Brutally Beautiful

by Christine Zolendz

  Snorting out a laugh, I nudged her with my elbow. “Sure, he’s all yours. He’s way too pretty for my taste. Besides, I think I’m done with men for a while.” Rubbing my clammy palms down the pant legs of my jeans, I bit at the one tiny part of my lip that didn’t hurt, “I’m feeling kind of buzzed and I didn’t even drink yet.”

  “Adrenaline. Loss of blood. Don’t change the subject, I’m still calling dibs,” she whispered.

  Nope. I think it’s freedom.

  The bartender slid two glasses full of his dark concoction across the lacquered length of the bar, “Here you go, loves. This drink is called an Adios, Motherfucker. Which, I hope to God you both said to whomever the hell put their hands on you,” he said, leveling a pair of serious-as-hell blue eyes at us.

  Adios, Motherfucker.

  Bree held up her drink to mine and clinked her glass against it. “To new beginnings,” she whispered.

  “To freedom,” I whispered back.

  Adios, Motherfucker.

  I watched as the beautiful bartender walked away from us, moved around the bar talking to the other patrons and grabbing plates of food off their tables. He carried them through a door into a back area and reappeared with other steaming plates of food to serve. There were no other employees around.

  We sipped our drinks in silence, both of us most likely trying to forget the last twenty-four hours of our lives. But, man, I wanted to forget a lot more.

  Bree’s eyes followed the bartender like a little lost dog, “So what do you think? Want to stay for a while? The scenery is nice.”

  “Oh, sure. Yeah. I always wondered what it would be like to live in a freezer.”

  “It’s not that cold. And we’re far enough.”

  “Jen…dammit…Bree….what the hell kind of name is Bree anyway? It’s like twenty degrees and it’s October. Across the damn world would not be far enough.”

  “Germs don’t live in cold environments? We could dye your hair black. I could use a whole new hairstyle and look. It will be like playing hide and seek.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I’m serious. We have plenty of money and no one would ever look for you in the middle of the woods. They’d try looking in major cities and that’s if anyone is even looking,” she whispered.

  I almost spit my drink all over her. “So you think nobody will be looking for me?”

  “All I’m saying is that we could blend in here and the bartender is really gorgeous. What do you think? He seems nice, right?”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m such a great judge of character. Please. I wouldn’t know a sociopath if he tore off my arms and beat me with them.”

  “You ladies need anything over here?” The Ken doll asked a few minutes later, as he wiped down the top of the bar. My eyes zoned in on the sinewy muscles of his tanned arms as he dried off the condensation from our cool drinks in smooth circular motions.

  “Oh, yes. Yes I do,” Bree mumbled low.

  “Yeah, actually,” I said, as I nudged Bree under the counter of the bar to shut her up, “Do you know of any hotels or anything nearby?”

  He offered me a small sad smile. “Love, you’re in the middle of the Adirondacks. You have one campground with a trailer park, a few ranger posts and secluded houses, that’s about it. You both look like you need a hospital, or a cop. Not a hotel. There’s a small town about thirty minutes drive north, where most of the people around these parts live, near the prisons, where the jobs are.”

  “Yeah? What kind of jobs can you find there?” Bree asked, completely ignoring the advice to visit a hospital and kicking me with her foot. Oh God, she really wanted to set up camp here because of the pretty Ken Doll. Ugh.

  “Regular town jobs. There’s the prison, a school, supermarket, library, and the local POLICE. There’s also that hospital I mentioned, that you so sweetly ignored. Why are you asking about work? Are you girls looking for a job?” he asked, wrinkling his brow. Crap, this did sound like the beginning of a bad horror movie…

  I knew if I didn’t ask, Bree would. I could plainly see where her mind was going, right into his bed. “Think you could use two waitresses, just for a few days a week? My behind is way too big to jiggle up there,” I pointed to the empty stage. “I’m Lainey, by the way. And, this is Bree.”

  “Lainey and Bree? Are you sure you don’t want to dance? Those names are perfect for it,” he laughed flirtatiously. “I’m Dylan Grayson and you’re hired, but not until that, um, space alien thing you got growing on your face heals. It’s not really working for you. I’m sure you’re both very pretty under all that war paint.” He flipped his bar towel over his shoulder and walked through the back door again.

  “I’ve never waitressed before,” Bree sighed next to me.

  “I did, for a while in high school,” I replied, finishing my drink. “Let’s try to find a place to stay tomorrow, maybe at the trailer park, and try to get rid of that ostentatious Porsche.” I held up my shaking hands and watched my fingers tremble. “Waitressing isn’t so bad, pretty easy once you get the hang of it. I mean it’s not like being a neurosurgeon or anything.”

  “Yeah,” she whispered, as she leaned her head on my shoulder, “and living in a trailer sounds like loads of fun.”

  When our glasses were empty, Dylan walked over and slid over two refills. He leaned his elbows against the top of the bar and smiled at Bree, “So where is it that you come from?” I had to hand it to her, even bruised up she could get a man’s attention. I hoped he wasn’t married.

  My head softly fell against my arms and I drifted away from their conversation. Heaviness spread across my shoulders and down both my arms, weighing me down, pulling me under like a fierce riptide drowning me, overcoming me; destroying me.

  I stared blankly at Dylan’s lips as he smiled at something Bree said. My vision blurred and I wrapped my arms tightly around my waist trying to focus on the way his accent lingered on each word, but he was just too pretty to watch. Too bright and shiny… “She just had a little run in with an old boyfriend, that’s all…everything is fine now…She’ll be fine…yeah, we need a place to stay…”

  “Ladies room?” I asked, barely above a hoarse whisper. Dylan stared wide-eyed into my glazed expression and quickly pointed to a back hallway.

  The bar stool crashed against the floor, making a horrible clanging and banging sound as I pushed off and rushed into the hallway. Racing into the bathroom, I locked myself into a stall and emptied my stomach into the toilet. A cold burst of sweat broke out across my forehead and I dropped hard against my knees on the cold tiled floor of the bathroom, trying to brace myself up with violently shaking arms.

  I slid down against the vileness of the cold porcelain and squeezed my eyes tightly, swallowing down the hard knot of disgust. Panic tightened my chest into fast pounding explosions and desperation to stand up away from the dirty-filthy stench of my insides and the white watery bowl that held them was overwhelming.

  Life as I knew it was over.

  My life.

  Over.

  That woman I once was, Samantha Matthews, was gone. Left for dead.

  Everything and everyone I ever knew…Everything I had ever worked for…gone. Just. Like. That.

  Poof.

  Gone.

  What happened?

  It was building like an unstoppable freight train in the pit of my stomach and I clenched my fists tight. I couldn’t focus on clear thoughts. Frantic visions clouded my mind and my brain went off like a gunshot, fast and lethal. Thousands of images, words, and emotions fired out of my mind like a machine gun. Adrenaline surged through my body and my heart pounded unevenly. The dark gloves of panic gripped my entire body and squeezed. My head hit the floor with a wet thwack, and the edges of my vision blurred like reels of an old movie.

  “Fuck you, Samantha,” he says coldly, when he finds me in the living room with all my packed bags. I won’t even face him. I can’t look at him at all.

  I choke out a laugh, “No thank you. I
don’t want to catch anything.” Jen will be here any minute; I hope there’s no traffic.

  “Samantha, you’re sick, baby. You should have taken all your medicine,” his monotone voice drolls.

  “You’re the one that’s sick…” I spin on him as he’s clamping his heavy hands around my throat, cutting off my words. Thick fingers press into the skin of my neck, crushing my esophagus. I kick and thrash wildly, frantically clawing my way to break free. Pure panic rushes through my throat as I gag and gasp for the air he is stealing from me. Lifting me easily off the ground, he slams my back against the bookcase, my head and shoulders landing on the spines of all my books. Pain explodes across my body; bursts of light blurs my vision.

  He’s yanking me by my hair, dragging me along the coarse carpet of the floor, burning my palms and the skin on my knees. I pull away, digging my heels into the plush rug, but his fists just twist my hair tighter around his hand and my body lifts off the ground. Swinging my fists out, I fiercely try to connect with his flesh, clawing and punching.

  I stopped loving him.

  When I knew what he did, it was instant.

  This, this is him just getting rid of the evidence.

  Images of that monster clawed their way into my skull, how could they not? It was because of him my hands trembled so much. It was because of him that there was death all around me. Monster. A fucking vicious troll; a beast who I once loved, like an evil mythical creature that lied and waited until he thought I was powerless and struck me hard and fast, like the poisonous bite of a cobra. Deadly.

  Me. Unknowing. Foolish.

  My panic turned into hysterics. Tears streaked down my cheeks, raining down on my lap. I let myself breakdown in the solace of the small closed off room, where no one would be witness to my weakness. Even strong people needed to break sometimes.

  I didn’t cry from fear, or hurt, or pain.

  I cried for Samantha Matthews, the woman that they forced me not to be.

  For everything I lost.

  There are only a few words I have left in my mind for them:

  You never should have underestimated me.

  Chapter 2

  The puddle of blood that lies beneath the limp bodies of my friends is quickly spreading thickly across the floor. There’s a heavy pool of blood in my mouth that spills out over the corner of my lips to mix with the seeping blood bath along the cold slabs of tile. My breaths are noisy, raspy and there’s no oxygen in the room. Did someone turn the oxygen off? Why can’t I breathe? Why can’t I get enough air? I want my mum.

  My math notebook is lying near my head and pages of my algebra equations are scattered around the room. All at once, they absorb a swell of thick red blotches that cause the ink to blur and disappear. The pungent smell of some sort of acrid odor lingers thickly in the air, weighing heavily on my stomach.

  Haunting, mumbled singsong crooning, whispers through the room. “Did you ever think, when a hearse drove by…that you might be the next to die…they’ll cover you with a big white sheet…after I splash through the puddles of life beneath my feet…”

  I can hear the clip clop of footsteps. The squish-squash of two boots squeaking and sliding over the bloodied tiles. “Pl…ple…ease. Please, don’t.” I hear a shaky voice whimper. I can’t tell if it’s a female or a male’s voice, but I know it’s an older voice, so it can’t be one of my classmates. I know it’s not Mrs. Turner’s voice, because Mrs. Turner is lying in front of me with her dead glazed eyes staring at me. She tried to shield me from what was happening, but I don’t think it made a difference, something still got through. My body trembles with the coldness that is drifting up through the tiles. “Please! NONONO!” The voice begs as a loud click echoes across the room. Then POP! POP! POP! POP! Click! Click! Click! Click!

  Click!

  Click!

  Click!

  Click!

  CLICK! I jerked against the steering wheel, my pulse pounding against my temple as I pulled up to the parking lot of the bar with heavy anxiety. Yanking the gearshift into park, I ran my hands over my face to focus back on reality, trying to bury the flashback in my head. My mind was heavy with thick red images as I tried to rub the blur of them from my eyes.

  Focus.

  I told my brother I would stop at the bar.

  I have to go in.

  I hated going there. I hated the long day I’d been through already and I just wanted to be alone, but I promised my brother. So I stepped out, still dressed in my tuxedo, the one my agent said I had to wear to the prior day’s festivities, and I dragged myself into my brother’s den of hell.

  I knew I was being irrational about everything, especially about the awards dinner the night before. Any normal man would have been rattled with pride receiving the highly coveted Bram Stoker Award, but I was far from normal. I was barely able to sit next to Gary, my editor, and his wife Mable with her glazed over eyes that reminded me of a corpse staring vacantly into the nothingness. Every time she spoke to me, her whiny voice clawed at my self-control, which I had very little of to begin with. It took just about all my energy not to shove my napkin down her throat, and watch her gasp and flail about for breath.

  When I was finally introduced, I tried to shake off my fury, but the twisted tension that followed me everywhere gripped deep in my muscles and seeped into my bones. My speech consisted of a wave and a whispered thank you. I wanted to flip my audience the finger, but I held myself back. I always held myself back, but I was always one bullet shy of self-destruction. The prize was thrown in the bottom of my suitcase awaiting its poor fate of being shoved in the back of the extra closet in my guest bedroom, never to see the light of day again. I hadn’t even stayed the night in the hotel my assistant booked. I just jumped right back on the next available flight and headed home. Now I have to pretend to be sane and normal and visit my brother.

  I just needed to focus on now. I’ll have one drink then leave. Leave society for as many months as I possibly could. The bloody images of my flashbacks faded from my thoughts slowly as I walked through the door, but they always lingered in the outskirts of my mind, waiting for the most inappropriate times to peek out.

  Stepping my foot in, I instantly scanned the room, taking inventory of the number of bodies, exits, lighting, and furniture. Then I watched the patrons in their various states of expression. It is a subconscious action now, as thought provoking as breathing is to me, but it’s ingrained in me nonetheless.

  My brother’s place was packed, of course, it was, and there was a bloody tart gyrating on a glittery pole in the middle of the stage shaking her ass to the sounds of Lady Blah Blah or whatever the hell her name was. I didn’t see my brother, Dylan, anywhere as I sat myself at the back, farthest away from everyone, back to the wall, nearest table to the exit. Looking at my watch, I saw it was almost eleven.

  I’m staying exactly one minute.

  No more than sixty seconds.

  Screw it, time’s up.

  I was just about to sneak out and hide from my brother and the rest of humanity for the next damn six months, when I glanced up and froze. A small fluid movement caught my eye. A flutter of something, someone, who shouldn’t belong, grace and poise, yet strong and vicious. It pinned me to my seat.

  The deep throb in my temple that always accompanied my flashbacks disappeared instantly.

  Thirty feet away from my dark corner stood some sort of angel. Backlit as she stood in front of the illuminated bar, I had a perfect view of her silhouette. Dark black hair tumbled wildly over her creamy white neck, falling to her tiny waist as if it were liquid silk. Petite, yet voluptuous, with soft curves that had me instantly, thinking about sinking inside deeply and riding her hard. She was wearing a high collared, tight black long-sleeved t-shirt, which hugged her shape but was covered by a torn up apron that coincided with the idiotic name of the bar. She was dressed excessively conservative for being inside a strip club; it was as if she didn’t want anyone to see her flesh. Like she was hiding. The
sounds of the bar seemed to fade into low murmurs and Lady RahBlahGah, whatever, was now quietly whispering that she was born some stupid certain way, as I watched the woman move.

  That’s what I’m extremely good at, watching people. Reading them. I was always more of a voyeur when it came to social situations. Notoriously introverted, I have mastered the art of hiding myself and detaching from everything. I learned an invaluable lesson once. If I stayed silent for long enough, and just watched long enough, people and life would pass by me, as if I were invisible. Or dead.

  Her nails were short, just a bit longer than the pads of her fingers, and were devoid of any colored polish. She leaned on one of the tables in the middle of the bar and tapped them on the table, waiting for a bunch of drunken guys to make their orders. She wrote nothing down, wasn’t even holding a pad. She was listening intently as the men seemed to banter back and forth in their blatant inebriated states. Her lips smiled at them, full and lush, the kind of lips that when they speak to you all you hear is sex. Any man could look at those lips and think sex. Hell, her whole mouth would be any man’s fantasy. I shifted in my seat to ease the pressure those thoughts brought against the zipper of my pants. It wasn’t even that she was beautiful, though she was in my eyes. It was the way the features on her face melted together in a delicate balance of strength, intelligence, and sensuality that had me intrigued. And the fascinating way she tried to disguise it, working in a strip club and looking as plain as if she didn’t think anything about her lack of attention-grabbing appearance. Yet, she stood confident and hard, like she knew her hidden attributes were better than showing her tits to the patrons.

  She wore no wedding band, no jewelry of any kind and not a stitch of make-up. Then, one of the men placed his hand on her ass and I waited for what always happened in shitholes like this, the worst of humanity. My lust immediately ceased to exist for the woman. She’ll move her ass against his hand and flirt with him to try to make a few dollars extra tip from him. Maybe she’ll give him a lap dance, suck his cock in the back of his pickup truck for twenty bucks or for a line of blow in the bathroom. I’ve seen it a dozen times here already. I fucking hated visiting my brother. Although, I must admit, I wouldn’t mind witnessing the sucking cock part, which might be mildly entertaining, especially with those lips. I slumped back in my seat, already gutted that I wasted time thinking the whore looked like an angel.