The Girl in 6E

by A. R. Torre

  I hit my shin on something and bit my lip to keep from crying out. The pain was intense, throbbing, and I reached down and rubbed the spot, praying that it wouldn’t blossom into a bruise. I felt around with my hands until I found Mom’s car—always parked in the left spot—and walked down its side until I reached the back door. Opening it activated the dome light, and I saw the turquoise bag on the floorboard, sharing the space with a Dunkin’ Donuts box. I reached out and grabbed the bag, sliding my hand inside and double-checking that the dress was still there. Yep. Good, now I just needed to get the hell out. My heart beating loudly against my chest, I pressed the car door shut, bumping it with my hip until the interior light went out. Then I felt my way to the garage door and opened it, slipping back out into the night air. I was hunched over again, making my way past our home’s back door, when I heard the muffled but distinct sound of a scream.

  The scream came from inside our home—a horrible, gut-wrenching sound that started out powerful and terrifying and then died, winding its way down to a gurgle that was muffled completely by the house. I froze midcrouch and turned my head toward the door. The bag dropped at my feet. Something was wrong.

  We were a lighthearted family, always playing tricks on one another, always horsing around if there was the slightest opportunity. But that sound, that scream—it changed everything in an instant. It was, as nondescriptive as the word may be, real. Every ounce of hope, peace, and normalcy left my body in that one sound. I straightened to my full height and walked to the back door, breathing hard, and looked through the glass window of the door.

  My first thought was that Mom had redecorated. Put up a horrible wallpaper of sorts, some kind of feng shui nonsense that had paint splatters as a pattern. Then I saw Summer, her body slumped over the table, her dark hair—just like mine—stuck in the pool of blood that surrounded her head. Not paint. Blood. Summer’s blood. I moved my head, slow with incomprehension, to the right. Trent. Sitting next to Summer at the table, his hand still resting on his place mat, a white plate with two cookies in front of him. Half of his head was missing—fragments of skin ending in nothing. I grabbed the back doorknob, turned it listlessly, my head in a fog, my subconscious screaming a long, slow scream of death.

  The knob, which should have been locked—everything was wrong—turned smoothly in my hand and the door swung open. I walked forward, moving around the door so that I could see the rest of the end of my life.

  She straddled him as he sat at the head of the table—his normal place—the place that society always dictates a father should sit. I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see past the curls of her perfect hair, the hair that always framed her face. She was busy, her head shaking, words muttering, her arms jerking and moving incessantly. Busy with whatever she was doing to him. I walked, my fingers reaching out as I passed Summer’s chair, then Trent’s. My hands itched to hold them, touch them, make them live again. I was at the angle where I could see my father’s face, see it dull and lifeless, gray with death, when she screamed.

  I then realized it was her scream I had heard from outside. She tilted back her head, her skirt scrunched around her waist, her white button-up shirt drenched in red, and screamed—an agonized sound filled with despair and madness—a release of pure hell that continued until her lungs were empty and her breath was gone. Then her head snapped down, and she resumed her action. My eyes fell to her hands, a knife in each. These were knives I recognized: an Eversharp set that we had given her for Christmas the year before. They stabbed and twisted, repeated jerk actions, into my father’s chest, dotting the expanse of his shirt with open wounds, worthless wounds given the fact that half of his neck was blown off. An unintelligible string of words poured from her mouth in an almost jolly cadence.

  “Mom.” I didn’t recognize my voice when it spoke. It wasn’t me; it was that of an old woman, someone who had lost all vitality long ago. It was a dead voice. She froze, one knife in, one halfway out, and turned, her eyes searching until they found mine.

  My mother was a beautiful woman—statuesque, with perfect china doll features that combined in absolute harmony on her face. I was not looking at my mother. This thing on my father, this thing—with my mother’s nose, eyes, and hair—had no soul. Its face was splattered with drops of blood, dark in their dried state. Its hair was a cocoon of curls, sticking out in every direction. A mouth hung open, its eyes pierced me with maddening clarity, tears pouring out of their edges, painting black mascara rivers down pale cheeks.

  “Deanna? You. You weren’t invited to this party.” She stood, swinging her leg over my father, yanking the knife out of his chest. She frowned at me, a look I recognized as disappointed. “Get me a paper towel.”

  I swayed, watching in a cloud of delirium as she turned to the table and reached over Trent’s dead body to grab the silver platter that still held a few cookies. I had just looked back at my father when she whirled around, swinging her arm out and smashing the platter with full force against the side of my head.

  The pain dropped me to my knees, a reverberating sound filling my head and not shutting the fuck up, no matter what I did. The platter had hit my ear, and I felt my world blacken and tilt as my equilibrium tried to figure out what the fuck was going on. I grabbed the side of my head and moaned, just as my mother screamed again.

  I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t take the black spots in my vision, the piercing pain from my ear, the death and blood all around me, and my damned mother screaming—kneeling on the floor beside me, tears pouring from her eyes—the room echoing from her madness.

  Then I heard her voice change, incoherent babbles replacing her screams. I turned and saw a knife in her hand, her eyes hungry on me. She growled, low and deep, and opened her mouth to scream, lunging at me with the weapon raised high.React. I grabbed the closest knife, the floor practically decorated with every blade from our set, and swung it out, burying it in her chest.

  It didn’t slide in easily. I had expected it to ease in, smooth and fluidly, but I caught a bone, or an organ, or something that stopped it short. I yanked and stabbed again, harder, my body filled with the intense desire to end this all, stop her insanity. Her scream stopped short, and she looked at me with confusion. I moved, ignoring my ear, ignoring the spots in my vision that were gaining in size, and turned, facing her fully, consumed with the need to bury my knife where it counted, where she would gush and moan and cry and be in agony—some form of agony that was comparable to the madness I now existed in. I used both hands and jammed it into her stomach, into an area where there were no bones, nothing to stop the blade from sliding, sharp and fast, all the way into her body. She gasped, pain filling her eyes, the madness leaving them for a quick second, and then she was Mom. Sitting there, on the kitchen floor, looking at her daughter, who had just stabbed her.

  I sobbed, fully broken, staring into her eyes, too ashamed to meet them but too desperate to look away, needing my mother now more than ever. Our eyes locked, twin brown irises; I reached forward and grabbed her tightly, sobbing into her neck. She slumped against my body, unresponsive to my touch. Then the only screams filling the room were my own.

  CHAPTER 63

  SHE IS NOT online. It is eleven p.m., and she should be here. She is always here. He doesn’t always chat with her, she is often too popular, the grayed-out screen over her window indicating a private session, other men occupying her time. But she is always there, like clockwork, regardless of the day.

  He flips screens incessantly, between her private website and the camsite, looking for a sign, any sign, of her location. She should be here. On a night like tonight, when he really needs a release, she should be here.

  His fingers shake atop the mouse, anxiety taking over, heaviness pushing upon his chest. He paces to the window, glances through the blinds at the police cruiser. Maybe he should go to Annie. Find some way around the police and go to the property. He didn’t have time with her last night, didn’t do anything more than tie her down a
nd listen to her cries. And now the temptation is too great, knowing she is his. Secured. Waiting.

  And her replacement is nowhere to be found. He clenches his fist and refreshes his screen. Looks for her face. He needs a release.

  CHAPTER 64

  MY FATHER WAS a police officer during one four-year period in his life. His department made cutbacks, and as a new officer, he was moved to the Department of Corrections, working twelve-hour jail-duty shifts among rapists, murderers, and drug dealers. After four years of hell, he quit the force and went into real estate, quickly earning more in one month then he had earned in a year as a public servant. He always said he learned more about human behavior and conflict resolution in those four years than in all of his other work experience combined. He preached that I could accomplish more with voice inflections and body language than with a weapon. He taught me that if I was ever confronted, I should hold my ground, meet the eyes of my attacker, and use firm, authoritative language. It is a lesson I have never forgotten.

  More than a cop, or a father, he was my friend—someone I could always count on for advice, help, and support. There aren’t enough words in the world to describe how much I miss him.

  Now, driving down the dark highway with a gun beside me, I wish he were here. It would have been really great to have a friend in all of this.

  My mind wanders to jail, to the knowledge that what I am planning on doing will earn me the right to belong in jail. My mother was one thing. A good attorney would categorize that as self-defense or temporary insanity. No one could walk into that situation and be expected to act in a reasonable manner.

  But this is something far different. This is premeditated. Planned. I am driving along this road with every intent to kill this man. The jury will realize that my trip gave me twelve hours to change my mind, plenty of time to call the police and let justice handle Ralph in a proper manner. All signs point to murder one. Maybe I won’t get jail time. Maybe I’ll get the death penalty and this whole mess will disappear, my murderous inclinations gone in one lethal injection. There are worse ways to die, and then I could join my family on the other side. I am not afraid of justice. Justice is a good thing, even if I am on the losing end of it.

  CHAPTER 65

  JEREMY IS ABOVE me, his face intense, worshipping me with his eyes. I arch my back, offering myself, and he groans, lowering his head. He takes me into his soft mouth. His rough hands caress and squeeze my breasts, pushing them up and into his mouth as he moves from side to side, breast to breast, driving me crazy with his lips and tongue.

  I am wet, incredibly ready and wanting, the need throbbing between my legs so strongly—more than I have ever experienced. His touch, masculinity, the breath on my skin—all sensations my body has forgotten, every experience magnified by my time away. I moan, pulling him to me, his hand traveling down. The incredible sound of a zipper reaches my ears.

  I wake up, real life bombarding my senses all at once. I gasp, shocked into reality, my subconscious trying to understand the strange setting, sideways, dark truck, a rest stop parking lot.

  Asleep. My head nodding, I had fought sleep for over twenty miles, blaring music and rolling down the windows. It hadn’t worked; the truck veered off the highway twice before I pulled into a rest stop and set my phone timer to fifteen minutes, hoping to recharge in that short length of time. Sleep had come instantly, my eyes closing as soon as I had pressed “start” on the timer. And dreamed of Jeremy. It was my first dream in a long time that hadn’t involved mayhem and blood. Dr. Derek will be pleased. I roll my neck and start the truck, watching the dash as it comes to life.

  The first thing I notice is that Jeremy’s truck is low on gas: the fuel warning light is illuminated. I glance at the dashboard clock: 11:46 p.m. I have slept for about fifteen minutes. I look at the GPS, doing calculations in my head. Getting back on the road now, I will arrive at about six in the morning. According to all of Mike’s updates, and the limited chatter on the police scanner, Ralph is down for the evening, and they are going to watch him all night. I assume he’ll head for Annie in the morning, if he hasn’t killed her already. If I can get there quickly enough, I can have her out of harm’s way in time. I press on the GPS’s screen, looking for the next exit with a gas station. There is only one option, a gas station seventeen miles away. I cross my fingers and hope that it will still be open.

  The station is pathetic and run-down, sitting alone at the exit, the flickering white lights announcing its availability. I pay at the pump, swiping my card and reaching for the handle, suddenly aware of the emptiness surrounding me. I look over my shoulder to find the clerk eyeing me, acne-covered skin surrounding beady eyes and a grinning mouth. Great. I hear the gas topping off and loosen my hold on the pump, watching the number slide past fourteen gallons before the pump clicks in my hand. I squeeze a little more into the tank, hearing the slosh of petroleum topping off, then withdraw the pump. I open the truck and hit the lock button, my eyes on the black bag that contains the gun and my cash. I have a moment of indecision, then shut the door and stride for the convenience store, my eyes conscious of the surrounding emptiness, my good ear tuning to the ominous quiet of the lot. My tennis shoes crunch loudly on rough pavement.

  I open the advertisement-riddled door, revealing a small, crowded store, the floors sticky and dark, the air stale. I glance at the fruit basket next to the lotto counter, the bananas browning and oranges hardened. I grab an apple, the skin too soft to be good, and move down the first aisle, snagging some peanuts and bottles of orange and apple juice. I avoid the eyes of the clerk, feeling his presence even in the farthest reaches of the store. I duck into the bathroom after first setting my items on the floor outside; but having found no good place to put the apple, I carry it into the restroom with me and chuck it in the trash. I shut the door and lock it, squatting over the filthy toilet and trying not to pee on too much of the seat. I relax, the pressure on my bladder lessening, the relief wonderful.

  My eyes catch movement and focus, watching the handle twitch slightly, just once, and then return to its place. It takes me a moment, my mind slow, incredulous when it finally understands what is occurring. The bastard is trying the door. I rip off a wad of tissue, wipe, and yank my pants up, my mind realizing the next step before my thoughts do. A key. He’d have a—

  The door shoves open, and he is there, inside the small enclosure, shutting the door behind him with a metallic click, grinning at me with disturbing confidence. “Well, well. And I was just getting bored with my evening. What’s a tight little thing like you doing out this late?”

  I meet his grin, my own stretching easily across my face, my hands sliding into my sweatshirt pockets. I wrap a hand around the handle of the stiletto knife, rubbing its grip, finding and fingering the release. Wait. If only he knew that he is prey and I am the hunter. And he has made it so damn convenient for me. This time, I will succeed. This time I will not falter, will learn from the mistakes with Jeremy. I will not go to the ground, I will kill him on my feet.

  My grin confuses him. I see the hesitation, the pause in his movement, and the flicker of uncertainty in his stare.

  “Don’t stop,” I say. “Please. Whatever you had in your mind to do, I welcome you to try it.”

  He starts forward, then stops. He moves again, then pauses, his hesitation growing at my tone and lack of fear. I laugh, a sound he doesn’t like, and his fists ball while the dark look in his eyes returns. Hunger. Hate.

  “Drop your pants,” he rasps, his eyes falling to my waist and the open pants. “I want to see the little snatch I am about to—”

  My hands reach out, my forearm against his throat; the speed of the motion catches him off-balance, pushing him back against the closed door. The stiletto is freed, the flash of blade catching his eyes. His body freezes in response. I bring it to his cheek, my eyes on his. I smile wider, cracking my face in two. I try to picture his death, to welcome the gruesome visions that battle constantly for entry int
o my mind, but can see only her—the tiny blonde, grinning into the camera, white-iced cake before her. Annie. GO.

  I battle my inner demon, not wanting to let this moment pass, a victim finally in my grasp, one worthy of killing, my timed attack perfectly executed. But I have to think about her. The reason I left the apartment. To do something right with the twisted cards I have been dealt. A dead body might slow my progress, might get me in a jail cell as opposed to Annie. I grit my teeth, grounding out words as I stare into his eyes. “There’s nothing I’d love more than to carve into that ugly shit that you call a face, and leave you bleeding and helpless on this filthy floor, scrambling to stand, your eyeballs cut out and squishing beneath my feet. But I am fucking late, and I don’t have time for this bullshit right now.” I press the blade into the thin skin under his eyes, feeling the easy slide of it, blood swelling around the tip. His eyes flit from the blade to me in a panicked jerk. My eyes drink in the red liquid, unable to move from the drip, my fingers unresponsive to my desire to stop the pressure and keep the blade from slicing deeper. I yank back, the blade catching a bit on his skin, and his hand jumps up to press against the cut, his face shocked.