Deeper into Darkness

by Maria Ann Green

  He’s gone.

  Will he be back?

  Is this it?

  It can’t be.

  But then…I’m not so sure. I’m not sure of anything right now. And that’s what scares me the most.

  The not knowing.

  I drop to my knees, right on the patio, and I hear the crack of bone on stone, but I don’t care. I don’t even feel it yet. I can barely feel anything My breath picks up even more, short bursts piercing the air.

  And then I cry.

  Tears run down my cheeks and collect on my chest, before dropping off my nipples and onto the ground. The sound is foreign; it’s louder then I remember crying ever before, and my chest heaves with the weight of each sob. A keening sound, strangled, slips between my lips, coated in salty fear.

  It’s horrible, and I try to stop.

  But it just keeps coming.

  Standing, I try to slow down, try to stop the tears. He can’t be gone forever. But I can’t catch my breath. He just needs a break, a chance to cool down—which I should as well. And I try. I close my eyes and focus on the wind, pressing my fingers into my chest, then my eyes. I count until the only sounds I make come from the air in and out of my nose, void of tears. It takes so long.

  Then I finally stand and walk back inside.

  I feel lost, empty, out of place and out of time. Moving my head back and forth, I scan for something, anything, to lock onto—something to focus on. The kitchen has nothing, same with the hallway, the living room, the bathroom. I walk around, aimlessly, feeling as if I’m somewhere else, in someone else’s body. But when I get to the bedroom, our bedroom, I find what I didn’t know I’d been looking for.

  My phone.

  I pick it up; with shaking hands, I click the button to call his new number.

  It’s impossible to stop shivering even after wrapping my arms around myself. Never mind that I’m still naked, it wouldn’t matter what I was wearing. The chill goes deeper than my cooled skin, my bones are frozen, my blood can barely move, panic cooling everything.

  The phone clings to my ear, my fingers around it, and it rings.

  I wait.

  It rings.

  And I don’t know, I’m so unsure, how the night ended up like it has. How it all changed so quickly, I can’t process, can’t fathom.

  It rings one last time, and then the sound chimes, telling me that I’m still alone.

  Somehow I feel worse; I hadn’t known that was possible until this moment. In response to the dead air buzzing in my ear my hand goes limp, and I drop my phone to the bed, next to my leg.

  “What…” I whisper on a single breath, unsure even still, unsure how to finish it.

  I can’t just sit here. I’ll go crazy.

  So my legs straighten, lifting me, and they carry me to the bathroom where my hand turns the faucet on. They all move in a pattern, doing what I’ve wanted them to do hundreds, thousands, of times before, but they do it out of memory, without direction.

  And when I step into the hot water, steaming and turning my skin red, I struggle to warm up. I want to, I try to, but it doesn’t happen. I shiver as my skin starts to hurt from the heat. It won’t ever be enough.

  I stand with my head under the stream, letting just a few tears fall with the water.

  Realizing the alcohol is probably contributing to my mood, I try to think clearly despite the fog. I know there’s an added layer of drama to the night, to my reaction, but knowing that doesn’t change anything.

  Wet, I get out of the shower and skip drying off. It doesn’t matter. I struggle into a tank and shorts then reach for my phone again. I don’t want to hear the tone before his outgoing message, but I don’t know what else to do. So I sit and prepare to be disappointed. I expect it. Though, it’s worse than I’d hoped, because now there are no rings. It goes straight to voice mail.

  He’s turned his phone off.

  I called, he saw, and then he chose to turn off his phone.

  I suck in a breath, and turn mine off in response, in some sort of childish retaliation that he won’t even notice since he can’t call me if his is off too. But, fractionally, no matter how irrational, it makes me feel a little better.

  I try not to feel scared.

  I fail.

  And I try not to feel sad.

  But I fail.

  I can’t help but chide myself for ever thinking I could make it work with someone so perfect, or…with anyone really. Starting to pace around the bedroom, I look from the bedspread to the mirror to the closet as I make rounds from one to the next, trying to sort my thoughts. Blaming myself for lying to Aidan for so long, knowing I should have either admitted it all right away or never at all. I should have known better.

  I did know better, and I did it anyway. I screwed up.

  As I make circles in the carpet I go back and forth—mad at myself and sure I’m the cause of every issue, then mad at Aidan for being a child and running off before I could explain myself, mad at him for assuming the worst. He should know me better, he should have trusted. He should have calmed the hell down and believed in me, in us, so I could explain.

  Though…

  Back and forth it goes and goes.

  I had so many opportunities to be honest. When I killed Eva and I started telling him everything, I should have included my past, the exes I killed. I should have known omission was as bad as lying.

  Him.

  Me.

  We’re both to blame. I messed it all up once again. He messed me up, jumped to conclusions and freaked out.

  Me.

  Him.

  Confusion rolls in, mixing up the accusations and only leaving the anger. It doesn’t really matter who, I’m just pissed off.

  I stop moving—well, my legs do—and I pull my fingers through my hair. The shorter length surprises me again; I’m still not used to the new look Aidan helped choose, but I recover in a moment.

  “Screw it.”.

  And I move to the closet. I grab my duffle bag, the oversized one with enough room for several outfits and all my necessities, the one I packed when I’d planned to run. I huff out a breath of exasperation. Then I’m moving quickly between the dresser, the closet, and the bathroom—going back and forth from each to the bed, tossing everything into the bag.

  If he can leave, so can I.

  And I will, when the booze has seeped from my blood and left me more sober. Then I’ll leave, and start over. I’ve done it before, and it didn’t kill me then, so I know I can do it again. I’m stronger than I remember.

  But first—I yawn—I need to sleep. Exhaustion has replaced the anger, lethargy taking over the tipsy mist encircling my thoughts, rational or otherwise. So I move the bag to Aidan’s side of the bed, and crawl beneath the covers.

  I’ll leave after a few hours of sleep.

  Closing my eyes, I let a long breath out between trembling lips.

  I try to let go of consciousness, hoping to tap into a reserve of strength while my body works to restore itself. And then, when I’m awake, when tonight seems a little more bearable, I’ll go. I’ll run, and I won’t look back.

  I try to resist, I really do. But, like I know I shouldn’t, I grab my phone before closing my eyes. I have to know.

  I can’t help myself. If there’s even the smallest chance Aidan called back.

  Only he didn’t.

  But there is an email. In my anger and overflowing insecurities, I hadn’t seen the notification. But there it sits now, screaming at me with crimson accusations and taunts that it’s only an email.

  I know it isn’t from Aidan. He hasn’t emailed me in a long time, not when he can so easily text or call. So I know it’s not him, I know it I know it I know it. I remind myself as my thumb stretches to click my email app. I say the mantra quietly as my inbox opens.

  And then I tell myself I was stupid to hope, when I’m right.

  It’s not from Aidan.

  It’s from Jason, and apparently the incoming email was that beep
of the phone from outside, just after we’d finished having sex, before everything in my life blew up in my face. Somehow, it feels like Jason’s fault. I don’t care if it makes me a terrible person, well, even worse than I already was; it is his fault. One hundred percent.

  So I almost delete the email instead of reading it. It’ll be a bunch of whiny crap anyway, about how he’s lonely and misses his friend. Friends. About how he wishes everything was different, and how he wishes he didn’t take us for granted while we were still there.

  Blah, blah, blah.

  Aidan was right—he really has gotten insufferable.

  And, yet, still I can’t delete it.

  So I move my finger, hesitate, but then I open the email.

  And it’s the same. Just like I knew it would be.

  From: Jason Moore

  To: Aidan Sheppard

  Subject: If only

  Aid,

  I miss you. And even though I don’t want to believe it…

  They’re all so similar it’s like my eyes just roll over the words—like you do when you’ve read the same words in the same order too many times. Like when you recite something by heart, the words don’t really have a meaning to you anymore; you probably couldn’t even remember the order without starting from the very beginning. Muscle memory; or memory muscle memory, really.

  But then, once I’ve gotten to the bottom, something feels wrong. A word stands out, I stop, hesitate again, and I go back to the beginning, really reading this time.

  I start over, but this time I pay closer attention.

  Only when I’m paying attention, I wish I wasn’t.

  From: Jason Moore

  To: Aidan Sheppard

  Subject: If only

  Aid,

  I miss you. And even though I don’t want to believe it, I still think you’re dead. I mean, I never disbelieved it. I never questioned it once, as much as I wanted to. I felt the truth like a punch in the gut. That sinking feeling never lifted, and although I didn’t want to believe it, I did.

  But now…I don’t know. I miss you so much. Both of you.

  I wanted it to be wrong, that you would surface and say you’d taken cover, gotten lost, then as the days kept passing I even hoped for something as stupid as amnesia. That you’d come to, suddenly remembering everything, and finally they’d add you to the list of found. I hoped.

  And then, when it didn’t happen, and it just kept not happening, finally I just wished to see your names added to the list of dead. Dead, but at least found. It’s hardest not knowing, not having closure. I think I miss you two even more as the days go by instead of less. The open-ended time frame, just wondering when you’ll finally be found dead, it’s horrible. It’s the absolute worst. You have no idea.

  So now…and with everything…I just don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know in this world, I’m sure of that. But what I do know is that as horrible as it sounds, I hope I can bury you both soon; and I know I miss you both so much.

  Cheers,

  Jase

  It feels so different.

  The words aren’t accusatory. They aren’t revelatory either, not that I’d expect that from Jason. But there’s something off within the letters and the order they were typed in. So I read it again.

  And again.

  And then once more. I go back and read the last few emails prior to tonight, looking for a transition I’d missed, a clue to his change in tone. But nothing sticks out.

  Not a single thing.

  And that’s what gets to me.

  I try to go to sleep, hiding the phone under the other pillow, the empty pillow that should be cradling Aidan’s stupid head. I try to put it in another room, turn it off, count dead sheep. Nothing works.

  So finally, with a loud and obnoxious, even to me, sigh I pull up the email once more. Just once more.

  From: Jason Moore

  To: Aidan Sheppard

  Subject: If only

  Aid,

  I miss you. And even though…

  It looks exactly the same as it did the last five times, as it did an hour ago when I first read it.

  And then.

  I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth like it can protect me from my realization. I close my eyes, blink a few times once they’re open again, shake my head a little—I do everything I can to unsee what I’ve seen, hoping I was wrong or that it will change back. But it doesn’t work. It’s there, right in front of my eyes that were so lazy minutes before to miss it.

  And it’s not going away.

  The email address.

  Not Jason’s. The email address Jason emailed to. It’s not forwarded. It’s not from the old address. It’s directly to the new. And that can’t be true, it just can’t because how could he have gotten it? When? HOW?

  No matter the circles my thoughts turn in, no matter how many times I go over the questions, I come up with no answers. Not a one. And I know, despite freaking out, I know there’s nothing I can do right now. I can’t magically form an answer, not one that’s the truth. No matter the speed my heart races to, no matter how quickly the breaths come, no matter the temperature my body rises to, no matter the shade of red I turn, no matter the nausea that bubbles in my stomach—none of it changes what’s happened.

  And maybe the why, the how, maybe it doesn’t really matter.

  The only thing that matters is what we do next, how we correct and move forward.

  That’s when I finally calm down, stop feeling dizzy. I have to talk to Aidan. No matter how angry he is, even if he still wants to leave, he’ll realize we need to talk this out, work on it, together. And that gives me just the tiniest bit of hope to cling to.

  But first, I need to sober up.

  He won’t talk to me still like this, and I wouldn’t trust myself to stay calm, to be rational. I can feel the outbursts, the critical words and hurt feelings, just below the surface, floating atop the alcohol bobbing in my veins.

  In the end, there’s nothing I can do, no other decision I can make, other than to lie back down.

  So I do.

  I just need a little sleep to decide how to proceed next. What to do. Who to kill. And I drift quickly this time, hearing my phone drop to the floor, just before I drop away into unconsciousness.

  Then

  I didn’t pay the fee for leaving early. I didn’t pay last month’s rent, didn’t get my deposit back.

  I just disappeared. What did it matter?

  The old me was dead anyway. Parker had made sure of that, even before he stopped breathing.

  So it was easy to move. It was easy to pick up and leave everything behind. There was nothing left worth crying over. Bee wasn’t someone who cried, anyway. She was stronger than Bridget. And she wouldn’t let herself be broken. She’d do the breaking. Or better yet, she’d find ones already broken, and help them find a place where broken felt better. She’d charm her way into hearts and then rip them out after feasting on the rest.

  Yes.

  But my bags, full of my belongings, were heavy as hell. The zippers bulged, and my back ached. It was hard work killing your old self, packing everything you owned, creating a new identity, and running away with it all. Hard as hell.

  I’d worked fast, and the sun still hadn’t set again yet, somehow.

  “Bye missus,” the bodega owner said as I passed. I’d known him for almost two years. Bought something from him most days. And I was about to disappear. I hadn’t cared when thinking about leaving my family behind. I hadn’t given a second thought to all the friends from high school I’d be ditching for a new life, a better one with less bodies tied to that name and that face. But this man, this one guy, he bothered me. I would miss him. I knew it. “Don’t tell me you’re moving.” He shook his head, looking down. Somehow this hurt more than losing Parker, somehow this was the worst blow of the night.

  “Now, Derek, I’d never leave you.”

  I could feel the tightness to my smile, the pain behind it wanting to break free.
But it would have to do.

  “Coffee on the house? Just this once.”

  “Only if you let me buy a paper,” I said. It would help kill time on the journey anyway.

  He nodded, and I handed over a few bills after digging them out of my overstuffed purse. He tried to wave me off when I couldn’t find them at first, but I wasn’t above pulling out every pill bottle and pair of underwear in there if it meant getting his money.

  “Keep it.” I shoved it away when he tried to give me my change.

  “Fine, fine. But let me make your coffee how you like it.”

  I conceded while he poured my drink, adding plenty of cream, sugar, and flavor to the large paper cup. Letting my eyes flick over the headlines in the paper, something caught my eye at the same time that I heard Derek’s radio for the first time.

  Slain—vicious—MAN DEAD—all bold, black lettering jumping at me from the ink staining my fingers.

  My own blood turned to ice, solid and painful.

  “A man was found dead earlier this morning, in what can only be called a horrific homicide. We’ve spoken with the lead detective on the case, but so far there isn’t a lot of information to be shared….”

  Derek turned then, handing me my coffee.

  Shaking, I took it and muttered apologies over and over as I all but ran away, after spilling some of the scalding liquid over both our hands.

  “See you around?” he called after me.

  But I didn’t answer, because the girl he knew, Bridget, wouldn’t be back. She was gone, laid to rest with Parker back in that horrible room, back where some of her memories and minutes from that night were lost to the blackness, pushed deeper into darkness. And we both knew it, though I trusted Derek would never say a word.