Caesar.
The Goodbye Man. I would be the only one that he would not bid farewell to. The words he would never be able to follow through with disturb me.
Where is he? Why can’t he love me like I love him?
Just as sanity clings onto me for mere seconds, it is lost again. I feel myself wanting to fall down the dark rabbit hole, allowing myself to explode into insanity, but the clacking of metal from the fan above my bed keeps me in check. My senses are on high alert, something, again, that I am not used to. I have masked the devil’s touch for most of my life, allowing the few days of love to envelope me.
“Caesar, come save me again!” I scream, closing my eyes, desperately trying to picture his face and the soft gaze he would show me. His hands were rough, but his touch was anything but deadly. He healed parts of me. I may be his poison, but he is my salvation. He is my heaven and I am his hell. God, give him to me!
Click, click. I hear the creak of the door open, and I immediately make my way to my knees, bending my face down to the coldness of the sun-burnt orange tiled floors. It’s something Mateo had me do. I was his little pet and I was reminded every day when I sat next to him as he stroked my hair like an owner would pet a dog. Something deep in my belly breaks as anger consumes me again. I am not accustomed to such a sentiment. I was taught to put all feelings deep beneath the surface where no one could sense them, including myself. I was simply a warm body to fuck and abuse.
I am confused. So confused as the recollections as well conflicting feelings I feel swirl about in my fucked up skull. I have to withhold the urge from banging my head against the hard ground. That would be pointless. I would not get any sort of gratification from that act. Caesar is not here to get my attention and Mateo would sure enough have already killed me.
Footsteps pepper lightly across the ground as my ears peak, the noise of the fan and shoes on ceramic calming my toxic and unstable state.
“Little girl,” a woman says in a thick, Spanish accent.
I swallow hard, trying to push that virtue hard away. Trust. It doesn’t exist. I want to destroy it just as it has destroyed me. I wish it would burn and never threaten to make its way back into my life, but my heart craves trust. I always wanted to feel safe and loved, protected and cared for, but no one truly gave me a reason for it.
“Don’t worry, Mi Amor. One day you will be safe again.”
Caesar’s deep, Spanish accented voice troubles me, reminding me of a different ghost from my past. But why didn’t he save me then? Why? I want to scream out at the voices in my head, telling the memories that I hate them, but my voice is mute for the lady before me. I don’t have the courage to look at her because I worry that my little heart will not be able to take it. As soon as I do, I know I will allow that virtue to blanket itself heavy around me, giving me no other choice but to abide by it.
Trust.
“Little girl…” she hums, stepping closer.
My body is shaking as my face is still hard-pressed against the cold tile floor.
“I will not hurt you, little girl.”
I am deceived by my heart once more as my head battles with it, submitting to what I have always wished to come true; to trust someone wholeheartedly and feel safe and loved.
My head perks up as my dark strands veil my eyes, making it impossible to see the woman before me. I am grateful for it. Perhaps my head won this time. I feel warmth bend down near me as a wrinkled hand brushes my hair away from my face and tucks it behind my ear. I look down, but she senses my apprehension. Her hand gently pushes my chin up to meet her eyes. My heart is beating so hard in my chest; the last time I felt safe was in the arms of the man that saved me. The last thing that I wish for is disappointment again. I’m not sure I could survive it with lucidity.
“There’s someone here to see you. He came into your room earlier, but you were not in a well state. He has things he needs to tell you.” Her English is surprisingly fluent.
I furrow my brows as I try to remember.
Hugo?
There are so many questions I want to ask, but I have never been entitled to them before. What would change now? I simply nod my head yes, agreeing with her.
She puts her wrinkled, arthritic hand out to help me up, but I push myself up on my own. I need to know that I can stand on my own two feet, literally and figuratively. I stand up and feel the soft cotton rub against my skin. It’s comforting, but I don’t want to think that it will last. Like earlier, I feel like I am just a girl.
I am lost. I want to be loved, but most of all, I am finally feeling something I am not used to.
I am fucking angry.
I try my best not to stare at the old lady before me as her thick, snow white hair is piled high on top of her head in a perfectly round bun. Her bronze skin is beautiful, reminding me of a canvas that is filled with none other than beauty and kindness. I hope that I am not deceived this time.
She turns around, and I follow, leaving the safety of my room. The small hallway is adorned with antique family pictures, dozens of memories plastered on the wall of happiness that I have never had the pleasure of living. More disdain fills me as I understand the life I have been withheld. My jaw starts to ache, the clenching of my teeth making my head start to throb. I curl my fingers into my palms as fear skulks up my spine. I wonder now, if these feelings that I am so used to will ever go away?
The stench of food assaults my nose and I have to withhold the urge to run to it, sniffing until I find where it’s coming from like a maddened dog. My chest heaves as my belly grumbles. I feel blackness obscuring me again just as I was about to find out something worth anything…
Times of dumpster diving with Pavel play about in my mind, pirouetting to their own melody and taunting me with utter disgust. I want to keep my wits, but I have no control over what is happening to me; the remembrances that are less than pleasant flash before me. I have no control as I see a pot on the stove, the steam wafting heavy above, as the smell of warm food waves through the air like a priceless delicacy.
“Svetlana?” a familiar hum calls to me.
I briefly look over to see Hugo, but I am betrayed by the mind that I wish to save. I run to the food that is cooking on the stove, and before I can be my own salvation, the void that I am used to sucks me in and I am back to the day where everything changed.
“You whore. You fuck that Spanish fuck when he not pay me!” Pavel yelled, smacking my mother across the face.
It was nothing short of the norm. It was how he communicated with her. My mother took it. Like me, I don’t think she would have known how to survive without the hands of the devils abusing and using her like spit-out trash.
Marta laid on the ground, her blonde curls cascading over her face like a waterfall of fucked up bliss. She was living in her own made up dream, one that was one-sided and would never come true. I thought then that Marta loved me, and maybe she did just a little in her own way before the threat of another’s love was on the horizon, but I think she was too far gone to be saved.
The only love that she had was for the poison that she injected through her veins and up her nose.
Her drunken cackles filled the air as she struggled to get up from the floor of the abandoned apartment on Kelly Street. The pecking of roaches filled the walls and floors, and all I did was sit there as the serenade attempted to soothe me. I would often pretend to be watching a movie, hoping and praying for a happily-ever-after, but I would soon learn that the queen and princess were not born to be saved.
“He The Goodbye Man. He will take care of that shit over there,” Marta laughed, pointing to me.
My little body, which was clothed in nothing but a pair of dirty white underwear, sat in the corner. That was my place. It was where I belonged. I was naughty; born to be unwanted and I would forever be recapped on why.
Pavel walked over to the counter, ripping open a bag of white powder to sniff up his nose.
Sniff, sniff. His world was more tolerab
le and I wouldn’t get beaten as bad with the white powder he loved. Sometimes he would use the needle, but the powder made him happier. He would grow to rely solely on the needle, as it was cheaper and easier to come by in the hovels of Hunts Point.
Pavel let the effects of the wonder drug set in, then he cracked his neck from side to side, turning around to face me. He let himself smile, but it wasn’t a welcome one.
“You want to die, little girl? Mat’ wants to kill you…” he voice trailed to a whisper.
Desecration would be inevitable for the man that looked at me the way that he did. He ran over to me, grabbing my skinny cheeks between his hands, which reeked of stale cigarettes and liquor.
“You want The Goodbye Man? Mat’ wants you dead, Svetlana.”
He was mocking my existence; it wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last.
“We go see this man. Now,” Pavel seethed, squeezing my cheeks until I tasted blood. My hungry belly drank it up.
“Marta! Now!” he boasted, looking over his shoulder to my mother who was a heap of drugs and alcohol. Her laughter had turned into a whisper, because she, too, was contemptuous of my life.
I wanted to fight, but it would be worthless. I was created to sustain the harshness of the world. Some are born for love, not me. It was then that I wished for it, but I understood that it was not in the cards for me.
Pavel lit a cigarette with his free hand, still grasping my dark strands with his other, and strung me along like a useless piece of garbage. Seconds later, he pounded on a door. I tried so hard in that moment to cry and beg for mercy nonverbally, but the devil had expelled me from allowing myself to communicate in any such way. I didn’t belong to anyone who had a heart. Not even myself.
“I told you to not fucking come here,” the man said. The Goodbye Man. He promised me things, despite times I would be too much for him. He promised that I would be safe again one day, but it was then that I would understand my fate was nothing more than a lie. I was a bargaining tool for trade. My worth meant nothing.
“Marta want her to die. You want spare parts for little one? Money. Lots, Caesar!” Pavel screamed, throwing me within the threshold of Caesar’s doorway. I expected my mother’s voice to come screaming behind, but she was likely too drunk to walk or maybe she didn’t like to interfere with Pavel’s business practices. Whatever the case, she was probably sitting back smoking her cigarette, smiling at the thought of never having to care for me again.
My big eyes looked up to the man that promised me things, but I would not get the safety I craved. Instead, I would see yet another facet of misguided emotions and fractured minds.
“I told you that would never happen, Pavel. I will tear your heart out of your chest now, you Russian fuck,” Caesar seethed, all while his dark eyes remained on me.
His nostrils flared and I could see the torment and heartache written all over his face. Understanding such depravity at four-years-old is disheartening, yet real. I was witness to it all, removing any memory of it until my mind was ready to splinter before attempting to heal itself after years of monstrosity.
Caesar gulped hard, staring at me as if he, too, was weighing a decision that would forever change his life. I was a rotting piece of flesh, melting onto the ground beneath him and at his clemency. Humanity, though, wouldn’t find me that day. Hope was for the wicked, and it was then that my distorted view of life would come full circle.
Caesar charged through his open doorway, grasping Pavel by the neck. He bent his mouth down to his ear, whispering something to him. My understanding would not come. Pavel smiled, looking at me like he had me hook-line and sinker. Caesar’s grasp loosened, and Pavel took a step to the side, inhaling his cig.
Caesar walked over to me, bending down until his hands cupped my cheeks.
“Go say goodbye to your mother, Svetlana. No tears. You, Mi Amor, have to be a lion and not a lamb in this world.”
Then he kissed me gently on the lips before kicking me in the ribs and out of his apartment.
I was betrayed, once again, by the thought of something decent. I would be led home by Pavel to bid farewell to my mother before he took her to the alley behind the apartment, kicking her in the head until her brains littered the hot concrete. Her eyes were dead, glassy, and still loved me more that way than they ever did alive.
Caesar
There was an old woman, and what do you think?
She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink:
Victuals and drink were the chief of her diet
The tiresome old woman could never be quiet.
I have an exact plan of how this will happen, I just need the strength to keep my mind free of noise. I had never thought of it before, but the small Korean doctor suggested the hearing aids turned so loud that a whisper would be a scream. Why did we never think of this? Why did we not try it before? My cure is a small little device the size of a kidney bean. The deafening loudness of everything around me drowns out the noise of my madness and in the boisterous racket I find my quiet place. I found peace in the explosion of sounds.
My mother's voice will be silenced, but it can no longer cut me open. My physical limitations prevent me from ripping her throat out the way I wish I could. Her vocal cords in my hand as I take the voice that took my sanity. I have a business associate here in the city, he owns a nice hotel. I procured a heart for his sick daughter once and we have a working agreement where he owes me. We will be lunching in a suite at his establishment today, my mother will order coffee instead of a sweet after her meal - some things never change. Only today her coffee will be brewed with hate and revenge. No love in the cup, instead industrial strength acid will replace sugar and cream. Death served black and bitter.
I watch her eyes begin to water as the acid melts her tongue, throat and eventually stomach, her voice gone. Taken by me, melted into silence. I know the woman was already dying and I have probably saved her from suffering a miserable death, but the tears she is crying now are worth it. I know my mother loved me, but my disease was a stain on her existence and she turned bitter and twisted when I couldn’t love her the way she saw fit. I do not love my mother, in fact I am sure the only thing I feel for her in her dying minutes is hate. I revel in her inability to torture me with the sound of her voice. My mind goes back to being wrapped tightly in the towel as she sings the words of a nursery rhyme. The melody burned into my brain as her silky voice would hum the tune first, clinging me to her chest in a tight grip that I had no hope of escaping. The cradle of my mother’s arms became my torture chamber instead of my comfort. She slowly made me worse, day by day, driving the demons closer to the surface. The audible chaos in my mind was unbearable because of her need to make me 'get over it'. Her need, never my need, my best interest wasn’t her focus because my best interest was being far away from her. Like I knew it was in the best interest of my child not to be near me. I knew that I couldn’t control what went on in my mind and that I would hurt her. I put her best interest first, I made an error in my judgement, but I did what was best for her and not me. I remember the tiny infant in Marta’s arms, the strongest desire to hold her against my chest and never let her go. I remember what happened to me when she cried even better. I know while throwing her to Pavel was not a good thing, what I would have done to her would have been worse. I am a better parent than my mother ever was, my absent father that floated in and out of our lives wasn’t much better. At least he didn’t send me spiraling into insanity with just his voice. He was cold as ice though, the bore of his dark eyes as he looked at me with bitter disappointment when it became clear I would never be a doctor like them. My parents never loved me, they loved the idea of what I could have been if I wasn't sick.
My mother’s death roars in my ears amplified by the hearing aid making it a symphony of her agony. The sounds as her insides are becoming a soup is cathartic, my chains are cut loose as I am set free. I watch, I wait, her eyes sad as she lets me know without words that she understands. She is
apologizing for all she has done, she wants me to forgive but I will not.
“I cannot forgive you, Madre. You created me. That is unforgivable.” I say as her body begins to spasm and twitch. I hear every gurgle and hiss as she finally expires. Her head lolls forwards and the sounds stop. My life is quiet. I remove the two small devices from my ears and slip them in my breast pocket. My new secret weapon against my affliction. The victory is still hot in my veins when I leave the body behind and exit the room. I have arranged for her to be found dead of natural causes and cremated for return to her beloved Spain. Her time running The Red Market has closed and when we open tomorrow it will be mine.
I take the elevator down two floors to another room where I will share a drink with my friend, a celebration of my inheritance. The high is missing, I do not feel the elation that I should at the enemy I have overcome. The sorrow of what I had to lose before I was driven to this day is still heavy in me. I feel my hands shake as I swallow the tears I want to cry. Clinking glasses and talk of an empire fill the afternoon, the sun hangs low on the horizon when I finally leave to return to my business. The police chief has joined us for drinks and a new partnership, where I grease his palms and he doesn't see anything I do. Where hatred festered in me before, now I am filled with nothing but quiet sadness and a deep sorrow. I have lost many things in the days before this, a brother, a child and a mother. I am alone, except for Mateo, who I still do not know what to do with. I have every intention of punishing him for what he has done. But punishment will not cure him and I don’t know if I can live with him and his diseased soul any longer now that I am healed. The man is deeply disturbed in way that no good could ever come of, he doesn’t want to change. Mateo cannot see the wrong in his actions, he justifies his obsession with reasons that make sense only in his sick mind. I cannot judge him, because I have fallen in love with my daughter. I lust over her even in my dreams, even after her death I long to be with her. Even now in the deathly hallways of this place I see her ghost and I feel her presence.
The Goodbye Girl (Red Market Series Book 2) Page 17
