Through the darkness, I see her make a face when she realizes it's locked. "Damn it," she grumbles. "Where's the key?"
She turns around and freezes when she spots me standing there. Her eyes widen in horror as she inhales sharply, holding the breath. She looks like she's about to piss herself.
"Wrong closet."
She exhales shakily. "I, uh… I just, I thought… I mean…"
She continues to stammer as I push away from the doorframe, pulling my hands from my pockets. She starts trembling when I come closer, her eyes fixating on the gloves I'm wearing.
"You know, Karissa once asked me what was in this box," I say. "I told her nothing. Not true, of course, because there's obviously something in there, but it wasn't exactly a lie. It's nothing she needed to worry about."
"I didn't know," Brandy says right away. "I was just looking, and I saw it, and I didn't know."
She has no excuse. We both know it.
She's just hoping I'll let it slide.
"Ask me what's in it," I say. "Go ahead… ask."
"What's in it?"
"How about I show you."
She tenses when I reach past her to open the drawer on the bedside stand, pulling out one of Karissa's discarded bobby pins. I bend it, holding it up toward Brandy.
"You see, there is no key to this box… there was, once, long ago, but I got rid of it. The only way to get into it is to force your way in."
It takes a moment for me to break into it, finding the right combination of movements to get the lock to disengage. It pops open, and I pull the lid off, setting it aside. I watch Brandy as her eyes curiously shift toward it, her brow furrowing when she looks inside.
"It's my life," I tell her. I haven't opened the box in a long, long time, since I locked it years ago. "Or the life I used to have, anyway. After my wife died, I locked the little we shared in this box and tucked it away. The rest I burned. I buried the memories under a mound of rage, and I continued on, forgetting this man." I motion toward the box. "Because I became this one instead." I motion toward myself.
She eyes me warily.
I shift the papers around on the top of the box—marriage certificate, Maria's death certificate, the deed to the house we owned—to weed through the rest of the contents. Maria's something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue from the wedding, and a few of her prized possessions, pieces of her I wasn't yet ready to let go of back then. There's a rattle in here, the only thing we ever bought for the baby… the only thing Maria had a chance to pick out. Photos, lots and lots of photos, and finally, at the very bottom, I fish out our wedding bands. I hold her engagement ring up, the diamond shining as it hits the moonlight streaming through the window.
"You know what I did to buy this ring?" I ask. "Do you know what an eighteen-year-old kid does to afford a diamond this big?"
She shakes her head.
"I promised things to Ray," I say. "Anything he wanted, anything he needed, and I was there. I told him I'd do anything for the money, so I could give his daughter the ring she deserved, and he made me work for it. I'd come home at night with bloody knuckles and lie right to her face about how it happened. But I never killed a man. I never took a lie. He never asked me to… until after I got the ring. After we were married, he told me there was a rat that I needed to deal with for him. I didn't know what that meant then. Deal with them. But I do now, and I'm sure you do, too."
She nods.
She's trembling, scared about why I'm telling her this.
Good.
"He told me I still owed him, for the money he gave me for the ring, but if I did this one thing, my debt would be paid. So I agreed. And he looked at me that day, and he said, 'Ignazio, you have to kill your best friend.' And I couldn't do it. Rats had to go, but man… my best friend?"
Shaking my head, I slip the engagement ring in my pocket before closing the box again, leaving it lying on the bed. I stare at the top of it, trying to contain the emotion opening it conjured inside of me.
"I couldn't do it, but I guess Johnny could. It took me almost twenty years to return the favor, but I did it, finally, and now my debt is paid. And I learned a valuable lesson that day, one I'll never forget."
"What?" she asks quietly.
"You take out the rat before it can jump ship."
Before she can react, my hands are around her throat. I shove her into the wall, knocking her head against the plaster so hard it makes a dent. Her eyes bulge as she fights me, but I don't waver. I hold tight until her blood vessels burst and her heart stops beating, stealing her last breath.
I put her in the trunk and drive north, to the house tucked into the woods. I knock on the front door well after midnight, much to the dismay of Carter. He stares at me with disbelief before wordless getting the key to the incinerator, passing it over before going back to bed.
I'm not doing this to cover my tracks or conceal my crime.
Ray will figure it out.
I want him to.
I just want to make sure there's nothing left for the man to grieve.
He toyed with me.
I'll take his Baby Doll from him.
Grief doesn't go away.
You can ignore it all you want, shove it down or swallow it back, pretend it doesn't exist, but it's there. It stays there, lurking in the shadows, living way down in the depths, feeding off of anger, just waiting for the day it can rise up and take control.
No, grief doesn't go away, ever, because grief becomes a part of you.
It roots into your system, infecting your bloodstream. Grief pulsates in every beat of your heart and clouds around you with every breath from your lungs. Grief swims behind your eyelids every time you blink. It lives in every word you speak.
Grief is a fucking leech.
I know, because I'm grieving.
I ignored it for years, masked it with rage, but nothing I did made it go away. The moment I stopped and opened myself up again, dropping my guard to let myself feel, the grief seized hold.
The grass is an unnatural vibrant green that seems to glow brighter under the dismal gray sky. Water glistens from the ground, the wetness seeping through my shoes as I stand in it. I've been here for twenty minutes, I think. Twenty hours. Twenty days. Does it even fucking matter?
It's the first time I've come here in twenty years.
I know that for a fact.
The marble in front of me still looks brand new, the name etched on it bold. Maria Angelo Vitale. Fresh flowers lay on top of it. A few long stemmed pink roses. They were her favorite, I think. I'm not sure anymore. My memory's failing me. Today, it's her favorite flowers. Tomorrow, it's her face. I've already lost the sound of her voice. I've lost so much. Why couldn't I keep that?
The rage took it, I think. It got misplaced in my pursuit of revenge.
It didn't do her memory justice, like Ray said.
It did us all an injustice, but especially me.
It stole the only bits and pieces of her that I could keep.
I take a few steps closer, pausing right where I stood the day she was lowered into the ground. I'm wearing the same suit again.
I might burn it after this.
"Been a long time," I say. "A long, long time."
My voice is low but it seems to carry with the breeze. There's no one else here this morning, no one in this old cemetery, but it seems wrong, like the wind is stealing the words only meant for her. It pisses me off. Irrational, maybe, but since when am I rational?
I wanted to kill an innocent young woman simply for being born.
"I don't know why I'm here," I admit. "I don't know if you'd want to see me, or what you'd think of me if you were still here. I don't know, Maria… but I know I miss you. I've spent twenty goddamn years missing you, angry that you never had a chance… I've been so fucking angry that I forgot how to live. I'm trying to remember, but it's harder than I thought. I feel guilty. Guilty, because I let myself be happy again. It wasn't for long, but I
felt it. It's easy to forget the grief, you know, when you ignore its existence. But it came back, and now I'm fucking grieving."
Pulling the diamond ring from my pocket, I stare at it under the dull sky before stepping forward, setting it on the headstone beside the flowers. I wonder who left them. Her mother? Her father? A friend who actually remembered things about her?
"You should keep the ring," I say. "You should've been buried with it. I wasn't thinking back then… they took it off of you, and you were already in the ground when I remembered it. Someone will probably come along and steal it before the day is out, but that's nothing new. They steal everything. It's yours, though, not mine, so I'm giving it back to you, but this time with no vows."
I take a step back, once again eyeing the flowers. They feel wrong somehow. Maybe it's because they're pink.
Peach flowers were her favorite, I think.
"Goodbye, Maria," I say. "Part of me will always love you, but it's time for me to go now and finally try to deal with this grief."
I give the gravesite one more look before walking away. I trudge through the damp grass to where my car is parked along the curb and start the drive home.
It's been one week.
One week since Karissa left.
In seven days, she could be anywhere, deep in the south or way out west, somewhere that's not here.
Somewhere far away.
It's been a long week.
I can't sleep.
I'm numb physically, emotionally spent. I have nothing left to give. Paranoia consumes me. Every gust of wind is a warning; every rustling leaf is a threat. I'm tired, so tired. I just want it to end.
I park in the driveway when I make it home, climbing out and closing the door. I slowly make my way to the house, pulling out my house keys and unlocking the front door. Carefully, I push it open, freezing with my hand on the knob when I hear a noise in the distance, animated voices coming from the den.
The television.
It's on.
I haven't turned it on all week.
I don't watch it.
It doesn't interest me.
Nothing here interests me.
My skin crawls, sickness brewing in the pit of my stomach as I let go of the doorknob. Slowly, I take a step back. I'm so fixated on the goddamn television that I hardly hear the rustling behind me, the faint sound of someone shuffling through the grass.
It's close when I hear it, too close.
Too fucking close.
I'm unarmed.
I'm too late.
Turning around, the first thing I see is the muzzle of a gun, pointed right at my face from just a few feet away. Ray holds it, gripping tightly to the weapon, his finger on the trigger.
I stare him in the eyes.
He looks unfazed.
Anger.
All I see is anger.
I recognize it, because for a long time that was all I felt, too. It's the look I saw every time I encountered my reflection in the mirror.
"You've been in my house," I say. "Looking for me, I suppose."
He shakes his head. "I didn't go in there. Didn't have to. Your car was gone. Knew you'd be back eventually."
He's lying, I think.
He has to be.
Somebody's been in there.
It wasn't me.
"I'm surprised you're here," I say calmly, trying to buy myself a moment to think. "I thought it would be Kelvin, maybe one of the others. Getting your hands dirty isn't really your thing."
"Yeah, well, a man does a job himself when he's got a personal claim to it."
"So it's personal."
"You know it is."
His hand is steady. It doesn't shake.
He's going to shoot me.
I know it.
And he's not going to miss his target.
This isn't an idle threat or meant to send some message. He's a man on a mission and his mission is murder. The end always comes at the hand of a friend. I should expect no less than the man who was like a father to me.
"Go on," I say, my voice steady. I feel no fear. I probably should. Maybe it's the monster in me that isn't afraid of death. Living terrifies me more. Living is fucking hard. I've already died once. "Do it if you're going to do it. Put a bullet in my head. Make your daughter proud."
His anger flares. "She was too good for you."
"She was," I agree, "but she loved me, nonetheless."
Ray's finger presses against the trigger, close to squeezing it, as I continue to stare him in the eyes. There's something wrong with me, I think. I should be pleading for my life. I should be praying I live. My heart should race. I should break a sweat. Something. Anything.
But I feel nothing.
Again, there's nothing.
Nothing until I hear my name.
It's hesitant, spoken behind me in the house, a faint whisper in that familiar voice I never thought I'd hear again. Naz. It's just my imagination, I tell myself. I didn't really hear it.
Except I did.
I heard it, and I hear it again. Naz.
This time Ray hears it, too.
It's real.
His gaze shifts past me, into the open doorway, his anger giving way to surprise. I turn quickly, catching a pair of soft brown eyes, hesitant but devoid of fear. She can see me but she can't see him. She thinks I'm alone. She thinks I'm just standing here.
She isn't afraid of me.
Not anymore.
Karissa.
She isn't sure what to think of my silence as she takes a step toward me and speaks yet again. "Ignazio?"
My heart skips a beat before hammering hard in my chest, my thoughts suddenly racing. There's the feeling. There's the fear. There's the adrenaline. It washes through me all at once until I'm drowning in it, but it's not for me. No, not in the least. It's for her.
No.
No.
Fuck, no.
She's not supposed to be here.
Karissa steps toward me.
So does Ray.
My gaze bounces between them, frantic.
It's only seconds, those brief seconds where the world stops turning, when you stare down the barrel of a gun that you know is going to take everything from you. Your life, maybe, but certainly your reason to live. But it only lasts seconds before the gun shifts.
Ray aims over my shoulder, into the doorway. His finger squeezes the trigger as I scream, lunging at him. The gunshot goes off, loud in my ear, a small explosion that rocks the air around me. I hit him a second too late, knocking him to the ground, familiar rage consuming me. We struggle as I fight him, getting my hands on the gun, beating him with it to get him to loosen his grip before turning it around on him. I don't hesitate. I don't even think about it.
I grip the gun.
I pull the trigger.
A second after the gunshot goes off, I hear the sharp inhale, the sucking in of air from lungs desperate to breathe. My eyes are on Ray, as he lays on his back in the grass, immobile. He's not breathing.
It didn't come from him.
No.
God, no.
My eyes dart to the doorway of the house when the sound hits me again. I don't see Karissa. She's not standing there anymore. But I can hear her.
I hear her when she gasps.
When she tries to breathe.
Pushing away from Ray, getting to my feet, I drop the gun in the grass and rush inside, nearly collapsing as soon as I step in the foyer. Blood streaks the white linoleum surrounding Karissa. She lays flat on her back, clutching a wound on her chest, trying to keep the blood in but it's seeping out too fast. Dropping to my knees, I pull her into my arms, forcing her weak hands away from the wound. I tear her shirt open, getting it out of the way. The wound is near her rib cage and it's sucking air every time she inhales.
Shit.
I put her hands tightly against it again, looking down at her. "Hold right there, okay? I'm going to get something to stop the air."
I run to the ki
tchen, throwing things around as I sort through cabinets, finding a roll of plastic wrap. I grab some medical tape from the drawer and run back to Karissa, grateful she's exactly how I left her. I drop to the floor, pulling her hands away, and tear off some plastic wrap. I cover the wound, taping it tightly, before I search through my pockets to find my phone.
With one hand, I press firmly on her wound, while I use the other to dial 911. My heart still races as her bloody hands grasp my arm, holding on to me. Tears streak her cheeks, her breaths panicked gasps as she stares up at me. The dazed look is already in her eyes.
"Deep breaths, baby," I tell her, my voice cracking, as I cradle the phone in crook of my neck. "Try to relax. The more excited you get, the faster your heart pumps and the more blood you lose."
"911, what's your emergency?"
"I need an ambulance right away," I say. "Nineteen year old female with an open chest wound from a gunshot."
I rattle off the address, and the dispatcher tries to give me instructions, asking me to stay on the line until help arrives, but I drop the phone, letting it hit the floor beside me, not bothering to hang it up. I still clutch tightly to her wound, trying to slow the bleeding, as my free hand brushes the hair from her face.
"Naz," she whispers. "Naz…"
"It's okay," I tell her, continuing to smooth her hair as I stare down at her. "I've got you. Just keep breathing, okay? You're going to be okay just as long as you keep breathing for me. You think you can do that?"
She nods weakly.
"Just keep breathing," I whisper, relishing every breath she takes, no matter how strained. "Just keep breathing."
She tries. Fuck, I can tell she's trying, but each inhale brings on a grimace of pain. Her face contorts with a cry as I brush away her tears. "Naz…"
"No," I say, shaking my head. "Don't try that bullshit. Don't Naz me. You just keep breathing and you're going to be fine. I promise. You can't… I can't lose you. I need you to keep breathing, Karissa. Help is coming soon. Just hold on for me."
Two minutes.
Four minutes.
Ten minutes.
Torture to Her Soul Page 32