by Sam Mariano
Oh honey? I don’t know, I don’t care. I dip forward with my big, heavy head and look at the floor. Pink carpet. Peachy pink. Not the same color as the pink rose I was tracing, but man, it looks so soft I just want to bury my face in it.
So I do.
I fall to my knees on the floor and flatten myself down in one coily movement. I run my fingers across the carpet the same way I did the couch, and everything is so lovely.
I roll over on my back, but I miss the feel of the carpet so I roll over again. I’m a few feet away from my mom now, after all the rolling. I’m back to feeling the carpet, this time with my cheek.
“It’s lovely,” I tell her.
“Can you come back to the couch?” she asks, gently.
Experimentally I make the attempt, pushing myself up, but my arms don’t feel terribly strong while my body feels heavier than a body has a right to.
“How do I walk every day?”
My mom blinks, eyes wide in confusion. “What?”
“My body is so heavy, how do I walk every day? It’s so heavy. I just…” I trail off, losing interest in what I was saying, and rest my cheek against the carpet.
My mother finally moves off the couch and joins me on the floor. She stays up on her knees, a hand tentatively reaching out to rub my back.
I sigh, content. That feels so nice.
“How are you feeling?” she asks me.
“Everything is lovely,” I tell her with another dreamy sigh.
The carpet is so clean. I wonder if anyone ever even comes in this room. Maybe she just vacuums a lot.
Or there’s probably a maid. Maybe? I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, but the carpet is so soft and my face is buried in it again.
“Honey, I need to ask you a few things. Is that okay?”
“Mm hmm,” I murmur, petting the carpet.
“Annabelle, honey, pay attention,” she says.
“I am,” I insist, glancing up at her.
“Okay.” She pauses, looking… I don’t know. Something. Then she says, “Do you remember the man you’ve been… involved with?”
I’ve turned myself around so I can see under the couch, and I see something under there! Crawling forward on my belly, I reach underneath and fish around. It’s clean so I probably don’t have to worry about touching anything yucky.
“Annabelle.”
A hand is on my shoulder and I roll over on my back, folding my hands across my belly. “Remember when Daddy used to take me to the—”
“Annabelle, I need you to focus,” she says, and I realize she’s… irritated? Have I done something wrong?
“The man. There’s a man, the one who beat up Paul.”
Oh yeah! I wrinkle my nose up, but without much censure. “Paul. Paul isn’t nice.”
“Well…”
“Or interesting. Or smart. Poor Paul.”
“Annabelle, do you remember a man attacking Paul?”
I frown lightly, reviewing my memory. “Oh, yes! Thor,” I say with a dreamy grin.
“Thor?” she asks, alert. “His name is Thor?”
I giggle. “Yeah. He’s a superhero. He’s really sexy.”
“He’s not a superhero, honey. That man is a danger to all of us. I need you to tell me more. Where does he live? Have you seen where he lives?”
“Oh, no. Asgard is very far away.”
“Asgard,” she repeats, jotting something down on a piece of paper I just noticed on her lap. “Is that the name of his apartment complex? Does he live in an apartment?”
I snort and collapse in a fit of laughter, because my mom is so silly. “He protects me. He makes me happy.”
She falters, her hand pausing in whatever she’s writing. She looks down at me, and a strand of long dark hair has somehow made it in my mouth with the rolling and crawling and long hair. I spit it out, pushing my hair out of my face and staring up at the ceiling.
“I feel a little queasy,” I tell her, suddenly aware of a tummy ache.
And then I throw up all over the clean, peachy pink carpet.
“You need to lower the dose.”
My eyes are still closed, but I’m aware of my mother’s voice—persistent, almost desperate.
“The dose is fine.”
“It’s too strong,” she says. “It shouldn’t make her sick.”
“That may not have been the medicine,” a male voice says, dismissively. Indifferent.
Pietro.
My heart leaps and it’s a struggle to keep my eyes closed.
“You didn’t see her—she was completely out of it,” my mother tells him.
His voice is dry. “Yes, I heard. Thor.”
I can’t see my mother, but her tone sounds defensive. “It could be a code name!”
“It’s a fucking Norse God,” Pietro returns, slamming something. “Nothing she said is useful.”
“We don’t even know if he’s connected. I’ll ask her again, I’ll get answers, but you need to lower the dose.”
I hear his heavy footfall. “She won’t talk to you if she’s off the meds. Not even about her goddamn superhero boyfriend.”
“Not off the meds, Pietro, just less. The doctor said….”
I strain to hear what she says, but they’ve left the room and they’re too far down the hall.
I’m afraid to open my eyes. I don’t know if I’m alone. I don’t want anyone to know I’m awake, because I’m not completely clear on what the actual fuck is happening.
I remember the exchange she referred to. I was high out of my mind, rolling around the floor and eating my own hair. Jesus Christ.
They drugged me? With what?
How long have I been here?
The lack of power over my own body is starting to get to me, so I stop thinking and slow down. Take a few subtle breaths, just in case I’m not alone in the room.
I get my shit together and peek under a shuddering eyelid.
Clear.
My eyes open and I look around. I’m not in my bed in my old room. I’m on a cot—I think it’s a cot. It’s narrow and white and sort of hard. Like a hospital bed. I’m in a lower level spare room, the now-blue one with a nautical painting hanging above the bed.
Why didn’t they just put me on the bed?
I look down at my hands and my heart stops. I’m hooked up to something—an IV? There’s a needle taped to the top of my left hand, poked into a vein.
Jesus Christ.
Actually, now would be a really great time for some divine intervention, I think, eyes darting to the ceiling. Anyone listening? Hello?
No guardian angel appears and I guess I’m on my own. Against Pietro and drugs and my own mother. In my old house. Guarded, with an alarm and a security system.
Helplessness swallows me whole. I long for the days when Paul was out doing God knows what and I had a safe bed to curl up in. I long for that shred of security, now that I have none.
And I long for Liam to come crashing through the ceiling like an actual fucking superhero and whisk me away.
I close my eyes, not to maintain a pretense of sleep, but to keep in the tears.
I won’t cry.
I won’t cry.
I’m so tired.
But I have to fight.
Again.
Liam
I don’t have to hate someone to kill them. I don’t need to be able to justify it. I don’t operate on the same level most people seem to when it comes to the act of taking a life. It’s a thing that has to be done in some cases, just like any other thing. You can’t stop eating because you don’t want to do dishes. I kill the people who cross someone with enough money to hire out their dirty work.
My next kill will be pro bono. Whichever goon comes between me and Annabelle.
But doing the job for Raj? Oh, I’m going to relish the fuck out of that.
I haven’t experienced a lot of strong, moving emotions in my time, but the level of hatred I’m reaching with regards to Annabelle’s family….
For a minute, a brief fucking minute somewhere along this line, I considered bowing out, out of respect for Annabelle. Even if she didn’t like them, even if she had fucked up relationships with them and they wronged her in heinous ways that I, personally, would never forgive, in some part of her soul, they were still her family.
Not anymore.
Now they’re just parasites who need exterminating.
That I will do out of respect for Annabelle.
I just have to figure out how the fuck to get her out of their clutches before then. I’m waiting for the opportunity. It’s going to come. It has to. They can’t keep her locked up in that goddamn fortress forever.
They’ll let her out eventually, with a guard of some sort.
They’ll take her somewhere. I’ll follow. Kill the guard. Take Annabelle. She’ll never go back there, and I don’t care if it compromises Raj’s whole operation at this point. Those who need killing will get theirs, even if I have to storm the goddamn castle myself.
But first, Annabelle.
It’s hard not to kill Paul as I watch him move that other bitch into Annabelle’s house. I understand now, that burning hatred that compels people to hire me. He goes on with his life in a blissful fucking blur, as if Annabelle never even existed, while she’s….
I don’t even know.
I can’t get inside Pietro’s house, inside his gates, without detection.
I have no idea what’s going on with her.
During the day I have to work for Raj, so maybe that’s when they’re letting her out and I’m missing it.
I’m running out of time.
The party is in five days. Annabelle doesn’t know not to go to it, and if she’s living at the house and not able to leave, it won’t even matter.
She can’t be in the house.
I don’t even know if she’s okay.
I don’t know if Paul did something to her, broke a limb, maybe? That would explain why she isn’t leaving.
There have been moments, gripping, awful moments, where I wonder if she’s even alive. I don’t entertain them for long, feeling that somehow I would know if she wasn’t. A funeral, a burial—goons moving a body out of the house in the middle of the night. Something would happen. And nothing has.
Last night I got desperate. There’s no time to wait anymore and I have to know what’s going on. I bribed a guy I know at the power company and went up on the poles with him so I could plant a camera to record the comings and goings. If I can figure out when they’re letting her leave the house, I’ll change my schedule with Raj accordingly. He’s getting cagey as the big day draws nearer, but I don’t care. In a few days, I’ll never see Raj again.
I can’t consider the possibility that I won’t be able to get to Annabelle before then. I can’t blend in with the caterers to get inside—I’m too big, too off; there’s an energy I exude that wouldn’t work. I’ll stand out. Get killed. Fail to rescue Annabelle.
Unacceptable.
If I have to, if I absolutely have to, I’ll call in a couple favors of my own. I’ll have Lance and Raj taken out. I’ll turn. I’ll blow the whole operation. And my reputation, most likely.
Even in my head, this is getting messy.
I don’t like messy.
I’ve never been this uncomfortable in my life. Regrets nag at me every night—thoughts of Annabelle by the tree behind her house, kissing me, wanting me.
Why the fuck had I pushed her away?
I should’ve just taken her then. I could’ve sent her ahead of me, finished the job, and met up with her afterward. Sure, maybe they would’ve been alarmed by her disappearance, maybe Raj would’ve suspected me, but Annabelle would be safe.
That shouldn’t be the most important thing to me—shouldn’t be my first thought upon waking and the last thought before I finally pass out sometime in the wee hours of the morning.
But it is.
I’m consumed by her.
I want her back in my arms more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life, and I’m actually terrified that it will never happen. That I’ll lose her, when I never even had her in the first place.
Annabelle is going to be mine. She is mine, whether she knows it now or not.
So right now her family is fucking with what’s mine.
Bad idea.
I’ve more or less stopped sleeping, but it’s worth it.
Because I’m there when she steps onto the front porch around 3am, her long dark hair spilling over her shoulders. She’s looking up and around, like she’s looking for something.
My hand is on the door handle. I want to jump out of the car and go get her, but I can’t. The path isn’t clear. It may be three in the morning, but there’s a wrought iron gate, security system, alarm—I wouldn’t be able to get to her fast enough, even if I went in with guns blazing.
Before I can think of a plan to get her attention, a stocky man with a head of dark hair comes out and takes her by the shoulders, leading her back in. I don’t have much in the way of equipment, but any idiot knows to bring binoculars.
What confuses the hell out of me is that when I get a good look at her face, she’s smiling. Not her taunting, “fuck you” smile, but something softer. Childlike, almost. The man who came out to get her doesn’t seem to be exerting any force, he’s just guiding her.
What the fuck?
As the door closes, I have the sinking feeling it closes on the last opportunity I’m going to have to get Annabelle out before her whole world goes down in flames, and, if I can’t find some way to get to her, her with it.
Annabelle
It’s gotten easy to pocket the pills.
Every morning my mom brings me one, a soft, stricken look on her face. She pets my hair and looks really sad, but never makes an attempt to stop them.
I call her Mommy. I hug her, a clingy, toddler-esque hug.
They all think I’ve had a nervous breakdown. Maybe I would have, if they had any fucking say. Good thing I’ve always been a good bullshitter.
Well, not always.
I guess I should thank Paul for that one.
Anyway, she comes back in the evening before bed to give me another one. I do something like play with her hair or pet her cheek. The other day I pressed mine against hers. I like to mix it up.
They don’t think I’m capable of being this pleasant in a sober state, of faking it on this level, and I’m thankful that they underestimate me. I’m thankful for my waspish nature.
This morning after she gives me my pill, I shove it into its hiding place under my tongue, back far enough that I can talk, and I play my hand.
“I want to get you a present.”
My tone is soft. I try to keep as close to the mannerisms I really affected on the night they had me drugged up.
“A present?” she asks.
I nod. “For your anniversary.”
I’ve ruled out the probability of sneaking out. I may be able to arrange it if I had help from someone on the outside, but even then, I’m not sure. I’ve wandered around the house, scoping out the security, and Pietro takes paranoia to a new level.
Though I guess someone as awful as he is… maybe he’s right to worry about people wanting to kill him.
They’ve stopped asking about Liam.
My mom tried at first, hoping to pick back up where she left off. I’m actually thankful I got sick that first night, because I was loose enough that I probably would’ve actually told her about Liam if she could’ve kept me talking just a little longer.
But I just kept telling them about Thor, as if I actually believed Thor was my boyfriend. My knowledge of Thor being no more than what I picked up watching a single superhero movie, I eventually had to start making shit up.
They think I’ve lost my mind. It’s all good. It’s been fun, here and there.
But I’m ready to be done. No more fighting, no more faking, no m
ore bullshit. Freedom, for the first time in my life.
I’ll do anything to get it, even hug my mom and act like they finally broke my brain.
Pietro must be so pleased with himself.
“You don’t have to get me anything, honey,” she tells me. “Having you home again is present enough.”
“No,” I say, but pleasantly, with a smile. “I want one I can wrap. I know what I want to get, but it’s a surprise. It’s at the mall. Could you have someone drive me there so I can buy it? I’ll need a little money. I’ll ask Paul for some when he gets home.”
She offers a pained nod. “I’ll take you to the mall. You sister can come, she’ll help you pick something out.”
“No, not her.” I frown at this. “Maybe Greg could take me. I don’t want you to see it, I want it to be a surprise when you open it at your party.”
“I’ll ask,” she tells me.
I nod pleasantly and lie down with my head on my pillow. They’ve moved me back into my old bedroom, now that I’m able to function.
Mom pulls back the covers that I’m on top of and I wiggle until she frees them, then she places the blanket around me and tucks me in like I’m five years old. Leaning down, she gives me a kiss on each cheek and stands.
“Good night, Annabelle.”
“Good night, Momma.”
Greg gets the green light to take me to the mall.
He doesn’t seem too thrilled about it, but I can’t say I blame the guy.
Well, until he calls me a retard under his breath, then I want to punch him in the face.
I’ve maintained the guise long enough at this point though, I’m not worried that people are suspicious. I’m not as vigilant as I once was, and I don’t think I need to be.
“I think something engraved,” I tell him, gazing out the window. “Something silver. A picture frame.”
“Sure,” he says, giving zero fucks.
I gasp. “Oh no, I forgot to get money from Paul.”
He rolls his eyes. “I’ve got your money.”
