by Willow Rose
Chapter Forty-Two
January 2016
Blake feels so alive he almost can’t stand it. His heart pounds inside of his chest as he walks across the parking lot, his gloved hand inside of the pocket of his sweater, the knife clutched in it.
It’s been awhile since he killed last, and the anticipation of the kill is overwhelming. It sends waves of chills through his body, making him feel like the most powerful creature on this planet right now.
Like a predator. Sneaking up on his prey.
It’s a sensation no drug could ever give him, the thrill of taking a life, of holding the power of life or death in your hand.
He walks to the window and looks inside. He knows she is in there. He watched her from his car as she came back from the store, a bag of groceries in her hands. He watched her as she found the key in her pocket, then fumbled with the lock, almost dropping the bag. It left him with such a strong sensation in his body, knowing what he had decided to do with her, knowing that she has no idea.
She’s not going to know what hit her.
He hopes she’ll be screaming. He likes it when they scream and try to fight him. Gives him even more pleasure when he overpowers them, when he pins them down and they can’t move. The struggle for their lives is what feeds him. Their will to survive at any cost is what he thirsts for.
He knows this one will be a struggle. She’s a feisty one. He always chooses the spirited ones. It would be no fun if they just gave up, now would it?
In his mind, he goes through his previous killings, tasting every one of them again. He used to do mostly hookers that he would pick up on one of his nightly drives in the car his dad had given him. His first ever kill was a Puerto Rican woman. He picked her up in Cape Canaveral. She was beat up by some guy the night before and had bruises on her face already. He didn’t really plan on killing her, he just wanted to get laid. But something about her made him want to hurt her. She was like a bruised animal, pathetic and weak. It was like she was screaming for it.
They had sex in his car, and when he came, everything inside of him just exploded in this unstoppable tsunami of anger. Some psychologists would probably argue that it was his anger towards his mother for not being there when he grew up, or maybe at his father for being just as absent, at least mentally.
Blake didn’t care why, he just knew he had to do this, he had to hurt her in order to feel better himself. So he did. He grabbed her around the throat and simply held her while she tried to fight him. He is still amazed when he thinks about how calm he was, despite the rage filling him. It was like the act in itself finally calmed his inner demons, all the voices, all the emotions were finally quiet, drowned out.
When she wasn’t breathing anymore, he dumped her in a garbage bin behind a restaurant. No one ever found the body. At least, he didn’t think they did. He never heard anything. And he no longer cared. He knew now how to shut up the rage when it showed its ugly face, when it overwhelmed him with that itchy feeling.
But the thing is, it isn’t working as well as it used to. He used to be able to wait for months, even a year in the beginning, between kills. But not lately. He needs to do it more and more often to get the calmness back.
Blake swings the door open and walks in. No one in sight. There is light coming from the bathroom. She has to be in there. Excitedly, he shuts the door quietly behind him and hurries towards the bathroom.
He hears her flush and can hear her humming. Then the water is turned on as she washes her hands.
Nice and clean.
He closes his eyes as he follows the sound of her every move. The water being turned off again, then the silence as she wipes her hands on the towel. She mumbles something at her own reflection, then turns and as she opens the door, he opens his eyes and stares at her with a wide smile.
For a quick moment, she looks startled, her eyes wide and open. When she sees the knife in his gloved hand, she gasps and runs for the door. He lets her get ahead, just for the fun of it, then storms after her, and just as her hands land on the door handle, he grabs her by her ponytail and yanks her backwards.
She shrieks and Blake clamps a hand tightly against her mouth and starts to pull her backwards. He throws her on the floor and she tries to kick him, but it hardly hurts. She is not a match for him at all. He slaps her across her face to let her know how strong he is. She screams. He closes his eyes for just a second and tastes her screams, her fear, her anxiety and terror. He feels like the Hulk, who grows bigger and stronger, then looks down at her and slaps her again.
He pins her to the ground, then places a hand on her mouth again. He doesn’t want to alarm the neighbors. He doesn’t want the police to arrive too early. Not until he’s had his way with her, not until he has managed to shut up the unease inside of him.
“Please, don’t,” she begs behind his hand.
It only makes him smile even wider. The begging is the best part. He tries to imagine what it must be like being her at this moment. What is she thinking?
Will he stop if I beg? If only I can make him feel sorry for me? What if I cry? Will he know that what he is doing is wrong then?
It always amuses Blake that they try to beg. Do they really think he is someone they can reason with? That he is capable of feeling pity? Don’t they know he has chosen them? That he has planned this and is determined to finish it? That if he doesn’t finish it, he will explode? That there is no way back? No matter how much they plead and beg. There is no way out but death for them.
It’s just the way it is.
“Don’t do this,” she tries again.
Blake laughs, and then slams a fist into the girl’s face. It makes her shut up. But only for a few seconds. Then she starts to cry, mostly deep groans and sobs.
That’s it, baby girl. Realize it is over. Let it sink in, then slowly give up the fight. I like to look into your eyes as you do.
It is his favorite moment of it all. When they finally give in, finally realize that no matter how much they fight, no matter how much they cry and plead for his mercy, there is no way out, there is nothing left for them but death.
“Why?” she asks in a daze.
He strokes her head gently with his glove, then leans over and whispers in her ear: “Because I can.”
“Don’t…don’t…”
“Sh. There is nothing you can do. The sooner you realize it, the faster it will go,” he says.
And that’s when he sees it. The girl opens her eyes wide, but there is no more fight in them.
That’s it. Let it go.
Blake then lifts the knife in the air above his head and the color drains from her face as he lets it sink into her body.
Chapter Forty-Three
January 2016
Marcia is running up along the beach. She is panting heavily. It’s hard to run in the sand. But she doesn’t dare to go up on the street. She feels so confused. She can’t get her thoughts straight. A thousand pictures are running through her mind, and she can’t get them to go away, nor get the voices to shut up so she can think.
I need a drink.
Marcia stops and throws herself in the sand. Behind her, a row of big mansions are staring at her. She wonders if there are people in there, if they’ll call the police if they see her. She also wonders if they have any alcohol.
Marcia closes her eyes.
“What am I even doing all the way out here?” she asks out loud. “How did I get here?”
She tries to remember, but she can’t. All she knows is that she is in danger, that she can’t trust anyone. She turns her head and looks at the houses again. She feels like she knows them, like she has been here before in this exact spot. She doesn’t know why. Maybe they just look familiar, especially the big blue one.
Was it in a dream? It doesn’t feel real.
Marcia shakes her head and turns away. She stares at the ocean. Nothing seems to make any sense anymore. She is sick and tired of remembering things, remembering her life in small bits an
d pieces.
Where do all these images come from? The ones of the children in their PJs and their parents, especially the one of the mother haunts her. The wound in her stomach, the blood on her shirt, the eyes staring at the ceiling. Marcia can’t remember ever seeing anything like this. And then she remembers. Like a lightning strike, she sees him. In a ball of fire, he is thrown through the living room.
Mark!
“No!”
Marcia is panting and gasping for her breath. “Oh, my God,” she whispers, clasping her mouth. “I shot him. I shot Mark!”
Marcia feels dizzy and has to lay her head down in the sand. She can’t believe it. She can’t believe it is true.
Did I shoot him? Did I shoot my own son?
She can’t remember what happened afterwards. She just remembers firing the gun at him. She remembers thinking he was bad; she remembers the fear inside of her. Then what did she do? Did she call the police? Did she lean down and listen to his heart? Did she check his pulse?
No, you didn’t. You ran, you coward. You ran away like the fugitive you are.
“I had to go,” she says out loud, trying to get the voices to quiet down. “I had to get away before they got to me. I was so scared. Argh!”
Marcia gets up to her feet and yells at the voices. Then she falls to her knees, crying, sobbing.
What have I done?
You killed him. Just like you killed the others.
“No!”
Marcia bends over, crying even harder. She lies down in the sand and closes her eyes, trying to make it all go away. She wants to disappear, but doesn’t know how to. Could she run? Just run? But where to?
She hides her face in her hands for a few minutes, then suddenly lifts her head up again. Now with a different look in her eyes, she raises her body to her feet and stares at the blue house, suddenly remembering it.
Chapter Forty-Four
January 2016
I drive to Holmes Regional in Melbourne. On my way there, I call Joey to ask him to be home when Salter gets back from school. He doesn’t answer the first time, so I try again. I haven’t spoken to him at all today, and have no idea where he spent the night. I fear that he went back to be with her. As I redial, I feel a knot in my stomach, thinking that I am the one who pushed him back to her.
I hope that I am wrong.
“Hello?”
Finally, he picks up.
“Mary?” he says.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“I am glad you call…”
“I am not calling to chat. I am going to Melbourne and I just need to make sure you are home when Salter gets there in half an hour.”
There is nothing but silence on the other end. For a second, I wonder if he has hung up or if we have lost the connection somehow.
“Hello?” I say.
“Is that really why you called?” he asks.
“Yes. Can I count on you?”
“So, you don’t want to talk about what happened?” he continues.
I exhale and take a turn. Some idiot almost crashes into me, and I honk the horn slightly more aggressively than needed. “No. I have a lot on my plate right now. I need time.”
“I thought you had taken your time. I thought you had made your decision. Wasn’t that why you decided to stay here instead of going back to New York?”
“That was before Jackie. Listen, I really don’t…”
“Jackie was before you came back, Mary. Don’t you get it? I only saw her when I thought you didn’t want me back.”
I exhale. I pass the sign telling me I am entering the hospital area, and I drive into the parking lot. I stop the car and close my eyes as I put it in park. I feel so lost. I want to be with Joey, I really do. I want it for myself and for Salter. But I don’t want to if it means I have to worry constantly about who he is with, if he is cheating on me again. I can’t. I simply can’t live like that.
“I don’t,” I say. “Not anymore.”
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t want you back. Not anymore. Not like this. I can’t.” I touch the bridge of my nose and lean forward, taking off my seatbelt. I feel like crying. It hurts so badly inside of me I want to scream.
“But…but…Mary…it’s me. It’s us. It has always been us.”
I can’t hold the tears back anymore. I wipe them off and try to keep my cool. “I know, Joey, but I can’t do this. I can’t keep doing this anymore. It’s just too hard. I love you, believe me, I do. And I love the idea of us together, especially for Salter’s sake, but I can’t. I can’t take it anymore.”
I can tell he is crying on the other end. This was not where or how I wanted to have this talk. But, what’s done is done. I cry while holding the phone close to my ear. I feel so miserable, so devastated and destroyed.
“Mary…I…please,” he is still crying on the other end. His voice is breaking; his sobs are loud. He is not even trying to hide it anymore. “Please, give me one more chance. I know I can do better. I know I can.”
“Maybe you can, but I know I can’t. Even if you never cheat on me again, I’ll still never be able to trust you again. I am sorry.”
To spare myself any more misery, I hang up. My body is shaking as I put the phone away. I sit for a few seconds and stare at the parking lot, biting my lip while tears rush across my cheeks.
Chapter Forty-Five
January 2016
I hide my face in my hands as I finish crying, then wipe my eyes. I look at myself in the mirror and realize I look terrible. A full night of no sleep and now all the crying has messed up my face. I find my mascara and eyeliner and try to fix myself up a little, then decide there is nothing more I can do and leave the car.
Putting the conversation behind me, I walk to the hospital’s entrance. I find Mark on the fifth floor. He is not alone in his room. Harry is standing next to his bed. He is talking with him, and they stop as I walk in.
“Hi,” I say.
As I walk closer, I realize someone else is there. It’s Jess, Marcia’s sponsor. She is sitting in a chair, her back turned to me.
Mark smiles when he sees me. He doesn’t look too good. Not just because of the wound in his shoulder. He is pale, his eyes are like deep black holes, and he is so skinny. I haven’t seen him in weeks. He must have lost ten pounds since I last saw him. His hair looks strange.
“Mary!” Harry says and walks to me. He pulls me into his warm embrace. I am quite startled by this, but manage to hug him back awkwardly. I walk to Mark and grab his hand.
“How are you?”
“All right,” he says. “The bullet only grazed me.”
“He was very lucky,” Harry says.
“I am so sorry for this,” I say, pressing tears back. Seeing him like this breaks my heart.
“Don’t be,” Mark says. “You didn’t do it.”
“Well, I can’t help feeling responsible. I should have known it was bad. I should have reacted earlier when realizing how bad her drinking had become,” I say.
I feel Harry’s hand on my shoulder. “You can’t blame yourself.”
“If anyone is to blame, it should be us,” a voice says from the door. I turn and see Alex, Danny, Sandra, and Chloe as they walk inside holding balloons and flowers. I smile and shed a few tears that I wipe away.
“We knew way before you came back here that she wasn’t doing well,” Danny says and walks to the bedside. “Yet we didn’t do anything.”
“I guess we have all been too busy with our own lives and messes to realize how bad it really was,” Sandra says, and walks up to him as well.
I am stunned to see her outside her house, in a place as public as a hospital, and she doesn’t seem to be embarrassed at all by people seeing her. It’s the first time since it happened that I have seen such strength and determination in her. It warms my heart.
“I could have done more as well,” Jess says, and gets up from the chair. She walks around, introducing herself to everyone and shaking their ha
nds.
“Me too,” Harry says, and does the same.
“So, now we have all established that we didn’t do enough,” Chloe says. “How about we now figure out what to do about it? How to help Mark and his siblings and how to help Marcia.”
“I met with her,” I blurt out.
The surprise on my friend’s faces is obvious. They’re all speaking at the same time, so I have no idea who is saying what.
I continue. “She texted me this morning and had me come to our old surf spot in Sebastian.”
“The Spanish House?” Alex says.
“Yes. I went there and met with her, thinking I could get her to turn herself in. Maybe talk sense in to her.”
“Was she drunk?” Danny asks.
“No. At least I don’t think so. She says she hasn’t had a drink since Saturday night when I picked her up and took her home. Strangely enough, I believe her. She didn’t smell like alcohol like she usually does; her speech wasn’t slurred, and her eyes weren’t glassy or red.”
“She could have taken pills,” Jess says.
“She seemed like she wasn’t intoxicated or under the influence of anything, but still she was not the Marcia I know.”
“What do you mean?” Jess says.
“It was like she…I don’t know. Like something else was wrong... Like…”
“Like she was someone else,” Mark says.
“You know what I’m talking about?”
Mark nods with a deep sigh.
“I think something is very wrong with her,” I say. “Beyond the drinking. I think she is very sick.”
Chapter Forty-Six
January 2016
Mark is exhausted, but feels comforted that his mother’s friends are all here with him in the hospital. More than anything, he worries about his mother now.
“What do you mean sick?” Danny asks.
“I think she’s suffering from a mental illness or something,” Mary says. “She kept rambling about how everyone was in on a plot to get her or something. That’s why she didn’t want to turn herself in. She had no idea what had happened; she didn’t even know that she had shot Mark.”
