Find Me Alastar

by T L Swan

  The tears start to run down my face and I angrily swipe them away. What do I do? What do I do? My frantic eyes look everywhere and I notice a desk over in the corner. I squint to try and see properly. What’s over there? I walk over to the desk in the semi-dark and flick the lamp on. My eyes widen.

  At least thirty enlarged photographs are pinned onto the wall above the desk. Photographs of tombstones in graveyards with the name Emmaline on them are everywhere, each one colored and in black and white.

  Fear grips me and I step back as my adrenaline starts to pump.

  Holy fuck.

  He has pictures of tombstones with the name that he calls me on them.

  Why does he call me Emmaline?

  Who is he?

  What is he doing?

  Goosebumps scatter up my spine. I am in danger. I look to the staircase. I need to get out of here without being seen.

  Panic sets in as I realise this room is soundproof. The missing red headed woman from the bar comes to mind. He never called the police that day, there is no way in hell he would bring himself under their spotlight and investigation when he is hiding all of this down here.

  He lied to me about that. Why?

  Oh my fucking God.

  He murders women in here. He must do.

  He’s going to kill me.

  Run. Run.

  “Emmaline?” I hear him call from upstairs and my eyes widen.

  Holy fuck!

  He can’t trap me down here.

  As fast as I can I run to the stairs and take them two at a time. No.

  No!

  I burst out of the door and into the lounge as he walks into the room. His face drops when he sees where I came from.

  The hysterical tears run down my face. “You stole the art?” I scream.

  His shoulders slump.

  “Alastar. What’s with the tombstones?” I cry.

  He steps toward me and I jump back. “Don’t touch me!” I scream hysterically.

  He stands silently as he watches me.

  “You want to kill me?” I cry.

  His face screws up. “What? No!” he yells.

  “Whose things are they? Whose clothing is that?”

  “Emmaline,” he whispers.

  “My name is Emerson. Who is fucking Emmaline?” I scream. “What kind of fucked up sicko are you?”

  He doesn’t answer and I stand still, watching him. I’m panting in hysteria.

  “I would never hurt you,” he murmurs. “I love you.”

  I stand still, too scared to move.

  “Explain to my why...” I whisper.

  He doesn’t answer, and keeps dead still as if he is thinking about what to do.

  “If you love me, Alastar, then you will explain to my why?” I sob. Please tell me this is a mistake.

  He doesn’t answer as his eyes search mine.

  “Whose things are they Alastar?” I scream. Defend yourself! Tell me this is a mistake. “Why is that room soundproofed? What do you do down there?” I cry.

  He runs his hands through his hair. “The room was soundproofed before I bought the house.”

  “Whose things are they?” I scream. “Why did you steal the art?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  I screw up my face. “What?”

  I point to the front door as the tears run down my face. “I am walking out that door and I am never coming back unless you tell me what the fuck is going on.”

  He steps forward. “Don’t leave me. I love you.”

  I screw up my face in pain as I step back in fear. “Alastar,” I whisper.

  “I can’t tell you because you will leave me forever.” He holds his hand out for me to take.

  I look at his outreached hand. “Tell me!” I scream.

  “Even if I did tell you the truth, you would never believe me. You have to work this out for yourself.”

  “Work what out?” I scream as tears run down my face. Oh my God, is this some sort of sick cat and mouse game?

  “I can’t tell you. I want to… but I can’t,” he cries.

  Work out that he’s going to kill me? Is that what he means? I need to get out of here immediately.

  I turn and start to walk to the door.

  “Don’t leave me…” he yells.

  I stop and stare at him. “Just talk to me. Explain this. Please,” I sob in a whisper.

  Tears fill his eyes. “I can’t. Please. I need you to trust me.” He reaches for me and I step away from him. “I love you,” he whispers again in pain.

  “Don’t touch me,” I murmur through heavy tears. “I don’t even know who you are.”

  I turn and walk out the front door.

  He doesn’t try to stop me.

  And I don’t look back.

  * * *

  It’s Friday night and I sit alone in the silence of my bedroom in my apartment. It’s raining and I am on the window seat watching the heavy droplets fall. I came back to my temporary home after I ran from Alastar on Wednesday. I haven’t left the room since. I have no clothes, no makeup, and I am totally alone. I haven’t even called Brielle.

  I’m too ashamed.

  I fell in love with a man who I didn’t know. A criminal. The same man who I know may very well try to kill me. He’s succeeded in one way already. He has killed an innocence in me that I will never get back. I have never been so disillusioned in my entire life. I know I need to call the police, and I will at some point. My eyes tear up at the thought of Alastar behind bars. Why am I so in love with him?

  I should hate him… but I don’t. I’m grieving the life that I had looked forward to with him.

  I so wanted the fairy tale to be true.

  Tonight we were supposed to be flying out to our castle to get married tomorrow, but instead I’m sick with grief. I get a vision of us lying together in front of the fire in each other’s arms, laughing, and my eyes close as the pain slices just that little bit deeper.

  This is unbearable.

  I stand on autopilot to go and make myself a cup of tea. I’ve hardly eaten since Wednesday. Hank has been cooking for me, but I just pick at it. I can’t stomach the sight of food, let alone eat it.

  I’ve decided that as soon as I pull myself together enough, I am getting on a plane back home to Australia.

  I can’t do this.

  I can’t pretend that my whole world hasn’t fallen apart. I can’t hold up the façade that this is the trip of a lifetime and that what we had didn’t matter… because it did.

  It mattered to me a lot.

  I just wish it had mattered to him. I don’t know what I was thinking placing all of my trust into someone after only a few weeks together. It just felt so right. I have been over and over our last conversation in my head. Trust me. I love you. Pain lances through my chest as I recall his tortured face. Don’t leave me. I close my eyes as the tears burn my face. I am utterly broken, too scared to leave the room incase he finds me. I’m scared to put my phone down incase I miss the call where he tells me it’s all been a hoax. I’m ashamed to call my friend and hear her say I told you so. I’m disgusted to tell Mark that I left him for a criminal.

  I pick up my phone and stare at it. Why hasn’t he rung me?

  Is he alright?

  Is he safe?

  Is this part of his condition?

  Why do I care?

  I throw the phone down in disgust with myself. Stop it. You’re being crazy. I hold my head between my two hands. I’m going crazy.

  In my fucked up head I’m holding him as the victim in all of this—as the mental health patient who can’t help his actions and needs my love and care to get better. But the reality is… I am in danger. He had pictures of tombstones with my name on them. An unhealthy obsession with death.

  He’s not unwell, he’s a criminal, and I need to get that through my thick head. My head and my heart are in a battle to the death. My head tells me he’s dangerous and to go to the police, but my heart says trust him and retur
n to his perfect love.

  I don’t know what to do or how long I can keep fighting with myself like this.

  In a zombie state, I lie down on the bed, get under the covers and pull myself into the fetal position and weep.

  God help me. I can’t do this.

  * * *

  Monday morning, I stand in line in the coffee shop across from work as I wait for my order. The streets are congested and there is a hive of activity. I’m having lunch with Brielle today. I’m going to tell her about Alastar, and tonight after work, I’m going to the police. After a weekend of soul searching, I realize that, now more than ever, I need to think clearly. I went and bought myself new clothes yesterday. I’m not going back to the house to get my things. He can keep them. I’m not telling Mark. I’m not giving him the satisfaction. I’m going to give the police an anonymous tip off and then I will not be involved at all. I am going home to Australia, but I just have to break it to Brielle and that won’t be easy. It was me that forced her to come to the other side of the world, after all. I get my coffee to takeaway and go out onto the corner to cross the road and find myself stopping dead in my tracks.

  Alastar is diagonally opposite, waiting on our corner as he has done for me everyday when we were together. He is wearing a large overcoat and his hands are in his pockets. He looks so sad and I have to close my eyes for just a moment as my own pain takes over. He is looking into the oncoming crowd for me. He doesn’t know I am here, and when I realize this, I quickly duck back into the coffee shop and take a seat at the window to watch him in silence.

  I sit with my stomach in my throat as I watch him search for me among the people. He’s as broken as I am, I can see it in his face, in his demeanor. What am I doing?

  Maybe I should run out there.

  Maybe I can be an art thief, too?

  Yes. I could do it and we could run away together like Bonny and Clyde.

  As long as I am with him, I could do anything, I know I could. But then… my mind goes to the pictures of the tombstones and my heart drops. That’s abnormal. He’s not right. If I go back to him knowing that he’s dangerous, it’s just irresponsible to my family.

  For half an hour I sit and watch him in silence as the foul sense of despair fills my every cell. No wonder he’s so rich. His money is other people’s. I glance at my watch. 9.30am. I was supposed to start work half an hour ago. Bloody hell, go home, Alastar. My phone rings. Mark. Shit. I screw up my face. I have to take this. I haven’t been to work for two and a half days, I am going to lose my job, and that’s all I need now.

  “Hello,” I answer weakly.

  “Em? Oh thank God. Are you okay?”

  My eyes fill with tears. I am so not okay, it’s ridiculous. “Yes. Sorry, I have been unwell,” I murmur.

  “Are you coming in today?”

  I frown as my eyes watch Alastar on the street. “Umm.” I hesitate, I can’t work in this state. But… shit, just go in, Emerson. What are you going to do in your room all day? I remind myself. That room is sending me fucking crazy. Crazier. “Yes, I am going to come in now. Sorry I’m late.”

  “That’s okay. I just need you to cover for me.”

  I frown. “Why what are you doing?”

  “I have a meeting and I need someone here to talk to the board about the good news stories.”

  “Oh, okay.” I hesitate. “I will be there soon.”

  “Thank you. See you when I get back this afternoon,” he replies.

  I hang up and stuff my phone back into my bag. Shit, now I really have to go in. I sit at the bench seat as I watch Alastar take his phone from his pocket to check the time. He hangs his head and sadness overwhelms me. Oh, baby. Has he come to our corner every morning to look for me? Has he waited every afternoon? Why hasn’t he just called me and explained why this has happened? In my stupid heart I am still hopeful that he can explain all of this; that he has been set up in some elaborate scheme. My head tells me a completely different story, though. He leans back against the wall and looks up to the sky in despair. I close my eyes in pain. I badly want to run to him. Why? I watch him pull himself together and slowly walk around the corner. He’s finally given up and left.

  I sit for another five minutes staring into space as I try to gain some sort of composure, before I finally drag myself out of the chair and out into the street. It’s worse knowing that he is suffering as much as I am. I can’t stand the thought of it. The cars are flying past and I wait to cross. My eyes look back over to the corner and I see Alastar again. He is facing me and his hands are in his overcoat pockets. I stop dead. His eyes search mine and my own fill with tears as my bottom lip starts to tremble. He holds his head to the side and I know he would be thinking don’t cry, baby. The traffic lights change.

  Just walk across the street, just walk across the street.

  I put my head down and walk briskly without looking up. I can’t talk to him. If I do, I know I will believe anything he tells me, right now. I want to run into his arms, I want to run away with him and never come back. This has to be a dreadful mistake. He is dangerous, Emerson, I remind myself. But even as I reprimand myself, I know in my heart of hearts that he would never hurt me. I can’t believe he is capable of ever hurting anyone else, either. He’s too gentle, too loving to ever be capable of the things that my brain is telling me that he’s been doing. I get to the other side of the road and start to walk up the street toward work.

  “Emerson,” he calls from behind me.

  I stop with my back to him, my eyes planted firmly on the ground as my broken heart hammers in my chest.

  “I miss you,” he says softly.

  I pause, still with my back to him. I miss you, too.

  “Trust yourself,” he murmurs.

  I frown. What does that mean?

  He doesn’t say anything else.

  I wait for another twenty seconds as I search my brain for a comeback. The street is bustling with people, and yet I feel like we are the only two people on Earth. Say something else, Alastar. Explain to me why those things were at your house. I need you to tell me, damn you. I stand with my back to him, and he stands directly behind me. I can feel him so close, yet so far away. I’m too weak to deal with this. I can’t cope. I swallow the lump in my throat, put my head down, and keep walking to work.

  * * *

  Brielle’s eyes widen in horror. “Are you serious?”

  We are at lunch and I am filling her in on the week’s strange turn of events.

  I shake my head as I rearrange my cutlery. It’s hard for me to even look her in the eye. “You promised not to say anything,” I say in monotone, lifeless voice.

  Brielle grabs my hand over the table. “When did this happen?” she whispers.

  “Wednesday.”

  “Emerson.” She frowns in horror. “It’s Monday. Why didn’t you call me?”

  I scratch my head and blow out a deep shameful breath. “I don’t know.” My eyes meet hers. “I’ve been trying to get myself together enough to tell you. I am back at my apartment. I’m fine.”

  She chews her thumbnail as she thinks. “Are you sure it was the stolen artwork?”

  I nod once. “It’s not the artwork that concerned me.”

  She screws up her face. “What the hell concerned you then?”

  I bite my bottom lip. I don’t even want to say this out loud. I swallow the feeling of sand in my throat. “He had photographs pinned on the wall of tombstones with the name Emmaline on them.”

  Her eyes widen in total shock.

  I nod sadly.

  “Fuck off,” she whispers.

  I shake my head.

  “That’s it. We are going to the police. This guy is a fucking weirdo.”

  “You promised not to say anything,” I whisper.

  “That was before I knew he was a fucking serial killer,” she snaps.

  “Shh.” I look around the restaurant to see if anyone heard her. “Keep your voice down.”

  “No. I will
not keep my voice down. This man is dangerous, Em. He has had you under his spell since day one.”

  My eyes tear up. It’s true. He has.

  “You are a fucking idiot when it comes to him.”

  My face screws up in tears of despair.

  Pity fills her face. “I’m sorry.” She squeezes my hand over the table. “I didn’t mean to say that. I’m sorry, baby.”

  The tears run down my face and I wipe them away angrily.

  “I just…” She hesitates. “I’m just worried about you, Em. We need to go to the police tonight. I will come with you.”

  “I know. I am calling them today anonymously.” I sigh.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  I shrug.

  “I know why you didn’t call me,” she replies.

  My hurt eyes hold hers.

  “The same reason I wouldn’t call you every time I found out my ex had slept with another girl. You feel ashamed that someone you love could be like this, could treat you like this.”

  My heart drops. I knew she didn’t tell me a lot back then, but I never dreamt that the shoe would ever be on the other foot.

  She holds my hand in both of hers. “We will get though this. Come and stay with me for a while.”

  “What about Mr. Masters?”

  “He won’t be a problem.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Let’s just say that Mr. Masters is behaving this week.” She smirks sneakily.

  My eyes widen. “You slept with him?”

  “No.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “But we did have a talk.”

  “About what?” I ask.

  “About his attraction to me. He finally admitted it.”

  I smile my first true smile in four days. “I’m okay, honestly. I will stay at my apartment.”

  Her stare holds mine. “I know you are going to be okay, Emerson. You are a tough chick and this is just a speed bump in life.”