by Lana Hartley
“Yes, I’m at Zala Point Beach, my name is Carrie Winters,” Carrie says to the emergency responder on the other line. I step closer, mesmerized at the blood and water washing over her toes. She’s looking at it, too, through slivers of moonlight. I don’t bother being stealthy as I move closer.
Carrie’s eyes look right up into mine.
Her hand goes over the phone’s receiver. “Hello?” she asks quietly, and I move from the tiki torches and awnings that were hiding me and into her line of vision.
Shouldn’t she be afraid?
How am I supposed to think logically and leave when Carrie seems to be totally unafraid? I know her life is fairly depressing, but I don’t think that she has a death wish.
Her hand moves from the receiver and she looks right into my eyes. Mask or not, darkness or not, I know that she recognizes me. “No,” she says, and I almost shake at the sound in this moment, so close to each other. “I didn’t see anyone.”
It’s unmistakable. Carrie is looking right at me, and lying. Does she think I’m not real, that she’s imagining me?
The sight of her in a wet white dress, the wind whipping against her, the blood on her dress, her skin, it makes my chest tight and I ache for her.
I am real, Carrie.
“We’re sending a unit now,” I hear from the phone.
Carrie just hangs up.
I still have the blade in my hand, but I point it toward me. I touch the side of Carrie’s face with my hand.
Her mouth forms a little ‘o’ and she reaches out and puts her palm flat against my chest. The touch is like a defibrillator, the electric current so strong. The crashing waves around us sound louder. The salt taste in the air stings more. I hate to leave now, and I want to swoop her up and hide her away, mine forever. I watch her close her eyes and drop her hand. I want to kiss her, but instead I tear my hand away from her cheek and leave, disappearing as quickly as I appeared, into the night.
I feel the weight of her hand on my chest still, like I’m some demon and she’s an angel burning her touch into my skin. My hand itches to feel her silky skin again, but I head back home.
I didn’t fuck anyone after I killed Lorenzo Sirvio. I’m not fucking anyone after I killed Carrie’s classmates. My cock is so painfully hard I almost worry that I won’t be able to drive, but I find my composure.
I can’t explain it, but when I saw Carrie, I knew she was mine. No more than I can explain how Carrie seems to recognize me in some primal way when she’s seen me.
Carrie
“Don’t ask my baby anymore questions.” Mother bellows the request so loudly in front of the police officer that I wonder if there are cameras around recording this grieving mother act.
Everything just…happened. Those bodies…
There can’t be reporters around yet, are there? And in the hospital? The staff must keep them away from patients.
That’s what I am, a patient. I look down at my white dress, sandy, wet, and covered in the smudges of blood I got when I checked some of the bodies.
Bodies. I keep saying that word in my head.
“Ma’am,” the officer says to my mom. His tentative breaths add to the nervous energy all around us. I know he doesn’t want to overstep his bounds, but my mother could test Ghandi’s patience. “She is the only survivor that we can talk with. The only other victim with a pulse is unconscious in the ICU, and your daughter seems to have sustained no injuries—”
“Carrie is likely in shock,” a nurse says, handing me a hospital gown. “You change in there and we’re going to check you out, baby girl, make sure you’re okay.” The nurse pats my arm. I should feel upset about what happened. Comforted by the nice touch. I smile quickly and let my face fall as soon as I turn from her.
I enter the room where I’m supposed to change and hear my father’s voice; he’s on the phone. When he spots me, he walks from the room, voice exasperated as he attempts to be both pushy and quiet. “Okay, but I should be able to sue the school for the pain in suffering my daughter was exposed to, or the beach, Parks and Rec, who is responsible here, Larry?” My father is talking to the family lawyer.
Pain and suffering sounds like what I should legitimately be faced with now, but mostly I’m just tired. I want to be home, curling up next to Jeremy’s coat.
My brain wraps around the idea that Jeremy did this. I saw him. I should tell the police, but I know I’m not going to.
This is the first time in my life that I’ve actually considered that I might not be a good person.
The nurse walks in. “Sweetie, if you’d like to take a shower, the officers just need to take a few samples and we can clean all this blood of you,” the nurse says. She speaks softly, like I’m fragile.
I don’t feel like I’m going to break. I don’t feel anything more than tired. “There’s blood on my hands,” I say, stretching my fingers out before me.
For a moment I think about running to the shower and washing off any proof that Jeremy was there. I want to protect him, but something tells me that he doesn’t need my protection. Why did Jeremy kill all those people? Why didn’t he kill me? More importantly, why don’t I just tell them? I did nothing wrong. They think I’m in shock. Maybe I am.
“Bring the officers in, and then I’ll wash this off after they get their samples,” I answer. I look at her without smiling. Maybe the smiling is just too inappropriate for the moment. I’m used to smiling because I think that’s what people want to see.
The police officer that my mother is hounding walks in, my mom in tow like a Chihuahua ready to bite his ankles. Mother is sobbing profusely, giant crocodile tears all over her cheeks, mascara running like a murky black river beneath her eyes. “Hasn’t she been through enough?” she wails.
“They need samples and a statement,” I say.
“Yes, Ms. Winters,” the police officer says slowly. “If you could just tell us what happened, then we could let you rest.” He pulls a curtain and in that brief privacy I’m a specimen they need samples from.
“Okay.” I hold my hands out while they swab and scrape everything they need, take every picture, tag everything, it is all happening in slow motion and very far away from me, at least in my head. When their evidence bags are full, I sit on the bed and the curtain is tugged back.
There’s another cop in the room. I see Mother look at him and adjust her cleavage. That’s a new level of low for her, I think when she walks over to him and starts flirting.
My father reenters in the room, and he doesn’t pay attention to us, just sits in a chair. My mother doesn’t stop flirting. The officer pulls out his notepad, looks at our little family unit, and sighs.
“I remember that I went to the bathroom. Everything was fine when I left, and a few minutes later when I came back, there were bodies everywhere. I checked some to see if they were breathing or had heartbeats. There was a man, he had a mask, I just forgot in the shock,” I offer up because that’s true and it means nothing. I don’t want to say anything about those green eyes, about recognizing him, about him touching me.
About how I saw Laurel’s body.
“I heard Laurel screaming and I went back to her—” I pause before I say, “body.” She’s the only other girl who’s still alive. Not because she’s supposed to be, I figure. When Jeremy saw me, he tossed her aside like garbage. I still remember how the handle of his blade whispered over my skin when he touched me. How I felt his racing heart beneath my palm. “I heard her screaming…I…I didn’t see anything else.” I take a deep breath. “Can I see Laurel now?”
“Yeah, sweetie, let’s take you to her in ICU after you get cleaned up, we’ll get you washed off and then you can see your friend.” I hear sadness in the nurse’s voice. I want to tell her that I’m not upset about Laurel. That Laurel is not my friend. I want to see her because I need to understand why I’m not upset, why I’m not scared, why all I care about it seeing Jeremy again.
I want to understand. Understand my strange reac
tion, or lack of any real reaction. I want to understand why Jeremy did what he did. I want to understand why I have this attraction to him, and what it means.
The nurse turns. “Give Carrie some privacy,” she insists. My parents look confused for a second, and I think my father actually forgets I’m in the room with him again. My mother shakes her head and stomps out, clacking her heels and tucking her arm around the cop she’s targeting.
When the nurse takes me to the bathroom, I ask to be alone.
Standing in the shower there, I watch the blood drip down the drain, swirling with the water. I touch my face where Jeremy touched me and remember seeing the blood and ocean water on my sandy toes. I clean all the grit off me, but I feel marked. The water, the blood, none of it can wash away Jeremy.
Carrie
I put on my pajamas and turn the news back on, attempting to drown out my parents at this point.
“Our top story tonight is the brutal killing of several students of the graduating class of Westwick Preparatory Academy, as the last injured girl died overnight in Johnson Memorial Hospital. Only one girl, Carrie Winters, survived, unharmed.” The anchorwoman turns to face the camera before her desk and dives into the story.
Mother was only quiet long enough to hear my name on the news. She does a little excited shake of her fists and turns back to me. “Ava Lang is going to be here in the morning, they wanted to do the interview from your bedroom so it is more personal.” Sitting on the bed, my mother glances around and shakes her head at my bedroom. Despite every touch she’s put into this room, I guess she figures it’ll need an upgrade to be the survivor of a mass murder bedroom she hopes to be on the news. “They don’t normally pay their guests, but we were able to get a large sum in exchange for exclusivity.” Standing now, my mother puts her hand on top of my head and pats. “So sorry about Laurel, I know you just went to her birthday party.”
I say nothing. I didn’t care about Laurel. I visited her and waited to feel something, and yet…nothing. I left. I went home from the hospital last night and she died the next day. Still, I feel nothing about it.
I don’t think I’m in shock. The most shocking part of this whole ordeal is how I can’t seem to manage to feel sorry for any of those wretched kids I went to school with.
“I think we can snag a reality show.” She pulls her hand back and points. “I didn’t take the first agents offer, and instead I let the second agent start a bidding war. We have three TV networks and five internet companies —"
“Stop, Mother, no!” I can’t listen to this anymore. “I am not going to profit from this, I’m not going to take money for interviews or do reality shows and become famous because so many people were murdered.” The words roll out of me with force. I didn’t care about those people, but I don’t feel cold enough to do what my mother is suggesting. That feels disgusting to me.
“You won’t be getting the money, no problem,” my father interjects. He grabs my arm, gripping it so tightly that I know I’m going to have bruises. “You are an ungrateful little brat. I am sick of listening to you shit on your mother’s hard work.” He pulls me up off the bed and shoves me into the wall, still holding my arm so tightly that my eyes are watering. “We pay for the best school, buy you everything so you can fit in, force everyone to include you in their social calendars. You have a car, live in a gorgeous home, and you are just a little whiny bitch.” He pushes my arm back, slamming me against the wall again and then releasing me.
I grab my arm and rub where he squeezed me, feeling the ache. “I never asked for any of this.” I look to my mother, nonplussed by my father’s abuse. “Both of you get out.” My voice is shaking, and I don’t want to cry, but I can’t wait for college.
My father walks back up to me and slaps me. “You’ll do this interview, and finally be useful to this family. Or you better figure out how to pay for college!”
I nod, touching my face where he slapped me. But I don’t want to cry and let them think I’m still sad over the hit Physical abuse hardly feels like much of an escalation after the mental abuse they’ve made me endure for years. At least we all agree that I don’t belong in this family.
My father puts his arm around my mother like she’s been brutalized in some way, and they leave.
I change out of my pajamas, pack a quick bag, and grab all of the cash I have from allowances that my mother pushed on me for the past several forced social engagements my mother has sent me on. Pulling out my phone, I call a car service and I step outside. My parents are drinking and discussing the deals they want to make for telling “our story,” as I hear them refer to this ordeal. They don’t notice me slip outside.
I don’t want to drive the car they bought me. They stopped letting me use it when I quit staying at the parties they wanted to me attend, and I don’t need them to find me. I’ll pay for the car service in cash and stay in a hotel. I’m eighteen and I don’t have to stay in their house or accept anything from them anymore. I can figure it out. Right now, I just want to get away.
I begin thinking about the logistics of where I’ll get a job, where I’ll live when the cash for a hotel isn’t going to work for me anymore. I run my fingers over Jeremy Burke’s coat, one of the only things I wanted to bring with me. I like the way the fabric feels. I stop planning for a moment and imagine seeing him again. Maybe I’ll go back to that hotel bar when I have a job, when I’m free. Maybe I’ll have an apartment and ask him to come back one night.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of rubber wheels on the pavement, the hum of an engine. That car got here fast. I open the door, slipping into the leather seat with a deep breath. I am so grateful to get away from parents.
“I hope you liked your graduation present,” a familiar voice cuts through my thoughts.
Fire curls under my skin and my breathing goes shallow.
Jeremy.
He looks back from the driver’s seat and I see those familiar green eyes from the hotel, from the murders on the beach. It was him. It’s him. My fingers squeeze around his coat, one of the only things I bothered to bring.
The car takes off and I reach for the door anyway, but I let go of the handle before I try it. I should be afraid. I should want to get away.
If he wanted to kill me, wouldn’t he have already done so? Tears well up in my eyes. I’m finally afraid. Jeremy admits to killing my classmates and now he’s taking me.
And I realize he came so fast, it didn’t matter that I called the car service. One way or another, he was going to get me.
So what happens now that I’m his?
Jeremy
I see Carrie’s lower lip trembling in the rearview mirror and I have to grip the wheel tighter, thinking about how I’d like to be scraping that lip between my teeth and running my tongue over her lips. “Don’t bother screaming,” I tell her. I don’t know if she wants to. She was about to try the door and never even got a chance to notice it was locked.
Since I saw her, I’ve ached to claim her. Now, I have her trapped, and instead of thinking about the things I want to do to her, my mind is reeling at what her thoughts might be. I’m excellent at reading people but I’m not certain that I can discern her reaction.
I assess her as I drive to my estate. “Running wouldn’t be very wise,” I advise her, watching from the rearview mirror every second I can take my eyes off the road.
“Where would I go?” Carrie whispers so softly that I don’t think her words are meant for me.
“I know that you have many questions, but they’ll have to wait until we’re home.” I swallow. Home, that’s what this is to me, and I’ve graduated from killer to kidnapper. Perhaps that’s a step back in terms of crime, but in terms of passion, the need to keep Carrie is stronger than any need I’ve had for slaughter.
Carrie says nothing the rest of the drive. I keep watch her breathing, the way she’s holding the coat I gave her. Just looking at her, completely helpless and so innocent, makes my cock throb in my trousers.
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I haven’t fucked anyone since I met Carrie. After finishing all my victims, I usually bed a stranger. But this lust threatening to overpower my thoughts is more than just a case of the pipes getting backed up…I want Carrie more than I have ever wanted anyone. I need to taste her skin and hear every sigh and gasp at her taking me.
I was blessed with more than just a sizable inheritance that not only allows me to get away with murder but that allows me to never work, but I also have an enormous cock. I’m charming, but that only gets you so far. There have been more than a few women that simply told me that my dick was too big for them. I remember one girl that I shared with Carter, how she said she wasn’t sure. It made me uneasy about sharing things with Carter at all because he implied that we could fuck her regardless.
I’m a killer, but I’m not a rapist. I kidnapped Carrie, but I’d never force myself on her. I should tell Carrie that I’m not going to hurt her, and that’s the truth. I’m not going to keep her indefinitely. I’ll let her go. But…well, I’ve never pretended to be a good man. I have plenty of seduction planned before I’d ever offer her the chance to leave.
I slow the car when I arrive at my gate and I enter a code to be allowed in, scan my thumbprint. I look to see if Carrie notes these things, should she be planning some escape. Because of the kind of twisted monster I am, I start to wonder if she’d cut off my thumb and keep me breathing, should she need to allow the gate to open again, or would she kill me and then cut off the thumb?
Let’s not get distracted.
“I’ll show you to your room, and I’ll take your things for you,” I tell her as I pull in to my garage. Being wealthy, I have just about every car a wealthy man would acquire. One of these nights that I don’t take leave of my driver, I’d very much like to wrap myself around Carrie in the backseat of any one of these cars. Maybe all of them. I have never been much for collecting things, but I do so value collecting experiences. I make a mental note that I want to taste her in every one of my cars.
