by Gabriel Love
Blood from his lip gathers in a drip that slowly loses a battle with gravity and begins rolling down the side of his mouth. Without thinking, I reach up to wipe it away. He rears back violently from my touch.
But I don’t lower my hand. Instead, I silently remind myself he hasn’t been touched kindly in four years. The only touch he’s felt is the rough, gloved hand of guards no doubt hauling him around like a dangerous animal.
He stills and I use my thumb to wipe the blood away. It smears and I hear Parker’s anger in his voice. “Don’t. You don’t know what kind of diseases he’s got.”
Still focused on Bannish’s dull eyes, I answer quietly. “I don’t care. A little kindness goes a long way. You’d do well to learn compassion, Parker.” My tone is cutting and a rough hand grabs my shoulder and spins me around.
Parker shoves his face in mine. “Compassion is like weakness; in here, it’ll only get you killed.”
And I see every insecurity he harbors shining from his eyes every ounce of fear, every bit of this bullied little boy who has found a way to exact his revenge on people who, much like he couldn’t when he was younger, can’t fight back or defend themselves.
“Bannish isn’t to blame for your past,” I whisper, tears stinging in my eyes, “None of these men are. Stop punishing them for the mistakes of others.”
And his expression hardens. “Do what you need to do and get out of my prison.” The cold, flat tone of his voice doesn’t startle me. Given the pleasure at the senseless cruelty, I’m not at all surprised by the sheer evil in him. He turns to leave and the therapist gives me an apologetic shrug and hurries after him like a dog on the heels of his master.
I turn to Bannish once more.
And as much as I don’t want to, I feel bad for him. I want to feel like he’s getting what he deserves. But all I see is a man whose life was ruined by actions he adamantly denied. Even now, with offers of reduced pleas, promises to be taken off death row, and Parker’s own word that he can be removed from solitary and put in general population if he signs a confession, Bannish has never admitted to his crimes.
And it kills me.
I need him to admit it.
I need to know that he feels remorse.
But I see none in his eyes.
Still, that doesn’t make the conditions he’s living in right.
The guards rudely haul him to the end of the hallway where a little room offers concrete slabs to sit on and a concrete table cemented to the floor. There’s a sliding gate and it’s sectioned off by a mesh-wire wall.
The guards tell Bannish not to move until he’s given permission as I take one of the seats. With his back to the gate Bannish stays still as the guards uncuff him and slam the panel on the sliding gate shut behind him.
And I watch.
The first thing he does is stare around the room at everything but me. I’m patient, thinking about how long he’s been locked up, seeing the same four walls for so many years. For someone who grew up in a house with four brothers, the silence here must be overwhelming. Even the minute differences must be a pleasure. When his attention finally turns to me, I gesture at the seat across the way.
“Come sit and talk with me.” I say it kindly and my voice only shakes a tiny bit.
He glances at the chair, then back at me. At first he doesn’t seem to understand. But I wait patiently and he moves, slowly at first. When he finally sits down, I reach my hands out on the table and leave them palm up, curious what he’ll do when offered the option to have contact.
He avoids me. Instead, he looks around the room and I feel anger rising in me. But I tamp it down. Now is not the time. Suddenly, his gaze snaps back to me and he just stares at me like he can sense my thoughts.
Despite what I know to do, I feel a bit put off by his intensity. Still, I meet his stare head on and tilt my head a bit, offering the knowledge that I’m curious about him. He glances past me at the guards and I look over at them.
They’re standing, facing away as I asked.
Again, I return my attention to Bannish who’s studying my face. And I see pain.
Pain.
Fuck.
I didn’t even think about the fact that my appearance might affect him. Does he think he’s seeing a ghost? It’s possible. Prisoners in solitary are prone to hallucinations explosive emotional outbursts.
It’s all part of my thesis. We know that positive experiences like social interaction has an unequivocal impact on the brain. This activates molecules referred to as growth factors which nourish brain cells and allow them to reconstruct and engage.
Ethically, I can’t continue without telling him who I am and why I’m here, though I’ll do so slowly. His stress and likely depression mean I need to treat him gently.
“It’s been a long time, Michael,” I say, unable to remember a single word of my rehearsed speech. “I miss Andrea every day.” A lump aches in my throat and I blink back tears. “And even though you stole her from me, I don’t think you deserve this.” I gesture around the room, at the guards, at his split lip. So much for gently breaking the ice. My mouth seems to have plans of its own.
He doesn’t speak.
But I do.
Finally I can give voice to things I never got to say. And the words pour out while relief floods in.
“I miss her so much. Everyday without her is torture.” My voice lowers to an angry, broken whisper. “How could you? She trusted you!”
Tears blur my vision, but before everything goes fuzzy I see a flash of something in his eyes. Something I can’t understand. Anger.
Hatred.
A threat.
And I latch onto it.
“What did she do to you?” I ask, curiosity taking over. My mind splits everything. I’m no longer talking about my sister, I’m talking about his victim. They have to be separate in my mind if I’m going to lead with logic and reason.
I can sort out the emotions later and focus on her, but right now, I need to put a nameless, faceless being in her spot.
But Bannish is a closed book.
I’ve got an hour. I’m going to talk. But I’m changing tactics.
“It’s hard to believe you’re twenty two now. It seems like yesterday we were hanging out. You used to joke that three people could keep a secret if two were dead. I thought it was just a joke. I guess you told me who you were long before you and Andrea got together.”
The words aren’t angry, just observational. It feels good to see things clearly without attaching resentment. And my own guilt has a chance to escape.
“I should have seen it coming. There were signs. But I ignored them like the stupid kid I was.”
I glance at him. He’s focused on me, still as a statue, silent as a tombstone, and cold as granite. “It’s so weird to think about how jealous I was that you two got together. If it had been me...” I don’t continue until I feel confident I can continue without crying, “I’d be dead. And I wish it had been me.”
I glance at him, realizing I’m admitting things to him I’ve never told anyone. And behind his stare I see fear.
No, fear is too tame.
I see terror.
Absolute terror.
And I wonder what I said to drag that out of him in such a telling way. “Why does that bother you?” I ask, not expecting an answer. “Why are you afraid? Which part? That I was jealous?”
I study him for a reaction but see none.
“That it would have been me?” It doesn’t make sense to me, and he doesn’t react. So I ask the final question. “That I wish it had been me?”
The reaction is so tiny I almost miss it. His pupils dilate just the tiniest bit. But why? Was he meaning to kill me instead?
Mulling it over, I decide to speak my thoughts. “Does that bother you because I was the one you wanted to kill?” My voice holds no emotion, and my mind jumps to the reasons he could want me dead; perhaps that I took up too much of my sister’s time?
But he doesn’t respo
nd and I know that’s not it.
But I draw a blank.
What other reason could he possibly have?
Seeing nothing good coming of continuing the train of thoughts, I change topics, but keep mulling it over. “I heard that your mother is fighting for you and your dad is making waves in the community.”
He breaks his stare and his eyes trace the line where the ceiling meets the wall.
But I push ahead. “But I still don’t know why you didn’t use your family lawyer. He’s still on retainer and you went with a public defender. Why?”
It doesn’t add up.
He doesn’t say anything and continues his investigation of the wall. While I didn’t expect him to speak, I find myself sad that I didn’t get further.
“Well, my time is about up. I’ll see you in a week,” I say. He doesn’t acknowledge me and I rise. I hesitate, hoping he’ll say or do something, but he doesn’t.
So I make my way to the gate. The guard walks over and lets me out. When the gate closes behind me and the guards ready his shackles, I glance back at Bannish.
He’s staring at me with an intensity that feels like ice water is flushing my veins. Caught in his stare, I feel my lips part just a little bit as if I want to ask him why. Then the guard opens the gate and Bannish turns his back as they glance over their shoulders at me and demand that I leave.
I do, wincing as I hear the thud of baton on flesh over and over and over again.
Fucking bastards.
My resolve hardens. I’m going to help Bannish as much as I can.
When I collect my things to leave, Parker is nowhere to be found and I walk out the door, even more angry. In the safety of my car I grip the wheel so hard my hands hurt and tears consume me.
Andrea would hate this if she knew. She was so gentle she wouldn’t even let us kill spiders. She demanded we ‘re-home’ them outside.
This would make her sick.
It makes me sick.
When I finally feel able to drive, the trip is silent, somber, and I’m lost in dark thoughts of both the past and present.
Andrea was the example of all that was good and kind. I was the shadow, the bad influence, the troublemaker. It was my fault she met Bannish. It was my fault she drank, snuck out, behaved badly.
She wanted nothing more than to stay home, do schoolwork and find some prince charming to fall in love and settle down with.
It should have been me.
Bannish’s fearful expression springs to mind and I begin to puzzle over it. After the three hour trip is over, I find myself with more questions than answers. The absolution I’d hoped for doesn’t come.
I still feel empty.
Three days later I’m feeling crazy. My grades are slipping and I worry I’m burning out. Shouldering everything is a burden I no longer feel able to carry. A knock at the door startles me and I jump up and go answer it.
But I will. I didn’t come this far to lose everything now. So what if I didn’t expect the meetings with Bannish to bring out more pain and sorrow than I ever thought I had? That’s no excuse to throw away everything I’ve worked so hard for.
On the other side of the door Philip’s warm brown eyes are filled with worry and he starts forward before I offer for him to come in.
And I flinch back.
Hurt shines from his features and I shake my head. “It’s not you-”
He cuts me off, “I’ve been worried sick. I almost considered filing a missing person’s report. Are you okay?” He steps in and pulls me into a hug.
I try to pull back, but he holds me, as if he’s certain he can comfort me. “I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve lost weight. You look good," he murmurs approvingly and I struggle with a flash of anger as he plants a kiss on my lips.
I jerk back, away from the unwelcome contact. “Please let me go,” I ask and I feel his hesitation before he releases me.
“Look, I just wanted to see you.” He sounds upset and I feel myself crumbling. I can’t handle this. I just can’t. There’s too much threatening to pull me under as it is, I don’t want to drown on this sinking ship.
I drop onto the couch and he closes the door before coming and siting too close. His leg touches mine and I pull my legs up and cross them. “I can’t keep doing this,” I whisper.
His voice is hard and cold. “Doing what?”
Miserable, I say simply, “This. Us. It’s too much stress on top of an already backbreaking situation.”
“Well too bad,” he says and I jerk my head up in surprise. His glare is so hostile I shrink back in shock and fear. “I’ve put too much time and effort into us for you to just throw it all away.”
Something about the statement echoes in me. He feels about us the way I feel about school, my degrees, and the whole Bannish issue. I can’t do it. Not now. I’ve got too much going on.
“Please go.” My words are so soft I only know he heard me because his attention snaps to me once more.
“Go? Go? I haven’t seen you in almost a week, I show up, worried, and you try to break up with me, won’t let me touch you, and ask me to leave? Are you seeing someone else?” Without warning anger erupts from him. “I love you, Ash, you can’t shut me out like this!”
My answer is quiet. I’m not going to engage with him and allow this to escalate into a fight. “Yes, I can.” I glance up at him as he springs to his feet and the truth springs free from my lips. “I don’t love you, Phillip. I’m sorry.”
And I am. I’m sorry. And I’m so very tired. And drained. Emotionally and physically. It feels so good to tell him the truth and I realize how much this thing we’ve had stresses me out.
Then he grabs my shoulders and hauls me to my feet. Pain rips through my shoulders, down my arms and up my neck and I try to wrench back. He snarls at me and I find myself trembling in a mix of terror and rage as he says, “You’re mine, Ash. No one else can have you.”
Hardly able to believe what he’s saying and doing, I tell him “No one else has me. No one will. I’m my own person, not a possession.” Where along the way did he begin to view me as an object? Or was it always there? Maybe that’s the origin of all the stress I’ve been feeling between us.
Without warning, he drags me back to my bedroom and panic screams through every nerve in my body. He shoves me down on my bed and climbs on me, his words furious. “No one else can touch you, understand?” His weight pins me and his forearm finds my throat as I try to push him back.
“Get off me, Philip.” I keep my voice deliberately calm. “This isn’t like you.”
Somehow it only seems to anger him more. “I’m not me when I’m with you! You use your fucking psycho babble to keep me on the hook, always hoping you’ll realize how much you love me.”
My own anger lashes out. “Fuck you! I told you it wouldn’t happen from day one!” My fury dies as pain flashes through my face. Startled into silence, I stare up at him, cradling my stinging cheek.
“Get out,” I whisper.
“Make me,” he says, savagely crushing his lips to mine.
“With fucking pleasure."
Deftly capturing his hand, I grip his pinkie and bend it back toward his hand. He yelps in angry surprise, then begins backing off me as I amp up the pressure. And I increase it more and more and more until he’s on his knees before me and I’m standing over him.
“Don’t you fucking dare come here again,” I whisper furiously.
He nods frantically and I move him inch by inch toward the door, refusing to let him go. Only when I close and lock the door behind him do I let the tears flow.
Of everything I expected, what just transpired was never even a remote possibility. I collapse on the couch and let the tears devour me.
I wake to my phone blowing up. Message after message after message sends it into a trilling, vibrating frenzy that leaves me with cold sweats.
Phillip.
Message after message.
I’m sorry.
Ca
n you ever forgive me?
I just got scared.
And jealous.
I’m fucking stupid.
I love you.
Please talk to me.
I’m really sorry.
I need to see you.
We need to talk.
I can fix this, baby.
Give me another chance.
I swear I’ll be better.
I can’t live without you.
You make life worth living.
I set his number to ignore and tell myself not to get dragged down by the increasing insanity he’s displaying and jolt as someone knocks at the door. I peep out the hole and see an older lady and open the door, curious. It’s my neighbor, Mrs. Brown. She’s nice, and occasionally we chat. She picks up a huge vase of roses and smiles at me. “You’re a lucky lady,” she says, handing them to me. Did Philip propose yet?”
Shock prevents me from giving a smooth blow off. Did he tell her something I don‘t know about? “Uh, no.” I give her a weak smile even as she tries to push the vase of red roses into my arms. I avoid them. The scent of roses reminds me of funerals and turns my stomach. I guess Philip doesn’t care to remember that little quirk.
“Why don’t you keep them, Sally? I hate roses.” This time I manage a genuine smile as her eyes light up.
“Here, take the card,” she says, handing it to me before smelling the flowers and walking toward her apartment.
I step back into my apartment and close and lock the door before staring down at the plain white envelope in my trembling hand. Part of me screams to throw it away unopened, but I’m too curious to not open it.
I pull the white card from the sheath and wince at the image of a bunch of red roses identical to the ones left at my door.
I try in vain to steady my shaking hand as I open it. Inside it simply says, “I’ll love you until the roses on this card die.”
A shiver rolls through me.
Creeped out, I drop it on the coffee table and stare at it like it’s a venomous snake ready to strike.
My phone trills and I jolt. Breathing to steady my slamming heart, I check the text. An unknown number shows up with the words, did you like the flowers?
