But it's not my husband.
A dark figure walks out of the bedroom, his heavy boots clomping loudly, even on the thick, expensive carpet. My heat and my lungs go still between my ribs as the information gets translated by my brain, a few seconds too late. The man isn't Mitch. It's someone else, someone bigger and shirtless and wearing loose black pants. He's lean and cut with muscle and he's wearing black gloves. Bright red is painted across his chest and his face and his arms. He has black gloves on his hands and in he's carrying something. It isn't until the light catches the blade that I realize it's a knife. He has a knife in his hand and he's covered in blood.
I hear a loud, shrill sound and it spurs me to action. It's only when I'm turning and running that I realize that I screamed. My throat is raw and I can barely breathe, but I don't stop. I run back into the kitchen, grabbing ahold of the edges of the countertops as I slip and slide on the slick wood floor. I wish I had taken off my hose, but it's too late now. I run into the breakfast nook and go for the french doors that lead to the backyard. We keep a key in the deadbolt and I turn it quickly, as fast as I can with my shaking hands. It seems like it takes forever for the door to open. I can barely hear anything but I can feel the vibration of him behind me. He's catching up.
The grass is wet under my feet but I don't care. I run across the lawn, as fast as I can, even though I slip a bit here and there. The important thing is that I keep moving. We live in a quiet subdivision, with plenty of room between each plot of land. But I can see my closest neighbor's house in the distance. The windows are lit up golden in the darkness, like a fucking Christmas tree. A fence and a mile of field is all that separates me from help. I haven't been this afraid in a long time, but it's like an old friend. I can think straight through the fear. I'm not hysterical. Not yet, anyway. As long as I get over the fence, I'll be okay. At least that's what I tell myself.
I don't know how it happens until I'm already on the ground, with flashes of lights and stars going off behind my eyes. I gasp and gulp, trying to force air into my deflated lungs. He grabbed me and slammed me to the ground like a ragdoll, I realize, and every bone in my body aches. There's a thick arm around my waist, right under my ribs, which constricts my breathing. I dig my nails into the flesh of his forearm because I'm not strong enough to shove him off. I kick my legs as much as I can, even though my skirt is twisted and tight around my thighs. We struggle on the ground, even though it's nowhere near a fair fight. I don't know how much longer I can fight but I can't stop. I throw my hands out, grabbing at the grass as he tries to roll me on to my back. My fingers brush against something hard. It's the handle of the knife. He must've dropped it when he crashed into me. I strain every muscle trying to reach for it, even though I know it's getting hopeless. I can't breathe, my heart is beating loud in my ears, and my clothes are soaked through.
He grabs my arm in an iron grip and flips me over like I weigh nothing. Then he's on top of me, his big thighs squeezing my legs together and his big arms boxing me in. I finally take a deep breath and scream, my hands slapping and scratching at his face and his shoulders and his chest. I smell the iron tinge of blood and the mossy scent of the grass and the rain. I smell him, a mixture of sweat and salt and something else, something that's familiar but different. But I'm hysterical now. I can't stop making a sound between a scream and a pathetic whine. I can hear myself and feel myself moving, but I have no control over my actions.
When he slaps me, it's like all the lights go out. There's a ringing in my ears that's louder than anything else and my limbs go numb. I can't do anything as he leans over and grabs the knife from the grass. I blink to clear my eyes and I can see the a flash of light off of the blade as he lifts it above me. I can almost hear the whoosh of the air around the sharp blade. It's my butcher knife, I realize. It was missing from the cutting block earlier when I was in the kitchen. I didn't think anything of it. It's sharp. It's a beautiful Japanese blade. The knife set was one of our wedding presents. I asked specifically for a good set of knives. I'd wanted to be a better cook, back then. All of these stupid thoughts bombard my brain as the knife wavers above my chest, like he's trying to figure out the best place to stick it.
“I should cut your heart out,” he says and I know. Maybe part of me knew it before, but I definitely know it now.
I've gone insane.
“Who are you?” I ask but it comes out like a jagged whisper, barely audible.
“I'm going to cut it out and eat it raw,” he says, squeezing his thighs around mine until I have to scream and squirm to relieve the pressure. He leans down and presses the tip of the blade under my chin. “But first I'm going to cut off little pieces of you.” I scream again even though I wish I could get calm. If I was calm, I could figure out what the hell to do. I could figure out how to get out of it. But I'm not even sure if it's happening. I'm not sure if this is reality or a nightmare. It feels real though. My body hurts like hell and I'm wet and dirty and so terrified I can't think straight. And it's Elliot. Most definitely Elliot. Elliot's dead, and yet here he is, his heavy body on top of me. He's going to kill me. If this is reality, I'm about to be nothing but a memory but it still doesn't feel completely real. Am I dreaming? Am I stuck in a nightmare? “I'm going to slice off your nose first,” he says, his voice so dead and yet so alive with anger. “Then your ears.”
“But you're dead,” I say and it so weird to say it out loud. Of course he's dead. He's been dead for a year. He presses the tip of the knife harder into my skin and I push the back of my head hard into the ground, trying to get away. But there's no escape. I grab his wrist with both of my hands and try to pull the knife away, but I can barely budge him. He's too strong and every muscle in his body is poised, ready to attack. His body is humming with violence.
“No,” he says, shaking his head, a drop of sweat or blood dropping from his mask onto my chest. In the darkness, I can't tell what it is. He drops the knife to my chest, right above my heart. “I'm going to cut your tits off.” I tighten my grip on his wrist even though I can't stop him. He yanks his wrist, pulling free of my fingers, and then grabs my blouse and yanks on it. I can feel the fabric rip at the seams but that's not enough for him. I reach for the ski mask he's wear, trying to pull it off of him. He shoves at my hands and we struggle. He grabs my wrists in one of his big hands and drags the knife up the front of my blouse with the other, slicing right through the rich fabric as if it were paper. Then he cuts through the camisole underneath as well. When he flings aside the tattered remains of my clothes, the cool air hits the exposed skin of my stomach and I can't help but shudder.
“Elliot,” I try, even though it's hard to say his name. I've banished that name from my thoughts and my lips for so long. It feels so strange to break my steadfast rule. “Let me go.” I try to yank my wrists out of his grasp, to no avail. He ignores my struggles and instead drags the tip of the knife down the valley between my breasts, catching it on my bra.
“Shut the fuck up,” he says, his tone flat but tight with anger. “Before I cut your tongue out, too.” I whine in distress and I can feel the hot tears spilling out of my eyes before I even realize I'm crying. I know he'll do it. He's going to kill me. Maybe I'm out of my mind and it isn't him after all. It's a demon come from hell to make me pay for all of my sins. He shoves my hands down on the ground hard and then slices through my expensive bra like it's butter. The lace cups falls away and he sweeps his hands across my tits, the soft, wet leather of his gloves dragging across my skin roughly. Instantly, I'm bared to his eyes. My nipples pebble in the cool air and goosebumps rise on my skin. He stares down at me, his breathing increasingly ragged. He raises the knife and I throw my arms over my chest, like that will stop him.
“Please, no,” I whisper. “Please.” I know it's stupid but I don't know what else to say. He's like a machine right now, a robot programmed to kill, and I don't want to die tonight. My sense of self-preservation has always been strong. Even when I wanted to die, I still couldn't
do it to myself. “Elliot, please.” I repeat because it's all I can say in that moment. I'll beg him if that's what it takes. He makes an animalistic growl and flings my arms off of my chest. Then he presses the tip of the knife right in the center of my chest, hard enough to pierce the skin. Everything gets very quiet. I can't hear the wind in the trees or his breathing or my heart pounding. I can't hear anything at all. He cups my right breast in his hand and runs his thumb over my nipple as he digs the knife into my chest. Air catches in my throat. It's like a hand clamps over my neck. It's the fear, I tell myself. I'm not really choking.
“Right tit or left tit?” he says, his evil voice cutting through the void. “Which one goes first?” He squeezes my sensitive flesh in his hand and it takes everything in me not to scream again. “Did he like these tits, huh? Did he suck them and lick them and kiss them when he fucked you?” He flicks his thumb over the nipple again, cruelly. I dig my heels into the ground, trying to push away, but he's too heavy. He's slowly crushing me. “They're nothing special, are they?” he whispers. “Just like you.”
“Their yours,” I say, forcing the words out of my mouth. They sound foreign to me. “I'm yours.” His hand freezes on my tit and I feel his whole body go stiff.
“What did you just say?” the masked man asks, cocking his head. My whole body goes numb then, because I know I've made a misstep. I've said the exact wrong words. I clamp my mouth shut, not wanting to make it worse and not knowing how to make it better. He grabs my left hand and holds it up to his face. The diamond setting of my ring catches the moonlight and I know what he's looking at. For the first time it occurs to me that the blood that covers him belongs to Mitch. I know deep down in the pit of my dark soul that he's hurt Mitch. “Did you just lie to me?” He twists my fingers in his. “Are you trying to fuck with me?”
“No,” I whisper, lamely. Even I don't believe myself.
“You think I'm stupid?” he asks. “You think I can't see what you're doing?” He shoves my hand away and leans over me, the knife slicing against my skin lightly. “You're nothing. Your tits and your hair and your face and your pussy. It's nothing. It's dirt. It's dust.” He makes a strange noise then, somewhere between a laugh and a pained howl. “All this time I thought you were something special. But you're not.” Then he moves so fast that I can't even react. He lifts the knife above my chest so fast that I can barely see it in the darkness.
I scream as he brings down his hand again and again, stabbing over and over. I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to see. I don't want to see what happens to my body. I don't want to see what will be left of it when he's done. I'm not ready to die but it feels like I don't have a choice. I've done some terrible things in my life. I've had terrible thoughts so I suppose I deserve what's coming to me. I should've killed myself in Alaska. I should've protected Mitch. I knew I shouldn't have gotten married. When I was walking down the aisle, I knew it. I was selfish then, wanting to hurt Elliot in the only way I knew how. But now I know what I should've done. I should've walled myself up in a tomb when he left. To protect myself and everyone else around me.
And then it's over. He drops to his elbows on either side of me, his bare chest crushing against mine. He buries his face in my neck and screams, the sound muffled against my flesh. I can feel all the power in his muscles and all of the anger in him. I don't move because I can't. I'm not quite sure if I'm alive or dead. But when I finally open my eyes, I realize that I'm very much alive. I can feel his heartbeat and I can feel the cool air on my cheeks. I glance to my left and my sharp Japanese butcher knife is stuck in the soft grassy ground, less than a foot from my face. I suppress a sob as relief floods through me, even though I'm nowhere near in the clear. I still have a madman on top of me, a madman who's probably covered in the blood of my husband.
But it's a madman who I once loved.
He digs his hands in the grass and in my hair and growls against my neck like a crazed animal. I force my hands into action, my fingers finding the edge of his mask. I pull at it, gingerly, not wanting to incur more of his wrath but needing to see his face. It still doesn't feel real. He doesn't stop me from pushing the mask back; in fact, he lifts his head so that I can roll the black knit up over his chin. As soon as I see his mouth, I know. That cruel, angry mouth hasn't changed one bit. I shove it up over his eyes and onto his forehead and, sure enough, Elliot John Pritchard stares down at me, his newly revealed eyes coal black in the darkness.
“You fucking cunt,” he hisses, the words dripping venom. “Why can't I kill you?”
“They told me you were dead,” I whisper, still not believing my own eyes. But I know it's him. His body feels the same on top of mine. His voice still sends shivers up and down my spine. And his face – his beautiful face. I thought I would never see it again. I used to love him, but now I can't feel anything except relief.
“Fuck you,” he shakes his head and then drops his forehead to my shoulder. His whole body shudders on top of mine.
“They came to me and told me you died on a fishing boat in Alaska.” The words are tumbling out freely now. I can't stop them. “They said they identified you by fingerprints. They said-”
“Who fucking said?”
“The police!” I heard my voice raise and I can hear the hysteria that I can feel welling up in my belly. The words spill out faster and faster. “They came here and said they knew for sure you were dead. What was I supposed to do? I didn't know what to do.”
“The police came here?” he asked, his voice getting lower and deeper. “To this house?”
“That detective. From the first night we were together in Seattle.” I feel him go stiff and then he grabs my chin, hard.
“What detective?”
“There were two, remember? It was the older one. The older one came to see me and he told me you were dead.” He stares down at me for what seems like a long time, his thumb still digging into my chin. “Why did they think you were dead?”
“If you lived here, then you were already married,” he says, ignoring my last question. “You married that asshole before they told you I was dead.” I open my mouth to reply, but no sound comes out. I don't know what he wants to say. I don't know what I should say. I wonder what he's done to Mitch, even though I know. My mind won't fully wrap itself around the truth, though. I've seen him do terrible things. I've seen him kill. It feels like another life, a life that I never asked for but lived anyway. It almost feels like it never happened, but all of the blood and violence and pain definitely happened. And now it's happening again. He couldn't kill me – or, at least, he hasn't yet – but he's a murderer through and through.
“What did you do to him?”
“What did I do to who?”
“My husband,” I whisper, not able to say Mitch's name out loud. It feels wrong to say it in front of Elliot. It feels like a betrayal. I've already betrayed my marriage a million times, but I can't do it in front of Elliot. It's like speaking ill of the dead. My short-lived marriage is over. My short-lived attempt to live a normal life is over. In the blink of an eye, my life is no longer my own anymore.
I belong to Elliot all over again.
“Your husband?” he repeats my words, his tone going cold as ice again. “Well. I don't know. Let's go see.” He pushes up off of me and I wonder where he get his strength from. I feel like I have no strength left. The fear has exhausted me and the adrenaline has drained out of me into the wet ground beneath me. He grabs the knife out of the dirt and shoves it in his belt. Then he stands. For a brief moment, I consider trying to crawl away but I know it would be foolish. So I just lay there staring up at the stars until he hauls me up. My legs are like jelly and I stumble into him, but it doesn't matter. He wraps his arms around my waist and picks me up off my feet. He carries me across the yard and I try and think of ways to get out of this. I don't want to go back in that house. I don't want to know. I don't want to see.
“What do you want?” I ask him. “You can take whatever you want.” But
he doesn't answer. He kicks open the french door and pulls me back inside. I snap back to life and reach out and grab the door frame. I dig my nails into the wood and try to hold on. “I don't want to.” I say, even though I know he doesn't care. He wants me to see. He wants me to see exactly what he can do. He wants me to bask in the glory of his violence. Or maybe he just wants me to suffer. “You want money?” I ask. “I can give you whatever you need.”
“I don't want your goddamn money,” he growls in my ear. Then he pulls me back, nearly yanking my arms out of their sockets. I grit my teeth but I can't help but let go. I lose three of my acrylic nails before I let go, though. I hear them ping on the wood floor as he tightens his arms around me. “Fuck you smell good,” he says, his breath warm against the side of my face. “Like you always did.”
“You want me?” I ask. “You can have me. We'll get in my car and drive far away.”
“Shut up,” he says and drags me through the kitchen. We trail a mixture of mud, blood and water on the gleaming wood floors as we go and I try not to stare at it too much. But I can't help it. I grab the smooth, cold granite edges of the countertop as we pass through. He tosses me back and forth like a rag doll and I lose my grip. He's determined and I'm terrified. But there's nothing I can do. He's too strong. He drags me up the stairs and I wonder briefly if mud and blood can be steamed-cleaned out of cream-colored carpet. My parents are supposed to fly up in less than a month. I briefly wonder what my mother would do to get the stain out. The thought of my mother makes my chest go cold, though and I squeeze my eyes shut because I can't look at the morbid mess anymore. It's too much.
My knees bang against the doorframe as he pulls me into the bedroom and I bite my lip hard to keep from calling out. He slides his fingers around my throat and I feel my whole body stiffen because the sensation brings back too many feelings. Feelings I've pushed away and tried to forget for years. Feelings of fear and helplessness and anger. It's a tidal wave of emotion and I don't want to deal with it. But he wants me to feel it. He wants me to feel every second of it.
Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) Page 18
