by Kristen Rose
Dear Peter,
This part of my ‘memoir’, is for you…
A little over seven years ago, I decided to surprise Marc for dinner at a restaurant he owned. I wanted to set up a romantic dinner in Marc’s private lounge, below the restaurant.
It was a Friday. I remember that because Marc always went to his restaurant on Fridays. I was never allowed to go; the reason … he wanted that night, after a busy week at work, to wind down by himself.
I arrived at the restaurant around five o’clock so I could set everything up before he got there. Marc arrived before I barely even started. He wasn’t supposed to finish work until six o’clock. I guess he decided to leave early that day. Not wanting to be found creating a surprise dinner, or perhaps, because I just had a feeling that I shouldn’t be found, I hid behind a black changing screen towards the far right of the room. I could see him through the small crack made by the seam in the screen walking casually down the stairs. I had hoped he would stay for a short while then leave to get something from the restaurant. That way I could sneak out, having decided by that point that maybe a surprise dinner was a bad idea. But he didn’t. He stayed and sat down in his favourite black arm chair on the other side of the room. He was silent for a long time, he barely even moved.
Eventually, he got up after glancing at his watch and walked over to a large cupboard at the other end of the room. I watched him curiously. He unlocked it, fumbled around, and after a few seconds, pulled out a large folded up piece of blue tarp. He walked over to the centre of the room, holding onto the tarp, where there was a large vacant space and shook the tarp out, opening it up to its full size. He laid it down onto the dark wooden floor, spreading it out neatly. The tarp was easily five square metres in size and the bright blue colour of it looked very out of place in the dark lounge. I found myself wondering what he was up to. He returned to the cupboard and pulled out a folded up, steel chair. He carried the chair over to the tarp, opened it up and placed it gently in the centre of the plastic. I reaffirmed it really was best to stay put, not knowing what Marc was doing.
Returning to his leather chair, he sat back down, allowing the room to fall silent once more. Marc continued to glance at his watch every few minutes; he seemed irritable, tapping his hand on his chair impatiently. After about ten minutes, I jumped back after hearing a few loud, sharp knocks on the door resonating down the stairs. Marc immediately got out of his chair and swiftly walked up the wooden staircase, unbolting the door loudly. A deep voice carried down the steep decline; I recognised it as belonging to one of the waiters.
‘Mr Verdad, there’s a man in the restaurant. He says he’s here to see you.’ The waiter said.
‘Yes, I’m expecting him. Go and get him. I’d prefer to talk with him down here.’ He ordered.
‘Sure.’
Marc jogged back down the stairs and returned to his chair; the tiniest of smirks on his face. A couple of minutes later the door opened again and I heard shallow, slow footsteps echoing down the stairs.
A man I had never seen before gradually appeared into focus. He was middle aged and skinny. He had dirty blonde hair that stood up in all directions and his eyes were large and bulbous; he looked the way I would imagine someone to look after being electrocuted.
Marc did not get up when the man arrived; instead he just motioned him to the fold out chair in the centre of the tarp opposite him. The man glanced at the tarp, a quizzical expression on his face and reluctantly walked over to the chair positioned neatly in the centre of it.
‘Thank you for coming,’ Marc said slowly, lightly.
The man jumped back when Marc spoke to him. I could see his hands were shaking, his legs jittering; he kept jerking his torso back and forth in uneven movements. He ignored Marc’s greeting and sat down clumsily on the steel chair, hands still shaking. Once seated, Marc began to speak again. An icy feeling ran over me. I was shocked by the tone of Marc’s voice; calculating, harsh. I’d never heard him speak that way before.
‘So,’ Marc began, ‘do you think it’s funny blackmailing someone? Tell me,’ he shifted in his seat, ‘do you get some kind of thrill out of it?’ He grinned. ‘A fantastic high?’
The man cowered back. Marc laughed. ‘How much money are you demanding I give you to keep quiet?’ Marc raised his eyes at him.
Slowly, the blackmailer began to open his mouth, lips shaking profusely, palms clasping onto either side of the metal chair. ‘Three ... three ... three ...’ he stuttered, ‘thousand,’ He finished with a large gulp.
‘Three thousand? Hmm ...’ Marc thought for a moment. ‘Not a huge sum really, considering what you saw ...’ He looked over at the wall, contemplating. After a few seconds, he faced him again. ‘How do I know you won’t come running back here once your precious three thousand is gone? Hmm?’ He placed a hand onto one of his cheeks.
‘I ... I won’t ... promise.’ His head kept jerking back and forth. Marc raised his eyes at him once more.
There was silence for a minute before Marc took in a huge gulp of air and let out a loud sigh. He removed his hand from his cheek and effortlessly pulled himself out of his chair.
‘Stay seated.’ He said to the man. He then turned around and walked over to a dark cabinet towards his left, lying flat against the wall. He pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the top doors of the cabinet slowly, silently and began to pull out some objects. His back was facing me and I didn’t see what the object were until a few seconds later when he turned around. He was holding on to a long silver knife and a gun – one in each hand.
The man caught sight of the weapons the exact same time I did and immediately, he started to get up. Marc glared at him, ‘If you move one more step – I will shoot you.’ He spat.
He returned to his seat, trembling.
Marc casually threw the knife and the gun onto his black leather chair. He then turned back to the cabinet and began pulling out more items – duct tape, a few bundles of thin, white rope and a shiny, sharp, silver axe.
He chucked the objects, except for the rope, onto the black leather armchair as well. He then walked over to the man, the rope held tightly in one hand. The victim, terrified, sat frozen.
Marc approached him, slowly; a demonic smirk on his face. When he was merely centre metres away from the man, he crouched down in front of him, unwound one of the bundles of rope and began to wrap the white fibre around the man’s ankles. Instinctively, the man whipped his legs away, trying to deter Marc. Bending forwards, he reached out his hands and lunged towards Marc’s head.
Marc dropped the rope and whipped back just in time to prevent him from lashing at his face. He turned swiftly, reached over to the leather chair, fumbled around with the array of objects sitting in it until his hands clasped firmly onto the gun. He drew it towards him, spun around smoothly and fired the weapon, aiming it directly at the guy’s left foot. The shot was muffled, there must have been a silencer attached to the gun; no one would have heard it go off. He screamed. His cries for help, much louder than the sound of the shot, echoed around the room.
Marc chuckled to himself. ‘There, there,’ he babied. ‘Now, sit still for daddy.’ He knelt back down and re-collected the rope, leaving the gun on the floor at his feet. The man’s foot was shaking uncontrollably. Marc grabbed hold of it vigorously; his victim winced, shrieking out in pain once more. Carelessly, Marc jammed the man’s feet back together and slowly tried to wind the rope around his ankles a second time. Once finished, he tied the rope into a tight knot. He tugged at the knot a few times; making sure it was tight.
Marc then collected another bundle of the thin white rope and standing up, slowly began to unwind it. He walked around the side, his shoes crinkling and crunching as they travelled across the large piece of blue tarp. Once he was facing the man’s back, he stopped and grabbed hold of his arms, pulling them back forcefully. The blackmailer once again tried to fight him off, jerking his torso back and forth; Marc’s grip was too strong for his emaciated frame. He managed
to wind the rope around the man’s thin wrists easily, tying it into a thick knot, just as he had done with the rope now bound to his ankles.
Marc walked back around to the front and picked up the last bundle of rope off of the floor. Once it was un-wound, he reached over the man with either end of the rope in each hand and swung it over the man’s head, wrapping it around his torso. He crossed the rope over at the front, and walked back around, where he tied the rope tightly into place.
The man cried out when Marc gave one last forceful tug on the rope, ensuring it was secure. I could see his arms changing a deep, reddish purple as the rope dug into his flesh. Marc stepped back, admiring his creation before quickly turning and walking up the stairs towards the door. I heard the bolt slide shut; the lock click into place. The blackmailer began taking in rapid, noisy breaths; fear spread all over his face. He screamed out for help a second time, though this time, his screams were much louder.
‘There’s no point screaming, no one will hear you.’ I heard Marc chuckle as he descended the staircase. ‘This room is sound proof.’ Marc sung to him when he reached the base of the stairs. He was smiling widely. The man began to fidget in his chair. Marc, un-phased by this, casually walked back over to him.
‘Perhaps the appearance of this tarp is starting to make a little more sense to you?’ He grinned. ‘I don’t like to make a mess.’ He added with an eerie laugh. His laughter stopped abruptly and he turned around and started heading straight towards where I was hiding. I felt my heart beat quicken and I gulped, feeling a dryness deep in my throat. He stopped when he was only metres away from me at the base of beige rug. He bent down towards the rug, lifted up one of its corners and tossed the heavy carpet back forcefully, revealing a huge trap door cemented in the shiny wood; a lock and a handle neatly hidden in the centre. I pulled back, shocked. He placed his hand into his front pant pocket and drew out a tiny silver key. Kneeling down, he unlocked the door and pulled gently on the handle. The door lifted upwards without a sound, revealing a large hole in the floor. He shifted around and swung his legs into the hole, descending quickly. His shoes echoed as he landed with a thud on the cement flooring. I heard his footsteps filtering out of the hole and found myself wondering what terrible things were down there. I could hear him groaning, as though he were pulling on something heavy. Loud noises; clinking, banging, screeching, the sound of pipes shuttering reverberated upwards. After a minute or two, I felt a sudden gush of hot air erupt out of the hole. Another minute after that, Marc’s head re-appeared, poking out of the hole; he was facing the man. He slipped his brawny arms out and used them to pull himself out of the ground, swinging his legs gently onto the wooden flooring and standing up.
‘Sorry,’ he called over to the other side of the room once he was back on his feet. ‘I just had to get the furnace started.’ Grinning, he walked back towards the dark cabinet where he then pulled out some large sheets of clear plastic. He began to spread the plastic over the furniture close to the man; covering chairs, tables, ornaments
‘I don’t respond well to blackmail, I never have.’ He started to say whilst laying the plastic over the nearby couch. ‘I simply choose to … eliminate it. That is one reason why I am able to get away with what I do.’ He threw his last piece of plastic over a small coffee table. ‘You know, it’s interesting how most people always seem to think about blackmailing before they think about going to the police.’ He walked back towards the man, inspecting the room. Everything within a five metre radius of the tarp was completely covered with the clear plastic. ‘Money is a far better reward than a clear conscience. Don’t you think?’ The victim remained silent. ‘Of course you think that, otherwise you wouldn’t be here would you.’ Marc laughed, wiping his hands together.
‘Wh ... what are you gonna to do me?’ The man finally stumbled, his chest pounding up and down.
‘If I told you that, where would the element of surprise be?’ Marc laughed again; high pitched, hysterical.
He picked the duct tape up off of the chair and pulled, tearing a large strip off with his teeth. He walked up to the man, his footsteps crunching across the tarp, and smeared the tape over his mouth. ‘Just in case,’ he winked. He then bent down and re-collected his gun; admiring its every surface.
‘If you were a nice blackmailer, say a young woman in desperate need of money to feed her starving kids, I would probably just shoot you in the head,’ he raised his gun quickly, aiming it at the man’s forehead, ‘– quick and what I suspect,’ he cocked the trigger, ‘rather painless.’ The blackmailer closed his eyes. ‘But, you’re not.’ Marc lowered his gun. ‘You’re a crack addict. You’re blackmailing me to get money to sustain your habit – I don’t approve of that.’ Marc swiftly aimed his gun at the man’s other foot and without hesitation, fired. Muffled cries resonated around the entire room. I could see and hear him panting faster. ‘You then showed up at my office.’ Marc continued, pacing. ‘Do you know what everyone said when they saw someone who was so obviously addicted to drugs walking into my office?’ Marc said with malice. The man screamed even louder. ‘They thought I was involved in drug trafficking. My image doesn’t need that kind of damage.’ Marc walked around behind the man, picked up his right hand and twisted it so it was lying directly on top of his left, palms facing upward. He shoved the barrel of his gun into the top hand. The drug man panted profusely. Holding both palms firmly in place, Marc fired the gun for a third time. The bullet ploughed through the middle of the man’s palms. I jumped when I heard his chilling scream, muffled by the duct tape. Blood poured out of the fresh wound, like water spouting out of a newly broken river bank. It splattered onto the tarp and stained Marc’s left hand. He walked back around to face his victim and wiped his bloody hand all over his face. The man sobbing, cried out in pain.
‘Aren’t you glad you didn’t go to the police?’ Marc laughed again. He dropped the gun onto the tarp and walked back to the chair. This time he collected the axe. ‘Brand new,’ he smiled, tracing his finger along the blade, ‘nice and sharp.’ The emaciated man winced, closing his eyes once more. He was terrified and so was I. Marc placed the axe back down, took off his grey jacket and silver tie, threw them onto the tarp and unbuttoned his sleeves; pulling them up so they were level with his elbows. He then re-collected the axe, walked the couple of steps over to the man and took a practice swing at the top of his left knee. The man jerked back as far as the ropes would allow. Marc cackled. I barely had time to blink before Marc had the axe lifted into the air again, this time taking a real swing. The blade landed down onto the man’s knee cap. The surgery so practised I got the feeling Marc had performed it many times before. The sound of breaking flesh and bone made me feel sick. The leg hit the tarp with a crinkled thud after only two rapid swings of the axe. Blood splattered all over Marc and his victim. I looked away, feeling stomach acid burning its way up my throat. I wanted desperately to stand up and shout, to ask Marc what he was doing, to save the man’s life. But he had an axe and a gun and all I had were a few rose shaped golden candles and a red tablecloth. I kept my mouth shut and remained hidden.
The man’s head lulled to one side. Marc went up to him and slapped his face, hard. He jerked his head back up, sobbing. I couldn’t bear hearing his cries. I’d never heard anyone in that much pain.
Marc smiled before stepping back. He un-tucked his white shirt and used it to wipe off the blood that had splattered onto his face. His focus returned and he walked around to the other side, pointing his axe at the other leg. This time his aim was off. He hacked at the knee no more than six times, the man groaning in agony, before it finally severed and fell to the ground. Marc pulled back, panting.
The blood on the tarp was rapidly turning from a few splattered puddles into a small pond. I could do nothing at that point but shut my eyes.
‘I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to have no legs.’ Marc paused. ‘So, what does it feel like?’ He laughed loudly. The blackmailer was beginning to turn ghos
tly pale and he was shaking uncontrollably. ‘I’ve also always wondered what it would feel like to have no arms.’ Marc chuckled.
Facing his victim directly, his bloody hands took a strong grip on the axe and raised it a third time, taking aim at the left shoulder. He chopped, once, the man moaned, cried. He chopped again. I could hear him panting; begging, pleading with Marc to stop. He chopped again; the left arm severed completely. It fell towards the ground but before it could land safely was stopped by the rope bound around the man’s wrists, tying his two hands together. It dangled down as if that’s exactly what it was supposed to do.
‘You know, I’ve been told that when someone is tortured, like this, after a while the adrenaline kicks in and they don’t really feel any pain at all. Some people actually experience euphoria.’ He bent down so he was eye to eye with his victim. ‘I wonder if it’s true.’ Marc asked thoughtfully. He pulled back and shifted towards the man’s other side, raising his axe a fourth time. The man eyes were closed as the axe swung down on his only remaining limb. It took ten pounding swings of the axe before Marc was able to completely severe the arm. Ten crunching thuds. I remember counting; I muffled, faint moans. I remember the look in Marc’s demonic eyes, his groans as he became more and more exhausted each time he swung the axe into the air.
Both arms landed on the tarp with the same horrifying, crinkling thud the legs had made.
The man was non-responsive, but, I could still see his chest moving quickly up and down. He was still alive – just. A living torso, tied to a chair, a sight so hard to believe, a sight no one can forget. I hate myself for this, but after that happened, I found myself wondering what else Marc would chop off or shoot. But he was finished with both the axe and the gun. He wiped his hands onto his shirt, now redder than white, and threw the axe onto the tarp, exactly as he had done with the gun.
He walked back to the chair, carefully making sure he didn’t wander away from the plastic. He picked up his third weapon – the knife. Once again, he admired his new weapon for a moment; ran his finger gently along the blade. I knew the blackmailer would not be alive for much longer. I sat there, looking away, feeling numb, scared and sick all at the same time.
My focus shifted when I heard Marc speaking again. I looked back up through the small hole in the screen.
‘In your next life, perhaps you should think twice before deciding to blackmail a murderer.’ He laughed, walking over to him, slowly; the knife held tightly in his right hand. I don’t even know if the man really heard what he said. Marc kicked the severed legs out of the way and crouched down onto the man’s lap. Placing the tip of the knife onto his victim’s forehead, he slowly peeled off the duct tape. The man’s head lolled back and forth from the movement; eyes closed.
Gently, Marc transferred his weight into the knife and dragged it slowly down the centre of the guy’s face. From side on, I couldn’t see the wound he was making, just the tiny trace of blood it created, trickling down the side of his face. Marc guided the knife downwards, over his nose, through his lips. Marc’s eyes lit up the entire time.
He didn’t stop at the base of the face. He continued, dragging the knife down his neck, towards his torso. Marc’s hand shook hard as he forced the knife down, ripped through his T-shirt and dug into his abdomen. The man didn’t move.
When the knife reached his groin, Marc stopped. He pulled the tip of the knife out of the man’s flesh and completely ripped open the victim’s T-shirt with his bloody hands. He pulled the knife backwards and with force, jammed it straight into the blackmailer’s chest. The man’s head flopped back, pulled by gravity. Marc tried to pull the knife out almost immediately but couldn’t, it was stuck. He twisted the knife, pulling it at the same time. His head flopped forwards. The noise of flesh being sliced and bone being cracked was sickening. Marc stopped for a second, recovering some strength, and then with a loud groan, yanked the knife out of the man’s chest. His head, a distinct shade of blue flopped to the side; I was able to see his face front on for the first time. I pulled away from the screen.
I could hear Marc continuing to stab the guy’s stomach over and over. Groaning, wrenching the knife in and out of his abdomen, until, he was finally satisfied.
I forced myself to look back up once more. Marc was wiping a few specks of the man’s blood off of his mouth with his palm. He tossed the knife down onto the tarp, panting. It landed on top of the axe, creating a clinking sound as the two weapons connected.
He stumbled backwards a little, dazed. Once he got his breath back he began to undress himself. He un-buttoned his bloody white shirt, rolled it up into a ball and tossed it towards the body. He took off his belt, tossed it on the tarp as well and pulled off his grey pants, followed quickly by his briefs. Lastly, he carefully untied his black leather shoes, drew his long feet out and peeled of his clean, white socks; placing his clean feet onto the clean floor. He collected the plastic off of the furniture, bound it up and threw it onto the tarp as well. He then began to wrap the tarp up from the outside. I watched his naked body gather the ends of the tarp and make a gigantic sac to house the weapons, the body, and the blood. He dragged the tarp towards the hole in the floor, picked it up with a huge groan and placed it gently down into the hidden room, taking a few recovery breaths before following. He remained down in the room for some time. I could hear him, struggling to pick up the tarp, tossing it into the furnace. More heat made its way slowly upwards and out of the hole. I could feel the warm air, smell the burning plastic and flesh. It was all I could do not to vomit. When he came back out he was drenched in sweat. His naked body, once appealing, now disgusted me. He walked slowly across the room and entered the bathroom towards the back. I heard him turn the shower on. I started to think about getting out of there and how I could do it without being seen or heard. I would have left at that moment, if my legs hadn’t of been shaking so much. I could barely stand, let alone run up the stairs and out of the building. I thought perhaps once he finished cleaning and re-dressed himself he would leave, which would mean I could go eventually, un-noticed, once I had recovered slightly.
After five minutes the shower stopped and he exited the bathroom with a fresh white towel around his waist.
He walked back over to the hole in the floor and shut the door to it, locking it with the tiny silver key. He placed scarlet the rug back, concealing the large door once more. The room was returned to normal.
At that point, I realised my hiding place was no longer safe. Behind me, against the wall, was a wardrobe full of Marc’s clothes.
It was obvious Marc would be getting dressed and when he arrived at the wardrobe he would see me. I looked through the hole in the changing screen and saw him heading towards me. Quickly and clumsily, I managed to stand up, grab my stuff and scuttle to the end of the screen. When Marc arrived at the other side of the screen, I ducked around it quickly so he couldn’t see me. Immediately, I ran for the door, trying to make as little noise as possible. I unlocked it and bolted out of the room.
I ran across the hallway into the ladies bathroom, shutting myself in one of the cubicles. Adrenaline had been responsible for me getting out of my hiding space and running up the stairs, but after I’d gotten myself out of there, my legs turned to lead. I collapsed onto the floor, dropping everything and tried to steady my breath. I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I didn’t want to believe it. The man I loved was a murderer. No, he was more than a murderer, he was a butcher. I remained there for a while, thirty or forty minutes at least. I wasn’t sure, time seemed insignificant. Eventually I found myself beginning to calm down. My pulse was almost back to normal but my legs still shook. I stood up and sat on the toilet seat with my head in my hands. Tears streamed down my face, I couldn’t control them. After what seemed like an hour of sitting, hearing giggling women clopping in and out of the bathroom, chatting about nonsense, I found the strength to get up and let myself out of the cubicle. I walked over to the sink and stared at my reflection. My eyes, bl
ood shot, red and puffy stood out frighteningly; my nostrils inflamed, my lips pale, my skin, pearl white.
I turned the tap on and splashed my face with water, washing off the salty residue left behind by my tears. I remained there for a few more minutes, drying my face, hoping the redness would subside a little.
I gathered my belongings and slowly I walked to the door. Raising a shaky hand I let myself out of the bathroom. I tried to walk casually down the corridor, ignoring those scurrying past me, the looks of recognition on the waiters faces. I turned into the dining area where I was bombarded with loud music and laughing patrons. Trying my best to blend in, I headed towards the exit. Just as I placed my unsteady hand on the steel handle of the front door I heard a voice call my name. I turned my head and froze.
It was him.
He was sitting at a table near the window, sipping a cocktail, a plate of half eaten food in front of him. I hadn’t even considered the possibility of him being there. His head was slightly tilted in surprise. I must have looked terrified, because that’s exactly how I felt. He put his cocktail down gently, got up and walked over to me. I remained frozen.
‘Jenny.’ He said again, surprised. He approached me. ‘You look ... nice.’ He stared into my blood shot eyes. ‘What are you doing here?’ He asked me slowly, seriously.
I remained silent, not sure of what to say, not sure if I could even speak. ‘Are you okay?’ He asked me, frowning. I forced myself to respond.
‘Yes, yes I’m fine.’ I spluttered. ‘I know its Friday, but, I haven’t seen you all week and I knew you would be here so I thought maybe I would surprise you. I was going to set up a romantic dinner downstairs but when I got here one of the waiters said you were having an important meeting.’ I improvised, attempting to steady my voice and failing. He eyed me suspiciously.
‘Yes, but my meeting finished some time ago. Have you been here this whole time? No one told me you were here.’ He crossed his arms and looked around for a waiter.
‘I was in the bathroom.’ I explained quickly.
‘For over an hour?’ He leaned to one side.
‘I’ve been sick. I had one of those tostada platters while I was waiting. I think there was something strange in it.’ My voice shaking a little less.
‘I told Gord not to put anything bad in your food if you ever came here. Hold on, I’ll go talk to him.’ He moved in the direction of the kitchen.
‘No!’ I grabbed his arm. ‘I think I was just allergic to something in it, you know, like a spice. I’ve never been able to stomach spices. It wasn’t the chef’s fault.’
‘Right,’ he eyed me, ‘you’re okay now though?’
‘Yes, I ... I feel much better now.’ I gave a toothless smile.
‘Well, I’m sorry to have spoiled your evening Jen, but you should know better than to surprise me.’ He towered over me.
‘I know. I guess I should have checked with you first. Don’t worry about it.’ I faced the door again.
‘Wait a minute.’ He tugged on my jacket. ‘You don’t have to leave. I don’t have any more meetings and seeing as you’re already here ... how about I make things up to you.’ He whispered, though the tone of his voice seemed strange.
‘How?’ I put on a smile.
‘Well, come back downstairs with me. I’ll show you.’ He gripped my hands and pulled me towards him.
‘No!’ I blurted out, a little too loudly.
‘No? What do you mean?’ He pulled me closer, tighter and stared straight into my eyes, reading my thoughts. The sparkle had gone out of his eyes.
‘I have to go home, I have a lot of work to do.’ I said.
‘Then why even bother coming here in the first place?’ He gripped my hands tighter, still staring into me.
‘I wasn’t expecting you to be in a meeting.’ I explained.
He looked down at the floor. When he brought his head back up again his eyes were sparkling once more. ‘Well, if you have a lot of work, I don’t want to be responsible for you not making your deadline.’
‘Thanks.’ I turned quickly towards the door again, desperately wanting to get out of there. However, his grip on my hands was still tight. He stopped me and pulled me back.
‘Jen, you know that I would never hurt you. I love you.’ He stared into my eyes. I stared at him before forcing myself to respond again.
‘I know.’ I said weakly.
‘And you love me, right?’
I paused. ‘Right. Look, I really should go. It’s getting pretty late.’
‘Okay ... I’ll call you tomorrow.’
‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea. I really have a heap of work to do. I’ll probably need to go into the office. I’ll be there till late.’
‘In that case I’ll call you Sunday.’ He stared.
‘Uh ... Okay, but I probably won’t answer. I just ... I’ve got a really big case to go through and my boss is going to test me on it on Monday. I need to be prepared, and you know how I hate to be interrupted when I’m working. How about I call you when I’m finished?’ The more I spoke, the sillier my excuse sounded.
‘When will that be?’ He glared.
‘Monday night, most likely.’
‘Most likely?’ He spat.
‘Okay.’ I began to panic. I realised the worst thing I could do was make him suspicious of me. ‘How about I come and see you Monday night instead ... no matter what. Will you be home?’
‘For you, of course.’ He smiled.
‘Okay. Well, bye.’ I said, shifting towards the door again.
‘Wait.’ He pulled me closer towards him and kissed me firmly on the lips. I put up with it, resisting the urge to pull away. Only then did he loosen his grip. ‘Goodbye.’ He smiled.
Once again I place my hand on the door handle, turning it and forcing it open, ignoring the melodic jingling coming from the bells above my head. I tried to walk out casually. When the door closed behind me I took a few slow steps until I was out of the street light, then I fled towards my car. I drove straight home, locked myself inside and didn’t leave.
For days I thought about what I would do. Would I continue to pretend everything was okay or would I get the hell out of there?
I was watching TV on the Sunday night, trying to distract myself. A movie came on. It was about some guy who had a nervous breakdown at his job and he was sent to a mental hospital to recover and de-stress. While he was there he met this girl. He couldn’t work out why she was there because she didn’t seem crazy. She told him she was afraid of going out into the world.
I thought if someone could go and live in a mental hospital just because they wanted to – then why couldn’t I?
So, that’s …
#24 Disobeying
