The Last Darling

by Cloud Buchholz

  She didn’t think of heaven or prayer because she felt she was not good enough for either. Her spirit was strong, but had grown quiet over the years, and she spoke very little, if at all. After Leo Darling awoke, she took a blanket from her car, wrapped it around him, and kneeled down next to him while the warmth returned to his fingers and arms.

  She walked to her car, waiting for him to follow her and get in. She set the heater to the highest setting and started driving. She didn’t speak, and if she had, he wouldn’t have heard for the motion of the car soothed him back to sleep.

  He awoke a second time from her touch. It was late afternoon. She motioned for him to wait while she entered a building across the street. He didn’t know how long she had been driving or what path she had taken, but he found himself surrounded by old brick buildings and large skyscrapers. He had never seen such architecture except in books and, he was so mesmerized by their enormity and design, he left the car and began exploring the city. He did not realize his one item of food, a container of peanut butter, had fallen from his bag, for if he had, he most certainly would have reclaimed it. He wouldn’t notice its absence until many hours later when his hunger superseded his wonderment.

  The woman would return to her car disappointed to discover the man gone, and surprised to find a container of peanut butter in his place. Upon seeing it, she would begin to cry uncontrollably, for during her pregnancy, the first and only food she craved was peanut butter, and since then, she had refused to eat it because of the memories it conjured. She would once again, and for the last time, think of the event and the child that never was. She would be so wrought with pain that suicide fastened itself to her heart. She would find an empty road, accelerate her car over 70mph until it collided with a tree. If her seatbelt had been working properly, she would have died painfully and slowly from the fire and smoke that consumed the vehicle; however, a small latch would snap in such a way that her body would be thrown through the windshield into a patch of brush and bushes. She would endure two cracked ribs, a broken arm, cuts, bruises, and a severe concussion, but she would survive. The doctors would restore her body in almost every way except for one. They would explain how the brain was a very complex organ and did not always adhere to a sensible and consistent set of rules. This would not explain or cure her amnesia, nor would it trouble her, for she would awaken with a sense of relief and joy that she could not explain. Her breathing would be difficult and her body would ache. It would be months before she would walk again on her own, but she felt happy. She would go on to marry a good man and have three children, living well and never once recognizing or remembering the details of her past.

  Leo Darling would never learn of these events, nor would he think much about the woman, except to remember her kindness and the loss of his peanut butter.

  The sky was dark when his stomach overtook his curiosity. He found a small restaurant, ordering a turkey sandwich and a glass of water. His wallet felt light and he knew he had enough cash to last only three days. Before worry could trouble his thoughts, his eyes captured the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was tall and thin with long black hair and tattoos covering her arms. He took what was left of his sandwich and followed her out the door and down the street. She walked for nearly two blocks then entered a tattoo parlor.

  Leo Darling gazed at the drawings displayed in the front window. He took time to examine every one. He had never thought of a human body as a canvas, nor had he thought of a needle as a brush, but he was at once fascinated by the medium of a living body. He could see the woman through the window and his hand, reacting of its own accord, took a marker from his bag and began drawing her form on the window-glass of the door. He was so quick and skilled; he had finished half the drawing before anyone inside had noticed. He drew her naked and in a natural pose just as the blind artist had taught him. He added a few quick lines for shading before two stout and muscular employees grabbed him and threw him from the door. His elbow and cheek caught the cement and bled, but he didn’t feel any pain for his heart was preoccupied with the woman that he knew would be his wife. He looked past the two grim and grumpy faces that blocked his path, hoping to get just a glimpse of the woman’s reaction, but he could not see her. He sat down in the alley beside the shop, fearing that if he left, he might never find it or her again. He stayed there the whole night, warmed only by the fire in his heart and the thought of her in his mind. He could not know that his spontaneous act of affection had caused her to hide in fear, nor could he know the causes of her retreat.

  As a young girl, Rose Fox had developed a wild and rebellious personality. Her family moved, often and abruptly, from one military base to another. Her father’s career and stern presence dictated all facets of his family’s life. His love was matched only by his demand for discipline. Rose, frustrated by the constant hazard of losing friends and the unyielding pressure to be polite, had attempted, in every way possible, to abolish the rules and edicts her father had instilled in her.

  She drank and smoked before the law allowed, took whatever drugs she could find, pierced her ears, eyebrows, and nipples, stole and vandalized military property, had sex with strangers, kept a generally unpleasant disposition around her family and anything else that contradicted her father’s mandates. The values he held dearest, she broke most often. By the age of thirteen, she had acquired the skills necessary to sneak into bars and clubs. Once there, she would trick soldiers into buying her drinks. She earned the nickname Foxy due to her exceptionally good looks and her cunning wit. She was discovered only once when a General who worked closely with her father recognized her name and asked if she was related. She said yes and then flashed her breasts at him. He was so taken back and amused he didn’t know how to tell her father. Rumors burned through every ear on the base and her father eventually found out. He said nothing to his daughter and she returned home one afternoon to discover her windows nailed shut and her door removed from its hinges – neither of which stopped her debauchery.

  By the age of seventeen, when she learned her father had gotten another promotion, she refused to relocate. Before the day was out, she found the boyfriend her father hated most and married him. The marriage was, at first, unpleasant, but eventually it became unbearable. He proved to be more demanding than her father and far less loving. These truths she attempted to displace by contemplating the amount of pain her parents felt by her absence. Her suffering, she believed, would be mirrored in her father and so, enduring every degrading and disgusting act placed before her, she satisfied the desires of her terrible husband.

  One evening, under the influence of opiates and alcohol, he tied her arms to the rafters of the garage, ripping at her clothes until she swung naked and helpless. His behavior was a result of rage as much as lust. He wasn’t a particularly attractive man, nor was he ambitious, funny, nice, or wealthy. When he attempted to count the qualities he did possess, he could not find a single one that would convince Rose to stay with him. His reasoning reached only so far before his jealously took hold. He called her ugly and worthless, shouting other incoherent profanities while he slapped her face, thighs, and breasts. He told her that no one else would ever love her because she was hideous and pathetic. He tore one of the rings from her nipple and repeated the phrase until she sobbed and shook with fear. Then, just to be sure that no one else would love her, he took a long, serrated knife and cut deep gashes into her breasts and thighs so that her grotesqueness reflected his insecurity. When he was satisfied, he calmly walked back inside, took a piss, then curled into bed and fell asleep.

  Rose, covered in blood and tears, swung for another two hours in the darkness. When she was certain her husband had passed out, she yanked, kicked, and fought until the wooden rafter snapped and she fell to the cement. She grabbed what was left of her shirt and pants, leaving the house without loosening the ropes knotted around her wrists. She stumbled barefoot for two miles until reaching a clinic where she collapsed – her injuries not life threat
ening, but very permanent.

  She spoke in short sentences perforated by long pauses. She did not implicate her husband and, in fact, had difficulty speaking her own name. The nurses, unable to indentify or comprehend her, gave Rose a box of crayons and a white piece of paper, telling her to write her name. She did as they instructed and found the act soothing. She kept the crayons and paper next to her bed, scribbling and sketching when the pain was particularly noticeable – a habit that would stay with her until her death. Her wounds would require a minor surgery, twenty-four stitches, and careful monitoring.

  After her recovery, which lasted nearly two weeks, she withdrew every cent from the joint bank account and left the state, traveling as far from her husband as she could afford. Due to her rebellious youth, she never finished high school and had difficulty finding work. Her contagious smile and sweet-tempered wit made her well suited for bartending, and for some years she survived on quarters and crumpled bills. She never left the safety behind the counter and, though she flirted brazenly, she never touched, nor was touched by, the patrons. During a break or slow shift, she took a drawing pad from her bag and sketched the faces of strangers.

  An old and friendly biker saw her drawings and asked her to sketch a portrait of his friend who had died years before from liver disease. She accepted – drawing, erasing, and re-drawing what he described to her. He was so impressed with her portrait that he had it tattooed on his arm. The tattoo artist was equally impressed and off-handedly wished the unknown artist worked for him. The biker happily relayed the request.

  When Rose heard the offer, she quit bartending and traveled to the tattoo parlor, which was three cities over. She was excited at the prospect of being paid to draw; however, when she arrived, the tattoo artist had no idea who she was or the position she had been promised. He conceded that many of his offers were made absentmindedly and almost always worthless. He was impressed with her portraits and apologetic of the situation, but he simply didn’t have the money to hire another artist.

  His sympathy overtook his budget, as it often did, and she was hired as a temporary receptionist. Her role, which at first only entailed answering the phone and scheduling, soon encompassed accounting, marketing, concepting, and budgeting. Her cleverness and business savvy proved to be more useful than any of the employees realized. The tattoo parlor, which was consistently on the brink of bankruptcy, was revitalized and, with Rose’s help, achieved a positive stability. She was hired permanently and almost immediately handed the mantel of CFO. The bookwork kept her busy and she was only able to handle three tattoos a week.

  Though she was happy, she remained distant from her co-workers. It would be four years before she openly called them friends and another two years before she spent time with them outside of work. She never spoke about her past and seldom spoke about her personal feelings. Her wardrobe consisted of long jeans and closed-collar shirts, which she wore even in hot weather in an attempt to conceal her scars. Her co-workers, each strange and displaced in their own way, were unaffected by her oddities and accepted her without explanation for they knew her silence was a kind of scar too.

  Though she continually had a number of romantic offers, she refused to have a relationship. She could barely stand looking at her own body and the thought of someone else gazing at it was too much to bear, so when she saw Leo Darling’s drawing, she felt painfully self-conscious. He had drawn her naked and so accurately she feared he had seen what she so desperately tried to hide. She fled to a back office, crouched behind a desk, and failed to keep her body from shaking. She remained there until late in the evening, hours after closing time.

  When she was certain everyone had left, she gathered her few possessions and exited the shop. She walked exactly three steps before her path was obstructed by Leo Darling. He had not intended to stop her and, in fact, did not even notice her for his attention was occupied by an angry and knife-wielding transient. The transient had been rummaging through a dumpster, haphazardly throwing garbage about and making noise. Leo Darling, doing his best to remain calm, asked the man to leave. The man grunted and threw a fist full of used coffee grounds in Leo’s direction. Leo wiped them from his shirt and cheek. He pushed the transient against the wall and punched the side of his nose – his temper matched only by his speed. The transient dropped to the ground, blood dripping from his nose and lip.

  Leo readied a second swing but the transient recoiled with a blade, slicing Leo’s forearm. Leo pivoted back, guarding his wound, as the transient lunged. They slammed and rolled against the pavement in front of Rose Fox.

  She was too startled to scream, or move. Leo got to his feet, but quickly fell against a parked car as the knife cut his shirt and jacket. The transient spit and smirked, swinging the blade again. It tore across Leo’s chest, immediately causing blood to soak through the thin shirt. Rose, startled by the blood, dropped her purse. The transient turned at the sound. He saw her horrified expression and was overcome with guilt. He dropped the knife and fled back into the alley, out of sight.

  Rose did not, nor would she ever, know the circumstances of the man she had startled, nor would she learn his purpose for trafficking the alleys behind her shop. He had once been a soldier honorably discharged after suffering a mental breakdown during an excursion in Afghanistan. A section of road, tactically invaluable, had been layered with enemy mines, a detail he was aware of only after walking half its length. He did not see his friend and fellow soldier explode; he only felt warm sludge cake his face and uniform. The three other soldiers in his unit halted, now alert of their mistake. They tried to form a line, walking in the first soldier’s footsteps, but two explosions cut their numbers by half. Eventually, only he remained. Convinced his life would end that day, he closed his eyes, then walked straight and without hesitation. He reached his destination unscathed. He could not explain why he had survived when better men had not, and so he collapsed from exhaustion and guilt. Hospitalized at the base, he sat on a bed, rocking forward and back, until the army discharged him.

  He returned to America rot with guilt and confusion. He had difficulty keeping a job, a family, and friends. The only kindness and friendship that could withstand his rage and guilt came from Brigadier General Tilden Fox, Rose’s father. The soldier heard Tilden talk about Rose with such adoration and purpose, he thought that seeing her and speaking to her would give him a sense of clarity. He had spent a week wandering the alleys behind her shop, building enough courage to speak with her. He did not mean to fight the boy, nor did he mean to hurt him. His anger and training commanded his limbs and his tormented instincts made him vicious. He knew the boy would be fine. It was Rose’s expression that struck his conscience.

  Gazing into her eyes, he did not attain clarity, nor did he relinquish his guilt. He simply felt vulnerable. He went to the nearest and tallest bridge he could find. He stood at its ledge and prayed to the forces of the universe. Then he closed his eyes, walking straight and without hesitation. If he had been less distressed and more observant, he would have noticed a boat passing underneath his falling trajectory; so instead of drowning, he broke through the wooden deck, shattering his leg in two places and interrupting the engagement party of a young couple. When he realized his fall had been cushioned by an elderly woman who was now dead, he began to laugh so loud and hearty that the guests began to feel nervous.

  During his trial for involuntary manslaughter, he was deemed mentally unfit and sent to an asylum where he spent the rest of his days quietly staring out a window. Occasionally, and abruptly, his silence would be punctuated by bursts of laughter. The nurses and patients could not explain his mirth and attributed it to the cocktail of drugs he was taking.

  Leo and Rose would never learn of these events, nor would they speak of the knife-wielding transient a second time for young Leo Darling dropped to one knee watching the blood soak the front of his shirt. Rose immediately went to his aid. She slid under his arm, led him into the tattoo parlor, and laid him in one of
the chairs. He carefully tore off what was left of his shirt while Rose acquired a first aid kit.

  She took a cloth, dabbed it against his chest, then squeezed it over the sink. She did this two more times before applying rubbing alcohol. He winced, grabbing her hand tightly. She froze, unaccustomed to the touch of another person, more specifically, a man’s.

  She was, at once, reminded of her husband and the night of her disfigurement. She quickly yanked her hand away, inadvertently causing Leo Darling to fall from the chair. His shoulder hit the floor and he yelped as much from surprise as from pain. When he regained his footing, he saw Rose curled against a wall, her knees hugging her chest, her eyes staring blankly at the opposite wall. He could not explain her behavior, but he could recognize its symptoms. He sat on the floor next to her. They did not speak or touch, nor did they exchange glances – they remained motionless, like two statues cut from the same stone.

  The next morning, woken by the sound of two employees entering the shop, Rose fluttered to life, tossing Leo a shirt and pushing him out of the room. She motioned for him to leave, pointing toward the back door. His wounds had stopped bleeding, but remained unbandaged. Bruises had formed around the cuts and on part of his arm. He didn’t want to leave her and refused to move.

  One of the employees, recognizing Leo from the day before, shouted a slur of curses and rushed toward him, his right hand clenched in a fist. Rose quickly stepped between them. She knew explaining the boy’s presence would leave her exposed and vulnerable, so she lied. She said that he had just arrived looking for a job that the owner had absentmindedly promised. The employee angrily grunted, but was calmed.

  Rose knew Leo’s drawing hand had been damaged in the fight and, if he could even grip a pen, he would barely be able to draw a straight line, so when he failed to sketch a simple circle, she could be rid of him. Before she could request a sample of his work, Leo Darling had already pinned four blank pages to the wall, taken a black marker from the desk, and began drawing with his off hand. He quickly sketched portraits of the two employees, including even the smallest details with incredible accuracy. Then, from memory, he drew a landscape of the alley at night with deep shadows and sharp perspectives. Finally, without lifting his pen from the page, he drew a peach with a thick outline and a soft shadow.