Every Breath You Take

by Bianca Sloane

  Her head flipped up at the soft knock at the door. Her heart was banging against her chest. She started to inch backward.

  “Hey, Nat. Nat? Baby, I’m sorry I lost my temper. You been in there most of the day and I just . . . I shouldn’t have done that. Really. Why don’t you come out and talk to me. Please?”

  She sat still, her breath filling the room.

  “Okay, listen, I’m gonna go out and get on the treadmill for a little bit, so you just come out when you’re ready, okay? I’m just gonna leave you alone.”

  Natalie stayed in her position, wishing she could hear the retreat of footsteps or the beeping of the door to indicate his exit from the room. Keeping her breath slow and steady, she started to crawl across the bathroom floor until she reached the door. She pushed herself up, opened the door a crack, and held her ear to it.

  Silence.

  She took a few more deep breaths and opened the door all the way before stepping into the room.

  Nothing.

  Natalie tiptoed toward the closet, pushing it open with one hand while jumping backward in case she needed to bolt for the bathroom again.

  Empty.

  Her breath slid away from her in a long, silent stream as she looked around the room, still expecting the boogeyman to leap out from the corner.

  Chapter 61

  HE

  He set the breakfast tray down in front of her and smiled.

  She rubbed her forehead and stared at him. She looked tired. Dark half-moons ringed the bottom of her eyes, her mouth was rimmed in a feathery white ring, and a few wiry sprigs of grey jutted out from one temple.

  He didn’t say anything as he stirred the lumpy, steaming bowl of grits before holding up a spoonful. He blew on it, then held it to her mouth.

  She resumed staring at him, her face drooping with the hint of a scowl. “What is that?”

  He just smiled and pointed the spoon toward her mouth. Reluctantly, she leaned forward and took the mound of white grains into her mouth, chewing carefully before finally swallowing. He kept feeding her, not saying a word, still smiling as he spoon-fed her every bite.

  He let her slurp down the last of the orange juice before taking the cup from her and setting the tray down on the floor. He leaned forward to let his chin drop into the palm of his hands and stared at her.

  “What is it, Joey?”

  He shrugged and shook his head.

  “So, Joey, I don’t think you told me what movies we were going to watch today.”

  He continued to stare at her.

  “Joey, is something wrong?”

  He smiled and leaned even closer. He could see she was getting frustrated, which made him laugh.

  He could do this all day.

  She started to edge her way out of the bed, and he sprang up to block her. “I have to go to the bathroom, Joey.”

  He smiled and stepped aside to let her pass. She started to scurry in the direction of the bathroom, and he ran after her, throwing his hand up to keep her from closing the door. She stood in front of him.

  “I have to use the bathroom,” she said, her teeth clenched.

  He leaned against the doorjamb and gestured toward the toilet. She looked at him, the toilet, and back at him again before she crossed her arms over what he suddenly realized was her ample chest.

  She was so beautiful.

  “Go away,” she said.

  He pointed to the toilet again.

  He could see the anger churning inside her as she contemplated what to do. Use the bathroom or try to run past him back into the bedroom and possibly wet (or shit) herself? Which humiliation would be worse?

  She let out an anguished cry, plunked herself down on the closed toilet lid, and started to rock back and forth. “Why can’t you just go away? Why won’t you leave me alone? For the love of . . . I can’t . . . I can’t. . .”

  She trailed off into hiccupping sobs, her face burrowed in the crook of her arm as she refused to look at him. He, however, never took his eyes off her. He wanted to comfort her, sweep her into his arms, shower her with kisses and love and affection.

  That would have to wait. She had to learn to tell the truth.

  She cried for at least twenty minutes before she finally pulled down her pants and went to the bathroom, a mighty rush of water pouring out of her. She finished and washed her hands, never looking at him as she mashed crumpled balls of tissue against her face to dry her tears.

  He allowed her to brush past him back into the bedroom and he followed her as she sat down on the bed. He resumed his perch on the folding chair, calmly crossing his legs and watching her.

  “What are you doing, Joey? What the hell are you doing?”

  She let out a soft grunt and flopped down on the bed before popping back up. He followed suit as she started for the closet. She changed her mind and dove for him.

  “Stop staring at me, stop following me, just stop—”

  He let her beat her fists against his chest, trying hard not to laugh at her agitation. She was so cute when she got all riled up like this. Just like a little girl having a temper tantrum after losing her lollipop.

  Natalie finally stopped her assault on him and dropped back down onto the bed, turning her back toward him. He lifted up the chair and moved it around to the other side of the bed until he was looking into her eyes once again.

  She burst into tears.

  “He never had friends.”

  He followed that Jason dude once.

  Two Saturday mornings in a row, he tried to follow him, only getting as far as the coffee shop down the street and the dry cleaners around the corner. He’d return home, emerging a few hours later from the underground parking garage on the side of his building, leaving a fuming Joey with just a glimpse of him through the grayish tint of the window of his blue BMW.

  But this particular Saturday morning, he was ready for him.

  He tailed them the night before to a bowling alley attached to a movie theater. She was terrible, not being any kind of an athlete. Smart, but no athlete. Not that he was one to talk with the floppy spools of fat and hambone thighs he’d carried around for the better part of his twenty-eight years. He was the Kid Picked Last: dodgeball, kickball, softball. His balls would probably go in the gutter, too.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d seen them together. There’d been dinner dates. Lunch dates. Movie dates. Drink dates. Dates, dates, dates.

  But this . . . this told a different story. That dude was always snatching at her: pulling her in to kiss him, slapping his hand against her booty, rubbing her neck or her back. Like a goddang octopus. And she let him. Every single thing he wanted to do to her, she let him. He’d never seen her let any man grab all over her like that, not even that Dennis dude. What was so m-effing special about this dude? And that nickname. Scotty. That was about the most damn ridiculous thing he’d ever heard.

  She wasn’t with him as he bounded out the door early the next morning to the coffee shop. A grand-ay something or other for him (four orange and white packets of sugar, one coffee creamer cup), a grand-ay green tea for her (no sugar), and two flaky, fruity pastries.

  It wasn’t until mid-morning that the familiar blue BMW barreled up the ramp. This time, he was ready and waiting in his rental, not wanting to take the chance of anyone seeing and remembering his car. He raced to keep up with the BMW as it maneuvered through the clogged veins of the city. He dropped her off at her apartment but not before getting out of the car to slobber all over her before letting her go, a gooey smile on his face as he watched her disappear behind the glass doors of her building.

  He got on the Edens Expressway, exiting at one of the suburbs and stopping into a decrepit barber shop for a haircut, which was really an hour of trash-talking with the crowd of men about “the game” and “the players” and “the president” and “the economy” before swinging back around to “the game.” Then he stopped at a nearby dilapidated basketball court where he met with his buddies for a game of tw
o-on-two. Joey sat in his rental car watching the effortless way he interacted with these other men. He was popular. People wanted to be around him. Not like him. He never had friends. Flynn had been the best friend he ever had, which wasn’t saying much.

  Day slipped into dusk as the quartet headed to a diner for a late lunch and a new round of ruminations on “the game” and “the team.” Yet another contribution he couldn’t make.

  He sped back to the city, slipping into his underground hideaway and emerging an hour later with a change of clothes and a black leather bag to hail a cab to take him to her place. Where he stayed. All night.

  The whole day depressed Joey. This dude sat atop a mountain he would never scale. Good-looking. Confident. Successful. Liked. People liked him.

  Which made it that much easier to murder him.

  Chapter 62

  SHE

  Three days.

  From morning (she thought) until night, he sat at the foot of the bed, pelting her with creepy smiles and intense gazes. Never saying a word.

  It was the quietest he’d been since she’d been here.

  He would leave to bring in lunch and dinner, leaving her a sliver of time to run to the bathroom free from his prying eyes to relieve her straining bladder. But then he’d be back, resuming his perch, watching her. Always watching her.

  It almost made her miss his incessant chatter.

  Her lids were heavy against her eyes as she rolled over, wondering how long she’d been asleep, grateful to have woken up. He’d given her something at dinner. She was sure of it. Her head began to droop to her chest as he kept spooning papery mashed potatoes into her mouth. It was different from the blue pool but pulled her down nonetheless. She didn’t remember hearing the door beep to announce his exit. She just remembered sleep. Long, lumbering sleep, uninterrupted by the need for the bathroom in the middle of the night, of dreams of life before. Of nightmares of life now. Just a rolling, quiet blackness.

  She burrowed her face into the pillow, content to stay in the darkness, afraid to open her eyes to him. Him. Him. Him.

  She rolled onto her other side, her eyes drifting open for a moment.

  Which was all it took.

  She screamed.

  “More blood.”

  She’d never heard a sound so horrible.

  Wrenching. Guttural. Tortured.

  Dennis. Twitching on the floor, unable to defend himself against Joey’s blows.

  Joey. Plunging the knife into Dennis wherever there was bare skin: a leg, an arm, a cheek, a belly button, a hip, a foot.

  Natalie. Jumping on Joey, trying in vain to stop him from shredding Dennis. To stop the blood, the grunts, the screams.

  To just make it stop.

  He turned on her. Blaming her. Swiping the knife across her stomach, nicking her wrist, slashing her hands. Grabbing her, holding her, and plunging the tip into her neck, slicing her open.

  The blood spewing. Whispering that if she made love to him he would stop. It would all stop. Whispering that it didn’t matter to him if Dennis lived or died.

  Dennis moaning. Joey agitated. Dropping her to the floor. Bolting toward Dennis.

  And in that split second, another scream. Not the tortured howls from before. More like a tinny, squealing sound, like having a car door slam against your hand or stepping on glass. A protracted and piercing wail that would haunt her dreams for years.

  More blood. Puddles of it. Trailing from her neck. Gushing from Dennis in ugly spurts.

  Dripping from his groin.

  Natalie. Opening her mouth to scream, but can’t.

  Joey. Lunging for her again, pushing her back on the bed.

  Dennis. Heaving. Whimpering.

  Joey. Triumphant she would never have that bastard inside her again.

  Dennis. No longer squirming, his whimpers receding into a pathetic rasp.

  Natalie. Begging Joey to let their first time be special, claiming she had a pretty little nightgown hanging on the back of the bathroom door on the other side of the apartment. Just let her change.

  Joey. Smiling. Agreeing. Happy.

  She could only smile as she walked as calmly as she could toward the bathroom, which happened to be by the front door. She was quivering all over as she eased the door open, grateful there were no accompanying squeaks, ignoring the throbbing in her neck and warm ooze of blood spreading across her shoulder. She closed it quietly behind her and ran, searching for any window with a beam of light shining out of it. Every window was black, and her panic swelled to the surface. It was only a matter of time before he would realize she’d slipped through his fingers.

  Finally, at the end of the row, a light. Her legs threatened to send her plummeting to the dewy grass. She glanced behind her, half expecting to see him lumbering after her, that knife secure in his hand, ready to do more damage.

  She banged on the door, praying someone was on the other side to hear her.

  “Help,” she whispered, near hysteria now, as she continued her assault on the battered metal door. “Help me, please. Open the door, please.”

  The door swung open to reveal a petite, startled redhead. “What the hell—?”

  Natalie fell against the girl. “Please,” she said. “He’s going to kill us.”

  Chapter 63

  SHE

  Nooses.

  Hanging from the ceiling. A field of nooses made of slender nylon rope looped through hooks he screwed (drilled?) into the ceiling overnight while she slept so soundly. Some low, some high, some holes big, some holes small. Swaying like wind chimes.

  She sat upright on the bed, paralyzed, terrified, certain the moment her foot made contact with the carpet her neck would be scooped up in one of those holes and snapped like a piece of chalk.

  The beeping door. Joey meandering in. Smiling. Pleased to see her heaving, soaked in tears and hysteria.

  “Joey—” she sobbed, barely able to get the word out before he yanked on her arm and tried to pull her out of bed. She was screaming, her breath pushing against her like a vise. She tried to dig her heels into the carpet, but they slid across the fibers like they were on ice. He fastened his hands underneath her arms and swung her around until the top of one of the nooses kissed the top of her head.

  “Nat, I swear to God, I’ll hang you and that baby, you don’t tell me what I already know—”

  “Please, stop, stop—!”

  With one hand firmly locked around her arm, he dragged the chair from the vanity over to them with his other hand and tried to force her onto it. She knocked it over and tried to twist away from his wrenching grip, but, as usual, he was too strong for her. Too determined. He picked up the chair and flung her toward it as if she were a rag doll. The bottom of her foot scraped the metal leg as the ropes batted her face, even the smallest loop looming as large as the hole of a gaping volcano.

  He succeeded in pushing one leg into a straight position and was working on the other when her foot slipped and she had to grasp one of the ropes to stay upright. She gasped and tumbled against Joey, and he shoved her back onto the chair.

  “Don’t think I won’t do it, Nat,” he panted, grabbing one of the swinging loops and winding it around his palm.

  “Okay!” she screamed, defeated. Terrified. Sobbing. “I’m pregnant, I’m pregnant, I’m pregnant.” She kept repeating the words as he slid an arm underneath her knees and placed her on the bed. Her heart slammed against her rib cage as she began to hyperventilate, wary of the hiccups likely to follow. Joey snuggled in bed next to her, his hand slinking underneath her shirt to rest on her stomach, his head nestled against her chest.

  “Nat,” he murmured into the plump curve of her breast. “Why didn’t you tell me we was having a baby? Huh? Why didn’t you want me to know?”

  Natalie’s heart stopped its assault as she looked down at the top of his head. “What?”

  “You was afraid, huh? Afraid I wouldn’t want this baby. Afraid it was too soon after we got back together. Nat,
don’t you remember how much we wanted a family?” He ran his palm over her stomach, her skin crawling with the sensation of his scaly hand against her. “It don’t matter if it’s now or if it’s later . . . our child is a blessing.” He kissed her. “You’ve made me the happiest man in the world, Nat. I love you.”

  “Joey, I—”

  She quivered as he kissed her neck and pushed his body against hers. “Everything’s going to be great, Nat. You, me, and our baby. One big happy family.”

  Chapter 64

  HE

  He was finally going to be a daddy.

  Joey looked at his face in the hand mirror he kept locked in the freestanding cabinet in the bathroom. Would the baby have his lips? His mama’s nose? His daddy’s forehead?

  He started to pace the room, his mind racing with all the things that had to be done to get ready for the baby. They needed a name. A nursery. Diapers. Bottles. She’d need maternity clothes. Then, of course, there would be clothes for the baby.

  And what about all the things he’d have to teach his son? All his daddy’s truisms started rushing toward him like a freight train, all the lessons, all the things he wanted to pass down to his namesake. Joey wanted his son to know all those things. Maybe he should start to write them down. He didn’t want to forget any.

  He remembered the first time they talked about having a family. It was Sunday dinner at his house, and after playing with his nieces and nephews, they reclined on the porch with tall, sweaty glasses of Mama’s honey lemonade. He had a flash of them in the future, at home, kids piled on top of them like pillows, legs, arms, and fruit-juice stained breath swarming over them both. He’d grabbed her hand and said he couldn’t wait until it was their turn, that he wanted as many children as her body would allow, boys, girls—he didn’t care. She’d smiled, said she couldn’t wait either.