Literally throw up all over the floor.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” I say as someone comes and grabs me by the waist and I bend over and heave again.
I feel weak and shaky. They’re talking to me, but when I try to look at them their face is blurry. My mouth tastes of vomit and bile. Stomach acid, beans, and rank coffee with too much sugar. It’s disgusting. I need to clean my teeth. I need my own toothbrush. I can’t use Carrie’s now. There’s a line to sharing, and that would be it. I’ll get one while I’m here, I think.
“I’m really sorry,” I say again. “Could you show me where the toothbrushes are, please?”
And I am really sorry.
And I am embarrassed.
And Carrie will be embarrassed the next time she has to shop here, because I bet they’ll remember me, because you don’t forget someone who throws up on your floor. And we’ll be the sort of couple that does everything together, so when we come to buy more condoms, or things for Carrie’s periods, they’ll remember us and I’ll have to explain to Carrie why they’re looking at me strangely.
My cheeks flush hot with embarrassment.
“Come and sit,” the voice next to me says, and I’m ushered into a chair.
The chair is made of cold plastic. It digs into my back. I shiver again.
I still feel sick. But I will not throw up anymore, I decide. I just need to pull myself together for the sake of Carrie.
“An ambulance is on the way. Don’t worry, it’s all going to be fine.”
An ambulance?
I’m confused and the place is spinning and I feel hot.
My hand is lifted up into the air. To stop the blood. A fresh towel is wrapped around it, and the old, bloody one discarded of into a small trash can. Shit, I’ll need to get Carrie a new dishtowel, I think. She only had one to start with, and I just ruined it.
I try to pull away from the person holding my arm, but I can’t. I look at them, my eyes finding some focus, and I see a kindly old lady with thick-framed glasses and curly white hair pulled back from her face. She reminds me of one of my old neighbors. Mrs.…Mrs.…I can’t remember her name now. But she was kind and caring. She liked Carrie and me. She said we were thick as thieves. That we made a good team. That we looked out for each other. And she was right. We did. Because that’s what friends do. That’s what lovers do.
We care.
We love.
We cherish.
We protect.
No matter what.
That’s what I had said to Carrie.
‘I’ll take care of it, take care of you. No matter what.’
And hadn’t I done just that? Hadn’t I protected her? Hadn’t I cared all these years? And I’m not even mad at her. How’s that for being a good team?!
I can hear sirens. And the old lady smiles down at me again. But it’s a fake smile, not a nice one. And I wonder what she’s up to. Is it really an ambulance, or is it the police?
Christ, I hope she hasn’t called the police.
If they go to Carrie’s house, I know how it looks. I know how bad it seems. Carrie will support me, corroborate my story, and make them understand that I was looking after her—because she loves me and she’s a good girl like that. But it still looks bad. I might end up back inside.
I can’t go back to that place.
I can’t.
Mom and Dad will never forgive me.
And I’ve been doing so well.
I got a job, Mom. I got a job. And I found Carrie. And she’ll sort everything out now. I want to sob, but I won’t, because I’m not a pussy. I’m a man now, not a little boy, and men don’t cry or they get beat up. And I need to be strong. Please don’t hate me anymore, Mom. Please talk to me again, Dad. I miss you both.
I need to get out of here. I can hear the little bell at the front of the store ring as the door opens, and shit, I hope it’s not too late.
I stand up to leave, shrugging out of the old lady’s grip, because she is just an old lady and I am young and strong, not old and weak like her. I say thank you, but push her off me when she tries to stop me from walking away. And I think she falls, and I say I’m sorry because I don’t want to hurt anyone. I never did.
I need to go.
I need to get back to Carrie.
What’s wrong with me? I think as the floor comes up to greet me.
Chapter twenty-six:
I open my eyes, feeling pressure on my body.
I’m restrained. Held down by some force greater than my own. I try to escape, but the chains are heavy. Strong. Metal digs into my wrists. Around my waist. Durable straps restrain my legs. Snapping at my ankles. I try to talk but a mask covers my mouth.
I stare up through the haze at the face that peers down at me.
A man is talking, but no words come out. I wonder if he knows.
His lips are opening and closing, his hands moving animatedly.
This way and then that.
Up and then down.
Pointing. Poking. Prodding.
P…P…P…
I gulp, feeling weak and tired. Sick and aching.
But there’s not any pain now. And that’s good.
I try to smile, but then my whole body bumps, and I slip and almost fall off whatever I’m on. The man looking down at me touches the side of my body, keeping me still. He reaches up high and I see an IV line. A clear bag of fluid with a tube attached. Another bag of red blood (vomit) with another tube.
All the tubes lead to me.
That seems fitting—right, even.
All roads lead to me.
That’s where they began. Sort of.
That’s where the nightmare started so many years ago. Sort of.
Carrie’s the one to blame, really. But I won’t blame her, because we’re a team. That’s what she said, wasn’t it?
‘I’ll always protect you.’ That’s what I said, didn’t I?
But could I really do that?
Could I really?
Really, really?
It still seems strange. But things are what they are until they’re not. And then what are they? What could they possibly be?
A mix of truth and lies. Of promises broken and promises kept. Of things that are wrong and things that are right. Of love and loss, and hate and passion, and and and…
“It’s okay. Just calm down. We’re here now,” the man says. A high-pitched beeping is nestling itself inside my brain.
Great, I think. But where is here?
The doors open and sunlight blasts my skin. It’s warm and comforting. And then the world is moving. I’m being pulled and pushed. Doors are opening and closing. The world makes sense, and yet it doesn’t.
I see the red cross.
And thank fuck, I think. A hospital. I sigh.
I’m okay. Everything will be okay.
I’m feeling better already, even as I’m wheeled through the hospital. I’ll get up and go back to Carrie as soon as they leave me alone. As soon as we pass the people sobbing and moaning. People bleeding and holding onto one another for support. Glaring. Caring. Suspicious. Every face a new emotion. Every emotion has its reason.
The lights above are blinding and bright. They make my eyes hurt, so I close them. Just for a little while. I won’t go to sleep though. Because I need to leave.
I can hear the world still continuing on around me. Doctors and nurses doing their jobs. Patients and victims all doing theirs. My body is cold, and then it’s too warm, but I don’t pull off the blanket that’s just been laid over me. I leave it where it is because I’m tired and comfy. And I haven’t slept in a really long time.
Almost two days, possibly. Maybe more.
Everything is a blur.
Each day has morphed into the other.
Each morph makes less sense than the last.
How did I get here, and when can I go home? Is my mom coming to get me?
I am a good boy, I think as I look at the blurry world around me.
&n
bsp; “I am a good boy,” I say, adamant in my conviction.
At least, I was good until I wasn’t.
Right up to the point that I picked up the knife.
Then I wasn’t very good anymore. And I knew everything had changed forever.
I saw the fear in his eyes. And I saw the wonder in hers.
“I’ll always protect you, Carrie,” I say. And I mean it now like I meant it then. I’ll always protect you, my Carrie.
Chapter twenty-seven:
It’s the beeping that wakes me. Not the crying and screaming or the prostitute banging some guy upstairs. But a soft yet annoying beeping.
Ain’t that always the way?
My eyes open.
My mouth is dry.
My lips crusted.
My tongue flaccid.
I look around and see that I am alone. I look up and see my two bags—one clear and one red—are almost empty. I look down and see that I am not restrained anymore.
I lick my lips and I try to sit up. Everything spins and twirls like I am on a fair ride. I don’t like fairs. Carrie always did though. But not me. I took her though, rode the rides with her. Because I wanted her to have what made her happy. That’s the kind of guy I am. I’m a good guy. But I hated the rides. And she knew.
‘I want to get off,’ I would cry. But she’d make me stay on. She knew. Sometimes I thought that maybe she wasn’t good like me. She was bad. Like my mother and father said.
But she couldn’t be bad. I loved her.
The spinning slows and I take a steady breath. A nurse opens the door and comes in, and I close my eyes. She moves around the room and I feel her by my side, then I hear her footsteps and she leaves the room. When she is gone, I open my eyes again. I need to go, I need to get back to Carrie.
How long have I been here?
An hour? Two?
I look around the room, trying to find a clock. But there is none. Just four cream walls that used to be white. Just signs that say to wash your hands and others that have the hospital policy on them.
There is a painting on one wall. A white house, probably in Greece. High up on a mountainside, with the blue ocean below it. People are on the yellow beach, their towels spread wide open as they sunbathe. Children are playing in the sea; their shrieks are loud. The sun is bright and cheery, warming everything. Everything but me.
I blink slowly. My eyelids feel heavy. I want to sleep some more, but Carrie is waiting for me. I said I wouldn’t be long. She was knocked out; she won’t even know where I am when she wakes.
This is all her fault, but she’s not the one to blame, of course. And I don’t want her to be scared that I’m not there with her when she wakes.
I sit up further, slower this time. Testing my muscles out.
Move move move...
They tingle when I stretch them.
They seem stiff when I bend.
I pull back the covers and see I’m in a paper hospital gown. Carrie would laugh if she saw me in this. Maybe I can sneak it out with me and show her when I get back. We can laugh about all of this.
The floor is cold when I stand on it. I wriggle my toes. I don’t feel dizzy anymore. I look at my hand and see a bandage, and I pull it back to see angry stitches underneath. I flex my fingers and move my wrist. It hurts, but it’s bearable. I look in the small cupboard next to my bed and see my clothes are there. I pull them out and drag on my jeans. My sneakers aren’t there, and that sucks. I have socks though, so I pull them on. It takes a long time. I’m out of breath when I’m done.
My muscles feel tired and weak. I try to shake the feeling off because I don’t have time to be tired and weak. I need to go. I need to get to Carrie. I shouldn’t even be here. It was just a small wound. And she didn’t really mean to do it. I understand that, of course I do. If anyone was going to understand it, it’s me. Because Carrie and I understand each other. We always have.
I’m still attached to the drips—soft, flexible pipes leading into me. But it’s time to pull them out now. It hurts when I yank on them. When they slip out of my flesh, a droplet of blood lands on the floor, which is soon joined by another. I grab my sweaty tee and pull it over my head, noting the blood on the front of it. My blood. And then I lean against the bed for a moment to calm myself.
To focus.
To breathe.
I take slow breaths and feel my pulse returning to normal.
When I think I’m ready, I go toward my door. I crack it open and look both ways as if I were crossing a road. And in a way I am. I’m making sure that my path is clear before I cross. Before I leave my room. Before I make my escape and go back to Carrie.
God, I hope she’s still asleep, I think.
No one is coming, so I leave the safety of my room, my feet padding down the hallway quietly. Hospitals are always noisy, I think as I walk. The beeping, the talking, the elevators, the carts with the rickety squeaking wheels, the arguing, the crying, the paper shuffling, the tapping of keyboards. The list is endless.
I can’t wait to get back to Carrie. Can’t wait to take her back to my apartment where everything is the same, a constant in an inconstant world. Where I know what to expect, and I don’t wake up in a hospital covered in my own blood with no sneakers.
Where the whore upstairs fucks all night and I hear the thump, thump, thump on my ceiling. Where the walls bleed tears and the doors scream terror. Where the paint is peeling and the televisions are too loud. Where my soup is in my cupboards, and my bleach is under the sink, and I know where my money is so I can go and get some new sneakers.
And Christ, Carrie, why is everything always so complicated when you’re in my life?
I stand in the elevator, my back against the far wall. I am on level eight. I watch the little light blink on each level until it reaches the ground floor and it lights up the big G. The elevator pings and the doors slide open. A police officer is there. He looks at me, his blue eyes searching my face thoughtfully before he steps inside. He doesn’t see I have no shoes on.
“Evening,” he says.
I brush past him as I step out, trying not to swallow down the fear too loudly. “Evening,” I reply.
I step away from the elevator, waiting for his hand to land on my shoulder at any second. But it never does, and the doors shut behind me. So I move to the exit, my chin to my chest, my eyes to the floor, and my hands in my pockets.
And then I am outside. And it is raining again.
But more than that, it’s nighttime.
And I have no sneakers so my feet are already getting wet and my toes are already cold.
I have no idea where I am, and it’s raining and it’s nighttime. And Fuck! I think. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
It’s nighttime and I’ve been gone long enough that Carrie must have already woken up and I wasn’t there.
I wasn’t fucking there.
And she’s scared.
My Carrie is scared.
Chapter twenty-eight:
“Excuse me?” I ask a lady with the large red purse. “Where am I?”
She clings to her purse and ignores me, wandering away as if I just tried to rob her. ‘I’m a good boy!’ I want to call after her. But I don’t, because I’m not stupid. I understand how this all looks. My hand is stitched up, my clothes are all bloody, and I have no sneakers on my feet.
Yeah, it looks bad.
Of course it does.
But it’s not, really.
It’s just a misunderstanding.
There’s a homeless man on the ground, a small paper cup in front of him. I crouch down, the rain dripping into my eyes.
“Excuse me, where am I?” I ask.
His guarded eyes look me over. I honestly feel like they see everything. They see the truth and the lies. The damage and the heartache.
“Seventy-fifth Street,” he replies. He notices I have no sneakers. “Your feet are getting wet,” he says. A small nod to my soaked feet.
I smile, and refrain from showing him my impat
ience, because of course I know my feet are getting wet. I have no fucking sneakers on and it’s raining. What else would happen? I’m not fucking Jesus. I can’t walk over water, can I?
“Yeah, I know,” I say, controlling my temper. “I need to get home,” I say, standing back up. “What time is it?” I ask.
“No idea. My grumbling stomach says dinnertime, though. But then it always says that.” He laughs, and I’m not sure why he’s laughing because that’s not really funny. But I laugh with him, because I don’t want to be rude. Not even to him. Because everyone deserves politeness—unless they’re an asshole like Adam, anyway. This guy doesn’t seem like an asshole, just a drunk old man.
I start to walk away, already working out where I am and how I can get back to Carrie.
“Hey, hey,” he calls after me.
I look back down at him.
“Got any change?” he asks. I put my hands in my pocket to get my wallet, because of course I can help, buddy. We’ve all been there when our luck has run out and we’ve got nothing left. But my pockets are empty. No keys, no wallet, not even Carrie’s cash. And fuck, I think. I shake my head and mumble an apology to him, and then I walk away, feeling pissed off because now I’m going to have to walk all the way home. Well, all the way to Carrie’s.
I walk through the streets, my feet soaking wet and cold. I step on grit and stones that cut my feet, and I shiver under the weight of rain. The night falls heavy around me, the traffic forever bustling. Cars horns blare, lights flash, people push and pull and charge and shove, and then I’m at the pharmacy and the lights are off, and I know I’m nearly there.
My teeth are chattering as I walk up Carrie’s street. The lights in all of the other houses are off. It must be really late now. Or really early. I reach her house, I climb the steps. I remember that I don’t have her keys now, so I go back down the steps and down the side of her house. I walk through the mud and I want to cry, but I don’t, but I really want to because I’m cold and tired and everything hurts. Especially my feet.
I see the window I went in earlier and I climb back through it. I fall to the floor—again. I crash into the side table—again. I make my way down the hallway and I open the living room door, and I look in and see Carrie on the floor.
Beautiful Victim Page 12
