Deeper into Darkness

by Maria Ann Green

  Bee would move on, move forward, move to a new city and create a new life, leaving Derek and Parker, and everyone else even further back behind.

  ***

  On the bus, I pulled out my new bottle of nail polish, ready to add a layer of red to my already-chipping nails. It had been less than twenty-four hours, but the packing and cleaning were hasty. I’d gotten dirty, and my nails showed how hard I’d worked to leave town quickly. Unscrewing the cap, I paused. My hesitation filled me until I closed it again, and put it away.

  Maybe that was part of it.

  I could relive my memories, look at the color and sink into the experience, but I couldn’t paint them with it again. I couldn’t change my nails at all without a new color, a new experience. And there was only one way to get that.

  I sucked in a breath.

  Did I really plan to do it again?

  The thought was horrific, yet I knew in my heart that I did. That itch that had started growing wasn’t stopping, and there was only one way to scratch it properly. It was the only way I’d reward myself with a new manicure.

  The build, the length of time before letting myself scratch, would be wrought with tension, with burning. But something inside my brain started sparking and telling me that I was on the right track.

  “Can I sit here?” a deep voice asked me, pulling me from my intense train of thought.

  I looked up then nodded, smiling. The bus was fairly empty considering the time, but he hadn’t asked to sit right next to me, just in the same row.

  “Thanks,” he said, giving me his hand. “I’m Ash.”

  I smiled wickedly, trying to keep the pleasure inside as much as I could. Ash gray. That would do.

  Now

  I’m cocooned in the dark, but it’s not comforting. I’m hollow and off balance.

  Blinking my eyes, I let my lashes flutter against my skin a few times over and over, before I realize I can’t blink away the dark. And it’s still dark because I haven’t slept long. But I do know I actually have been asleep, at least some, because I was dreaming of Aidan.

  Thinking of him brings me back to the present, to what happened tonight.

  Me, and my secrets, my not-exactly lies. Aidan. And Jason.

  All of it comes crashing back into me, loading my brain up with noise buzzing like bees, thoughts bumping into one another, and the drink I had layering a blanket over it all, slowing everything down just a little. I can’t think straight. It’s like walking through sand on a beach, sinking down a little each step before lifting to walk ahead—not quite quicksand, but not on firm footing either.

  It’s disorienting.

  Reaching across to the other side of the bed, I open my mouth to say something, but when my fingers only find cold sheets I remember more. He left, which I knew, but he’s still gone, and that sends another little crack into my head.

  I thought he’d be back. I honestly didn’t believe I’d have to wake up alone.

  Holding my breath, trying to ward off any hope that could get in, I call Aidan again. It rings. It rings, and it rings. And it rings.

  He doesn’t pick up.

  But at least it’s not straight to voice mail. He turned it back on, but he still isn’t answering. So I’m still alone, and, feeling colder, I wrap the comforter tighter around myself, trying to ward off the panic starting to fizzle in my chest. But the blankets aren’t comforting me. No matter how tightly I wrap them around my shoulders, it’s just not good enough.

  I try lying still, buried beneath layers and wrapped tight.

  It doesn’t work, because I’m still shaking.

  I try sitting up next, and still my teeth chatter with the insecurity and cold.

  “Screw this,” I mutter, kicking the bag I’d packed to the floor, mind made up.

  Throwing the blankets behind me, I stand then walk to the closet for the right thing to change into. Wiggling out of the fabric I was wearing, I change. Feeling somewhat new, a little surer, I will myself to stay calm, to think clearly. I’m not running this time. But I am going to do something.

  After a stop at my dresser, I pin my hair out of my eyes, no time for distraction.

  Something rolls from the discarded bag in the middle of the floor, but I just walk over it, ignoring the mess behind me. That feels like a metaphor, but I try to not delve too far into that. I don’t need to overanalyze, or analyze at all, really.

  I’m pissed now, or pissed again, whatever. I’m pissed again, and I have the right to be.

  That stupid dream left a bitter taste in my head, a choking feeling in my gut, and Aidan should be here to comfort me. He should be answering my calls. He’s being a jerk, an overreacting, ill-tempered asshat.

  I nod, walking to the kitchen. That’s right. Aidan’s the one in the wrong here, not me. I tell myself that over and over, repeating the words until they no longer feel like real words, until they’re foreign and too rounded at the edges. But I don’t stop.

  Him.

  He’s in the wrong.

  Not me.

  I was finally honest.

  I try not to think that my honesty was a little late, because at least it arrived at all. I could have kept it from him, could have gone on pretending forever. And really, it’s not like I was out to hurt him, ever. I could never. So why should he care who I’ve killed in the past? And a name is just a word, a mixture of letters, so why does it really matter if I was born with a different one—and had a few others along the way?

  Standing in front of the fridge, my hip jutting out and pressed into the counter, I pour myself a drink. Because, why not?

  I’m not letting anything dictate me anymore, not Aidan, not the law. I mean, what the hell, I’m already a murderer, a serial killer probably, so what’s a little impaired driving going to matter anyway?

  A word, three pesky syllables, floats above my head like a mosquito—indignant.

  And I know I am, indignant, but knowing doesn’t really deter anything. So I pour my drink. And I throw it back, like it’s a contest or a race, completely ignoring the fact that I’m standing here, in a dark kitchen, all alone.

  But I don’t think about that. Instead I throw the glass into the sink and turn to make my way to the front door. I hesitate, my fingers just an inch from the handle, and I close my eyes. I feel like I’ve been thrown into a hurricane, sometimes whipping through or close to the eye. Maybe I should take a few moments to get my head straight, to think about the consequences or the possibilities, instead of just acting on emotions.

  I breathe steadily, in and out through my nose, eyes still closed, and I pull my phone from my purse. Just once more.

  Maybe. I wait. But, no. I hear the beep, and again Aidan doesn’t answer.

  So that’s that, and I leave. Getting into my car, I pull up directions on my phone. I need a bar, one a few towns over—not too close. It has to be different than the one the other night, one where no one will know Aidan or me—or Ethan and Samantha.

  It doesn’t take long, no more than a minute, and I’ve got an address and an ETA. Then I’m off. Heading toward a better outcome, heading toward a mission of blowing off steam, possibly heading toward an improved me.

  I can’t do much at home until I talk with Aidan, whenever I’ll be able to.

  And I’m not running this time.

  So it’s as good a way as any to kill time. I smile after realizing that’s the perfect choice of word, and push the gas pedal a little harder.

  ***

  That drink, only my third of the night, hit me harder than either before, harder than any drink normally does. Because I’m legitimately drunk, like good and drunk.

  My emotions are everywhere, and I can’t stop the avalanche of feeling from crashing down on me every few moments. I’ve cried, and I’ve laughed, and I’m pretty sure I seem at least a little crazy.

  But the bar is dark, and that helps.

  The music thumps in my chest, and it’s so loud it’s almost impossible to talk to anyone, but I
think I like it that way.

  I let my head dip back, my hair just grazing the back of my neck, and I move with the music. The dress I chose, it’s all texture and cutouts, revealing way more than I’d normally choose to without Aidan here, but that’s the point, isn’t it? It feels good.

  I feel good.

  And I don’t want to let the good feeling fade, not even a little bit. So I push him from my mind and let anything else take the now-empty space.

  My writing, maybe.

  I slap the bar, requesting another drink, and let my mind drift as it’s made for me. I could self-publish my book. Why the hell should I let it go unheard, anyway? I could do it under a pen name. Bee is dead, anyway, so why not publish as Samantha? Or someone new altogether. Yet another opportunity, another excuse, to reinvent, to start over new.

  I leave cash on the counter, not even sure how much, but hoping it’s enough to cover the glass. And when no one calls after me, I assume it is.

  If Aidan were here, he’d probably say something like, “That’s a rash decision.” To publish my book. “Why don’t you sleep on it?” he’d add.

  Well, why doesn’t he shove it?

  I’m a great writer. I am. And my book should be shared with the masses.

  With my lips to the tiny straw in my drink, and white knuckles around my glass, I make my way to the middle of the dance floor, where the music is loud and no one can talk to me. Everything is a mass of limbs and motion.

  It feels good.

  I feel right, thinking about writing and letting the alcohol slide down my throat, letting hands roam down my sides and up my legs. It’s all relative, anyway—feeling, thinking, getting sucked into the questions and guilt.

  I don’t know why I ever let myself fall into another person. I should have stayed alone, should have kept eating to feel better, to keep everyone else away. I should have already learned my lesson before all of this.

  But he just had to walk into my life.

  I close my eyes, because every face within my line of sight becomes Aidan’s face, and I don’t want to see him looking at me from fifty pairs of accusatory eyes. I don’t care if it’s concern, jealousy, or regret in those eyes, I don’t need them searing into mine.

  When I get home, I should look into self-publishing.

  And on the way home, to do that, maybe I’ll get a tattoo, mark myself permanently. Tell the world this is how I was feeling tonight, and it matters. I matter. Plant the ink so far into my skin that it stays forever. Prove I was here. Prove what he did, what I did, that we matter. That I exist and I matter, permanently.

  Or, maybe instead of any of that, I should sleep with someone else. No killing, no preparation, no excuses to hide behind. A betrayal. Maybe I should betray Aidan like he betrayed me tonight.

  Only worse.

  Opening my lids, I scan the dance floor. There’s a pair of hands on my hips, they’re big but soft and the nails are bitten down past the quick, so I lean into them, giving my permission. And I moan as those fingertips raise the hem of my dress just a little.

  Maybe it is a good idea.

  Maybe this is how I can show him.

  I could go home with this guy. I could. Or even worse, I could bring him home, leave the evidence right there waiting for Aidan. But that would be stupid.

  So stupid.

  Plus…despite everything, despite my inner turmoil and all of it, I’m not sure we’ve gone too far, to a place we can’t get back from. If he cools down and comes back, answers me, maybe. But that, we couldn’t get back from that. That would end us, and I don’t want us to end.

  But I can’t stop the stupid thoughts from rolling in.

  Stupid.

  Impulsive.

  “I’ll be back,” I yell to the body behind me, pressing into me. I don’t even look, so I have no idea what sort of face is attached to the body.

  And I don’t really care.

  In the dark of the room, I make my way to the bar. The lights fly around the room, highlighting random body parts. I blink and I’m at the bar already, not remembering the last few steps that got me here. But I don’t care; it doesn’t matter. Cutting out again, I’ve finished whatever’s in my glass, and I’m on my way to the bathroom.

  It’s all blurry, fuzzy, and coming at me in segments.

  Time cuts.

  But it doesn’t matter; I don’t care.

  The drink slides down and slithers into my bloodstream. It soaks into me and warms everything it touches.

  In the bathroom, I look into the mirror, barely recognizing the face staring back.

  What the hell happened in the last few hours? Who am I?

  Maybe I should kill someone tonight. Maybe that’s what I need. Not sex, not a tattoo, not a book…but a dead body.

  I don’t know.

  Maybe I don’t care.

  ***

  Then somehow I’m in a dark corner, at the back of the bar, no longer in the bathroom or anywhere near it, not totally sure how—or when—I got here. But I’m here, in the shadows.

  Where I belong.

  But the corner isn’t empty…I’m not alone. There are hands on me, all over me, rough and calloused hands, hands that move faster than my brain can. My thoughts trudge through sludge, sticky and slowing everything. My reactions are delayed, my attention struggling to keep up.

  Seriously, I haven’t actually had that much to drink.

  I don’t think I have.

  Then the hands are joined to hips, to a body pressing into me, to lips. Full, warm, soft lips. And those lips find mine, parting and panting against me, reminding me that even if I’m fuzzy and disconnected, I’m still here.

  They’re reminding me I’m still enough.

  They’re reminding me I’m wanted, needed, begged for.

  They’re reminding me everything is going to be okay.

  And I blink, but when I do the lips are gone. I don’t even know his name, don’t know who the lips were attached to. I don’t even know what I’ve done here tonight, what other lips have found mine.

  Time is a blip, a folded piece of paper, and I’m skipping across the surface, missing chunks along the way.

  I’m standing—well, leaning—against the side wall now, no longer in the corner. I’m watching as others intertwine on the dance floor. A feeling begins to rise in me, one that I’m not totally sure how to name. It’s a little bit disgust, a little bit apathy, and a little bit annoyance. The bodies wriggling around each other, all over each other—I close my eyes for a moment, not caring to watch it anymore, and turn away to walk toward the bartender.

  As I do, a hand finds my ass.

  This hand isn’t the calloused one attached to the lips, it’s hard and possessive, and it’s squeezing me.

  I jolt, turning toward the face attached to the hand.

  His eyes are blue, a fierce blue but unfocused with drink, and his smile is crooked but outrageously confident. He knows me; he thinks he knows me, and he’s waiting for me to smile back.

  “Hello again,” he rasps out on the breath of a smoker’s voice.

  He pulls me to him, both hands together on my body now, until my chin rests on his shoulder and he can press himself into me. And over that broad shoulder I see the lips I’d been kissing, the ones attached to calloused hands, and those lips press into each other, into a hard line.

  Those lips are jealous; those lips are angry.

  But I don’t have time to analyze any longer as the man leans back, his face searching mine for something. He must find it because he kisses me. It’s not as sensual as the one from the corner, the one with the lips. But he kisses me like he knows me, like we’ve done this before.

  Hello again.

  And I cringe.

  Tonight isn’t going as I’d thought it would, as I’d planned. Or, I don’t know, maybe it is.

  I keep my eyes closed, tight.

  ***

  The next time I come back into myself, I’m outside.

  It’s cold, the
wind blowing through the fabric, admittedly not really enough fabric, barely protecting my skin. I shiver and look around, wrapping my arms around myself. I’ve gone out the back door. I didn’t even realize there was a back door to the bar.

  But here I am, walking into the dark parking lot.

  Walking across the parking lot.

  Out of the parking lot.

  Little bursts of focus, fuzzing at the edges, choppy memory and attention.

  How the hell am I going to get home?

  I have the capacity to ponder the question, but not enough brainpower, or motivation, to find the answer. It’s somewhere in my brain, somewhere there I’m sure, but it’s hiding and I don’t have the energy to go digging for it. I don’t have the energy for much, actually, so I sit on the curb next to the sidewalk, still near the bar. I sit, and I think some more about how I should get home.

  I wish Aidan were here to take me home.

  Aidan.

  Aidan left me tonight. He got in his car and drove away, away from me. I can feel the tightening in my chest, the quickening of my heart, as I try to swallow the tears building in my eyes and choking my throat. I blink quickly, trying to stop the flood from flowing, and I’m mostly successful. A couple sneak out just before the rest are swallowed, a couple traitors betraying me and putting my insides on the out, giving a visual to the inner war.

  Aidan left me, just like everyone has left me. Granted, some of them left because I made them leave…but never mind that.

  After a deep breath, I pound my fist into my thigh, trying to center my thoughts once more.

  I haven’t called him in a while. Maybe…

  Maybe he’ll pick up this time.

  So I dig in my bag to find my phone, holding my breath until I can see the screen. But no, no missed calls still. He hasn’t reached out. I don’t know if it’s pathetic or mature to be the one to continue, but either way I can’t stop my fingers from reaching for the right buttons.

  But I don’t pull the phone to my ear, I hold onto it, my fingers losing feeling, in my lap as it rings. I can hear the sound for each ring, and I count them. There are enough to know Aidan’s phone isn’t turned off, but he’s still not answering.