I do not pass go, I do not collect two hundred bucks.
I inhale.
My finger sweeps across the numbers I’ve repeated in my head a thousand times. Six. Nine. One. Three. Or, my thirteen.
My hand grasps, turning the doorknob.
I exhale.
I run.
My wet feet slip and slap against the concrete floor of the garage and after I tear the sliding glass doors open they hit the cold, dewy grass, and goddamn it, I fucking run.
Chapter 8
I’m certain if anyone can appreciate the downward spiral my love and affection for Mac took on, it would be you. This wasn’t my fault. This trajectory of ill-fated occurrences couldn’t have been foreseen. Instead of being with the woman I love, I was left with her evil fucking twin sister.
That bitch has fought me tooth and nail, and for every eye roll, every sigh of disgust, and gawk at a demand, she has paid in flesh and blood. Tonight, has been a long time in the making. An orchestrated symphony contrived of her disobedience and repercussions.
When she pierced the skin on my back with a damn steak knife I began the methodical planning of her slow, tortuous demise with tonight’s curling iron affair as kick off.
If I weren’t so damn exhausted from obliterating her from the waist down, I’d get started on the next phase of agonizing lessons. It was so exhausting I couldn’t even get an erection, must less reach orgasm. For the life of me I can’t understand why it’s so difficult for me to perform. At Payne manor all I needed was a visual of Roman tearing into Mac and I was busting a nut. Now that it’s my hands on her skin instead of Roman’s, it’s just not enough. Perhaps my cock likes the idea of never coming in physical contact with a sexual partner, of never being more than a spectator, never being a star in the main show, but I— I want my well-deserved time in the spot light. I paid my dues, I served my time on the sidelines, and come hell or high water, I will get what is mine. Even if I have to pull the wool over my own eyes, trick my dick into thinking he’s just an onlooker, then throwing us in on the fun.
Big plans. Well thought out, complex plans beyond any simple frame of mind.
Once the water pelting my skin turns cold, I extricate myself from thought, turn off the shower and dry off. And of course, just like every time since returning to the family ranch, as well as every time I can remember as a child, I see the unmistakable flash of my sisters red hair in the mirror’s reflection.
I dress in my usual flannel sleep pants and white t-shirt and make my way downstairs for a nightcap. I can still feel the anxiety from earlier. I know sleep will evade me if I can’t find a solution to this restlessness.
As I round the corner in the dark kitchen the sight before me has me stopping dead in my tracks. I’m stumped, confused, mentally disoriented for a full thirty seconds as my mind grapples trying to make sense of the dark pattern across the white marble floor tiles. My hand reaches out on its own accord and flips the lights on.
I realize as the dark and light transform the color of what I’m looking at, and even as my mind processes it, it still tries to deny the truth.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
Twelve perfect footprints from the kitchen entryway to the garage door.
But that isn’t possible. It’s completely preposterous. Absurd even.
Then what the fuck am I looking at? No, Mac should not be able to stand, much less walk to the kitchen, furthermore she’s shackled to the bed.
Before my mind is able to replay whatever occurred from the time I removed the curling iron from Mac to me standing here in the kitchen, I’m barreling through the doors of Mac’s room only to come to a screeching halt for the second time tonight.
Her bed is a macabre sight of blood, piss, and shit on twisted silk sheets. It’s also vacant of its sleeping prisoner.
Somewhere in my self chastising the stark comparison and difference between Mac and Mace becomes lucid. I will acknowledge that while Mac wouldn’t mentally be able to push through the pain and escape, Mace could and would.
In fact, she did.
After having scoured every inch of property inside and out with Lizbeth, I called mother and informed her of the incident.
I sigh in self-disgust, raking my fingertips against my scalp for the hundredth time and continue to pace the length of the sitting room.
This is the reason I never held any of Mace’s respect. This is why she constantly disobeyed me. She’s right, I am a worthless and pathetic man, unfit to even stand in the shadows of Roman.
She used my love for Mac against me, bewitching me with her temptation until I was too far lost to ever be found. Then she shoved it in my face, every bloody footprint from the bedroom to the garage door was a snickering gloat.
I will carve her from cunt to chin the next time I lay eyes on that bitch. I will not rest until I’m coated in her blood. She has no idea how far she’s pushed me with this little stunt. Oh, but she soon will.
She soon will.
Headlights flood across the front sitting room before flickering off. Seconds later the front door opens and closes, keeping the room in darkness. I hear the tremble in mother’s voice whisper through the blackness, “Son? We’ll find her. Don’t blow this out of proportion. She couldn’t have gotten far. Especially in the shape you described her in, and on foot? I doubt she’s even made it a mile.”
Light coming from an unknown source on the ranch illuminates our profiles through the floor to ceiling windows making up the back wall. “Her footprints end at the garage door leading to the back. I’ve already searched the grounds, mother, and found absolutely nothing aside from the bloody tracks through the kitchen and garage. With you and I being the only two searching, it will be harder to find a needle in a haystack and you know it.”
She straightens her scarf and re-buttons her winter coat as she walks towards the door leading to the back acreage of the ranch, “I know my plan of action’ll be more productive than standin’ inside lookin’ out and bitchin’ about the tasks level of difficulty. Do what ya want, child, but know ya gotta do somethin’ other than watchin’ and whinin’.” The door closes behind her and I fall into suit doing what I’ve always been best at, I watch.
Chapter 9
I should be taken out to the pasture and executed for my inability to be a decent father and my lack of parenting skills.
Honestly, from the moment Dolores left, I’ve had no time to do much more than wing it. Ivy is the captain of our dynamic duo. Me? I’m goddamn Robin, taking parenting cues from a two year old for Christ’s sake.
It’s been two weeks. Two fucking weeks of me Mr. Mom’ing it, under the guidance of the two year old I am solely responsible for. At some point during the first few days I relied on my belief that Heather was watching over us to help ease the anxiety attacks powerful hold on me. But that’s a difficult doubled edged sword to hang on to. The relief of knowing even in death, as long as I keep Ivy as my responsibility, Heather will never be too far away. The other edge of the sword however, holds the embarrassment of knowing she’ll see first hand at what a complete and utter disappointment I am as a father.
“No, daddy, not wike dat, you put the peanut butta on one side and da jewie on da utta, den dus like with a grillin cheese samich, you cook it, dus wike dat.” Her weight as she leans in closer to point at the skillet on the stove causes the stool she’s kneeling on to tip over. I’ve reacted before I even consciously registered what is happening. The end result is that I’ve placed Ivy’s bottom on said stool and both of my hands are now bracketing her small shoulders. My eyes going back and forth between hers assessing for fear. All I’m met with is an exasperated sigh. “Jezz wawezz, daddy, I wasn’t gonna faw.”
Out of nowhere my pointer finger taps the tip of her nose with every word I speak, and I swear I have no idea where these odd actions are coming from. “Sweetheart, I told you I didn’t need your help, your directions the first four times were more t
han clear. I told you not to sit in that stool any other way than its intended to be sat in. Not because I wanted to hear myself talk, but to keep you safe, young lady. Now, acknowledge you understand.”
I lean back after brushing my lips across her forehead and catch her red handed, mid eye roll. “Whadda bout the butta den daddy? Huh? You didn’t even get it out of the fridge when I come in heh. I had to do it.”
Did I mention my daughter is easily the smartest two year old on the planet? Her reasoning and thought process never fails to constantly astound me. And just when I think I’ve seen it all, heard it all, she leaves me impressed yet again with her very next breathe.
I nod to show her statement or rebuttal against my argument maintains my attention. Long enough to show my thought and consideration before speaking through a chuckle, “Well, Ms. Ivy Bean, I must give credit where credit is due, I’m afraid you might be closer to having it right than I do. Our dinner sandwiches’ would have been disastrous had you not saved the day with your fearless bravery and butter!”
The squealing giggle of a maniacal toddler splits the air in the room as she throws her head back sending the stool falling over backwards and I have her cradled to my chest as the stool bounces twice on the floor.
I’m not sure if it’s Ivy or Heather who is blessing me with these random bursts of protective instincts, but I count every one as a blessing in their own. In a soothing tone I whisper to her while rocking her back and forth twirling the satiny ends of her hair around my fingers. “It’s okay, sweetheart, Daddy has you. But now you have to tell me. Ivy? Do you have the butter?”
I don’t know how I knew it was important that my next statement be a playful one, I just did. When she isn’t quite able to blink the tears from her eyes she wipes them away with her chubby fisted hands before piercing me with her royal blue irises and smiles so big I could count her pearly white teeth.
And then in her very next breathe, she leaves me impressed yet again. “Daddy, da butta was you’s as soon as it hit yo hand it was ‘post to be you only job.” After squirming her way down, I release her mid monkey or orangutan dance, I think it is orangutan dance, but then again, I’m not sure. She bolts from the kitchen headed for what sounds like the staircase squealing the words, “It’s bubby wubby wiff Mr. Bubbles baff time, daddy!”
“Okay, but dinner after bath, then bed. You hear me, Ivy bean?”
I come entirely too close to smashing my brains on the granite countertop than I believe can be deemed safe before I turn off the stove and head upstairs to get Ivy set up in a bath. While our system could probably use some tinkering, or more thought as I am the only one in danger of freaking out and becoming damn near deaf, blind, and catatonic when she informed me she indeed, did not know how to work the knobs or start her own bath, it is ours, and it works for us.
It consists of Ivy wearing a tank-top, her training panties and bloomers while she sits in the tub and I get the temperature of the water right, line up her shampoo and conditioner, bar of soap, a rag and her three bath fish toys on the side of the tub, then pour a half cup of Mr. Bubbles bath bubbles into the water. Once the water level is three quarters of the tub deep, I turn off the water and leave her to go about her business after lying out her pajama’s, bathrobe, and slippers on the bathroom countertop.
Then I cook our sandwiches and wait for her to join me in the breakfast room. I tried to get Ivy comfortable with the dining halls the first few evenings, but she insisted we sit in here, she said it was too stucky and she couldn’t ever hear what I was saying unless I was ‘yellin’ down the dinin’ haw.’ Now, I’m sure you think it’s because I’m partial because she’s my daughter. And yes, for some ignorant, self important bastards, I’m certain they are ill-conceived with the notion leading to them only being partial to their own offspring, but not me. Not a chance in hell will you find me ever allowing my opinion of Winter Ivy Payne being persuaded by her being my own heir or a product of her mother’s and my love. Not. Once.
I’ve become quite fond of the breakfast nook over the last few days, and it causes pride for my Ivy Bean to swell and unfurl inside my chest. As she walks into the kitchen she keeps her smiling eyes locked on mine and makes her way to the table, then after putting her napkin in her lap, and folding her hands, she prays, “Deh lawd, peeze take care of my momma, peeze take care of Nana D.. And pretty, pretty peeze take care of my daddy. Thank you fo tha bread and da peanut butta, da jewie, and da ottah butta, and the skillet and fire. I love your food, lawd, it’s dus the best.—Maymen.”
She then picks up a fourth of her grilled pb&j sandwich and nibbles a bite before nodding.
In her very next breathe, she leaves me impressed AND speechless yet again as she asks, “So, deed mommy dies cause she was old, or was her sick, or did sum ebil man kill her, daddy?”
Chapter 10
It’s been one week, two days, thirteen hours and fifty minutes since I scaled the gates surrounding that God forsaken hellhole known as Gorman Ranch. If I had to name only one reason I’m still alive it would be the endless hours I burned through the midnight oil reading and studying every piece of information I could find in the library pertaining to survival and diy guides.
However, right now they are currently doing jack shit to help me orient and determine my current location. I’m eighty-one percent sure I crossed the state line a few days ago. I just fucking hope to hell the increase in the number of Oregon plates I keep spotting when I venture out from under the protective canopy of the forest tree line means Oregon was the state line I did cross three days ago as well the state I’m currently hiking through from one end to another.
I’m a little surprised that so far on my journey to flee from my worst nightmare, the lowest point of rock bottom I’ve hit was staggering into a Wal-Mart at two thirty am to douche with the Normal Saline and antibacterial soap I mixed together as I straddle over the public toilet with one bare foot hiked up on one wall and the other firmly planted on the ground. I don’t know what solution I should be using on vaginal and rectal burns, nor do I know what soap I should be mixing in it, but this has to be more hygienic than resting my obliterated bottom on an algae covered rock submerged in a brook or a creek with fucking fish swimming by.
After I’ve done the best douching job a woman can in Wal-Mart’s public restroom stall, I stumble through the women’s clothing and randomly snatch pieces of clothing from their hangers before helping myself to a fitting room and layering as many outfits as I could without looking like I was…well, layering clothes for shop lifting purposes.
I continue my escape through more wooded acreage.
After polishing off three of the ten apples as well as the handful of blackberries I foraged earlier today while trekking in the woods from sunrise to sunset, I swish the water I bottled from a pseudo clean stream around my mouth and through the spaces between my teeth before spitting it out in the grass. I wished four times and prayed twice while rinsing the seeds from the crevices of my teeth for a single goddamn toothbrush and some motherfucking toothpaste.
I’m hungry but not weak. I’m tired but refuse to allow my steps to falter. I’m at my wits end, but my grasp does not slip, it only tightens its hold. I’m scared to death, but I can’t afford to give my fear any power by looking too closely at it. My only thought now: VENGEANCE.
I release a sigh of foreboding and impending defeat as I plump my belongings in my Louis Vuitton bag before using it as a pillow and snuggling as close to the fire I started when I stopped here as I can without catching ablaze. Once my body settles in, realizing the dewy earth will again be the bed we rest upon just like every night before and every night since leaving the Ranch, a calm contentment blankets me. I smile as my daughter’s face flashes behind my eyelids before I’m swathed in the blissful numbness that always accompanies my loss of consciousness.
Only instead of finding the blissful numbness I’ve secretly began to crave, the nightmares of what I endured in Gorman’s Ranch as well as my o
veractive imagination concocts one unimaginable offensive scenario after another to play out with my sweet baby girl being forced to endure fear, pain, loneliness or sadness at the hands of the monsters she unknowingly trusts. She believes they love her, believes they are the guardians who will keep her protected.
Let one hair on Winter Ivy’s head be touched with anything other than love or affection and I will fucking come unglued, tearing every last motherfucking one of them down to the lowest bowels of Hell and remain there in the afterlife to make damn certain Roman and Sebastian spend their eternity exactly where they belong.
These thoughts alone fuel my growing need for revenge.
Then…finally, my blissful numbness consumes me and washes away evidence of the disturbing mess I’ve made of my life.
After I shove all my shit in my bag, I rake the ashes of last nights fire out with a make shift rake, covering it with a few handfuls of leaves and kick up the earth to cover any signs of my presence. I toss my bag over my shoulder and glance at the sunset before heading in the general north direction.
When I start seeing more footpaths in the wooded area I’m trudging through, I assume I must be getting close to the vicinity of a city or a town. After about five miles I’m skirting the city limits of Albany, Oregon. What was the city’s name again? I don’t know, because I don’t give a fuck, all I heard was Oregon! Bitches, what’s up?! Who found her ass in the city she intended? Yep, that would be your girl, Mace!
Well if this don’t put a pep in my goddamn step, nothing will, or at least that’s what I’m trying to explain to Mac, while nudging her out of the protectiveness of the woods and into civilization. Once the rubber sole of my Wal-Mart flip-flop slaps the asphalt it on its own accord, diverting my feet’s direction towards a strip mall. And do you know why? Because, momma needs a new pair of boots. And jeans. And a warmer, possibly long sleeve shirt. Panties, Bra, you name it, I’m probably going to jack it in 3. 2. 1. Oh yeah, write fucking jacket on that list too.
Roman's Redemption: Roman: Book II (Roman's Trilogy) Page 5
