Beautiful Victim

by Claire C. Riley

  I didn’t blame her for not coming to school, though.

  People were mean.

  They called her names.

  And her mother.

  And her father.

  They insulted every little thing about her. The names were mean, hard, cruel, and all lies, of course. Carrie said it didn’t bother her, but I saw that it did. The fire in her eyes was going out. I saw that too. That was the most painful thing of all.

  That night I made her soup, because she had a tummy ache because she was hungry, but when I came upstairs she was on her knees vomiting on the floor. She said she was sorry over and over, and begged me not to make her leave. I smiled because of course I wouldn’t. Though I really wished she would have used the trash can to vomit in.

  After I cleaned up, she ate the soup, even though it was almost cold. She asked if we could just lie together instead of having sex because she didn’t feel very well.

  I was really hoping for us to have sex, I told her, but I understood. Because I was caring like that. So we lay together, on top of the covers, and I held her in my arms. She fell asleep eventually, and I touched myself while she slept, thinking about how much I wanted to put myself inside her.

  Afterwards, I fell asleep too.

  It was late when we woke up. The room was dark. I thought she had gone home at first, but then she moved and I knew she was still there, with me. In my bed.

  My bedroom door opened and my mom walked in. She didn’t see Carrie at first, but when she did she got really angry and shouted. Carrie woke up. I thought she would apologize for breaking Mom’s rule; that’s what I was doing. But Carrie only sneered at my mom.

  My mom called my dad upstairs; I didn’t know what to do as he gripped Carrie by the arm and dragged her out of my room. My mom told me to stay where I was, and then she shut the door to my room.

  I put my hand on the doorknob and I wanted to go after Carrie.

  I wanted to tell my dad to let go of her.

  I wanted to tell my mom that I hated her.

  But I didn’t do anything but go and sit back down on my bed.

  The front door slammed and I heard my mom shouting, but I couldn’t hear my dad reply so I knew she was on the phone, and I had a horrible feeling she was shouting at Carrie’s mom. I went to the window; I could see Carrie’s house if I looked to the left.

  Outside were my dad and Carrie. She was crying and he was holding her by the arm and pulling her. Her other arm was around her stomach because I think she still felt sick. She was crying and shouting at him. He slapped her hard across the cheek and I gasped because you should never hit a woman. My dad looked around to make sure no one had heard whatever it was she’d said, but he didn’t see me staring from my bedroom window. He dragged her into the back yard, and down the side of the shed. I wondered why he had taken her there. I opened my window a little and I could hear her crying and crying and crying and crying…

  I should have gone to her, but I didn’t.

  I was scared.

  I was told to stay in my room.

  My dad came out after a couple of minutes. He didn’t look back at her, or up at me; he just straightened his shirt and pants and went around the side of the house and to our front door. I heard it open and close, and then I saw Carrie stumble out from the side of the shed. She was still crying, soft, hiccupping sobs. She was limping and holding her stomach.

  I placed my palm on the window, and when she looked up at me she raised her hand up to me. I smiled because Carrie made me happy. Even when she was sad she made me happy.

  I didn’t see her for a long time after that. She stopped coming around, and I worried that she would starve so I would sneak to her house and leave food parcels under her bedroom window. I never saw if she got them or not, and we never spoke about them. Or that night.

  The next time I saw Carrie, she asked me to help her and I promised that I would. But then when I heard what she wanted me to do, I wasn’t so sure. I was scared. Who could blame me? I was just a kid, after all, and what she had asked me to do was a grown-up thing. An illegal thing.

  A really, really bad thing.

  Chapter thirty-four:

  I turn on the television again and I watch the news while I drink my bitter coffee.

  There’s nothing about a man leaving the hospital with a stab wound, so that’s good, because it means that they aren’t looking for me. Or at least I’m not a priority to them. At least something is going right today.

  I can hear Carrie upstairs, banging on the floor. There was a loud thump earlier as she rolled herself out of bed.

  Idiot!

  Then silence. Dead? Knocked out? Tired?

  But she’s awake now, and she’s banging and banging and banging, to get my attention.

  But I won’t give it to her.

  She’s acting like a spoiled brat.

  A child.

  A toddler.

  A baby.

  A fucking princess who needs to learn her lesson.

  She should learn how to control that wicked temper of hers. Control it like I learned to control mine. I’d teach her my calming technique but I don’t want to see her right now. I can’t see her right now.

  I’m disappointed in the woman you turned out to be, Carrie.

  She needs to learn to have patience, because the more she bangs the more I will ignore her. It’s as simple as that.

  You can’t go through your life demanding to be heard, Carrie! Sometimes you have to wait for things to come to you. Sometimes it’s not always about you!

  I take another mouthful of coffee and I grimace. I’m so sick of this shitty-tasting coffee. I want to go home. I want my own things. My own food. My own bed. My own coffee. I want the familiarity of the whore upstairs banging johns all night long, and the crying and arguing and the noise and the fighting from my apartment building and the filthy streets outside my window.

  I want my hot shower with my own body wash. I want the peeling paint on my front door and the constant puzzle of what it says on it. I want to be at work—I was good at my job and I’ve probably lost it now. Even if the police aren’t looking for me, my parole officer will be. I’ve been gone too long, and Charlie will have called him. He only hired me as a favor. He told me that the day I started

  ‘I only hired you as a favor, kid. Don’t really like your type.’

  By type, he meant murderers. Or mental heads. That’s what so-called normal people called the not-so-normal people like me. But I knew all that even though he didn’t say it, and I didn’t bother to try and correct him. I actually miss him, I realize. Good ol’ Charlie.

  I wonder if he got the roof fixed.

  I wonder if he gambled away everyone’s money last week.

  I wonder what everyone is doing.

  I miss the familiarity of my life. Of knowing what each day would bring and who would be in it.

  I hate it here. I hate it here. I really, really hate it here!

  I throw my mug across the floor. The coffee spills but the mug doesn’t break. And I’m glad, because she only has one mug and if that broke I’d be completely fucked, because even though the coffee tastes like shit, I need coffee to help me think straight because I’m tired.

  I’ve been tired my whole life because of Carrie.

  And if I broke her mug, the only mug in this shit-hole house, I wouldn’t be able to have any coffee.

  Wait, she only has one mug…just one.

  That means she lives here alone. Adam can’t spend that much time here if he doesn’t even stay for fucking coffee. She can’t like him that much if he doesn’t deserve his own mug.

  I go to the kitchen and I check the drawers and cupboard more thoroughly now. One plate, one bowl. One spoon, one knife, one fork, one glass, one mug, one pan. (All clean now because I washed and dried and put them away earlier.)

  One, one, one…one of everything.

  Maybe she is sensible after all. She likes her space. She knows he is married but she doesn’t
let him leave his wife for her. I shake my head because I realize that no, this isn’t about space. She just has no integrity at all. She’s stringing Mr. Fancy Asshole Adam along. And in turn damaging his family. And in turn damaging his kids. His life. Their life. Everyone’s lives.

  And isn’t that what she did with my family?

  She tore us apart.

  Piece by piece.

  She started with me, and then she turned my mom against me, and then my dad.

  I have never stopped to think if she did it on purpose or not. I always assumed not. I always assumed it was chance and coincidence, that the cards landed where they fell, but now I’m not so sure at all. Perhaps she moved the cards to land the way they did. Perhaps she was jealous of my happy home. My mother who wasn’t a drunk. My father who had a good job. My house with its clean windows and a white porch with paint that wasn’t peeling.

  I realize how sad and pathetic she really is. How sad and pathetic she has always been. I’ve fantasized about Carrie my entire life. I’ve loved her, cherished her, and wanted to be everything, just for her. But really she destroyed my family because of jealousy. Because her life was shit, but that’s not my fault, Carrie!

  I didn’t align your stars.

  I wasn’t the one who hurt you.

  Don’t punish me because your mother never cared.

  Don’t punish me because your father cared too much.

  All I ever did was care.

  All I ever did was as you asked. As you bid me to.

  I was your slave. Your puppet. You were my master, and you called all the shots.

  She’s still banging on the floor upstairs. You’re really going to hurt yourself if you’re not careful, Carrie, I think. I’m not even mad anymore. Not about the banging, or the traitorous things she has done. I can’t be. Not now that I see how pathetic she really is.

  She may be beautiful, but she has a black fucking heart. A tainted soul, some might say. I would say. I bet Mr. fucking Jeffrey would say too.

  I should leave now.

  I should go.

  I don’t belong here. I see that now. I see that you don’t deserve me, Carrie. I see that I deserve better than you. You destroy families and lives. You string people along. I see that now. I know my worth. I know I deserve more.

  Better.

  Better than you.

  But will you tell? That’s the question, isn’t it, Carrie? Will you tell on me?

  Will you make up stories and have me locked away? Again? Because it won’t be the first time, will it, Carrie? This is your thing. This is the way you live your life. And by hook or by crook you’ll do as you please. You’ll hurt whom you please.

  I think you would tell on me, because you’re a spiteful bitch when you want to be, Carrie. You’re mean and cruel and hard, and selfish. You’d call the police as soon as I untied your wrists. You’d run for your life as soon as I untied your ankles. You’d call the cops and then they would come and you’d get me and arrested me and they’d take me to prison. And you would make up some crazy story about what really happened here this weekend. How I pushed you down the stairs—when really you tripped. How I hit you—when you were the one that stabbed me. How I touched you—when I did nothing but clean you and keep you warm. How I starved you—when really you just had no food in your house.

  And then everything I’ve worked at for the past few months would all have been for nothing, because once again you would have destroyed my happy life. My happy existence. My mom and dad would definitely never speak to me again. I wouldn’t be able to win them around by being a good citizen and working and cooking and cleaning and by maybe meeting a good woman who would bear my children one day.

  All of those things would never happen if you told, Carrie.

  But this is my fault. I know it is. See, Benny? I did listen to you, even though most of what you said was bullshit. I still listened, and I’m putting what you said into practice. I’m being responsible. I’m accountable for my actions, my mistakes, I think to myself.

  And you, Carrie. You were the biggest mistake of all.

  Chapter thirty-five:

  But I am not cruel.

  Or hard.

  Or bad.

  Not like you, Carrie.

  So I make you something to eat. Beans, because that’s pretty much all you seem to buy—except tomato soup, which is fucking gross.

  Why would you buy that shit, Carrie? You know I don’t like it. Is that why you bought it? To spite me?

  But see, I’m better than you. I even make you a shitty-tasting coffee. And I even remember to put three sugars in like you used to like it, because really you prefer tea, but you don’t have any tea, so coffee it is.

  See, Carrie? I am thoughtful. And I remember.

  I take the food (tipped into your only bowl) and the coffee up the stairs. I push open the door and find her on the floor. Her head is cut and bleeding, but it’s not really that bad.

  I don’t rush as I put down the food and drink on the tall set of drawers. And I am still careful as I reach down and pick her up before carrying her to the bed. I lay her on it, staring for a second too long at her beautiful form, her nakedness plain for me to see.

  Because I still find you attractive, Carrie. Even though I know you’re really a bitch inside. I still think you’re beautiful.

  I help her sit up, and then I pull the duvet up to cover her body, and though I let my hand brush against her breasts as I pull the duvet tight around her, I don’t let her know it was on purpose. I make her think it was an accident.

  I’m ashamed of myself. Not for touching her. But because she still has some power over me.

  I sit on the edge of the bed and I pull out the sock, and she doesn’t say anything and neither do I, and then I spoon-feed her the beans. They are warm, and I bet they feel good in her stomach. It has been too long since she ate, and I’m sorry for that. I didn’t mean to be so forgetful.

  It’s all gone wrong, though. Things got out of hand too quickly. The days have slipped by and now we’re almost out of time. I am a good boy, a good man, but I know how this will seem to others.

  She is silent as she eats the beans. The only sounds are the rumbles from her stomach as I fill that empty hole, and the spoon against the cheap pottery of the bowl.

  When the food is gone, I put the empty bowl down and I reach for her coffee. She slurps it down greedily, and she doesn’t even wince at the bitter taste of the coffee. And I can’t help it. I have to say something. I have to talk to her. Because like I said, she still has some sort of power over me.

  “Is that better?” I ask.

  She nods and continues to drink the coffee. When it is gone I put the empty mug inside the empty bowl. It’s sort of strange, I think as I stare at the two items. Both empty and nestled within one another.

  “That’s how we used to be,” I say. And I nod toward the cup and the bowl.

  She turns her head to look, a small frown puckering between her eyebrows.

  “We were both empty, but we fit together somehow.”

  It hurts to speak. To think of her as anything but perfect. But I have to be realistic now. I have to be here and present and I have to get her to understand.

  “That was all I ever wanted. For you to be with me. For me to be inside of you, a part of you.” I look back at you. My eyes sting with unshed tears, but I mustn’t cry, because I’m not a pussy. Not anymore.

  Carrie is staring at me blankly, coldly.

  “Say something.”

  She’s silent for a very long time. So long that I wonder if I spoke at all. And then when she speaks, her voice is so low and quiet that I wonder if she spoke at all.

  “What do you want me to say?” she eventually says.

  “My name,” I reply almost instantly, and with a little confusion. Because I do. I want to hear my name on her lips one last time.

  She chuckles, her gaze falling to the mug and the bowl again. “Well, Ethan, all I ever wanted was to be free.
”

  “You were,” I say.

  “I wasn’t,” she replies.

  “But…”

  Her eyes cut back to me. “But nothing. I was never free. Not while he was alive. Not while he did those things to me. Not while she allowed it to happen.”

  Her expression is vicious and sharp, and the pity I had felt earlier for her is back. She went through so much; no wonder she is so damaged. She still carries that anger with her, and I can understand that. I really can. If I’m being truthful, I’m still angry too. I carry that rage around with me every day. But I try not to let it ruin everything. Not like she has.

  “Carrie,” I say, and I reach for her hands. I clasp them in mine. Her wrists are still bound together, but she doesn’t even try to pull away. “She was sick, your mom. She wouldn’t have let it happen if she could help it.”

  I am right, and she knows I’m right, but she’s still holding onto the anger, that rage, and that’s okay.

  We’ll make it in the end, Carrie.

  “I bet if she wouldn’t have been sick, she would have done something,” I say.

  She shakes her head, but there’s no conviction in it.

  “Moms love their kids. It’s their programming,” I say. “But your dad, Carrie, he was a scary dude.”

  Her shoulders are what fall first. They shake and tremor, and then her head falls to her chin as she cries. I lean over and pull her to me, and I hold her tight while she cries. And she doesn’t even pull away. It’s wrong that I smile while she cries on my shoulder thinking about how her mom loved her but not enough to stop drinking. But I do it anyway because she can’t see my face.

  “She never helped, Ethan,” she whispers through her sobs.

  She said my name again! I think, my heart soaring.

  “Not once. And she knew. She fucking knew, and she didn’t help. She made it worse and worse, so that he’d stay away from her. So that he’d leave her to drink. Leave her to her own oblivion while I succumbed to his.”

  Her voice is high-pitched, verging on hysteria. I let her go, and I take her by the shoulders and I look into her face, and I tell her,