Monster in His Eyes

by J. M. Darhower

  He looks at me. "Because she didn't think you'd be able to escape."

  He makes it sound like I was a prisoner, like I was held against my will, like I hadn't welcomed Naz into my world. "You know nothing about what I have with him. Neither of you do."

  "I know more than you do. You're nothing but a means to an end to him, something for him to play with. He ain't stupid. He's biding his time, and you make it easier for him. That's all that is."

  Anger brews inside of me. I want to demand he stop the car, that he let me out, that he never look or speak to me again, but where does that leave me? Cold, and alone, with nowhere to go, and no more answers than I showed up with. So I just glare at him for a moment before turning away.

  "I know what you're thinking," he says.

  I scoff. "You know nothing."

  "Maybe I don't know the person you are, but I know the one you were born to be," he says. "I know your blood, girl. It's in my veins, too. And I know you're thinking maybe he's a good man, that maybe you can help him."

  I'm not a good man, Karissa, and I never will be. So don't think you can fix me, or that I'll ever change, because I won't. I can't

  "You're wrong," I say quietly. "He can't be fixed."

  "Then why were you with him?"

  "Because I thought maybe he didn't need to be."

  "He's fucked up, Karissa. His head doesn't work right."

  "Yeah, well, why do you think that is? Huh? Could it have been the bullet he took to the chest?"

  He grips the steering wheel tightly. He doesn't like that I talk back to him. "There are two sides to every story."

  "Then please, by all means, tell me yours. I'm dying to hear what compelled you to murder a pregnant woman and almost kill your best friend, because I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation for that."

  He slams the brakes harder than necessary, the car jolting to a stop at a red light. His eyes zero in on me. He's got a temper, one I can feel building in the car. It makes my skin crawl, sending up red flags that beg me to zip my lips. It's not smart to piss off the driver of the car you're in.

  "Nobody's innocent," he says. "Nobody. Not me, not him, not her, not your mother… not even you. I did what I had to do to survive the game, and then afterward, I did what I had to for you and your mother to live."

  "You left us."

  "I had a target on my back, girl. What the hell did you expect me to do?"

  "Not put a target on your back in the first place."

  He laughs bitterly but doesn't respond to that. I say nothing else, watching out the window. It's the longest drive of my life, even longer than the trip to Waterford with Naz, over an hour trapped in this car with this man as he takes us somewhere in New Jersey.

  Somewhere I've never been before.

  The house is modest, but a far cry from the slums they were in last time. It's a home—somebody's home, complete with trimmed hedges and a white picket fence. I follow John inside nervously, finding my mother sitting on a plush burgundy couch in the living room, Killer asleep on the floor near her. The television is on, some movie playing in the background, but all I hear is my mother's frantic voice as she rushes toward me. Her hands paw at me, her eyes wild. "Are you okay, Kissimmee? Please tell me you are. Please tell me he didn't hurt you."

  She's on the verge of tears.

  I shake my head, in a daze, trying to adjust to my surroundings. "No, of course not. He didn't hurt me. He wouldn't."

  John laughs bitterly again.

  "You're sure?" she asks. "You can tell me if he did."

  "I'm fine, Mom. I just…" I look past her, around the room. It's well lived-in, the scent of flowers clinging to the air from a lit candle. "Who lives here?"

  "I do," John says.

  I turn to him, brow furrowing. "How long have you lived here?"

  He seems to consider that for a moment, startling me when he reaches into his coat and pulls out a gun. Every muscle in my body seizes up at the sight of it, but he turns around and slips it on top of the mantle over his unlit fireplace before turning to me. "How old are you these days?"

  "Nineteen."

  "About nineteen years, then."

  I blink rapidly. "You've lived here the whole time? The whole time we've been moving around, running, you've been here?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you not see how fucked up that is?"

  He shrugs.

  Before I can completely lose it, my mother grabs my arm and pulls me down onto the couch with her. "I know it's hard to understand…"

  "No, it's quite easy, actually," I tell her, raising my voice so loud that Killer perks up, lifting his head to look at me. "You've spent years on the run because of something he did, and it hasn't affected him at all. He has a house, a home, something I've wanted my entire life, but I couldn't have… he had it. He has it."

  She casts her eyes toward John as he lingers in the room, relaying some silent message to him that I don't understand. None of the hate I want to see from her is present when she regards him. No, I see something else instead. Compassion.

  It fuels my hate more.

  He excuses himself then, giving us some privacy. As soon as he's gone, she turns back to me again. "Just because he's been in one place doesn't mean he hasn't been affected. He lost his family."

  "Him?" I ask incredulously. "He lost his family? He killed Naz's!"

  "I know," she says, her words striking me hard. I never doubted it, but the confirmation is a hard pill to swallow. "He did."

  "Did you know?" My voice is tentative. I'm afraid of her answer. "Did you know he was going to do it, that he was planning to…?"

  "Of course not," she says, those tears in her eyes breaking forth and running down her cheeks. "Maria was my best friend. Had I known… had he told me… I would've stopped him. I would've done whatever I had to in order to stop him. But I didn't know until it was too late, until it was over, until he came home…"

  She closes her eyes as she flinches at the memory.

  "So why are you here now?" I ask, my voice low and accusing. I'm trying to stay calm, but I don't understand how she can sit in this room, in this house with him. How she can run to him after what he did. "Why are you even near him?"

  "He had no choice," she says. "He had to… he had to do something."

  "So he killed a woman," I say with disbelief. "That was his solution? He shot his best friend. Naz told me all about it, how he smiled in his face, acted like nothing was wrong, and then tried to kill him that night."

  "Vitale told you that?" She raises her eyebrows in question. "Did he tell you he was planning to kill John the whole time that was happening?"

  "You don't know what you're talking about."

  "No, you don't," she says pointedly. "Vitale can play victim in the whole thing, and he was a victim… he was… but he wasn't the only one."

  "That excuses nothing," I say.

  "You're right—it doesn't. It happened, and there's nothing anybody can do to change it. But there's been enough death. Too much death. Instead of gunning for John after that, they came for his family. So he left us, so we could go into hiding, because maybe if they thought he didn't care about us they wouldn't bother killing us. But it didn't work. Clearly, it didn't work. Because he found us." She pauses, looking at me. "He found you."

  I just stare at her. I always thought my mother was unbalanced, that she was needlessly paranoid, but she'd merely been trying to stay two steps ahead of the monster… a monster I unknowingly ran straight to the moment I was away from her.

  Despite her warnings, I walked straight into the lion's den, serving myself up on a platter, the meal he was always looking for.

  There's something about you... something I've sought for a very long time. Something I've always wanted. And now that I've found it, I don't know if I can let it go.

  Closing my eyes, I drop my head, covering my face with my hands. The truth was right there from the beginning. It's all too much to come to terms with. My hea
d is ferociously pounding. My chest feels like it might burst.

  Killer appears at my legs then, nudging me with his nose as he whines. I wrap my arms around him, laying my head against the top of his.

  He never lied to me.

  He never thought to kill me.

  At the moment, he's the only one I don't seem to hate.

  "I need some time to think," I say. "Some time to process."

  She rubs my back gently. "There's a spare bedroom upstairs. We're going to ride out this weekend here and then we'll go."

  "Go where?"

  "As far away from here as we can go."

  Those words do nothing to make me feel better. Going, I think, might kill me more than staying.

  I'm not a man who just gives up in the middle of something. If I go any further, if I don't walk away now, I won't be able to.

  The bedroom is decently sized, the furniture light oak and appears unused. No dents, no nicks, no scuffs on the wood, and if I had enough energy to look, I'd bet all the drawers in the dresser are empty, the stiff sheets most definitely never slept on before.

  I couldn't make out much of it in the dark, my head hurting too much to turn on the light when I climbed into the bed. Despite my exhaustion, I couldn't fall asleep, wide-awake as Naz's words repeatedly roll through my frazzled mind.

  I know I should let you go, should let you walk away from me right now, but I can't do it. I can't.

  The sun rose a few hours ago, although it doesn't shine, a thick cloud covering blanketing the sky. Rain beats against the window. I lay in the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the subtle noises of someone moving around downstairs.

  My stomach is growling.

  My chest is aching.

  I can't get his voice out of my fucking head.

  I've lost enough, Karissa. I won't lose you, too.

  It has been twelve hours since I walked out of the house. He'd be awake now, the effects of the drug long out of his system.

  I wonder what he thought when he woke up.

  I wonder how he's feeling.

  I wonder what he's going to do to me.

  I hear a faint buzzing as I lay there. I ignore it at first until it strikes me that it's my phone. Sighing, I reach for my purse on the floor, rifling through it. Glancing at the screen, my blood runs cold.

  Naz.

  He's calling me.

  I look at his name until it stops ringing. I'm about to toss the phone back into my purse when it vibrates again.

  Voicemail.

  I feel sick as I stare at the alert. My teeth gnaw at my lip nervously until I can't take it any more.

  As much as it frightens me, I have to listen.

  I'm a glutton for punishment and crave the sound of his voice. I have to know how angry he is, how much he hates me right now…

  I have to know he's okay.

  Pressing the button, I bring the phone to my ear. Silence greets me, strained silence, before he exhales loudly and the line goes dead.

  He offers me no words, only a single breath.

  Sighing, I toss the phone aside. I can still hear noise downstairs. I'm no closer to figuring out how I feel about them than I was last night, but I can't stay in this room anymore. I creep down there, hearing someone move around the kitchen, the scent of bacon wafting my way.

  My mother's cooking.

  John, on the other hand, sits on his couch, toying with his gun. He doesn't look away from it as he greets me. "Good morning."

  There's nothing good about this morning. The sky is crying and something inside of me is dying.

  Wordlessly, I sit down in a chair, not looking at John.

  "Nothing to say, girl?"

  I've got nothing to say to him.

  My mother, hearing his voice, steps out of the kitchen. "Oh, good morning, sweetie."

  "Morning."

  There's still nothing good about it.

  The day is a daze. I eat breakfast, eat lunch, humor my mother's attention, answer some of her questions, and try to pretend John is nowhere around.

  I think about Naz.

  And think about him.

  And think about him some more.

  I think about him until my head starts pounding again, and my heart feels like it's been crushed.

  "I'm going to bed," I mutter, standing up. My mother's cooking dinner now and tries to stop me, but I say I'm not hungry as I head for the stairs.

  She's making lasagna. John requested it. I wonder if either of them remember that's what they ate that fateful night. They act like nothing is wrong, like we're some happy family that has regular dinners and normal conversations.

  The universe is fucking with me.

  I climb into the bed and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping sleep takes me away from reality for a while.

  Hoping, while I'm unconscious, the answers come to me.

  Something pulls me out of a deep sleep so abruptly I'm disoriented. For a second, I forget where I am, the darkness thick and heavy in the room, smothering everything.

  Tap

  I blink a few times, trying to adjust to the void, as the hair on my arm stands on end at the noise. I lay completely still, straining my ears. I think it might be Killer, or am I hearing things?

  Tap

  I hear it again. It doesn't sound like the dog. My muscles tense up. It's getting louder, growing closer, restrained and methodic.

  Tap

  It hits me like a crack across the face. Footsteps.

  Tap

  I sit upright, heart racing. I'm on guard, eyes darting frantically around the darkness, as I inhale sharply. I barely have time to blink when the form is right in front of me, like a menacing black shadow hovering by the bed.

  A scream bubbles up in my chest, just breaking free, when the darkness shifts. The cry barely pierces the silence when the form shoves against me, climbing on top of me to hold me down, a glove-clad hand roughly covering my mouth.

  Trembling, I blink my tear-filled eyes, my chest burning as I inhale. A blurry face appears right in front of me, dark eyes piercing like daggers, the expression terrifying.

  Naz.

  Ignazio.

  My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can feel it as he pins me to the bed. I'm on the verge of hyperventilating, terrified, tears streaming down my cheeks. He just lies there, restraining me, staring so hard I don't even think he blinks. Something marks his skin, a small streak on his jawline, with tiny flecks around his neck.

  When he inches closer, I see that it's blood.

  Blood.

  There's fucking blood on his face.

  I sob into his palm as the tip of his nose grazes mine. He's here. He found me.

  Oh God, how did he find me?

  "If I let go, you can't scream," he says, his voice gritty and emotionless. "Do you understand?"

  I try to nod.

  "I mean it," he warns. "The last thing you want to do is wake your mother."

  My mother... is asleep.

  Not dead.

  Not bleeding.

  He slowly pulls his hand away, his hold on me loosening. I don't move. I don't so much as breathe too loud. My Naz is long gone. The monster woke up from the drug-fueled nap.

  "You're going to get up, and as quiet as possible, you're going to follow me outside," he says, matter of fact. "As long as your mother stays asleep, I'll leave her alone, but if she wakes up..."

  He doesn't finish that thought. He doesn't have to.

  Her blood will be the next spilled.

  I can't let that happen.

  He lets go of me when he decides I get the point. I'm surprised my legs work when I climb to my feet. My body shakes as I fumble around in the dark, trying to grab my things, all knobby-kneed and tongue-tied.

  I'm fucking terrified.

  He loves you, I silently tell myself, trying to stay calm. He won't hurt you. He promised.

  The voice is confident, but my common sense screams louder. People fall out of love. Not everyone keeps their
promises.

  I slip on my shoes and grab my purse. I'm still wearing what I had on when I left him twenty-four hours ago. One whole day, that was all I had, all it took for him to come for me.

  I'll always show up.

  When I turn to him, I see he's watching me warily. Any amount of trust I earned by loving him withered away as he slept last night. There's hell to pay, all right, and I'm the one he's going to bill for it. His eyes are full of suspicion. He's a commander, and he believes I've defected.

  What's the punishment for a traitor these days?

  "Go," he says, motioning toward the door. "Tiptoe."

  I tread lightly, holding my breath as I head for the stairs. As soon as I reach them, another door on the floor creaks, opening a bit. I spin that way, terrified, and see Killer's head peek out from the other bedroom. He sees Naz before he sees me and starts to growl.

  "Killer," I whisper frantically, calling for him, my heart racing. "It's okay, boy."

  The dog looks my way, silencing. His gaze bounces between Naz and me, the usually passive Killer on alert, like he can sense something's wrong.

  "Karissa, is that you?"

  I almost cry out at the sound of my mother's voice calling from the bedroom. I turn to Naz, wide-eyed, trying to keep my voice steady as I say, "It's fine, Mom. Got some water. Go back to sleep."

  I stare at Naz, my eyes pleading with him, as Killer heads back into the room, deciding there's no threat.

  "Goodnight, sweetie," she says back. "Sweet dreams."

  "You, too, Mom."

  I wait for Naz to make a move as his head turns toward the dark doorway. After a moment, he turns back to me, motioning toward the stairs. Relief almost cripples me when I turn back around and walk again.

  She's okay.

  My mother's still okay.

  It's dark down here, just as black as it is upstairs. I blink, still trying to adjust to it, my eyes drawn to the living room when I reach the first floor. All at once the air leaves my lungs in a whoosh as I nearly crumble.

  There's blood everywhere. I can hardly make it out in the darkness, a lake of oozing black on the floor, a body floating in the center of it, something sticking straight out of his chest. A knife.

  John.

  Dead.

  I cry out before I can stop myself. Naz's arms encircle me from behind, his hand reaching up, his palm pressing into my neck as strong fingers grasp my chin, forcing me to look away from the mess. His breath fans against me as he whispers, "Don't."