Then, the monster that I am transforms into something else; an angel as I float away to a place where everything else is forgotten except the phenomenal feelings that Welch is giving me. I succumb to my release as I bathe him, crying out and pleading for more, begging him to stop, not making sense because I’m in a state that I’ve never visited before.
Physical, emotional love.
And I’m never letting it go.
I’d fucking kill for it again if I had to. Some monsters don’t change their wicked ways…
Welch is passed out asleep as rationalization washes over me.
Cops.
Murder.
We need a plan and we can’t stay here for long.
“Welch? Welch?” I whisper, rubbing his shoulder to wake him.
“Hmmmm,” he hums.
“Wake up. Please.”
He rolls over, looking at me with just fucked hair and a bloodstained face. We are in over our heads. I ruined our likelihood of a peaceful slumber when I decided to have another Jekyll and Hyde moment, tossing the clock across the room and destroying the mirror. All I have done is leave more evidence. A trail for the cops to find us.
“What’s wrong?” he asks through sleepy eyes.
“A lot. A lot is wrong Welch. We need to leave. We need to get out of here now.”
“Sleep. Let’s sleep, Gwen,” he purrs.
“Welch!” I say louder.
He opens his eyes in protest.
“We need to get out of here. What if the cops are following us, Welch?” I whisper, rising from the bed and quickly tip toeing into the bathroom over the broken glass to pee and rinse the blood streaks away from my face and arms.
My goddamn palms are a cut up mess, but the pain is the last thing on my mind. Welch and I need to grab our shit and leave this motel before someone catches us. For all I know, someone called the cops after they heard my blood-curdling scream.
He strides behind me, dodging the broken glass.
“Wash your face and arms off. Get that shit off and let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” he asks, still half asleep.
“Fuck if I know. Does Wyoming have any large cities?”
“Wyoming is like the most barren state in the country, Gwen. Laramie, Cheyenne?” he says pensively.
“Laramie sounds safer. Not sure why. Just does.”
He laughs, yawning. I’m anxious and he’s laughing. How is that normal? Maybe I will feel better after we’ve left this place. Yes, that has to be it.
“Come on. Get dressed and let’s go, Welch. We need to leave.”
He nods his head yes, walking back to get dressed. I follow his tail, scanning the room to ensure that we have the rest of our belongings. An emotion that I can’t quite put my finger on comes over me as I think back to their dead bodies.
“Do you think they’ve been found? Claude and Helen?” I ask as Welch puts his jeans on.
“I don’t know. I try really hard not to think about it, Gwen.”
“I hope Connor was the one who saw them like that. I hope he was and that he never forgets what they looked like,” I state, stone-faced.
Now we are back in the game. The fucking game of cat and mouse. Now to figure out what the hell happens after we get to Laramie.
I’m relieved. Almost. We need to get rid of this fucking car. Thinking about holding onto a piece of them is making me ill.
“How much longer until we get to Laramie?” I question, feeling sicker by the second.
“Twenty minutes maybe, judging by the last exit. Just relax, sweet girl,” he says, trying to ease my fears.
“I can’t relax, Welch. We need to get rid of this car and figure out what we plan to do when we get to Laramie.”
He flares his nose and clenches his jaw. He’s angry. For what, who the fuck knows. I want to crack open his head and crawl inside to find out what he is thinking half of the time. This one step at a time bullshit is making me angry as I come to the conclusion that I am the one that is going to have to be the one to figure shit out.
“What?!” he yells.
“What do you want from me?” he screams louder, fury permeating thickly in the air.
“Support. Understanding. And help getting rid of this goddamn car, Welch.”
He grabs onto the steering wheel, his knuckles snow-white from rage. Glad we are sharing a similar sentiment.
Fucker.
The silence is overwhelming, but the tension is high. The darkness outside is deeper than a black hole with the only thing illuminating it being the shitty headlights from Helen’s Grand Prix that is muffling to life. No other cars are on the road which makes me feel safe. Surely someone out there is looking for us, right?
Even if they were, who would actually care what happened before the murders? Would anyone give a shit about the forced fucking, fondling, and watching? The abuse and deplorable conditions in which we were forced to live… Let’s not forget about good ole Poppa’s gift to his grandson. Nothing like prime pussy and a wire hanger, right?
Probably not.
Fuck it.
I turn my cut up palms over and look down, admiring the beautiful slices in my skin. Pain doesn’t bother me. It’s become my closest friend and vilest adversary. I love it and loathe it. It makes me realize that all of this is real and the driving force of who I was. But, it’s time to say goodbye to that.
Time to say goodbye to the old Gwendolyn that was born when Claude made her fuck Welch in the shower that ominous day. Goodbye fiery Gwendolyn as I await the birth of a new one. A smarter one that doesn’t act out irrationally. I promise myself to think before acting. To not allow my insane emotions to get the best of me. Make no mistake, those thoughts still constantly swirl about in my mind, but I am coaching myself to become numb. To allow them to be there and hide myself from them. Because that has to be part of the new me.
One who doesn’t live in the past.
If I do, I am bound to be a goddamn lunatic for the rest of my life. Lord knows we certainly won’t make it out alive if I continue down that path. I promise myself at this moment in time to think before acting, no matter how much irritation I feel. No matter if I am beyond my teeming point or not, I will think methodically about life, survival, and doing what is best to keep us alive.
Yes, I will do whatever I have to keep us alive, even if that means keeping my teeth beneath the surface and my claws away no matter what the situation. Thank fuck, a new Gwendolyn is born. Hello, life. Or as I said to Helen… Bring it, bitch.
“This seems sketchy as fuck,” I say quietly as we pull into an old tow truck yard, with the headlights off.
We’ve been driving around for what seems like forever. The gas light has come on. Our stomachs are growling, and we are running out of options. It reminds me of a scene from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Wyoming edition. A rusted 1970-something truck is parked diagonally, blocking the entrance of the service station. There are two gas pumps that don’t appear to be in service any longer and the florescent lights flicker on and off. I make note not to look at them knowing it will make my head spin and ache.
There aren’t any lights on in the tiny office of the service station. It appears to be vacant, easing the rational side of my brain.
“And the perfect place to dump a car,” Welch murmurs.
Welch pulls the car behind the broken down building where the lights don’t shadow anything. I look at the clock one last time to see how much nighttime we have until the sun comes up. It’s 3:00 a.m. We have a lot to do and not much time to do it.
“Let’s hurry up,” I whisper.
“You grab our shit while I peel the tags,” I state.
Welch nods his head to me. I go to grab the door handle and his hand stops me. He yanks me hard into him, pressing his lips onto mine.
“I love you, sweet girl.”
“I love you too, Welch.”
I scurry out of the car as my bones rattle painfully. I thought Illinois winter was fierce,
I had no clue. I can’t feel my face as the wind picks up and pierces through my thin T-shirt. I make my way to the back of the car, stripping the tag and plate and tucking it under my arm. Welch pops up from the car with our backpack with an extra long-sleeved T-shirt. He tosses it above the car and I catch it, struggling to put it over my rattling body. We need to find a place to stay and we need to do it quickly. I run over to the dumpster, discarding the license plate and tag.
We begin walking along the road off I-80 as a pair of headlights appears behind us. I can’t help but feel nervous as Welch’s hand digs into my hip. His fingers feel like blocks of ice and I’m like a robot, continuing to walk because that is what I am supposed to do to survive. We don’t have much money left to stay at a hotel and our options are becoming limited. My mind is racing a million miles an hour trying to think of ways we can earn money, but we are two killers on the run without an education.
It’s not like we can get a fucking job at a fast food place even if we applied.
We are up shit creek without a paddle, but I am determined.
The headlights are so close to us, I swear I can feel the heat beaming into my skin. What the fuck? I want to run, but running is a sign of guilt. That will give something away. What if someone wants to help us? What if they don’t though? They could very well be another Claude.
Finally, the car rolls alongside us as the window comes down. A lady’s voice calls out to us.
“You two okay?”
I continue to walk with Welch as we stay silent.
“Hey, you two. It’s really cold outside. Can I help you?” she calls out again.
I look over to her and my hard look dissipates. She turns on the dome light of her sedan when she realizes the look that I have on my face, probably to make me feel safe. She’s older, sixty-something, with a soft face and gray curls surrounding her round frame.
“I’m out doing my paper route,” she offers, “But I can make some room for you two,” she says again.
I look over to Welch and see desperation in his eyes. Maybe the world isn’t all bad. Perhaps this is a sign that we will survive and make it to the other side of our lives, who knows. I turn without debating with Welch, knowing that I still hold some influence over him. Now, that is in our favor being the one of reason at this point in time. His hand remains on my hip, looser than before. Clearly he has relaxed a bit and I have, too.
I walk closer to her red car and she reaches over to open the front door. The rush of heat is delightful and I let myself close my eyes and smile. Who knew the simplest of pleasures would feel so amazing, like the rush of warmth over my frigid skin? I’m not only smiling for the physical feeling, I am also grinning because this woman has made me understand that I haven’t lost complete faith in humanity.
What a beautiful sentiment to feel at a horrendous time in my life.
But does such goodness ever last?
The likely answer is no, but why dwell on that? Embrace the good. I’m accepting this lady’s kindness because I may never get it again, at least for a while. Being thrown to a pack of wolves to find a dove is a goddamn treasure.
I consider myself lucky.
She moves scattered newspapers over to the space between us and I sit down. Welch opens the back door and moves some papers over so he can sit in the back. I shut the door and begin to get comfortable, allowing my hands to warm themselves in front of the vents blasting the heat.
“Where to?” the lady asks, pressing lightly on the accelerator.
“A cheap hotel,” I return, looking at her out of the corner of my eyes.
“I know just the place,” she says.
I sink back into the comfy seat and appreciate the safeness for the time being.
“I like this time of day, its peaceful,” the lady says.
I nod my head yes. I still don’t like words or the thought of communicating with people I don’t know. Shit, Welch and I seem to solve everything by sex. Guess that’s what happens when you are an emotionally, sexually, and socially fucked up teenager. He is more so than me. I hear it in his screams while he sleeps. I still can’t find the courage to ask him what he cries out for. Instead, I comfort him with sex, the very thing we were forced to do.
Makes no sense, but all the sense in the world to me.
“I can’t stand to read the papers anymore,” she continues, “It’s so depressing.”
“Yeah,” I muster.
She’s right. The world is a grisly place. I can’t say I blame her. Who knows what graces the front page today. Murder, rape, suicide. Who has society failed today?
“I just load them into my car and deliver them every morning. I use this time to myself to think mostly,” she says sweetly.
“Thank you for picking us up,” I blurt out.
Goddamn. Why did I do that? Parts of me will never change. Go figure the part of me where my mind thinks out loud. Stupid me for forming a connection with the Good Samaritan.
“It really wasn’t anything. Honestly. I was just trying to do the right thing,” she responds.
The right thing. Too bad not everyone in the world has that mentality. I wonder what it would have been like if I went to the police after I chopped Claude’s dick off and stabbed Helen in the cunt? Nothing. Nothing would have happened. They would’ve only viewed me as a crazed young girl sad for her parents, taking her frustrations out on her foster guardians. They wouldn’t give a shit about what happened in the months leading up to the attack, or what led me to such a vicious point.
Hence, my silence and yearning to be on the run. Because I have no faith in most people.
I take a deep breath and relax back more in the seat, grabbing the newspaper.
“May I?” I ask, holding the paper.
I haven’t a clue the date, forgetting the simple pleasures of a flip cell phone to check the date and time, send texts to my friends and call someone when I need them. Maybe the newspaper offers something interesting and life changing news in the world today.
“Sure, sweetie. Consider it a gift,” she replies, taking a turn.
We enter the city limits of Laramie, at least I assume that as the dusk to dawn lights illuminate the roadways making it easy for me to read the date in the top right of the paper and a tiny snowflake beneath it with a negative five degrees indicating the temperature for the day. But it isn’t just any day. It’s my eighteenth birthday. My chest hurts as I realize that eighteen years have passed since my mother laid in a hospital bed giving birth to me. I want to erase that part of my life, but part of me wants to cling onto it. I’m not quite ready to let it go either. Numb, become numb, Gwendolyn. This is just another day. This isn’t about celebrating life anymore.
My eyes move down, gracing over words as I see a bold print for the top story.
Couple murdered outside Mayesville, IL. Two foster children missing.
There’s two photos beneath the article. One of me and one of Welch. Fuck. Double fuck. The images are older and grainy. Will people notice us? In Wyoming of all places? Are we being followed? Are there any leads? Is this on the news? My breathing becomes rapid and I have to dig deep inside of all the fissures in my brain, searching for the voice of reason. I need to calm myself down. I close my eyes and try to think of something happy. I need to get to a happy place. Think, Gwen, think!
Nothing.
“Ma’am?” I ask.
“Yes, dear?” she responds.
“Are we almost there? I’m not feeling well. Really needing some proper rest.”
Honestly, I just need to get the hell out of her car before I lose my shit. I can sense Welch’s unease rising by the millisecond. A year ago I was celebrating with my parents at a steakhouse as they doted on how amazing their 17-year-old daughter was. Now, a year later I am a murderess.
I am also a rape victim.
A survivor.
And a woman on the run.
“Almost there, sweetie,” she says.
I’ve never felt like drinking be
fore, but now I want something to make me forget. Drinking, drugs, something. I didn’t think I would take up smoking either, but I am not the same little girl that her daddy saw a year ago. The tornado of thoughts in my head are swirling about, but I force myself to push it aside. I’m proud, but still sad.
Numb. Stay numb. But I’m still sad.
Yes, I am sad. Very sad knowing that nothing is what it seems. The goodness that I felt couldn’t last. Nothing ever does. How will I come to disengage myself from my feelings when I can’t use words to tell Welch how I feel? With sex again?
We turn into a Travel Lodge off some road I’m not familiar with in Laramie. Who am I kidding, we are in fucking Wyoming and I haven’t made it past Missouri before I killed. I couldn’t tell you how to get from point A to point B. She parks in a spot and I want to vomit, knowing that we can’t afford a Travel Lodge. A place like Camp 30, sure.
She reaches down to the floor board to grab her black leather purse, pulling out her wallet. I turn my head in surprise as she pulls out a wad of cash.
“I don’t want to know your story, honey. Be safe,” she says, peering into my eyes and straight to my heart.
I want to cry, hug her and wail from the rooftops of heaven because the goodness that was starting to slip away has returned. With $40 left, our options were limited.
Now, at least for one more night we can pray for sweet dreams.
Welch
“No! Please, daddy!” I yell, tugging at his dirty jeans. They smell like oil and cars. I like cars. And trucks. I think he fixes them.
“I ain’t ya daddy, boy!” he screams down at me, spitting on my head.
I go to wipe it away because that is gross. I don’t like that. I want my mommy, but she is gone and people keep telling me she isn’t coming back. Now I cry. I cry for my mommy and I beg for her to come for me. Maybe if I call out to her, she will come back.
“Mommy! Mommy, please!” I sob, running my tiny hands through my wet hair where my new daddy spit on me.
“Ya Momma’s a whore. She’s dead, and I ain’t ya daddy ya little fucker!” he yells, kicking me in the back of my legs.
Gwendolyn vs. the Band of Barren Hearts Page 10
