The End

by Charlotte E Hart

  “Are your mum and dad here?” I ask, quietly, unsure if it’s the right thing to say or not. He shakes his head and looks at his lap, his fingers finally relaxing on the wheel until they fall gently and land in the place he’s looking at. I stare at them there, sensing his nerves as I watch them turn over each other. It’s so different from him. A wavering of the absolute conviction he normally portrays in what he’s doing or saying. He seems like he’s tearing himself in two about something, as unsure about what he’s doing as I am. “Who then, Blaine? What are we doing here?”

  “Eloise.”

  I stare still, my body becoming a wall of defences that I can’t process. I want to know. I asked him to tell me, begged him, and now he is doing I don’t want to hear it? He chuckles and gazes over at me. I can’t see it because I’m staring out the damn window away from him, but I can feel him all over me nonetheless. I can feel the penetration of those black holes, boring in and refusing to let me disregard this. “You need to do this, Alana.”

  “No, I don’t.” It spits back, my mind whirring with every reason not to get out of this car. I don’t want to. I don’t have to do anything. This, him, is my dream, screwed up as that might be. This is my freedom from the world out there. It’s my new me, all wrapped up in his hands so I don’t have to think anymore or process shit I don’t want too. I just want to write my books, love my characters again, and fuck like there’s no tomorrow involved, preferably in his house or by his sea. I don’t need to see this. There’s nothing to see. I know what he did because he told me. The only thing I need is him to talk about it honestly, not have me going to a grave to look at what he did.

  He gets out as I’m still trying to get more words to come out, anything to make him see reason and sense. What is any of this going to achieve? Nothing. It will only make me question all this again, question him. And that’s the one thing I’ve learnt not to do. I trust him, with my life if need be. That’s who we’ve become. Who he’s made me become.

  I refuse to even look at him for a few minutes, choosing the interior of this car rather than the actuality of doing something he tells me. I’ll make my own decision on this one. No amount of him doing anything is going to make me get out of this car. No. I’m just not. I’ll wait here and then we can go home and discuss the insane bit of the conversation, perhaps try to rationalise that somehow. Jesus.

  Backwards. He said backwards. For me. This is what he means by backwards, isn’t it? Making me see her. Making me identify this as a reality to deal with. Him with her. Him killing her. Him with me. My eyes lift slightly at the thought as I grip hold of my dress, their gaze hardly focused on anything other than a green haze coming at me. It’s a sea of green, nothing but decisions and thoughts colliding with indecision and hesitancy. I’m a mess of every emotion I’ve got, each one of them mingling with another adjective to condemn reasoning or self-judgement. I can’t do this. Any of it. I might as well have millions of notifications coming at me again, bleeping and flashing their chaotic ramble at me, confusing me again. If he’d order me it would be better than this. It would. I could do it then, I think. I could pull the door handle and heave one leg after another, be guided, but not on my own. I can’t do it on my own. I don’t want to.

  I snatch a glance at the keys, their metal glinting at me, then slide my eyes round to look at the one thing I should look nowhere near. He’s there still, his fucking arm holding the gate open, his back facing me as he waits for me to follow. His fingers tap the gate in his hand, his body turning slightly as if he’s going to look back at me. He doesn’t, it’s barely a half turn of his head. It’s enough, though. It’s enough for every instinct to sink to the pit of my stomach and abandon all hope of winning this fucking argument I’m having with myself. Leave? What fool am I? He’s waiting for me to help him, isn’t he? Offering what I said I wanted from him to be able to move forward. The truth, all of it. This is my choice. My decision to make. That’s what he said. It’s the one thing he can’t make me do, even if that’s what he needs to do to push me through. What future would it be if he forced this last thing? What truth would there be in that, what honesty? This is about me acknowledging our future, not running from it.

  My own sigh leaves me at the same time as I pull the bloody door handle, barely any thought to the inclination. It’s best if I don’t think, noiseless. And apart from the soft crunch of the gravel beneath my feet and the slamming of the door, I don’t hear anything other than that as I aim for him. Who knows what this is, or why it is, but it’s here inside me constantly now telling me to keep following. Perhaps I’m nothing but a lap dog now, happy to endure anything as long as he keeps giving me that quiet I’m after. And maybe, to others, that would mean I’m nothing more than a toy for him, something to be cajoled and influenced, but that’s not what this is. That simply can’t be all it is. Not anymore. It’s deeper than that, always has been.

  I duck under his arm, a slight look back to see his face as I keep walking. There’s nothing to indicate happiness or pleasure that I’ve followed, more a sense of foreboding as he nods his head onwards. I hover as the path separates, waiting to be told where next.

  “Right,” he says, his body four steps behind me.

  I turn and continue on again, each footfall laced with the dread I’m trying to overcome. I’m not sure what it’s for, or what I hope to do with the emotion. It’s not like I don’t know where I’m going to, or what’s going to be at the end of it. She’s dead. I know that. He killed her. He killed her doing exactly what he does to me. And no amount of that fact has stopped me getting out and coming with him to see this. It seems crazy even to me as I watch my blue high heels crunching each next step, occasionally lifting my head to take in the scenery.

  “We don’t need to do this …”

  “Yes, Alana, you do,” he clips, a strident tone snapping back at me before I’ve got a chance to finish my sentence. “You will look, kneel, and then ask me for what you want again.”

  I nod at his words, almost expecting them for some reason and wondering if I will do what he’s just asked me to do or not. I don’t know. I mean, who would? It makes me look up into the sky as another man comes into view, barely aware of him as I keep wandering on. “Left.” I swerve to the left, not even looking at the ground beneath my feet as I keep staring upwards. It’s all so appealing up there. Perfect skies and perfect clarity, none of it clouded by thoughts or uncertainty. It’s seamless, too. Not a join or junction in sight. It’s just a continuous horizon, full of nothing but beauty and wonder. It’s all my dreams and adventures, ones full of the man behind me and his lips, hands. “Left again.”

  I don’t know how much longer I keep walking, nor care. He just directs me as I keep looking up and smiling at what that sky holds for us. It’s so beautiful and clear. Nothing in the way for us, nothing to interfere or veil my judgement of who I am and what I want. He needs me now as much as I need him. It’s just this one final hurdle, isn’t it? Just this one last thing to see and understand and then we’re free. I’m free.

  “Stop.”

  I do, and I do it the second he says it. No stumbling, no tripping over my feet. I’m balanced and quiet again, somehow lost in this meander he took me on, not caring for the eventuality of our destination at all. I know where I am as I watch a small bird dance the sky in front of me, her wings busy flapping madly. I smile at her, wondering if she’s going home like I am, willing her there quicker so she can get to those she loves, look after them. It makes me sigh and think of his sea, his bed, the way his arms wrap around me on occasion, the dancing. My head on his chest after our sessions, and the way he cares for me in those moments. Love.

  “Blaine, I don’t need this.” I don’t. It doesn’t matter to me. I wish it did. I wish I could make a judgement on him and feel the need to tell the world of what he has done, but I can’t. I’m selfish about him, barely able to fathom the thought of life without him, let alone the thought of turning him in for something he does with
nothing but base need and instinct.

  “I do, Alana.” I try to turn, wanting to tell him it doesn’t matter, that we can leave now and never discuss it again, but he instantly holds me and forces my position still. “You look, find your own conclusions, and then kneel and ask me again if you want to.”

  I’m still staring up, perhaps trying to ignore what’s beneath me for fear it might change my mind. Kneel. He means it this time, doesn’t he? For us to go on from here, for us to become more than we are I’ve got to give everything unreservedly. There will be no games, no teaching, and no entertainment for entertainment’s sake anymore. It’s emersion he wants from me. Submersion. My obedience. My thoughts. My life should he want it.

  A leap of faith hangs in my mind as I slowly bring my eyes downcast, an angel in prayer coming into view on another tombstone. What a leap. And now he’s not even touching me anymore, not giving me that confidence in his hold to cling onto. I’m alone in this decision, he’s making it so.

  “Do you care?” I ask, still gazing at the angel’s wings as they stretch out over the grave they protect. It’s not something I’ve thought about before now, only my reaction to the information he gave me.

  “About what?”

  “Her death.” Because if he doesn’t, if he doesn’t feel remorse of some kind, then what’s to stop him doing it again. I shiver at the thought, my arms wrapping me up to keep my heart sheltered from the image of bloodshed at his hands.

  “That’s not the right question.” My eyes glance down at the grave, finally finding the courage as I turn into him. Not the right question? What is then, because this is the only one I need answering. I need to know he gives a damn about what he did to a woman, need to know that he’s learnt from his mistake. If he hasn’t, how do I know it’s safe to go onwards?

  “It’s the right question for me.” He smiles a little, but it’s sadder than usual. No charm about it, no sense of amusement at me, frustration even. He’s just flat. A depressed line of nothing but what he is beneath the man I first met. “Do you, Blaine? Care?”

  “I care about you.”

  The statement doesn’t really surprise me as I gaze at him, his eyes transfixed on mine, no concern to the woman who lies underground because of what he did to her.

  “You killed her.”

  “Yes.”

  “And now you want me to do the same as she did for you?”

  “No. I want you to give me the chance to love you, little dove.” He reaches for me, one hand lifting to my face. I don’t move or reject the touch that’s coming, nor am I scared of it in any way regardless of the reason we’re standing here. I want it to land on me, am desperate for it, and have been since that first time in his bedroom. “I want to order myself for you. I want your hope, Alana.” I smile at that, watching the way his fingers hover midway between us, waiting for them to find me because he’s a part of me whether I like it or not. He’s infused in my skin, laced in the way my heart beat forces the blood around my veins. He stops before he reaches me, though, choosing to return the hand and pocket it instead as he backs a step away. “I want your trust. I never cared for hers, nor did I give her the consideration or emotion I’m giving to you.”

  “But why don’t you care about her death? You must have some sense of remorse.”

  “Do you?”

  “What?” He snorts at me, his body backing away again as if he’s irritated at my confusion.

  “Do you care about her death, Alana?”

  “I didn’t know her. Why would I? I mean, it’s not me we’re talking about here.” I fumble the words, not sure what answer to give. I glance back at the grave, uncomfortable with my own sense of dispassion for her demise. “I didn’t know her, Blaine. It’s not …”

  “And I did?” Of course he did.

  “You were intimate with her, Blaine. She was with you,” I snap, confused as to why this has anything to do with me, and irritated with his choreography around the question. He was with her, not me. My care for her death isn’t needing discussion. He just needs to answer the question.

  He stares for the longest time, a tension forming around his jaw showing his disapproval of my tone. Fuck him. I might still love him, and I did follow him here, but he’ll give me more than this for us to carry on. Truth.

  I stare back, willing his hand to reach over and soften on me, regardless of my tone, or for him to make me take this and get rid of my questions altogether. I need this from him, I do. We do. It’s honest and open and everything I have to get for me to be able to accept this in some way.

  “She was with a part of me for a time, Alana. I was never with her.” He looks at the floor for a second then draws his eyes up me, slowly, taking the longest breath before he exhales it. “Not like I am with you.” He tips his head to the side, inspecting the look on my face like he has done a thousand times, watching me get frustrated with his lacking vocabulary, as I tighten my grip on myself. “You want to hear that I’m saddened by her demise, chastising myself for it.” I don’t know. I just want the damn truth. “You want contrition and penitence so that you can find a sense of happiness in this pitiful vision, don’t you?”

  “No, I just want the truth. I want your feelings, Blaine.”

  He frowns for a second, the wrinkle in his brow telling me I’m not going to like what spills out next. That time is over for me now, there’s little he could tell me that I can’t hear anymore. I’m here at this woman’s grave, waiting for the truth, whatever it might be.

  He grabs me out of nowhere, the fierce hold of his fingers sweeping me towards the grave before I’ve got a chance to think about what’s happening. I’m shoved so quickly my knees buckle to the ground under his strength, skin grating the floor as I go.

  “I strapped her until she bled, then fucked her until she wept, little dove,” he says, stepping forward into me, his fingers moving from my neck to my face to force my lips to the marble. The words cause a rush of panic to rise, my throat catching with the choke on tears already forming. “Look at her, feel her death in my hands.” He slaps at me, spurring more tears to come as I gaze at the blurred grave in front of me. “And when she couldn’t scream anymore,” he says, as he tips my head to the side to look back to him, a sneer etched onto his handsome face. “I carried on without thought to consequence.” He stands taller with that explanation of their relationship, not seeming to care for the animal it makes him seem to be. “She was my beginning, Alana,” he snarls out, flicking me away and letting go of my skin. “My monster’s fucking progression.” His eyes leave me as he walks passed my cowering form to gaze at her headstone. “She helped me find the other parts of me. Nothing more than a toy to break apart. Keep looking at her, learn.”

  I stare at the grey beneath me as he mutters more words I can’t hear, for some reason trying to see a face I don’t know, hear her screams. Some part of me admires him for his brazen attitude to her death, sickening as that might be to my own stomach. It’s the same part of me that loves him, I suppose. The same part that kneels here on top of her. That he can be here at her graveside and be honest about the lack of sentiment involved is, while horrifying, authentic to me. No stories, no manipulation, no pretence of prince charming or knights of the realm. This is real here. With him everything is so very real. It’s tactile in any given moment he chooses. A mixture of thriller and love story perhaps, both mingling to become something of a freak show bound by my words, his actions, and my obedience to those fateful engagements. A sadist’s private thoughts and whims. A masochist’s evolution beneath him.

  My nails scratch the marble beneath me, finally acknowledging a term I can apply to my situation. I’m a masochist, for him, anyway. Perhaps that’s why this position I’m in seems less unconventional than it should be. Hovering on her seems respectful, an acknowledgment of my own future. Death, presumably, is the final call for someone who gives their all to men like Blaine. Perhaps the ultimate sacrifice for love.

  “There’s nothing more to t
ell, Alana.” I nod, my mind coming back to the present as I hear his voice strengthen. “I’m both sad and regretful for what happened to Eloise, irrespective of whether it should have or not, but I’m not apologetic for her end. I’m thankful to her for it.” I nod. I don’t think I really expected anything else to come from him. This is who he wants to be, isn’t it? Who he hides, who he keeps away from society so that he can be deemed normal by everyone else. “It is as it happened, and as she wanted it to be, regardless of how.” I look up at that, my mouth open, astonished by the last of it and gazing at him for more explanation.

  “Are you suggesting she wanted to die?” I ask, my body coming upright. I didn’t know that. That makes it completely different. Or maybe it doesn’t. I don’t know.

  He smiles at me over his shoulder, a warm one. It’s full of love and memories of the way we danced, the grip of his fingers still entrenched. And I can feel him burrowing his way further inside me again as he turns back to her, more reverence being offered at the slab. It’s all such a juxtaposition. Everything is with him. Gentleness over the grave that he put here. Soft words spoken with vile meaning, somehow laced with a respect only he could produce.

  “This is your decision to make, Alana. I can’t do it for you.” He can’t do it for me. “I won’t make it seem easier to bear.” No, I don’t suppose he will. “You’re free to make your own choice.”

  Free? Nothing is my free choice anymore. Being with him has changed my perception of what was. It’s made me need him rather than the other sense of normality that lingers out there in the everyday world.

  I flick my eyes over her grave, barely giving it any thought other than how it effects the man who is still stands over me. He snarls at himself, moving towards the headstone to rearrange flowers I hadn’t noticed. “You always have been. It’s why I’ve made you ask for me.”