“I was standing outside of a deli, begging for money when I saw his face on a television inside. I leaned into the doorway and tried to listen. It was his trial. It was being televised for everyone to see. He looked so smug. So proud.” He clenched his teeth. He pulled at his hair.
I imagined my dad’s face but I didn’t see it smug or proud. It was the blur. A beloved, yearned for blur.
“Then I heard her name. Amelia’s. Read with all the others. And his face never changed. He didn’t acknowledge her in any way. It was like he didn’t care…”
“I love the stars, Layna. So much. And one day I hope you will love them too.”
I wanted to yell at Elian! To call him an idiot! I wanted to scream and shout that my father cared for his stars. So much.
Too much.
They took him away from me.
Forever.
I hated those girls, his stars. I hated them so much. But I could never share the deepest, darkest mysteries of my traitorous heart. Because this man who was unraveling in front of me would never understand how I hated. How I loathed.
How I loved.
“They said her name like she was insignificant. Like she didn’t matter.” He suffered. He cried. Tears were the testament to his sorrow. I wanted to lick them dry.
“I ran. I ran and I ran. I don’t know where I was going, only where I ended up. By the river. A rusty, old knife in my hand. I don’t remember picking it up. I don’t remember anything but cutting.” His fingers trembled as he scratched his nails along the jagged curves of scars left behind. The visible ones. The ones eyes could see.
“I cut. And I cut. The blood was everywhere. On my hands. On my clothes. Dripping on the ground.”
Elian wrapped his hand around his neck as though he were trying to choke the words, cut them off. Cut them out before they could hurt him all over again.
I watched him in fascination. Enthralled by his pain. Hoping he’d squeeze just a little bit tighter.
Scared that he’d squeeze too much.
Stop…
“I realized what I had done and I hid myself away. Knowing that if anyone saw me, I’d be taken to a hospital and then I’d be sent back home. I couldn’t go back there. So I found a piece of cloth and held it against the cuts until they stopped bleeding. I stole a tube of antiseptic cream from a drug store and made sure they didn’t get infected. But the damage was already done. Now I’m left with them.”
I got to my feet and crossed the room to where he stood. I didn’t give him a chance to move away. I trapped him against the window. Ensnared him with my arms tight around his waist.
“I love them,” I whispered into the fabric of his shirt.
Elian leaned his forehead against the pane of glass, eyes closed. Wind howling outside.
“You love these ugly, repulsive things?” he asked in disbelief. Horrified.
I nipped at his skin beneath the shirt. Piercing flesh. A scolding. A warning.
“You’re the only one who understands me,” Elian moaned as I touched him with my teeth.
“I’m the only one who will ever love your scars, Elian. The only one,” I responded. Emphatic. Real.
Did he hear me? Did he comprehend what I was trying to say?
“Why can’t I stay away from you?” he murmured. He wanted to know. I would never give him the answers. They were mine to keep. I wouldn’t share them.
“I would never let you stay away,” I promised as he turned in my arms and tried to hold me in return. I wouldn’t let him. I didn’t want him to touch me.
Not with his hatred still bitter on his lips.
But I could touch him.
With my claws and my fangs. My forked tongue and devil’s horns.
My body absorbed his and claimed it all.
“I don’t ever want to leave,” Elian murmured into my hair. Our clothing lost. Our breathing labored.
“You’ll never leave.” I gave him the assurance that he needed. With my body. With my locked away heart.
“What about you, Layna? Will you leave? Will I be left here, a shell, after you’ve gone? Will I die waiting for you to return?”
I grinned.
I didn’t answer him.
I didn’t have to.
We both already knew.
The room was empty. Except for the pale light streaming in through the window. Dark. Dusty. The grit of grime and years of dirt crunched beneath my shoes.
“Daddy?”
My voice echoed. Bouncing off walls. Hitting me square in the chest. Alone. Alone.
Alone.
“Hello?” I moved farther into the room, dragging my fingers along the wall. The wood splintered beneath my palm. Shards digging deep. Embedding under skin.
The blood began as a trickle. The barest of sensations as it dripped down my arm.
I giggled. It tickled. I pressed my hand into the wall. Harder as I moved. Deeper into the room. Shuffling. Wearisome movements.
It smelled like him. Like Daddy. Like smoke and mint.
“Daddy?” I called again. There was a sound. The faintest of whispers. Barely intelligible. Saying…something…
The blood came thicker. Quicker. Pouring from vicious open wounds. I walked through the puddles. It splashed at my calves.
I giggled louder. And louder. The blood warm and embracing. Grasping at my feet as I advanced ever closer. Closer.
I wasn’t alone.
Never, ever alone.
“Daddy!” I cried. Knowing it was him. And I felt a blissful delight that I hadn’t experienced in so, so long.
“Daddy!” I yelled again. I slipped and fell, falling forward, my hands flung out to brace my impact. The blood went up my nose. It filled my mouth. I swallowed, drinking it. Pulling it in.
Hands sure and strong lifted me to my feet and I knew it was him.
Daddy!
I looked up. And up. And up.
Into Dancing Green Eyes.
And a face obscured with throbbing, aching red.
I woke up abruptly. Not in quiet peace but in fearful realization.
Something was different.
Wrong.
The dream was unlike any I had ever had before. Recollections were converging. Confusing me. Muddling my mind.
I slid out of bed and fell to my knees. I covered my face with my hands and rocked.
And rocked.
Back and forth.
Dancing Green Eyes.
And the blood. Everywhere the blood.
Before it brought me comfort.
It gave me, in the silent reprieve of dreams, a moment where I could feel close to him and not hate him. Not be mired in the guilt. In the shame.
I could simply embrace the love I always felt but was so often scared to let out.
But tonight…
I shuddered. I felt sick.
Something was wrong.
I pulled out the box kept in secret under my bed. I opened the lid and stared down into the contents. Years of denial. Years of carefully kept thoughts and barely contained memories.
I picked up the letter on top and considered opening it.
But to open it now would unleash things I wasn’t sure I was ready or able to deal with.
I put the phone to my ear and waited. A different voice answered my desperate call in the middle of the night.
“Elian.”
“Layna! There you are! I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever!”
I closed the door to my apartment and schooled my face into perfect detachment. “Mrs. Statham, hello! I just saw you over the weekend,” I teased good-naturedly. I gave her the smile she was looking for. Only slight. Just barely.
“Well, that’s just too long,” the old lady chastised. How little could I say before I could leave? What small amount of time would be enough so I could walk away?
“Are you leaving?” Mrs. Statham asked. Innocent. Oblivious. She played doddering simpleton well.
“I was just on my way to the store.” False
smiles. Forced gentleness. Endure. Engage.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I wanted you to come up to try this new cookie recipe I just tried. Chloe and I have been baking all morning.”
“I didn’t realize your granddaughter was still here. I thought she was only down for the weekend.”
Mrs. Statham’s toothy grin was almost infectious. I could feel her joy. Her elation.
“She’s decided to stay a bit longer. I never get to see her enough. I love having her here. It’s been lonely since my Desi passed last year. And I can’t expect my wonderful neighbor to spend all her time with a silly old lady.”
She chuckled. I laughed a bit. Easy. Effortless.
Lies.
“Okay then, but I only have a minute.” I followed Mrs. Statham up the stairs and into her apartment. I was hit by the overwhelming smell of cookies and the instant nausea was overwhelming.
“Don’t eat those, Layna! They’re for your father. They’re his favorites,” my mother simpered, wearing an apron and looking exactly like a fifties stereotype. I hated the act she put on when she knew Daddy was expected home.
She was a good mom, but she went into overdrive to please Daddy. Baking him cookies. Cleaning the house. Trying to do whatever she could so he wouldn’t want to leave again.
I always knew that she loved Daddy more than she could ever love Matty or me. Her love for us would never be adequate. It was him that she wanted. Him that she broke her back to build a home for.
But nothing in our home would ever make him stay.
“You remember my granddaughter Chloe.” Mrs. Statham waved a hand towards the kitchen where pretty, pretty Chloe was up to her elbows in dough. She looked up, startled, like a deer in headlights. Stunned.
“Hi, Chloe,” I said, inclining my head. I looked into her eyes. Never wavering. She remembered. I remembered. Our last encounter had been a test of wills. I had won. I didn’t tolerate others infringing on what was mine.
Elian.
I had seen the way she looked at him. I had heard the flirty tone in her voice. And I made it clear who he belonged to.
Mine.
“Have the chocolate crackles come out of the oven yet?” the older woman asked, ignorant to her granddaughter’s discomfort and my glee.
Mrs. Statham’s apartment was similar in layout to mine. Open floor plan with a galley kitchen. The biggest difference was the feel. Bright colorful curtains. Fluffy patterned pillows. Pictures adorning walls. Smiling faces on shelves.
The home of a woman once happy with her life. A woman still trying to hold on to what she once had.
I lived just below her but our worlds were different in every way that was important. Love. Family. Unconditional support.
I moved to stand beside Chloe at the counter. I watched her tense and move away. Just slightly. But noticeable.
I didn’t say anything. I stood there, watching her. Her hands shook ever so slightly and I had to cover my mouth so I wouldn’t laugh. The knife she used to cut the dough into circles trembled in her grasp.
I made her nervous. Anxious. She wanted to flee. Her instincts served her well. I reached out and took a small ball of chocolate dough and rolled it between my palms. Burrowing my fingers in, pulling apart.
“Can I help, Mom? I know what kind of cookies Daddy likes,” I offered, watching as she rolled lengths of dough into long, thin tubes and then cutting them with the large kitchen knife she kept in the drawer.
“No, Layna. Not this time. You can make some cookies next week.” Her promises meant nothing. They always fell apart.
She was a liar.
“Mommy, I want to help too!” Matty slapped his chubby, little boy hands on the cabinets. Banging. Clashing. Wanting attention.
Mom reached down, lifted my brother up, and balanced him on the counter. She handed him a spoon. “Why don’t you stir the eggs and sugar, sweetheart,” she cooed. Loving. Gentle. She ruffled his hair.
I was alone. Forgotten. Not even there.
I watched as my mother and my brother made cookies for my daddy.
My daddy.
I didn’t ask Mom why Matty was able to help and I couldn’t. What would be the point?
I already knew the answer.
My mother hated me.
She used to love me but not anymore.
Now I was Daddy’s and Daddy’s alone.
And that made me smile.
“The cookies are over there, Grandma.” Chloe pointed to a cooling rack.
“Let me get you a plate, Layna,” Mrs. Statham said, opening cabinets, rooting through dishes.
I watched Chloe as she purposefully kept her eyes fixed on the dough. I thought about the way she looked at Elian and I squeezed the dough in my hands. Oozing between my fingers.
“Can I help?” I asked, dropping the messy glob back onto the counter.
Chloe startled at the sound of my voice.
“That’s okay, I’m fine,” she answered, rejecting my offer.
Rejecting.
I felt cold inside. Frozen. Empty.
“Here you go, darling.” Mrs. Statham handed me a plate with four cookies. I picked one up and took a bite. It felt like sandpaper in my mouth. My throat constricted and I wished I could spit it out.
But I didn’t. I swallowed the lump and smiled. “These are great, Mrs. Statham. You and Chloe did a great job,” I cooed. Liar. Liar.
Mrs. Statham started talking about egg to flour ratios. Chocolate chips and baking powder.
I put the plate on the counter and leaned in towards Chloe. “Maybe I should bring some for Elian,” I said quietly. So quietly. Threat. Warning. Blank menace.
Chloe’s hands erupted in a flurry of agitated movement. Slicing, slicing.
“Let me do that,” I said, reaching for the knife.
“No, that’s fine,” Chloe squeaked, pulling back. I gripped the handle and gave it a twist. The sharp blade sliced through Chloe’s arm. The fleshy underside split open. Fine and true.
She gasped, her face gone white. I picked up the knife, the blood, bright red. Dripping. Slipping. Into the dough.
“What in the world?” Mrs. Statham exclaimed.
The blood came fast. It came thick. It fell onto the floor at my feet. I grabbed a towel and wrapped my hand around Chloe’s wrist. My fingers smeared with the blood, branding my skin.
“Hold still,” I murmured, pressing the towel to the wound. Giving myself permission to touch the mangled tissue.
Blood. Blood. Everywhere.
On walls.
On the floor.
I could smell it in the air. I could taste it in my mouth.
I should have stayed in the car…
“Let me have a look. Let go, Layna,” Mrs. Statham ordered. I reluctantly loosened my hand and backed away.
Feeling sick.
So, so sick.
“There should be some bandages in the bottom drawer over there. Layna, can you grab them?”
The room was dark. I couldn’t see much but for the moonlight shining through the open window. The wind carried the smell of blood and death to my nose.
I was scared.
I wanted my daddy. Where was my daddy?
And then like a phantom, he was there…
“Layna, are you all right? You look white as a sheet. Does blood make you squeamish?” Mrs. Statham asked and I wanted to laugh.
My earliest memories were of blood.
The blood was all I saw.
“Layna?”
I stared at the soiled floor. Red. Brilliant.
Beautiful.
I was going to be sick.
“I have to go,” I whispered. Unable to speak any louder.
I walked out of Mrs. Statham’s home. Numb.
My throat felt tight, and I couldn’t breathe.
The blood was all I saw.
I stumbled back to my apartment. I closed myself in.
My heart hammered in my chest.
I couldn’t stop thinking abo
ut that moment. The knife in my hand. The feel of the blade slicing through skin.
It was…indescribable.
I ran to the kitchen, barely making it in time. I emptied the contents of my stomach into the sink.
The back of my neck tingled. My face flushed hot.
I gagged. I heaved.
I wanted to rid myself of all these horrible, reprehensible thoughts that had nestled inside.
I wished I could reach my hand down into my throat and yank it out. Pulling. Dislodging.
I continued to retch until I was no longer able to stand.
I collapsed onto the kitchen floor. Sweating and dizzy.
“You’re like me, Lay. Two kindred spirits. Only I will ever understand all the dark, beautiful things inside you.”
The knife.
The blood.
The smell and taste of oblivion.
“Daddy,” I sobbed. Hating him. Hating myself.
Hating the monster that raged and raged.
Nature’s hold was irrefutable. Unstoppable.
I had no chance.
No chance.
“Stay here, Layna. Don’t move…”
“I’ll stay in the car, Daddy. This time, I’ll stay. I promise,” I cried. Shaking and curling into a ball on the cold, damp tiles.
“I’ll stay. I promise,” I screamed to the lonely room.
Wanting to change a past that was written in stone.
“I think I want to see him,” I admitted, my mouth dry. My stomach clenched. Muscles sore from my earlier purging.
There was silence.
Endless, peaceful silence.
Perhaps he didn’t hear me. Maybe then I could pretend that the words had never been spoken.
But they had been spoken. They had passed through my lips unobstructed. Because I couldn’t hold onto them any longer.
“Why, Layna? Why?” Matt sounded strangled. Revolted.
I stared at the framed pictures that lined the windowsill. Blank faces. Expressions frozen forever.
My family.
The only one I knew anymore.
The only stories I had ever loved.
“I need to talk to him. To see him.” The words tasted strange on my tongue. Betrayal sharp and potent filled my nostrils. I was letting Matt down. I was letting myself down. I had purposefully kept a distance.
But now…
Now things were different.
The Contradiction of Solitude Page 17
