have no control over them. I don’t make a sound, and my breathing doesn’t falter. It’s as though my eyes were now separate from the rest of me, acting on their own accord.
Carefully sliding out my legs from the soft silk pants, I hang them up on the hook behind the door. I wonder who’s going to wear them next as I unbutton the top with extreme caution. I don’t know why I’m doing this. The least he deserves is a ripped pajama set. But instead, I can’t help but feel sorry for the beautiful piece of loungewear that never chose to be purchased by someone like him.
When I put on my own clothes, they feel somehow softer than they originally were. Of course, the fabric care products used by a tech mogul are different from the ones us commoners can afford.
What are you doing? Is this really the most pressing thought at the moment?
There are no pressing thoughts.
I zip up my pants.
There’s only acceptance of the most paramount defeat I have ever experienced in my life. My father’s actions and my mother’s passiveness. My history of mental illness and every failed attempt. None of it compares to the game Gabriel has played on me and came out rightfully victorious. If anything, I must applaud him.
“What’s taking so long in there?” One’s voice comes from right outside the door.
I holler. “One more minute, I promise.”
“Hey,” he chu
ckles. “Where you gonna go, right?”
That’s right.
Where will I go from here?
How will I get back to my job and pretend that I’ve only been sick?
What excuses will justify my senseless destruction of Derek’s hard work on the Palanick pieces? I have no proof. I have no counter-argument.
I have nothing.
Opening the door, I slap the empty tote in One’s hand as I proceed toward the bench, sitting down and checking my purse. Naturally, nothing is missing except for my nail file. I then pull out my phone and try to press on anything, but it’s completely dead.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “You’re gonna have to charge that. The laptop, too.”
“Clever.” I robotically return everything to its place and stand up, hanging my bags on my shoulder, which hurts a little.
“Can you walk?” I hear his voice from right behind me.
“Yeah,” I press my lips into a thin line, waiting for his instructions.
Like a magician, he rapidly pulls out the same black cloth bag from his pocket and places it over my head. Except this time, I don’t try to fight it.
“Come on,” his grip on my arm guides me forward, and I comply, walking along the corridor and then getting into the elevator.
After a short journey, we end up in the passenger’s seat of a car. It’s not a van this time, but the spacious, comfortable chair suggests nothing short of a stretch limo. The vehicle moves, and even though I start to hear muffled street sounds, I don’t feel the warmth of the sun on my skin. The windows must be tinted.
A few minutes into the ride, I feel the same tears running down my face again. They don’t shake me or prompt any noise. Not even a snuffle. I close my eyes and recall all the times in the past when I cried like this. Like a forlorn statue that knows nobody’s coming to the rescue. The tears of certain and utter despair only aimed at coming out of my body in a final attempt at cleansing my soul. After all, it’s the only thing I have left.
