The Emancipation of Love

by Mary E. Palmerin

  Make no mistake, I am not praying for penance.

  I am praying for my boy.

  “William Welch?” a loud voice calls out.

  I turn over on the uncomfortable cot covered in an orange jumpsuit since I came in nothing but boxers and a T-shirt. If I stare too long at the color, it gives me a hellacious headache.

  “William Welch?” the man calls out again.

  “What?” I return, annoyed as fuck.

  My head is pounding and my body aches.

  “You need to come with me. Lieutenant Thompson wants to talk to you about some new developments.”

  “What would you do if I asked for an attorney?” I spout in a snarky tone.

  “Come on shithead.”

  I stand up, grabbing the bottom of my back because I hurt everywhere. My body pains from the metal cot that they like to call a bed and I didn’t sleep worth a shit, mostly from the noise and drunkards shouting out all night long. Thoughts of my sweet girl always occupy my mind and I wonder how she is doing. I hope that she takes care of herself.

  I walk over to the bars and place my hands in the opening so that the cop can cuff them together. I am being charged with rape, which is something that is not taken lightly around here. Clearly they should do their job correctly because I am being wrongly accused. But again, it doesn’t matter what I say or do, they already have their minds made up and I bear the markings of a guilty man.

  The cop clicks the handcuffs too tight, causing my skin to pinch together.

  “That’s a little too tight, man.”

  “Fuck you,” he retorts.

  “Whatever.”

  I step back and turn around as the bars open fully. The asshole cop before me gestures for me to exit the cell. I listen, because that is what I am supposed to do. As much as I want to rebel, part of me will always want to listen even though it makes me sick to do so.

  The cop grabs a hold of the cuffs and walks me down the cell block and past the security guard as he flashes his badge to him. The guard gives me a peculiar look and I stay stoic, wondering what this is about. Something seems off, and I can’t put my finger on it. We walk through a series of doors and down another hallway until we finally reach our destination.

  “Where are you taking me?” I question once more, feeling the unease creep up my spine like a deadly demon.

  “Mind yourself, boy.”

  And I do, because that is what I was trained to do. I walk through the doorway as I am greeted by Lieutenant Thompson. He’s leaning against the metal table with his arms crossed at his chest. He looks angry beyond words and I am positive I am the reason for it.

  “Sit the fuck down, William.”

  Again, part of me doesn’t want to disappoint, so I sit across from where he is standing with my hands still stretched behind my back. My gaze remains unchanged on him, whereas he is staring at me like he wants to kill me. His nostrils are flaring and I can tell that something very bad has happened. Either he has to let me go, or something much worse much have arisen.

  “What?” I finally ask.

  “Isabel Rodriguez was found murdered this morning.”

  I keep my best poker face on, but something in my gut is pulling me towards the truth. Gwendolyn was there when I was taken away by the police officers. She heard them say that I was being arrested for the rape of Isabel Rodriguez. God damnit. Can’t they see it is their fault? Why did they say it in front of her? I know it was her, I just know it.

  I wish she wouldn’t have done it and let the truth come out instead, but what is done is done. Lives have been taken once more and I can’t say I’m sorry. I wish that I was. I wish that empathy was an attribute that I possessed, but I only feel it when it comes to my sweet girl, Gwendolyn. I only pray to the heavens above that they steer clear of Gwendolyn. Surely Lieutenant Thompson has sunk his teeth into my old case file deep enough to find her name and connect the dots to find her in Portland.

  She already has a target on her back now and I can’t help but think that none of this would have happened if my sexual hunger would have stayed the fuck under wraps. No. Instead I had to fuck everything up. I can’t help but think this is all my fault. No matter how hard I try, I always leave a bloody trail behind me full of dead hearts.

  I take a deep breath while he stands before me, expecting an answer.

  “What happened to her?”

  He tosses another set of photos across the table my way. I look down and see her once olive skin a shade of gray. Her throat is sliced open while she lays dead in a pool of dark, crimson liquid. Her black hair is matted in the liquid and her eyes remain open and glassy. It’s fucked up, but I find her more appealing now than I ever did before. She reminds me of a porcelain doll, you know the kind with the eyes that always stay open. Her lips are slightly open and I can see from the photograph that her once pink tongue is pale and dried out, resembling sand paper.

  “A pity,” I whisper.

  “Is it?” he shouts back at me.

  My look meets his.

  “Indeed.”

  He paces the room back and forth, occasionally running his hands over his shiny, bald head. I find myself counting his steps… one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.

  Then he stops at ironically the same number of steps as it took Gwendolyn to walk to and from the espresso machine at the Grey Room. Is that my lucky number? Seven?

  “What happens now?” I ask.

  “Now, now I let you go. The D.A. stated there wasn’t enough physical evidence to substantiate the fucking case, you piece of shit.”

  I can’t help but smile. But, soon enough it’s wiped away by the back of his hand.

  “Listen here, you bastard. I know kinds like you. I’ve read your record and I will be damned if I let you off the hook so easy. I will be watching you along with that red headed slut you had in your bed.”

  I spit in his face.

  “Fuck you!” I shout.

  He pulls a handkerchief from his back pocket, wiping my spit free from his face and glasses while chuckling to himself.

  “Seems she means a lot to you, huh?”

  I’m fuming mad while he taunts me like I am some little boy. I swear to God if he threatens Gwendolyn, I will find a way to kill him right here, right now.

  “I’ll be watching you,” he says before walking over to the buzzer, pushing it.

  “Schmitty, get this asshole out of here to processing.”

  Just when I thought that things were looking up, me and my girl are fighting an uphill battle again.

  “Hey, sweet girl. It’s me. I’m free,” I say to Gwendolyn, calling her collect from a payphone.

  “I’ll be right there, Welch!”

  “No, no, Gwen. Let me get a taxi home.”

  “Why?” she asks.

  “Just relax. I will be home in twenty minutes.”

  I don’t give her time to respond. I hang up the phone with eyes on me. Lieutenant Thompson is staring at me from afar between gritted teeth. He’s a man on a mission and he won’t stop until he gets the answers he is looking for.

  Oh, Gwendolyn, what did you do?

  Free. Free at last, only to be chased by the bad guys once again.

  Justice for Daddy. Always, big T. My mother’s voice echoes in my brain and I wish I could tell her to stop, but I can’t. It is getting worse as time goes on. Whoever said that time heals everything is full of bullshit. I was witness to one of the most gruesome crimes in Yorktown, a small suburb of Portland thirty-five years ago. Unfortunately for me and those around me, I remain haunted by it still.

  I thought that enrolling myself in the academy would prove to be an outlet. Instead that has only fueled my hatred for criminals, the system, and most of all, humanity. We are a disgusting race, beating, killing, and manipulating people. I have been guilty of a thing or two, but God knows that I could not bear to go to confession on Sunday and tell those sins to Father Peter. I can tell by the way he looks at me that he does judge, despite what Luk
e 6:37 says in the bible. People do judge and condemn.

  I am guilty of it still, wishing to bring justice forth for my father. His killer was never caught and more than likely far away from me, but I find myself finding bits and pieces of the shitheads I look into for various crimes holding similar traits to the masked man that broke into my home all that time ago.

  Now, it seems that it is becoming more difficult to decipher between what my mind is wanting to believe and what is a true reality. After receiving my millionth rape case, which was more than likely a crock of shit, I had no choice but to look into it.

  Then my mind was caught as one of my theories from my father’s killing was brought to the surface with a vengeance. My mother always said that she thought it was some boy that ran away from a half-way house down the road. A few days before my father’s murder, he was reported missing and the owners assumed that 17-year-old Jeremy Kirkland was a runaway. He had a record that consisted of petty crimes including breaking and entering, stealing jewelry, and robbing a gas station.

  In my mind, Jeremy Kirkland was the killer of my father. He was the masked man who burst into my house that warm June day with a sharp knife, pushing it to my dad’s throat without a care in the world while I sat before him.

  The ghosts from my past sink their teeth into me, injecting me with their nastiness and I cannot help but think that William Welch is a man similar to Jeremy Kirkland, or how I portray him in my mind.

  The man that killed my father.

  I see something cyclic happening before me; another Jeremy Kirkland developing before my eyes and I have to do something to stop it.

  “Schmitty?” I call out over my shoulder.

  Schmitty walks over to me.

  “Yeah, boss?”

  “I want 24 hour surveillance on that piece of shit.”

  “But, he’s just been cleared, boss.”

  “Did I ask for your opinion, fucker?”

  “Talk to me, Gwendolyn. Please.”

  “We need to get out of Portland, Welch. Now.”

  Regression with a vengeance. God, help me get a hold of this. I need to be the strong one right now.

  “We can’t keep running, Gwendolyn. Look at me.”

  “We have to go, they will find me, Welch! I can’t go back there!” she cries.

  I pull her into me while she cries out in hysterics. I don’t need to know why she did it. I would have done the same thing if I were her, too. But it isn’t good for her. She has reverted back to the old Gwendolyn. The one who ran from Mayesville, Illinois ten years ago. I’m afraid I may lose her once and for all. That pains my heart more than one can imagine.

  “Gwendolyn, come back to me. Please. I beg you.”

  Her cries turn into wails of loss and so much more.

  “There is no hope for us, Welch. Good times never last. It is just what we want. We think what we want enough for our goddamn mind to trick us! How long will we let life fuck us, huh?” she screams.

  “I won’t let anything happen to you, Gwendolyn.”

  She tries with all her might to push me away from her.

  “You can try to push me away, sweet girl, but I am not going anywhere.”

  “Fuck you!”

  “Gwendolyn, stop it. Come back to me.”

  She starts clawing at my chest, falling down a helix of madness. It’s a horrible thing to watch as you become witness to the one you love losing their mind before you.

  “I wish I didn’t want to fight! I wish I didn’t! We are back where we started, Welch! Right back, fucked by the world!”

  I grab her arms, pushing her away from me as I force her to make eye contact with me.

  “Come the fuck back to me Gwendolyn!” I plead, tears pooling in my eyes.

  So much for staying strong.

  So much for the happy memories and days filled with laughter and smiles.

  Her knees buckle and she collapses, but I catch her because that is what you do when you love someone; you never let them fall.

  “I’ve got you, sweet girl. Shhhhhh,” I croon, falling to the floor with her.

  Then, for the first time since I was a little boy, I let myself do something. I cry with her for all that we lost. For all that we hoped for. And all that we will never have. Because Gwendolyn is right. The mind is a funny thing. It thinks about what it wants for so long until it convinces itself that it can attain it, when the truth is, Gwendolyn and I aren’t capable of winning this battle. Not here in Portland at least.

  Maybe she is right.

  Maybe it is time to run again and hope for the best.

  We have more odds in our favor this time around, two thousand dollars and a car in my name. It’s time to be Bonnie and Clyde once more.

  I wake up and have no concept of time. I hate when that happens. But, nothing else matters because Gwendolyn is still in my arms. My eyes burn and hurt from the tears I shed hours ago. But my heart feels whole and that is all that matters.

  “Gwendolyn?” I whisper, shaking her from sleep.

  She groans in protest, but I want to spend the rest of my life getting to know more about her. I can’t help but worry that our sands of time are running out. Every minor detail and want of hers matters to me and sleeping seems insignificant. I need to know every last thing about her.

  “Let’s talk.”

  “Now?” she grumbles.

  “Yes, now. There is no better time than the present.”

  “About what? Me losing my goddamn mind?”

  “Favorite movie?” I ask.

  “Are you serious right now?” she asks with a half smirk.

  I can’t help but feel like our fairytale will have a different ending and I want to live each day to its fullest. Only we are the writers to our story, no one else will determine how it ends.

  “As a fucking heart attack.”

  “Um, okay. Don’t laugh at me,” she says, rubbing her eyes before yawning wide.

  “Scout’s Honor,” I say, holding up my hand.

  “Pretty in Pink.”

  “Ha! So predictable.”

  “Whatever, it is a great movie. I used to have it on VHS when my parents were alive.”

  Her smile quickly fades and I realize I burned down that flame as quick as I ignited it.

  “What’s yours?” she asks, rubbing my bare tatted chest.

  “Full Metal Jacket.”

  “So predictable,” she mocks.

  “Are you mocking me, Mrs. Welch?”

  “Did you just call me Mrs. Welch?”

  “Indeed, I did.”

  “I kind of like the sound of that,” she croons.

  “Yeah? I really like the sound of that too,” I return.

  “I imagine walking up to you as you sit beneath a rose covered trellis. You’d be wearing a black suit with a red tie along with that perfect smile of yours. It would just be us, no one else but us. Always us…” she whispers.

  “And you would be wearing white. A simple gown that hugs your hips just right and flows down to the grass, sweeping it as you walk. Your crimson curls would tumble down your back and I would fight the urge to run my hands through it while the minister recited our vows. You, Gwendolyn Beth, would take my breath away. Fuck, you already do.”

  “Welch?”

  “Yeah, sweet girl,” I say back to her, playing with her soft strands.

  I want to remember this day until I die.

  “Why are we talking like it won’t happen?”

  “Let’s talk like it will.”

  Something in my heart tells me otherwise.

  “Promise me, Welch.”

  “I promise, sweet girl.”

  That isn’t a lie, either. I will die trying.

  “Make love to me, Welch. Please.”

  I stand quickly, grabbing her hand and pulling her up with me. I can’t help but feel like my entire purpose was to find her. I scoop her into my arms and head down the hallway into our bedroom. My hands tremble just like the first time as they peel
her shirt away from her. I soak up this second, letting it sink into the deep crevices of my brain.

  I take my boxers off of her, finding her bare again.

  “I love your pussy, it makes me so hard.”

  She lies back on the bed, spreading her legs to show me how wet she is. Her hand trails down her belly, tickling the inside part of her thigh.

  “I remember when you told me it was time to skin my kitty. I’ve kept it this way since then… for you.”

  “Fuck, Gwen.”

  I lean down, smelling the unique scent of her again. She isn’t embarrassed like she used to be years ago. Instead, she urges her hips forward for more. I flick my tongue over her clit. Teasing her isn’t in the cards anymore. Her salty sweetness overwhelms me as I ravage her with faster laps of my tongue.

  “Oh, God, Welch!” she screams.

  I push her knees further apart, tasting every drop that she has to offer me. I fuck her with my tongue, teasing her asshole with my finger as she begs me for more. I move my finger and my tongue in alternate rhythms as her hips move to their own tempo.

  “Yes! Yes!” she yells as her body becomes rigid, squirting into my mouth. I release my finger and cover her pussy with my mouth, sucking hard.

  “I can’t, I can’t-,” she continues to wail.

  I keep sucking hard on her cunt until the pulsing liquid stops. I pull my mouth away from her, planting a kiss on her overly sensitive inner thigh.

  “Your turn,” she pants, grabbing my hair and pulling me up to her face.

  “Let me show you how much I love you, William.”

  She has pulled at every heartstring that I have left. I turn over onto my back as my hands go to take my shirt off.

  “Stop,” she says, “Let me do it for you.”

  Her small hands, so incredible and healing, yet capable of so much damage and debauchery, remove my shirt.

  “So handsome. And mine,” she grins widely.

  She bends down, kissing the tattoo behind my right ear, trailing her lips down and planting them on every piece of ink I have, down my arms to my wrists and along my chest down to my stomach. She stops above my belly button, stroking the cuts with her fingers. Her eyes briefly meet mine and I look at her with a gaze that is all too familiar. One that is painful. She leans down, peppering a kiss down onto the cuts that Isabel made. In a way, she is erasing that part of me. She tugs my pants and underwear down, finding me hard.