Beautiful Victim

by Claire C. Riley

  I told him though.

  I told him not to keep running his mouth because not everyone was nice like me.

  But he never listened.

  Poor guy never saw me coming.

  But that’s what he gets for keep running his mouth off. For telling me those horror stories every night. For making me see the things he liked to do. I made him pay and then I blamed someone else. Just like I learned from Carrie.

  I take Carrie over to one of the cutting tables and I lay her on it, and then I get one of Charlie’s blankets from his office and I throw it over her to keep her warm. She’s shivering in her sleep, because this place is freezing and she’s soaked through. I’m cold too, but it’s more important that she’s warm. Even now I put her ahead of me. Even now I’m still caring for her, loving her, wanting to protect her and keep her safe.

  I sit down and drum the nails of my left hand against the ones on my right hand. The soft tapping soothes my nerves.

  We’ll talk about this like grownups when she wakes.

  No more bullshit.

  No more lies or treachery.

  Because that’s what it is. That’s what it’s always been with her: treachery and half-truths.

  And again, I’m not even angry. I feel sorry for her. This is the only way she knows how to live. The only way she could get by in such a fucked-up world. I see that now.

  She’s a victim of circumstance.

  And it made her what she is. Who she is. She can’t control that now any more than she could control it back then. But doesn’t she see that she traded one abuser for another? One monster for another? Only this time she let it happen willingly. This time she walked into that fucked-up world with her eyes wide open, and she accepted it rather than fought it. That’s not the Carrie I once knew. The Carrie I knew would fight until her fingers were raw and bloody and she was clawing to get the earth from off of her face.

  She wouldn’t let herself be buried alive in a world of rot and sin.

  But her circumstances made her who she was. They changed her forever. And instead of being the beautiful, carefree young woman she could have been, she ended up being a broken girl digging her way through the shit of life.

  We all have our very own perhapses.

  We can list them endlessly, until we run out of paper and ink and we have to carve them into wood and stone and metal, until everything turns to dust and blows away.

  They never end, unless we let them. Because there is always more. But better than that, there can always be more. As long as we want it.

  Carrie let hers end.

  She stopped seeing them and believing in them.

  She stopped believing in herself without me around.

  I rotted in my prison cell, and then in the hospital, quickly turning from a boy into a man, watching my life slowly slip away. And she let go of the good things and clung onto the bad things.

  Carrie was a victim, and her circumstance was life.

  And mine was thinking I could ever save her.

  Chapter fifty-four:

  It’s very late when Carrie begins to stir. She’s shivering, despite the covers I put over her to keep her warm. I searched Charlie’s office and came up with more blankets for Carrie, and painkillers for us both. Because we both have so much pain inside, and I need to dull it for us both so we can think straight.

  It’s this place, though—the slaughterhouse. It’s always cold here. It’s the only way to keep the meat fresh like it is. She’ll freak when she realizes where she is, but it’s the only place I could think to go. The only place I thought we would get a bit more peace for a couple more hours. Somewhere safe for us both. Somewhere I knew she wouldn’t be able to run from.

  Charlie and everyone else will be in work by seven a.m. So that still gives us a little longer together. A little longer to unearth the truth from the lies. To finish our story once and for all.

  Her eyelids flutter, and I smile and move forward. I use the damp cloth to wipe away the blood on the side of her head, and slowly, slowly her eyelids open. Her eyes look up at me, her pupils dilating until she focuses in on my face. She goes from calm to panicked in 0.5 seconds.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I say, and I hush her.

  She doesn’t move or fight. She just lies there and listens to me, like a good girl.

  “Does it hurt?” I ask, and she nods. “I have some painkillers. They’re my boss’s,” I say by way of explanation.

  I fish the painkillers out of my pocket and I reach toward her mouth. She opens for me like a baby bird and I drop them onto her tongue. She swallows, and I offer her some water to help wash them down but she shakes her head.

  Both of her eyes are open now. And the one that was swollen almost shut is nearly back to normal. It’s nice that I can see her face almost like it should be. It’s a shame about the bruises that litter her skin, though.

  “I think we need to talk,” I say slowly. “We need to talk about what happened that night. I think you need to accept and let go. You need to forgive yourself and then maybe, just maybe, we can still have that future we always dreamed of.”

  She tries to move, but I push her back down. She shakes her head and then winces in pain. Her eyes are wide and she swallows and opens her mouth to speak. I wait, rapt for her words.

  “There is no future for us, Ethan,” she says.

  I scowl at her because she doesn’t know what she’s saying. She may as well be saying cheese and sushi taste good together, or baked beans are an aphrodisiac, for all the sense she’s making.

  “Sure there is,” I say, and I won’t lose my temper.

  I won’t lose control. We’re too close now. We’ve come too far.

  “No,” she says, and the word catches in her throat and makes her cough.

  I grab the glass of water I brought from the back office and I put it to her dry lips. She takes a small sip and some of it dribbles down her cheek. I wipe it away with my fingertips and then I lick my fingertips, tasting the water that she just drank. It all brings us that much closer together.

  “I don’t want you, Ethan,” she says. “I never did.”

  I stare down at this strange creature, this imposter of Carrie, and I say my mantra in my head as the blood rushes through me faster and faster.

  ‘One African Elephant Walking Very Nicely. Two Australian Coyotes Prowling Through The Night. Three Jungle Cats Slinking Through The Dark. Four Busy Beavers Building Their…’

  “You don’t know what you’re saying, Carrie,” I say. “You’ve had a nasty knock to the head. That’s my fault, I’m sorry. Perhaps you need to rest some more. Perhaps the painkillers need to kick in. Perhaps it’s all the drama of the past few days.”

  Perhaps…

  Perhaps…

  Perhaps…

  “No, it’s not. You just need to know the truth, finally. I see that now.” And then she cries and I lean over to try and hold her and she pushes and claws at me and screams to get off. So I let go because I’m an understanding boyfriend and I get it. She needs her space.

  I’m listening and learning all the time. This is all new to me too, Carrie. Just give me a chance to get it all right, I think.

  “I know the truth,” I say.

  “You do?”

  I nod. “I know about my dad, I remember now, and I’m sorry that I blocked that bit out. I know my mom protected him. And I know what your dad did and how your mom didn’t care. I know all this. I know that you’re damaged goods. I know that you’re a whore. I know you have dirty windows to stop people from looking in and seeing who you really are, Carrie, but your paint isn’t peeling yet we can still make this work! I still fucking love you, don’t you see! Even after everything, I still love you.”

  And I am desperate; my words tumble faster and faster as they leave me. As I try to get her to see me. She sits up and she slaps my hands away when I try to touch her. She’s crying and I want to too, because I hate seeing her so upset. She’s ugly when she cries, especi
ally with her face all banged up, but I still love her. Despite everything that’s changed, that’s the one thing that hasn’t.

  “I love you,” I say, imploring her to see me like I see her.

  “I hate you,” she replies.

  “You don’t mean that.” My heart is frozen in my chest mid-beat as it waits for the knife to drop, the axe to slice through my veins and sever my soul from my body.

  “I do, Ethan. I really, really do. I never loved you. I used you right from the start, why don’t you see that?” And she’s crying, but she’s also angry, and I don’t know why she’s angry. What did I do that was so wrong? What did I do that made her fall out of love for me? Because you can’t fake love, and I saw love in her eyes so many times when we were kids. It couldn’t have been an act, it couldn’t have.

  It was real.

  It was true.

  She had my heart.

  And I had hers too!

  “I wanted to get away from my life—my dad, my mom, your dad, and you. Everything. It was all bad. It was all fucked up. Why don’t you see that, Ethan? Why don’t you see how fucked up it all was?” She puts her head in her hands, and she’s not crying now but tears are still falling. When she looks up her eyes are empty, and her face is twisted in anger and pain and gratefulness. Yes, gratefulness, and I see it, that spark.

  “You killed for me, Ethan.”

  “Because I loved you.”

  “Because there’s something wrong with you!” she screams. “And I knew that, and I used you for that!”

  I shake my head no, but deep down I know she’s right. I’m not completely stupid. There has to be something wrong with someone who kills another person. That’s not a normal thing to do. That’s why we’re so perfect for each other.

  “He was hurting you,” I whisper to her. The words want to come louder, but my throat is tight and closed. “I told you I wouldn’t let him hurt you anymore.”

  “I’m bad,” she says. “I’m no good for you. I never was.”

  And she sounds just like my mom. And I guess, if I’m being truthful with myself, deep down I know she’s right.

  But that’s the crazy thing about love.

  Love doesn’t care about the bad or the good. It just is.

  It loves regardless.

  “I know, but I don’t care,” I return, and I look into her face and I reach for her hands, and she lets me hold them. And they are so soft—not like mine at all, rough and calloused from years of cleaning toilets in prison. From bleaching and mopping and dusting. I’ve cleaned my whole life. Going from one mess to another. I cleaned up Carrie’s mess. And I cleaned up Benny’s blood. I cleaned up Carrie’s kitchen, and I’ll clean this mess up too.

  “You have to let me go,” she pleads, and her tears are back now. They trail down her bruised cheeks like raindrops on a window.

  And I think it’s funny how now she’s asking me to let her go when it was only an hour or so ago that I asked her to do that very same thing for me. Wow, how things are changing and turning all the time, but they still come back to the same thing.

  “You can’t keep me,” she says.

  “But I want you,” I say, and I choke on the sadness that I’m trying to keep down. On the trueness of that pitiful statement. My heart feels like it will burst out of my chest at any minute. It’s swollen and painful and I can’t breathe through my own panic.

  “You always did,” she says. “But I’m no one’s. I’m not a thing you can own and keep. You can’t buy me, or bribe me. You can’t force me. I’m my own person and I make my own choices and my own mistakes. And I’m making this one too, just like I did all those years ago. Because it’s my decision to make. I am bad, and I accept that. I’ll do whatever I have to do to survive.” She slams her hand on the table. “You have to know that by now, Ethan!”

  All those years ago. So many years have passed, but everything is still so fresh. So crystal clear in my mind. Finally. I see it all now. Like a perpetually shifting reality, everything is now finally clicking into place.

  Chapter fifty-five:

  The room is so dark, so I give myself a minute to let my eyes adjust. Carrie is right outside the door; I can hear her breathing amidst the snores of her parents. The room smells of tobacco and whiskey, with undertones of something else, something familiar.

  I step closer to the bed. It’s right in the center, so I can’t miss it. I step to her mother’s side first, and I lift the blade and I tremble. Carrie’s hand touches my waist, and I feel electricity running through me. I turn and look at her. I can see her profile in the darkness. She shakes her head and tugs me to her father’s side.

  My heart feels scared, but I’m also happy because she came into the room so I didn’t have to do this on my own. And I’m so grateful.

  She pulls me and I get it. It’s him she wants dead first. Him that deserves it more. Her mother can go second. I nod and I raise the knife. I will go for the heart. I will plunge it right through his chest, through his ribs and to the soft bloody machine that beats within him, keeping this monster alive. I will slay the beast.

  But then something happens.

  Something unexpected.

  He opens his eyes.

  It takes a second for him to register that I am here, and another second for him to grab the knife as I plunge it toward his chest. It slices through his hands as he grips either side of the blade, and he screams as fingers and blood go tumbling away from him.

  I drop the knife and he’s still screaming. Carrie’s mom is stirring, but not waking, because apparently she sleeps like the fucking dead. Perhaps it’s the alcohol. Perhaps it’s the needles on the bedside table. I have no clue, but the whole thing is fucked now.

  Carrie picks up the knife. She stares at it for a split second while she comes to a decision, and then as her dad tries to stand she drags it across his throat. He tries to grab the knife, but the knife cuts off his fingers as he runs them along the blade, and he ends up grabbing only air. And then he is choking, and coughing on his own blood with his eyes wide and his fingerless, bloody hands grabbing at his neck.

  Carrie stabs at his chest, plunging it through his stomach, and I hear the ‘umph’ as he gurgles on the blood. And then she is crying and stabbing over and over and I have to pull her off of him. I take her in my arms and I rock her on my knee. She cries against me, her tears soaking my T-shirt. A strange, strangled sound escapes her as she tries to hide her relief. But it’s all coming out now. The years of torment and abuse. The fear and dread. It’s all escaping from her and I hold her while she sheds her grief like a heavy woolen blanket.

  When she is calm, I help her to stand. And I see that she has hurt herself, that blood is oozing from her hand.

  “My room,” she says. “I have a first-aid kit.”

  And I follow her through and I know why she has this first-aid kit. And I know that it’s because of her dad, and I feel angry all over again. She sits on her bed and the blood trails over the floor and her covers. It soaks into her mattress and I see it all over me too—a mix of her dad’s blood and hers.

  Combined, entwined, together forever.

  And that’s just the shittiest thing of all.

  Even when he was dying, he still managed to hurt her.

  Her mom slept through the entire thing, and I think that disgusts me more. How much has Carrie’s mom slept through over the years?

  Purposefully?

  Accidentally?

  I sigh and reach for the bandages and I wrap Carrie’s hand, and more of her blood goes over my jeans and T-shirt, and I say sorry a thousand times for fucking this all up. I wanted to be the hero, I tell her.

  I wanted to do this for you. I’m sorry, I say. Over and over.

  “You still can be,” she says. “You can still be the hero.”

  And now she has my attention. And now I’m not feeling sorry for myself anymore.

  “How?” I ask. Because I’ll do anything to make it up to her. She shouldn’t have ha
d to do that. And she shouldn’t have got hurt. That’s my fault.

  “I want you to kill your dad, Ethan,” she says. “I want you to kill him next.”

  “Okay,” I reply. Just like that. It’s so simple and I will do it, because he’s just as bad as her dad. “What about your mom?” I ask, listening as Carrie’s mom still snores on, oblivious to the massacre next to her.

  “Leave her,” she says, and her face contorts into something ugly and bitter. “Leave her to rot next to his corpse.”

  “Okay,” I say, and then we are standing and leaving her room, and going down the stairs, and leaving her house, and walking down the street to my house, where everything is dark and quiet, and we are going up my stairs, in the dark, and it is all so eerily similar to Carrie’s house. Like a fucked-up déjà vu.

  My parents’ room isn’t so dark though. There is always a small lamp on in the corner. My dad doesn’t like the dark, but my mom does, so she sleeps with an eye mask on. It’s creepy, I always thought. Because the eye mask has eyes on it. Green, not like my mom’s brown. And they stare at me now as I move through the room toward my dad, with Carrie at my side.

  I look down on his face. This handsome man that I always thought was so gentle and kind. So caring and loving. He built trains with me, and we used to walk through the woods. He taught me how to ride my bike and helped me with my algebra. How could a man, a father, a husband, do all of those things and yet be so sick inside?

  How is that possible?

  “Do it,” Carrie whispers, and I nod okay, because I can’t find my words anymore.

  I have the same knife that Carrie just used on Mr. Brown. And I hold it high above my dad’s chest. A drop of Mr. Brown’s blood drips onto my dad’s chest, and I expect him to wake because the sound is like a gong in the almost silent room. But he doesn’t; he sleeps on.

  Just like Carrie’s fucking mom. Who should die too, for what she’s stood by and let happen to her daughter.