by Dan O'Shea
Leah rushed to him and checked a pulse. Nothing.
She began to choke up but restrained her tears, taking the stairs to the bedroom, knowing she’d find Tom. At the doorway, she braced herself and flipped on the light, and there, slumped near the window, was Tom, his eyes open and vacant, his white t-shirt soaked in blood. Shaking, she approached the man, bending down and picking up Tom’s wrist, the skin still warm, checking for a pulse. Nothing.
Still, she went through his pockets, looking for his cell phone. Not there.
Leah stood, backed up, and left the room. In the hallway, she began to sob. This was all her fault. If she’d never spoken to Brian, if she’d never gone out with him that first night, if she’d never broken up with him—all of this wouldn’t have occurred.
Guilt, horror, hysteria, her head a wreck, not knowing what to do—all of it overwhelmed her as she descended the stairs into the living room. What to do? There was no landline. Her purse was gone. There were no neighbors. She needed Tom or Richie’s cell and searched the living room, but could not find a phone. She approached Richie’s body, swallowed, forced herself to dig through his pockets, but again, nothing. Where was his cell?
Leah remembered Brian shouting at them to put their phones down. He must’ve taken them.
The next thought was keys. She could take one of their cars.
She spun around… car keys. Where were the car keys?
A set was on the floor, near the coffee table. She grabbed them and started to leave, but then something moved. Leah swung around, searching the room. It took a moment but she saw what the sound was: Richie had slipped sideways, to the floor, and now lay knocked over like a doll on a shelf.
Leah stepped backwards, told herself to go.
Keys in hand, she shot out of the house towards Tom’s old Honda and Richie’s Jeep. She wasn’t sure which vehicle the keys belong to, so she took a chance on Tom’s old Honda, and there was luck. The door opened, she got in, quickly acquainting herself with the car. She started the engine, running the plan in her head: get to the end of the dirt road, get onto the county highway, get to a store with a phone. It would be alright because she could call the police and she would be safe. She would phone her mom up in Carteret. It was going to be okay. She was going to survive.
She backed the car away from the house, put it in forward gear, and began to drive. But she only got about fifty feet before noticing a faint spark of light flashing through the trees. She stepped on the Honda’s brakes and stared. The lights glimmered again. He was coming back!
How could she be so stupid? Of course he was returning! He was going to ride up and down this road until he found her, and if she continued to drive, surely she’d run into him on the narrow road and he’d T-bone the car, stopping her for good.
Tears welled in her eyes, but she reined in her anguish, stopped crying, and tried to think clearly. First, get out of the car.
She jumped out into the raw April night air and listened. The sound of a motor increased and intensified. A cloud sailed across the crescent moon, darkening the surroundings even more. Leah swallowed hard, her mind now becoming clear and sharp. The new plan was to run through the woods towards to the county highway, then flag down a passing car. It was dark and it would be difficult, but possible. She could hide and wait for daylight but if Brian’s goal was to hunt her down and kill her, which it probably was, daylight would make her easier to find.
The sound of the motor grew closer and headlights raked through the trees. Leaving the car where it was, she ran and plunged into the forest, making her way through the woods, then turning west, keeping parallel to the dirt road, moving in the direction towards the county highway. The strong scent of earth and pine and oak filled the air.
The truck drew nearer. Leah stopped and ducked down, huffing, catching her breath, watching as the vehicle approached and then passed by, the beams from the headlights moving across the brush and leaves. A part of her prayed it might be another vehicle—a cop, a friend of Richie’s—but it was definitely Brian’s truck.
He continued on, towards the house, rounding a bend. Leah stood and began to run again, but she tripped, crashing against the earth, tumbling forward into a bush. Twigs scratched at her face and bare arms, her skin aching with fire.The truck was still growling, the sound more distant, which meant it was back by the house. She broke away from the branches, untangling herself, and continued to run. Her ankle hurt, the one she’d landed badly on when she jumped, and with this last fall, the pain had worsened. Still, she went on. Her plan became more organized: she’d get to the highway but not run out onto it. Instead, she’d stay in the woods next to the road, continue to move, look for a car to approach, get it to stop.
The rumbling of the truck suddenly groaned louder and louder, the crackling of dirt and rock popping shrilly, signaling the vehicle was traveling slowly and methodically back down the dirt road. Leah stopped running, dropped and cowered down, pressing her body into the ground, the moist smell of the earth filling her nostrils. She waited, her own breath roaring in her ears. Through the leaves, she could see patches of light flashing as the truck rolled by. Diesel fumes wafted through the air, the dirt road grinding under the tires as it passed. Leah closed her eyes and begged God to let the truck keep going. Please, she prayed. Please. Let me live.
A wind blew, the trees fluttering around her.
But the truck stopped again and she heard the doors open. She was pretty far away from him, but not far enough.
“Leah!” His voice now sounded desperate. “Leah! Come on!”
Terrified he might start hiking through the woods, she thought over and over: Please don’t find me. Please.
Soon a door slammed, the vehicle went into gear, and the lights faded as the truck grumbled away.
Leah sighed with relief, but didn’t leave her spot. She shivered, listening to see if he would return.
He didn’t.
Yet it was hard for her to hear, with air growing breezy and the leaves and pine needles clattering against each other. She wished she’d worn a watch. It must be close to five. Sunrise would be coming on.
Leah changed the plan once again, deciding to stay and hide, wait until he was gone. Surely he would give up, especially in daylight with all the people in their cars traveling on the highway—it was a road traveled well in the day, just not the night. As she waited, Leah grew cold and shivered, but she tried to think of calm, simple things—shopping with her friends, the smell of her mother’s perfume. But soon her thoughts returned to Brian and that Saturday night they’d met at the party. He’d come to the college to hang out with friends, listen to a band. It was October and chilly, and he’d given her his jacket that smelled like firewood and aftershave. They talked for hours. He called the next day.
Somewhere down the line, it went horribly wrong: he began to accuse her of flirting, cheating, trying to avoid him. He called her vile names—whore, slut, cunt. Harassed her with perverse pinches to the waist or the inside of her thighs—twisting her soft skin until she cried. Threw her against a wall. Sat on her face and pressed his ass so hard over her mouth and nose, she couldn’t breathe.
The semester at college was almost finished—just three weeks away—and she planned to return home to her mother. “I’m so excited to have you back for the summer, honey!” her mom said over the phone. Leah hadn’t told her about Brian’s behavior or how he was showing up at work and her place unannounced. When her mom had asked about Brian, Leah said they were taking a break. “Oh, that’s good,” her mother replied. She was an anxious and intuitive woman, and from the first time she met him, Leah could tell her mother hadn’t taken to Brian. “He seems like a nice young man,” she’d said, but her voice was small, stiff.
Now, lying on the ground, Leah forced herself not to think of Brian or the dead people in the house—how her heart ached for them—but of good things again. When she returned home, she planned to transfer to a different college, something close to where s
he’d grown up. She’d find a better boyfriend or perhaps she’d take a break from men for a while. She and her mother would go to the movies together, and Leah promised herself she’d help clean out the basement, something her mom had been asking Leah to do for a couple of years.
When the stars had begun to fade, the sky indigo with pre-dawn light, Leah decided to get up. She was cold. Her legs were stiff and her ankle sore, but she was young, and within minutes her muscles were loose. She walked carefully towards the county highway, hoping she wasn’t disoriented and going in the wrong direction. She stopped periodically to listen. All was quiet, except for the trees rocking in the wind. He must be gone, she thought, picking up her pace, stepping over thick sticks or small brush that she could now see. Soon she heard the sounds of the periodic car passing on the county road. She was almost there. A lone streetlamp glowed weakly through the trees under the gray morning sky.
She hiked towards the streetlamp. The buzzing of more cars, people on their way to work, filled her with relief. Someone would stop and help.
• • • •
Then he called her name. It was Brian.
“Leah!”
She turned and saw him emerge from the trees, pointing the shotgun at her.
Leah cried out, swung around, desperately tried to run to the highway, but it was no good.
He shot her down, two bullets in the back. The girl’s knees buckled and she fell, her hands and face hitting the damp underbrush, pain firing through her chest, breathing growing difficult. She didn’t die right away, but lay in the wet leaves, her head slightly turned, her eyes fixed on the light of the distant streetlamp as she felt her blood flow out of her body. She heard Brian crying but then all sound stopped.
She thought of her mom.
The streetlamp went dark.
NOT FORGOTTEN
Chris F. Holm
When she walked into my shop, I was surprised. She was a little wisp of a thing, with hair pale as corn silk done up pretty but not too – darker roots showing faintly beneath. She had nervous eyes, and wore a sweater set that looked more Hamptons than Long Beach. Not that the tattooed have a type these days – truth be told, I ink as many soccer moms as punks, and half the time, I can’t even tell the two apart – but this chick looked more the pick-a-butterfly-off-the-wall type, and my shtick is mostly custom black-and-gray. I considered telling her as much – pointing her toward the flash joint down the boardwalk, where she could get herself something girlie and dime-a-dozen. Then I saw her red-rimmed eyes – her tasteful makeup streaked beneath them – and the photo clutched in her trembling white-knuckled hands, and I realized she hadn’t found me by mistake.
“Can I help you?” I asked, my voice softening automatically in anticipation of her response. But for the two of us, the shop was empty – I’d finished my morning appointment, day three of a Japanese-style sleeve, koi swimming upward through stylized waves from wrist to shoulder – and the warm drizzle that pattered against my awning was enough to keep any weather-spoiled walk-ins away. For a guy who grew up back east and learned his trade in NYC, Californians’ response to rain was laughable. But meek and delicate as this girl seemed, the rain hadn’t kept her away. Guess she had more steel to her than she let on.
“I – I’d like a tattoo,” she said, unsure. That was common. Most folks don’t quite know how to broach the topic the first time ’round. As if she’d be here if she didn’t.
“Good thing,” I told her, not unkindly, “’cause if you were here to see the drink menu, you’d be out of luck. I’m James, by the way.” I extended a hand to her, watched her eyes track up the sleeve of ink that started at my knuckles and disappeared into my T-shirt.
“Megan,” she replied, taking the proffered hand. Her own was delicate and lily white. A perfect canvas, I thought, blank and willing.
”What would you like to get?”
She smiled, thin and pained. “A portrait,” she said, thrusting the picture she now held in her other hand at me. “Of my Andrew.” Her voice hitched as she said his name.
I took the photograph from her and looked at it. A candid shot, taken by the man himself. He was laughing, and hugging tight the girl before me, her face pressed to his chest so that only the back of her head showed, pale blonde and lustrous, and trailing out to one side in defiance of gravity, suggesting motion. City lights blurred into jagged lines behind them. No doubt he’d swung her around as he clicked the shot, but it looked as if the two of them were standing still while the universe spun madly on around them.
They looked happy. My heart ached for her.
Despite her flailing hair a wild diagonal across the shot, Andrew’s face was unobscured, and reasonably well lit. “This should be no problem,” I told her. “How big you thinking?”
She made a circle with her thumbs and forefingers, centered right over her heart. “I’d like some text, too, if that’s all right. ‘Gone, But Not Forgotten.’”
“Sure,” I said. “I’ll need to make a grayscale copy of the picture, draw up a stencil. I could do it while you wait, if you’d like to get this done today.”
She nodded. I got to work, falling silent as I traced the lines of the grayscale copy I ran off, creating an outline for the stencil. The stencil, I printed too, and – after a few awkward moments of her bashfully shrugging out of her sweater set, exposing the white camisole beneath – I ran a safety razor across her chosen spot and applied it, bright blue against her pale-complected chest. A necklace rested against the spot, around which hung a man’s wedding band. When she refused to take it off, panicking slightly at the suggestion, I recommended she instead drape it down her back for the duration of her sitting.
I set out my inks, gave her the whole sterilization spiel, and then it was time to get down to work.
“You ready?” she nodded. “Okay. I’m gonna do a short line, so you can get an idea of what you’re in for. It shouldn’t be too bad.”
I began my outline. She didn’t flinch. Soon, the shop was filled with the droning insect hum of my tattoo gun. Our chatter was minimal, in part because I was zoning out as I got into the rhythm of the piece, and in part because memorial tattoos make for tricky conversation. There aren’t a lot of avenues that don’t lead to tears.
Still, we talked some – mostly me trying to distract her when we got to the spicy bits, my needles pistoning against the thin flesh that stretched across her breastbone. “How’d you and Andrew meet?” I asked, figuring it a safe enough line of questioning.
“At work,” she replied, smiling as if happy for the diversion, or on account of the sweetness of the memory, maybe. “Mine, not his. I’m a barista at The Toasted Bean in Bluff Park, and Andrew would come in every morning before work. Iced mocha, no whip. For me, it was love at first sight. Andrew, on the other hand, took some convincing, but eventually he came around. Now he’s only got eyes for me. Or did,” she corrected, her expression clouding.
“What was he like?”
“He had a smile that lit up the room. When he flashed it at you, it was like you were the only other person in the world. And his laugh...” she trailed off then, lost in her own thoughts.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” I said when next she flinched beneath my gun, “was he ill?”
She shook her head. “Accident,” she said.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” It’s such a helpful phrase. Mutually agreed-upon modern shorthand for I know there isn’t anything I can say to make you hurt less, but I wish like hell there was.
I continued my work in silence. Three hours after needle met skin, we were done. “What do you think?” I asked.
“It’s perfect,” she said, admiring it in the mirror, and I could tell by her face she meant it.
We settled up. She tipped me well. It wasn’t until she reached the door I remembered her photo was still sitting in my copier.
“Megan,” I called, “you forgot your husband’s photo!” I moved to grab it, pausing when I opened the hinged li
d of the photocopier and saw the tight script on the backside of the picture. Andrew and Heather, it said. June 2011.
Megan smiled, though her delicate features were tinged with sadness, as well. “Andrew’s not my husband,” she replied. “Before yesterday, I’m not sure he ever even noticed me – not really. But don’t worry – he won’t forget me now.”
Then she stepped out into the deepening evening gray, and disappeared into the rain.
It was two days later I next saw her, her photo beside one of Andrew, hovering over the left shoulder of our local NBC News anchor on the TV mounted on the back wall of the shop. His posed, hers a mug shot. I unmuted the TV just as they cut to their reporter on the scene – and what a scene it was. Police tape and spattered blood, crime scene techs in masks and paper booties shuffling through the shot, placing yellow markers here and there. In one tech’s hand, an empty picture frame, its glass fractured. In the foreground, a well-coiffed reporter tried in vain to ask questions of an inconsolable woman in a sweater set and corn silk hair – so similar to Megan, and yet not.
Or perhaps it was the other way around.
Heather McDougal, said the chyron. The wife of the deceased. She arrived home from a conference in Sacramento to find this grisly tableau waiting for her – or so I gleaned from the reporter’s leading questions, and the new widow’s wordless sobs.
The police report, I later learned from the newspapers, said that Megan stabbed him thirty-seven times. That she’d chopped off his left ring finger, and taken his wedding band. She’d also plucked out his eyes. The former, I recalled, she carried with her around her neck. The latter were, so far as I know, never found.
When they asked her why she did it, she told them it was an accident. That it wasn’t supposed to end this way. That she never meant to hurt him.
The local press had a field day with the story. His photo next to hers four times a day for weeks.
