Beautiful Victim

by Claire C. Riley

  I’m itching to do it but I don’t, because I know that he might turn up here then, wanting to know what the hell was going on and why she was being so rude to him.

  That thought makes me panic, because he has a key, and he could turn up at any time.

  “Fuck!”

  So I do text him then, but I just ask when I will see him next.

  He replies almost instantly, like he was waiting for me to text, that he can’t come now until Tuesday because SJ would notice and he’s supposed to be having family time with them all this weekend.

  I smile.

  He texts back to send him another picture to get him through the lonely days.

  I say no, that he has enough, and I put an X on the end so I don’t seem rude.

  He texts back immediately. I can see him texting because the three little dots appear, and he messages to send him a picture now, because it’s his phone and he ‘pays the fucking bills, bitch,’ and he wants to see my pussy now. Not my pussy, obviously, because I’m a guy and I don’t have one, but he thinks I’m Carrie. And I’m like, shit, what do I do now?

  So I send back, ‘one minute’ and he says ‘hurry, I want to get one out before the wife comes back upstairs.’ And I feel sick, and I kinda feel sorry for his wife too. And I’m wondering what the hell Carrie ever saw in him, because he’s a douchebag.

  I go into the living room, and Carrie is still out cold. I tap her cheek with the palm of my hand but she doesn’t even groan. And God I hope she’s okay and wakes up soon, but not yet because I have to take a picture of her pussy and send it to Adam, and I want to kill Adam for making me do this. And as I unbutton Carrie’s jeans, I’m grateful that she’s a slut and didn’t put underwear on.

  I pull her jeans around her ankles and I spread her legs and I take the phone and snap a picture of her beautiful pink pussy, and then I stare at it for a moment in awe.

  Not the photo but her actual pussy.

  I feel hot and sick and excited all at once.

  I want to touch it, her. And I’m tempted to, of course I am. And I know she won’t mind, that she’ll just laugh and tell me she likes to be touched by me. But it feels wrong to do it when she’s sleeping so peacefully. So I don’t.

  I send the picture to Adam, and I don’t touch Carrie’s pussy even though I really really want to. I want to know if she’s as warm as she used to be. If she’s as wet as she used to be. I want to be inside of her again, right now, like I used to be.

  I pull her jeans back up, and button them, and I know I’m not a bad guy, no matter how fucked up that was. And I know that she’ll understand why I did it. And I know that she’s sent him much worse pictures because I fucking saw them. And I’m scrolling through them, growing harder and harder in my pants.

  Adam texts back ‘that did the trick. See you Tues.’ and then he’s gone out of our lives, and I breathe a sigh of relief and close the phone so I can’t look at the pictures anymore and I finish my nasty, black, over-sugared coffee, and I think what a prick he is and how he is using her and cheating on his wife and his family. And I know I’ll never be that sort of man. And Carrie will never be that sort of wife.

  We’ll be happy, and we’ll love and respect one another, and I didn’t touch her pussy even though I wanted to, and that shows how much respect I have for her.

  I go up to her bathroom because I want to wash my hands. I feel dirty. I pick her clothes up from the floor and I put them in the hamper, and I think, why don’t you put your dirty clothes in the hamper, Carrie? And I shake my head and smile because I know it’s going to be one of those things that we’re going to argue about until we’re old and gray.

  I look in her bathroom mirror and I straighten my hair some more. It’s dried stupidly, so I have to wet it and I restyle it using some of her hair products, and I feel better after that.

  Then I go and sit on her bed, and I pull my jeans down and I touch myself and I look at the photos on her phone again. And I know I’m disgusting for doing this, and it’s not very respectful of my wife-to-be, but I can’t help it that she makes me so hot and bothered. And I kinda like that I’m doing this where they fucked, because it’s like I’m blotting him away.

  I stand up as I groan and come, and I make sure I come all over the bed.

  And I make sure my semen mixes with his because again, I’m getting rid of every trace of him.

  I can sleep in this bed now, I think as I zip my jeans back up.

  Chapter nineteen:

  I look through Carrie’s CDs, and I realize that I don’t recognize any of them—not a single name or track. And I know that I’ve been away for a long, long time, but I didn’t realize I was so out of the loop on things.

  I go through her DVD collection and find the same thing. But I’m more shocked here because there’s no old movies, only new ones. Carrie used to love old movies. Anything with Cary Grant in it was always a winner. I smile at the memory of watching those movies with her. Huddled under blankets and eating popcorn my mom made.

  My mom liked Carrie at first. She thought she just needed to be loved. But after a while, she said it was more than that. Worse than that. She said there was probably no saving Carrie.

  I hated my mom for saying that for two reasons.

  One.

  Everyone could be saved if you tried hard enough. And my mom just wasn’t trying hard enough, in my opinion. Carrie’s mom wasn’t trying hard enough either. Carrie’s dad wasn’t trying hard enough. The school wasn’t trying hard enough. The neighbors weren’t trying hard enough. Carrie thought it was funny how everyone wanted to save her unless it required some effort.

  I told her it wasn’t funny at all.

  Two.

  Carrie was loved. By me.

  My mom still let Carrie come around and watch movies though. She didn’t stop her from coming around the house for a long time. Not until things got really bad. One day Carrie’s dad turned up at the door. He slammed his fist against it and made the glass shake. I worried that it would break.

  Mom answered it and he pushed her aside and she nearly fell over.

  He smelled of liquor.

  He didn’t even say anything to Carrie. She just stood up and started to leave with him

  My mom said that she didn’t have to go if she didn’t want to. That she was cooking a pot roast and Carrie could stay for dinner if she wanted. I begged her to stay. Carrie’s dad gripped her shoulder tightly and glared down at her, but he still didn’t speak. My mom said my dad would be home soon. She said she could call the police. She said Carrie would be safe here, if she wanted to stay. If she didn’t want to go home.

  And I begged Carrie to listen.

  But she didn’t listen.

  And she didn’t stay.

  She smiled and walked away with him, and after that Mom said we couldn’t have Carrie in the house anymore because her dad frightened her.

  I begged my mom not to be like that. But she wouldn’t listen. And later that night I heard my mom and dad arguing. I sat at the top of the stairs, listening to their quiet argument, only catching words that floated up to me. I didn’t understand most of them. Or maybe I did, but I refused to hear them.

  I went back to my room once I heard the verdict. Dad agreed with Mom, that Carrie wouldn’t be allowed inside anymore. “She’s trouble,” they said.

  I pushed open my bedroom door and found Carrie sitting on my bed. She was crying. She was hugging her knees to her chest. She looked up when I came in, and then she asked me to hold her. So I did.

  I didn’t care what my mom and dad said.

  See, Carrie? I broke all the rules for you.

  *

  I don’t even realize I’m crying until I am. Until the tears are dripping down off my chin and onto the floor at my feet. I peel the bottom of my tee up and wipe my wet face with it. My clothes are hard and dry; they’re uncomfortable, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  ‘Why are you crying?’ she says.

  I look
up and see that her eyes are open. Her mouth is still covered so I know she didn’t really speak. I know it was just in my head.

  “Oh, Carrie, I’m so sorry.” I sob harder. “I don’t like tying you up, but you were hurting yourself.”

  I go to her and I collapse to my knees by her side. She mumbles something behind the gag and shuffles away from me.

  “Don’t be like that. I just want you to listen. Can you do that for me?” I plead.

  But she doesn’t speak. She just stares at me with cold eyes. Her lips still covered by the tape.

  I reach for her and she flinches away.

  “It’s okay,” I say, “I’m going to take off the tape. Just, don’t scream, okay?”

  She nods and I stroke her cheek.

  “Good girl.”

  I pull the tape slowly. I don’t want to hurt her and I can tell it is. Tears spring to her eyes, and the tape comes off, blood from her cut lip is attached to it. She’s breathing hard, her chest moving up and down as she pants. I can still see her nipples and I wish she would have worn a bra.

  “Are you okay? Do you want some water?” I ask, and she nods.

  So I pick up the drink, because I thought ahead and brought it hours ago (well done, Ethan), and I raise it to her lips. I put my hand behind her head and support it as she takes small sips of the water. When she’s done she runs her tongue along her bottom lip, feeling the small cut.

  “It’s okay, it’s only small,” I say. “Do you want a cushion behind your head? I can do that.”

  She nods but still doesn’t say anything, and I really want to hear her voice now, but I don’t want to push her or rush her into anything, so I don’t say that. Instead I grab a cushion and I help lift her head so I can put the cushion behind her head. She looks much more comfortable now. And this is all going much better. (Well done, Ethan.)

  “What do you want with me, Ethan?” she finally says. And her voice sounds hoarse from the screaming she did earlier and I feel bad. But I know one day we’ll look back on this and laugh about it.

  Hey, remember that time you screamed so loud and your voice made you sound like you were a sixty-a-day chain-smoker? Wasn’t that hilarious?

  We’re not there yet. But we will be.

  “I found you,” I say proudly. “I told you I would always be with you, and here I am.” I want to stroke her hair, but I don’t. I want to brush it too, because it looks like it’s getting knotty.

  “I haven’t seen you in—”

  “Twenty years, three months, and seventeen days,” I say.

  “Jesus,” she says back.

  “I’ve missed you.”

  “How did you find me?”

  I laugh lightly. “You’re not going to believe this, but it was by total accident. I saw Mr. Fancy Asshole and you the other night. You were getting in a cab together. I was across the road, in the rain. It was dark. You didn’t see me.”

  I’m invisible.

  I’m a ghost.

  I’m the shadow of the man I could have been.

  “Mr. Fancy Asshole?” She frowns. “You mean Adam?”

  I grit my teeth, my smile faltering. I hate his name. I hate everything about him.

  “He’s married, you know,” I say.

  She frowns harder. The frown is ugly on her. “I know.”

  “And he has kids,” I say, hoping she’ll be shocked by that. Hoping that she’ll prove me wrong because I’m beginning to think she’s as much of an asshole as he is.

  She clears her expression of everything and looks at me blankly. “I know.”

  “Oh,” is all I can say in return.

  I’m disappointed in you, Carrie. I thought you were better than this. Much better. You used to be a good person. Or at least I thought you were. So what happened? Where did the Carrie I know and love go? Did she die all those years back too?

  “You can’t keep me here, you know. People will miss me. They’ll come looking for me.” She blinks, and I know she’s lying. “I have friends, so many friends, and they’ll call the police when I don’t show up.”

  She’s lying again.

  “Are you listening to me, Ethan? Do you hear what I’m saying? People will worry and they’ll come and look for me.”

  I smile. And I know that she’s a terrible liar. I’m beginning to get to know this new Carrie, and really, she’s not much different from the old one.

  “Stop fucking smiling at me,” she says, her voice filling with panic. “Stop it or I’ll scream!”

  Lie, after lie after lie…

  “It’s okay to be afraid,” I say, mimicking her words from so many years ago. “That heavy beat of your heart? That just means your living. That you’re alive. But I’ll never hurt you. I’ll always be here. You just have to trust me.”

  And I smile again and then she breaks down crying, and I go to her and I hug her, and I rock her in my arms and she sobs and sobs and sobs…

  Chapter twenty:

  “What can I do?” I say.

  Because she’s been crying for a long time now, as if she’s letting go of the years of pain she’s been holding onto. As if it’s all “coming out in the wash.” That’s what my mom used to say. ‘It’ll come out in the wash, Ethan. Just let it all go.’

  She cries and I hold her. I shush her. I kiss her hair, her cheek, and her head. I kiss her hand, her neck, and her lips. And the more I kiss, the more she cries, but it’s all I know how to do to make her feel better. But still she cries and she cries, and I hold her against me and will her to feel better soon.

  I hate to see her so upset.

  “You can let me go,” she says, looking up at me through her thick, damp lashes.

  I laugh and smile. “Silly.” And then I kiss her lips again. “I’ve missed you, Carrie. I’ve missed you so, so much. I never stopped thinking about you, and wondering where you were, what you were doing. Thoughts of you kept me awake at night.”

  And it’s true, they did.

  I would lie awake in my room, listening to people screaming and yelling at each other, and I would close my eyes, put my hand down my pants, and I would think of Carrie. She kept me going all those years. She kept me sane when my mom stopped visiting. She kept me strong when my dad refused to have a son anymore.

  And when my parole came up, it was thoughts of her that kept my head clear enough so that they let me out.

  I wasn’t a danger anymore, they said.

  I never was to begin with, I thought.

  I spent a few years in juvie, which was really, really bad. But then they talked with me and it was decided that I wasn’t mentally stable at the time, and because of that I couldn’t be fully accountable for my actions.

  A psychotic break, they called it, due to borderline schizophrenia.

  I was shocked.

  I was confused.

  I didn’t think it could get much worse than that. But I wasn’t a boy anymore, and when they sent me to the hospital, things got so much worse.

  The people there were crazy.

  Much crazier than me.

  Carrie starts to cry again, and I press her wet cheek against my chest and I hum to soothe her, because it’s the only thing I can think of to do. The only way I know to make her feel any better. It’s what my mom used to do when I was a kid, and it always made me feel better. But it doesn’t seem to work with her because she cries even harder. And that makes me sad.

  “Please stop crying now. We can’t move forward if you don’t let go of the past.” And that makes her stop, and I want to cheer, hurray!

  My counselor-slash-therapist-slash-Mr. fucking Jeffrey told me that. He told me that you have to let go if you want to move forward.

  And I hate to admit it, but he was right. You can’t be angry at the past; you have to look forward to the future, because what’s happened has happened, and it can happen only once.

  My life went to shit, but that’s done now. Things are going to get better now, and all because I’m looking to the future and I�
�m being positive.

  And because I was patient and observant, and I found Carrie.

  And now Carrie needs to do the same thing.

  She needs to let go, and move forward, with me.

  “Move forward?” she asks, and she squirms on my lap to look at me better. I don’t let her go though, because I know she needs me close.

  Her cheeks are red and blotchy; her lip is swollen and bloody. The small cut on her forehead is swollen too, and it looks painful. But it’s her eyes that look the sorest. They’re red and puffy. She needs an ice pack to soothe them.

  “Yes, move forward.”

  “With you?” she says, looking confused.

  I nod and smile, and I can feel a yawn in my mouth but I stifle it. And I realize how exhausted I am now.

  “Together?” she says.

  And it’s really late and I’m getting really tired now, so I guess that’s why I snap at her.

  “Yes, Carrie, with me. Who the fuck else would you move forward with? Mr. Fancy Asshole Adam?” I laugh like he’s a big joke, and he is a big fucking joke. Not like me. I got the girl. “Yes, we can move forward, together. Everything’s going to be okay. Just stop crying now, okay?”

  And she looks frightened again, and I feel bad for that, but hey, she’s stopped crying, so that’s good, right?

  Glass half full and all that shit. I smile, but she doesn’t smile back.

  “Maybe you just need to get some sleep. I bet you’ll feel much better after some sleep.” I smile wider, because see? I am observant. I will be a good husband.

  “Sleep? Yes, yes, I need to sleep,” she mumbles, and looks away.

  And so I sit her up and I get off the sofa and then I lay her back down on the sofa, with her head on the ugly cushion, and I tell her to get some sleep. And she closes her eyes and I think, great job, Ethan.

  I sit in the chair opposite her, and I watch her for a while. I decide she’s only pretending to be asleep. But that’s okay because eventually she’ll really fall asleep. That’s what happens when you keep your eyes closed for so long. That’s what happens when something huge and scary or exciting happens. You might pretend to sleep, but eventually you really do fall asleep. That’s how I used to get to sleep in the hospital. I’d pretend to sleep so my roommate wouldn’t talk to me anymore.