The Gorgeous Slaughter

by Christina Hart

  I am ten minutes from Charlie’s.

  It’s 9:43pm. Today has been so long, so full of surprises. I can’t wait to change into pajamas and crawl into bed with him. We’ll talk about today, how everything works out so mysteriously. How excited we are for our future together. I wonder if he wants children, marriage. I’m open to discussing it. I think of having a little boy who looks just like him. Same brown eyes, dark hair, shy smile. He’ll be a miniature James Dean and we’ll smile at strangers who stare at him and say he’s beautiful. And we’ll know. We’ll know.

  And I know that this is the kind of love I’ve been waiting for. The kind of love that asks something of you. Where you have to prove yourself worthy of it, have some balls and do something about it. This kind of love doesn’t just crawl into your lap. You have to fight for it and you have to do everything you can to hold on to it. That’s what I’m willing to do.

  I am six minutes away from Charlie’s when I hear my phone ding. A notification. I imagine it’s Charlie, sending just two words. “It’s over.”

  I smile and turn up the music. Death Cab for Cutie starts playing.

  Love of mine, someday you will die,

  but I’ll be close behind and I’ll follow you into the dark.

  No blinding light, or tunnels to gates of white,

  just our hands clasped so tight, waiting for the hint of a spark.

  And I decide that this is our song. I sing the words through the chorus and my body is covered in goosebumps.

  In Catholic school, as vicious as Roman rule,

  I got my knuckles bruised, by a lady in black.

  And I held my tongue, as she told me, son,

  fear is the heart of love, so I never went back.

  I wonder if Charlie has heard this, but if he listens to Blink 182 then I’m sure he has. It’s a classic. It may have been before our time but our time is now. We’ll share our music and introduce each other to our favorite bands. He can tell me about the ones on the T-shirts he wears constantly. I can tell him about my love of 90s grunge and alternative rock and punk rock and he can lecture me about The Misfits and why they’re the greatest band to ever exist in his eyes.

  I am two minutes away from Charlie’s house and my heart starts pounding. Big Black Car by Gregory Alan Isakov starts playing through the speakers.

  You were a phonograph, I was a kid.

  I sat with an ear close, just listening.

  I was there when the rain tapped her way down your face.

  You were a miracle, I was just holding your space.

  I park outside Charlie’s house, two houses away, working up the courage to knock on the door. There are two cars in his driveway, taking up the entirety of it. I assume the other is his uncle’s. For a second, I stop and ask myself if I can do this. Nerves kick in. Anxiety. My heart is racing. I open up my phone. It’s a message from Charlie and I smile. This is it. They’re done, he’s telling me it’s over. But instead of two words, it’s four.

  “I couldn’t do it.”

  The music keeps playing. The rain starts again. Pouring heavier. Faster. A torrential downpour ensues.

  Well time has a way of throwing it all in your face.

  The past, she is haunted, the future is laced.

  Heartbreak, you know, drives a big black car.

  Swear I was in the back seat, just minding my own.

  I look up, confused. This can’t be happening.

  We were so close.

  I see Tracy pull up, coming from the opposite direction. Her white, shiny, pristine car. Flawless, like her. The music keeps playing. There’s another car behind her, slowing down. Waiting? Following? What’s happening here? Why is Tracy here?

  This could be all that we know,

  of love and all.

  Well you were a dancer and I was a rag.

  The song in my head, well, was all that I had.

  Hope was a letter I never could send.

  Well love was a country we couldn’t defend.

  Tracy parks her car on the road. The car behind her doesn’t move. Are they texting? I can’t see through the rain that is falling down around us. She gets out of her car. She doesn’t see me, has no idea how this kills me. She stole him again. He is supposed to be mine. I start crying, really crying, and I can’t see, blinded by tears and rage and disappointment. I need to move, go. Leave. But I can’t. I’m frozen, my foot on the brake. I force myself to put my car in drive.

  Haley Reinhart’s cover of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis starts playing on Pandora and it’s too much.

  Take my hand, take my whole life, too.

  Oh, for I can’t help falling in love with you.

  Oh, like a river flows, surely to the sea.

  Darling, so it goes, some things are meant to be.

  I close my eyes and try to blink away the tears. I have to get out of here. I can’t stand to watch her walk into his home, into his arms. I can’t watch Tracy ruin this for me again. And how did this happen? Did she convince him that they are supposed to be together? Did he try to end it and she couldn’t stand being left so she did everything she could to make him stay? She’s vindictive. Manipulative. A liar. She doesn’t deserve him. I try to count, try to get out of this head space. But I can’t. I can’t stop watching her. And it’s like I’m watching her take my chance at love right in front of me, in slow motion.

  She gets out of the car and goes to cross the street to his house. I stare at her, and something takes over. I think they call it hatred.

  Or maybe it’s just more sadness.

  Maybe it’s the last bit I could take.

  Fifty-One

  When I come to, I’m standing over her body. I’m checking for a pulse. My car is in the middle of the street. The other car that was behind her, is gone. A neighbor, a woman, is screaming. Her hands are covering her mouth. She’s yelling for her husband to call 911.

  Tracy is bleeding, I can’t even tell from where. I have blood on my hands. I’m checking for a pulse. I’m searching for any sign of life. Her eyes are open, not blinking. Did I do this? Was it me? Was it the other car? Where is the other car?

  Charlie comes outside. He sees me. There is complete horror on his face and he runs toward us, bends down in the street. He’s touching her hair, yelling.

  “Tracy! Tracy!” he says. “Oh my god, please be okay. Tracy.” He turns to a neighbor. “Call 911! Right now! Please!”

  “I don’t know what happened,” I choke out, tears blurring my vision.

  He looks at my car, the blood and hair—from the deer?—slowly washing off in the rain, then he looks at me like I’m a murderer and my heart breaks all over again.

  Reset.

  I have to get out of here. I can’t stand the idea of her being dead. I didn’t do this. I couldn’t have. I am not violent. I am not crazy.

  I stand up, in shock, forcing my feet to move. I walk to my car. I get inside. I close the door.

  I look at Charlie leaning over her body, he’s crying. Yelling for help. The neighbor woman runs over to him. I think I hear her say help is on the way. I put my car in reverse. I do a k-turn. I turn the other way and press my foot on the gas.

  I get about three minutes down the road before I see the first cop car heading toward me. An ambulance is close behind. I close my eyes. Another two minutes pass and I’m still driving. Straight. Staring. I just need to get home. I just need to have this go away. This is a bad dream. This isn’t happening. Tracy is alive. She’ll be fine. She’s just hurt. They’ll save her. They can save her.

  I make it another few minutes before a second cop car comes. Their lights are all blaring, they’re in a hurry to save the girl who’s bleeding out in the middle of the road. The cop swerves in the road and gets behind me. A third cop car, heading this way. I have no choice. I pull over, trying to think of what I can possibly say for myself. The rain. It’s raining. It’s dark. The sadness, does that count? The hurt? They won’t understand. They never do.

>   I’m pulled over, staring, blinking, crying. I have to stop crying. I can’t.

  The cop comes to my side of the car, yelling. “Get out of the car and put your hands up where I can see them!”

  A second cop car, a third. How many are there surrounding me? How many of them think I’m a murderer?

  I open the door and get out with my hands in the air. “I didn’t do it! I swear!”

  The one cop grabs me and pushes me against the car. “You’re under arrest for attempted vehicular manslaughter and fleeing the scene of an accident.”

  He reads me my Miranda rights and it’s all going in and out like a haze.

  Attempted vehicular manslaughter. He said attempted. Maybe she’s alive. I hope she is alive. She can’t be dead. Fuck. Why did I leave? Flee, as he called it. I didn’t stop to think it would make me look guilty. Running. It’s something I’m good at, something I’ve gotten used to over the years. But that’s just another thing they don’t teach you. The things you do when you’re in shock, the way your body responds to it. You don’t stop to think how it will look later, you do what you have to do right then. In the moment. When everything is suffocating you. The instincts kick in and steer your every move. You don’t stop to think that they might be wrong, that maybe you can make a better decision. Because decision-making tools are beyond reach. You do what you have to do, what you feel you should do.

  I can’t get Charlie out of my head. The look on his face when he saw me, when he saw his lifeless girlfriend, lying there. Both of us covered in blood.

  Will he ever forgive me for this? Something I may not have even done? And where did the other car go? Why didn’t they stop? They fled, too. Did the neighbor tell the police that? Did she tell Charlie? Did she see who hit Tracy? I don’t know if Charlie will ever understand. He doesn’t know me, the real Love, enough to know I would never hurt anyone.

  I can’t blame Tracy right now, it hurts too much. I just want her to be alive. I want this to have never happened. The cop puts the handcuffs around my wrists and shoves me in the back of his car, slamming the door. This is abuse. I’m innocent. I’m too young to be a murderer.

  Two accidents in one day. This is an entirely new level of stupidity, even for me. I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have believed I could really be with Charlie. I made the mistake of thinking my happily-ever-after was right around the corner. I was foolish to think the world was finally giving me a chance to be happy. I should know by now that things just don’t work out like that for me. After all these years, you’d think I would understand that for whatever reason, I am just not meant for happy endings. It’s part of my charm, part of what makes my life so unique. Maybe it just keeps everything interesting. The twists, the falls, the fails. The heartache.

  I’ve had enough therapists tell me that things from my past affect me. I think they called it trauma. I’ve had enough of them tell me that there’s something in my brain that doesn’t quite connect correctly. I think they called it a mental disorder.

  As I sit in this cop car, head against the window, watching the rain, waiting to find out if I just accidentally killed someone, I wonder if they’re on to something. I wonder if they’re right.

  I wonder if I’m as crazy as everyone tells me I am.

  Fifty-Two

  I’m brought into a small room. I will be interrogated in here. Call it a gut feeling, or just plain old common sense. I know what’s coming. I feel like I’ve been sitting in here for hours already. There is no way to know. No time, no clock, no phone. All I can do is sit and wait but all I want to do is shower, get out of here. Make this all go away. I don’t like being locked in rooms but it doesn’t matter what I like or don’t like anymore. This is what happens when you wind up somewhere against your will. Your likes, dislikes, wants, they all go out the window. You are hardly a human anymore and you are certainly not treated like one. But it’s your fault, right? Some people think people with mental disorders deserve such treatment. It is not true. And what about all the people in places like this by mistake? Because it happens. Innocent people, caged, every day. I may now be one of them.

  I look at the handcuffs on my wrists, the blood, now dried underneath my fingernails. At least they let me change when they processed me. This orange outfit is hideous but I’ll take this over blood-stained clothes that remind me why I’m here in the first place.

  The detective finally comes in. He sits across from me, steam rising up from his Styrofoam coffee cup. “So, at what point did you decide to start stalking her?”

  I sit up, fold my hands together. My heart is beating. I can’t let my face fail me. I’m innocent. “The term ‘stalking’ is a bit extreme, don’t you think?”

  He leans forward until he is as close as he can get to me from across the table. “What do you call it?”

  And how does he know? No one knew. Not even Nikki, or Charlie. I was smart. Safe. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He puts my laptop and phone on the table. He opens my laptop, pushes it toward me so the screen is facing me. It’s open to Tracy’s Facebook. Other tabs are open. Troy’s Facebook. Charlie’s Facebook. The Google street view of Tracy’s house. Troy’s house. Charlie’s house. I don’t need to open them to see what they are. I know.

  “Does this ring a bell?” he asks.

  He is being condescending, talking down to me like he’s already found me guilty. I sit in this cold chair in this cold room with this cold man across from me, casually sipping his warm coffee.

  “So were you a blonde or brunette when you planned it?” he asked.

  There is no malice in his tone. No accusation. No feelings in his eyes. Just a blunt question coming from a stone man.

  I tilt my head back, stare at the hideous ceiling. It’s yellowing. Ghastly. The lights are too bright in here and I squint. Count to three. I move my head back in his direction and look at him, wondering how long we are going to play this game. “How do you do this for a living?”

  “How do you hurt people for fun?” he asks me.

  “I don’t. I don’t even know that it was me that hit her. It could have been the other car. Did you know there was another car?”

  “Oh, really? You’re going to claim you don’t remember?” he asks. “Do you remember searching her address and watching her property?”

  I don’t know if I should say yes or no. He’s plotting, looking for motive. I stare at him. “Did anyone actually see my car hit her? How do you know I didn’t stop and get out after the other car hit her and drove away?”

  “Lovina, come on. Do you really believe that could have happened?” he asks.

  “Yes, I do,” I say. And I do. I couldn’t have done this. I’m not a murderer. I don’t care if he believes me. “Did anyone see my car hit her?” I yell. “Tell me! I need to know!”

  He doesn’t answer that, but instead says, “You were obsessed with her.”

  “There was another car,” I say.

  “Why were you watching her every move?” he asks me.

  “Because I deserve Charlie!” I shout back. “Not her!” I start crying.

  “The tears aren’t going to work on me, Ms. Landry. I see right through this act. And everyone else will, too. You’re a dangerous girl, and I’m going to make sure you can’t hurt anyone ever again.”

  I shake my head, staring at my hands. The blood. “I’m not dangerous. I don’t hurt people.”

  “I had to tell that girl’s parents that their daughter is dead,” he yells. “Because you killed her. You ran her down because you wanted her boyfriend. Her life. You wanted to be her.”

  “I did not kill her. I did not want to be her. That’s not true.” I’m shaking my head. I start counting to myself, whispering. “One…two…”

  “You’re either really crazy, or really good at pretending you are. But guess what?” he says, walking over to me. He leans closer, and speaks quietly. “I’m smarter than you. I’ve been doing this a long time. You’re not g
onna get away with this.”

  “I’m not trying to get away with anything,” I say, through clenched teeth. “I didn’t kill anyone. Looking at someone’s Facebook does not make me guilty.”

  “No, it doesn’t. But watching their every move, showing up at their home, their work, then running someone over with your car, that kinda does, doesn’t it? I mean, unless I’m the crazy one for thinking that. Do you disagree?”

  Another trick question. He’s trying to get me to admit something I didn’t do. I don’t remember hitting her. This could be blackmail. I could be being framed. What about the other car? I think. I close my eyes and think.

  “Did the neighbors see the other car?” I ask him. “Please, I need to know.”

  He lets out a small laugh. “I’m confused here. I’m trying to get you to admit what we both know you did, and you’re trying to get me to say someone else could have done it?”

  “I don’t remember hitting her. I swear I don’t. I wouldn’t do that on purpose. I wouldn’t. There was another car, it was behind her. It was stopped.”

  “Well, you did. Whether you want to face it or not, you killed her. Tracy Ellis is dead.”

  I shake my head. “No, she’s not dead. She can’t be.”

  “You had blood on your car,” he says.

  “I hit a deer earlier.”

  “It was Tracy’s. The rain washed it away, but not before the neighbor saw it. Not before Charlie saw it.”

  I shake my head. “That was the deer’s blood. Call the hospital!”

  “Do you want to tell me about Psychiatrists on the Gram? How long have you been pretending to be a shrink? Is that how you got close to Charlie?”

  I stare and shake my leg.

  “Oh, he didn’t know it was you, that’s right,” he says. “We told him today that it was you the whole time. You should have seen his face. He was shocked. You did a good job there, getting him to trust you. It worked. He said it himself.”