Beautiful Evil Winter

by Kelly K Lavender

  Positioning myself where the door will crack open, I put the alcohol between me and the couch, leaning on the bottle. My right hand grips the lighter and my left holds the hairspray accelerant.

  This should become the blowtorch that at least slows him down.

  “Ehhh?”

  A deep throaty chuckle answers my question.

  I hear the key click in the door as I uncap the bottle of alcohol. Holding the hairspray accelerant in one hand and the lighter in the other, I’m ready to do battle. The door cracks, heaving and pushing follow. I allow just enough leeway to get a good shot at him.

  What!

  My jaw drops as I see his smile and the barrel of his gun.

  No! I fight here and now!

  Looking down, he moves toward the couch to push it out of the way.

  Without blinking, I drop the lighter and grab the barrel of his gun, pulling him forward. A bullet rips through my stomach and the can of hair spray fires directly into his eyes. He hunches over and yelps as I continue my assault, his body sideways to mine. Grabbing the about to-fall-bottle of alcohol, I splash him, a killer at a crime scene wielding a can of gasoline not more determined or deliberate. With my eyes trained on him, I grope for the lighter. My peripheral vision catches sight of it. And, once again, the toilet paper comes into view.

  Another tool for me.

  Snatching the lighter, my blowtorch becomes complete again. I set his clothes ablaze. Shrieking, he falls onto the couch, digging at his eyes and desperately trying to pat out the flames. The blood pours from my gut while Ponytail screams in agony, his body writhing and convulsing in pain.

  A second voice joins his—Zack’s. My weakening body, once like molten liquid, morphs now titanium strong with willpower. A cocktail of adrenalin and confidence empties into my veins. A quick thought back to my riding accident—the hideous accident, grisly recovery and return to the saddle, jumping horses and winning.

  Walking backwards to the kitchen with my eyes fixed on him, I hook the towel-wrapped chair with my hand, pulling it toward the window. With a flick of the lighter, I torch the chair and throw it at the window. By leaning back and shifting my weight into the small wooden kitchen table, I manage to push it to the window and upend it out to the street below. Glass and embers scatter in its fiery wake, a beacon and a signal to anyone on the street. Cold wind and snow swishes into the room. Blood trickles through my fingers as I listen for Zack again.

  A charred figure of a person approaches me with a needle in his hand. His face is black, bleeding, raw and melted like candle wax. Flakes of his burnt clothing scatter—an aura of char grilled evil as he walks toward me. His scent hangs in the air. I smell beef and pork frying in a pan seasoned with burning hair. Spinning around, I grab the pitcher from the counter and uncap it. Holding it in one hand, I stand fixated.

  “Da, I have plans for you. You not die. Maybe, your baby die. Children sold here for body parts. Maybe, some rich baby needs new heart. Maybe, Viktoria make money finding new family for him. I don’t care about baby. I make sure you live so you be a whore that works for me. “He laughs—his eyes dark holes tunneled into his head.

  Glaring at me, he wipes his brow. A thick layer of skin falls from his hand. His skin now hangs by a chord from his brow. Unmoved, he continues toward me.

  “Are you going to kill me with a metal pitcher?” he sneers.

  I stand my ground, wielding my weapon.

  Suddenly, he lunges at me with the needle, I move to the side, but it isn’t enough. He grabs my left arm, plunging the needle into my bicep.

  “My crack whore. Welcome to your new life.”

  Zack cries reach a shrill pitch now.

  Without hesitation, I hit his hand with the pitcher. While bleach spills onto his raw bloody appendage, the needle sinks deeper into my arm. Screaming, he releases my arm. Instantly, I claw the empty needle away.

  Clutching his hand and arm, roaring rage fills his eyes.

  “Maybe, you won’t get that far after all.”

  “You think!” With a half turn, I hurl the contents of the pitcher at his face. In a flash, I step back a few steps, watching the bleach arc across his hands, arms and face.

  Skin once raw and charred is now bubbling as he yelps in anguish. Falling to the floor, he curls up in a fetal position, digging at his eyes.

  My chance to get Zack and escape is now!

  I inch my way to the bedroom, knowing I need a belt to slow blood loss, knowing double vision is distorting my clear path.

  Opening the door, I see red-faced, teary-eyed Zack, his tiny fists clenched at his sides.

  “Mommy’s here,” I tell him as I move to stroke his little head.

  Not much gas left in the tank. Can only bend over once for you.

  Hunting around for a belt, I see two on the dresser. Grabbing one, I place it over my clothes and above my waist—cinching it tightly—hoping it’s enough to be an effective tourniquet.

  Could be a flesh wound. Doesn’t matter—have to save him. Breathing in and out, I test the fit, dizziness starting to set-in with each deep breath.

  Grabbing a coat from a chair and a blanket from the bed, I wiggle slowly into it, leaving it open. Leaning over, I place the blanket on Zack. My knees buckle as I position the blanket under his neck. Reaching for the bedpost for support, I pause.

  Glancing at my stomach, I see red from waist to hips, a mix of darker and lighter red.

  I endured something this horrible before. I can absolutely do this!

  Clenching the bedpost with one hand, I scoop Zack up with the other.

  Heaving and gripping, I struggle to hoist him up to my shoulder.

  Another pause as he leans into my shoulder, blubbering. I push-off from the bedpost and soldier toward the front door.

  Sirens whine in the distance as I stare at my blocked exit.

  39. RUN

  Immediately, my thoughts revert to Ponytail as we enter the living room. Seeing that he’s still immobilized, I have to deal with the door, without zapping all my strength.

  Approaching the entryway, I see the gun on the floor. I grit my teeth as I walk by it. I want that gun, but I can’t chance bending over again. The couch partially blocks the door. If he squeezed through it, maybe, so can we.

  With Zack in my arms, I cup his head and body as I squeeze us sideways into the opening. By leaning my back into the doorframe, I squat down, bringing up my knees against the door to pry it open just enough.

  I sigh, pausing for another breath as we stand outside the apartment for the first time in a long time.

  Now, have to go downstairs, such a possible, impossible task.

  Clutching Zack tightly against my chest, I lean backward, feeling forward for the two hand rails that appear before me.

  I can do this. It’s about balance. I balanced over 5 foot fences, over multiple 3’6” fences on horseback. I’m an expert on balance. Take small slow steps while gripping the handrail. No looking down, just like jumping. Look straight ahead.

  With a clenched jaw and a steady grip, we make it to the sidewalk. Nausea and an ever- increasing black darkness battle with me for control. Another pause as I turn the handle and push into the front door with my shoulder. Out on the street, I see people clustered to my right, pointing up and staring in shock. The chair and table are splintered—burning in a heap on the sidewalk—as icicles of glass dot the snowy perimeter. The sun disappears from the horizon as if seeking rest from a too long factory shift, relinquishing its job of illumination to the burning pile and the soon-to-be-here sirens. Following their gaze upward, I see disfigured Ponytail standing at the shattered kitchen window, his sunglasses scanning the crowd below. His half smile signals that he sees us.

  Must try to run—run for the lives of my baby and me. Need to find a church. They can protect him if I can’t.

  One foot then the other sinks into the crunchy deep snow, the blood flowing faster now as I pump my arms and legs with every shred of strength.


  From the corner of my eye, I notice a white van slows and shadows me street side. I push harder the blood, streaming like urine, wetting my clothes again. The van stops and people vault out, rushing toward me. My body shivers and trembles as I search for a church. The big black shadow growing, obstructing my vision, now only tunnel vision left. Cars are honking.

  They aren’t that loud. Maybe, it’s because I’m breathing so hard.

  Twinkling stars appearing now inside and outside the tunnel.

  Someone stands in front of me, grabbing my arm.

  Falling, backward. Backward, better for Zack.

  I grip him harder to cushion his landing.

  “Sophia, stay with me!”

  Hallucinating—I hear Ethan. No, there is no Ethan. Drugs—only drugs do that. Focus.

  “Please take my baby. Take care of him. I love him so,” I beg.

  Before my eyes close, I see a gun. And feel the pull of someone’s hands on my shoulders.

  40. LOCKDOWN AGAIN

  People are talking around me—I’m dead or dreaming.

  “I’m so happy that she’ll be ok!”

  Ethan? Ethan squeezing my hand?

  Zack. Zack okay?

  “Our plans changed—huh, Natasha? We went from surprising her with the sight of gun-slinging me to her surprising us without a gun.”

  “Spasibo, Ivan for spotting her from the van. Please tell him, Natasha.”

  “Of course. She’s tougher than I ever think. She make good Russian mother for him.”

  Yeah, I’m dead. She’d never say anything like that. Maybe, I’m in heaven now.

  “I’m glad I shot Ponytail to death. I enjoyed it. Now, I have to try to stay out of prison.”

  “He shot and drug your wife. Much proof for us. No prison this time.”

  “What about her issue? When will she be herself again?”

  Issue? What issue?

  I can’t shake myself awake! Maybe, post surgical hangover.

  “Can she see the baby or be with him?”

  “Doctor say no for now. He watch her for couple of days.”

  “Crack—very addictive. He say no treatment here.”

  No mention of Zack. He must be ok, getting re-acquainted with his Dad. What a relief!

  “Did the doctor say what we should expect from her?”

  “Violent anger, extreme insomnia and irritable.”

  Wonderful. At least, I’m alive, so much to be thankful for.

  “Maybe, she needs that.”

  “Why? What do you say?”

  “Viktoria is still loose, may be on the run, may be not. She’s still a threat to us. By now, she knows the plan failed. Maybe, she was just an accomplice or maybe she was much more.”

  “Why—we can hire a guard. The police still look for her.”

  “That’s probably not enough. Guards or police guards can be bribed.”

  “After all of this, she could still be in harm’s way.”

  ***

  Days pass in the room—at first, hazy then not. There are sickeningly clear days when nausea and vomiting devour my day. Pains twist then torques every fiber of muscle, and convulsions follow that grip my body in malicious play. Anger flames when I turn to the dark side, thinking that I may still be a risk to my family and with my family, thinking that Methadone won’t work for me, knowing that I can’t even hold Zack unsupervised.

  And I hate this crappy food! And someone feeding me this crappy food. And being tied to the bed rails. Guess they consider me dangerous since I damaged Mr. Mafia.

  Taking stock of my surroundings, I see beige walls and beige tile covering the floors, and a large square window facing the street. To my left, the door to the room is closed. I look to the right along the long wall, another door to the bathroom. A vase containing yellow roses and a few speared, foil-wrapped hearts sits by the bed on a nightstand, a token of love from still Saudi-stationed Dad. A metal utilitarian drafting light flanks me on the other side attached to the headboard rail.

  Lying in bed, my eyes focus on the window filled with spotlighting sunshine, and my ears listen to the hustle bustle of the staff as they prepare for the busy lunch hour. Two roaches breed on the wall next to the window frame as another skitters out of the bathroom.

  And they wonder why I don’t eat. If I enjoyed roach filth, maybe I would. I guess I should disregard the fact that those buggers can crawl on my sheets while I sleep. Of course, I shouldn’t have an insomnia issue.

  And depression. The big “D” word. I think some PTSD may be bubbling up in this pristine palace. Bottom line—if Zack is ok, I’m ok. I can choke down everything else. I really have a lot to be thankful for. I’d rather be in this roach-riddled hospital than dead in the snow.

  A soft knock at the door disrupts the roach porn, sending them scattering in different directions.

  “Hey, Sophia, I brought you something special for lunch.” Ethan coos as he pushes open the door. Scrumptious sturgeon and Ethan’s sexy smile brighten the room and lighten my morose mood. Sitting down the foil wrapped plate, he leans over to untie my tethers and hug me.

  “This should be the last day you have to deal with these.”

  Rubbing my wrists, I smile at him and lean over to peck his lips.

  “You’re the best husband, Ethan!”

  Sitting upright now, I flatten the covers and sheets to make way for the soon-to-be devoured meal.

  “How’s Zack? “I ask excitedly.

  “He’s fun and funny. He misses you, we both do,” he says leaning toward me pushing my hair away from my face, his hand pausing before grazing my jaw line.

  “When can I bail? Do you know?” My voice raises an octave as I think about the prospect.

  “Doc said in a day or two,” Ethan announces with a wink.

  “Yesss! And I’m ready to go! I’m ready to pack tonight!”

  “By the way, whose idea was it to bring the gun to me? Was it Natasha’s?”

  “No, your Dad called to make that request. He thought it’d be a good idea, and it was! He’s on his way here,” Ethan answers with a look of admiration.

  “And what about Viktoria? Where is she? In jail?” I ask between bites of sturgeon.

  Clearing his throat, he averts my gaze, and his eyes study the window.

  “Uhh… We don’t know where she is. When they find her, she’ll face charges as an accessory,” he says as sadness coats his every word.

  “And both of you are safe?” I continue.

  “Yes, and a policeman sits outside your door to keep you safe.”

  “Hmmmm…Since bribes are commonplace here, think I’ll stay alert.”

  “Do you still have that gun?” I ask as I stab the sturgeon with my knife.

  41. AN UNEXPECTED VISIT

  With a hug and kiss, Ethan leaves me to return to Zack. Ivan is caring for him at Natasha’s insistence. The sun skulks over the horizon and prisms of light and dark stream into the room. Evening is approaching. Sitting upright untethered in bed, I reach under my pillow to check for the gun, the black 9 mm has a full clip. Grabbing it, I carry it to the bathroom with me, the folds of my oversized hospital gown easily disguising its presence.

  This is probably my last night here. I’m taking no risks, leaving nothing to chance.

  As I walk out the door of the bathroom, I see a nurse setting down a tray, her back facing me. It’s early for dinner, and my meds arrive with dinner.

  My finger pushes the safety off as I walk slowly toward the bed. My hand grips the gun. My breathing slows as my chest pumps in distress.

  A she turns around, I see Viktoria’s face, framed by black hair.

  I raise my gun leveling it at her. Her lack of surprise startles me.

  “I knew you’d be armed. Shoot me now if you want.”

  “Move away from the tray. Empty your pockets and show me your hands.”

  My eyes search for signs of hidden weapons while hate pools in my throat.

  Viktoria carefully complies
her unblinking eyes meeting mine, her brows knitted in fear.

  “Okay, move over to the chair. Sit there. I’ve got some questions for you.”

  “Why do you work with Ponytail?” My voice cracks as I try to control my fury.

  “His name is Andrei. I desperately need money. He desperately need revenge,” she answers as her eyes bore into mine.

  “What exactly were you planning to do with our son?” I spit as I chamber a bullet, my gaze unflinching.

  “The plan—you would be missing from the apartment when Natasha went to see you. He would force you to write a note saying you can’t handle the situation anymore, saying that you abandon your baby. I write it for Ponytail, but he has to make sure it was the same note I wrote, letter by letter. “

  “He would call me when you are not conscious. He planned to beat you, rape you, drug you and roll you in a rug. Then, he would carry you out on his shoulder and call me as he shut the door. Then, I go to apartment for baby. He does not want baby, only revenge with you.” She reports.

  “Again, what would you do with Zack?”

  I want to kill her, but I have to know the whole story.

  “I would ransom him to Natasha or find another family for him for money. Andrei help me do this without problems from Mafia.”

  My body trembles unable to contain the rattling rage that grips it. Monstrous anger claws at my insides in an attempt to escape and destroy.

  “I am ashamed and sorry. I hate myself for my actions. I come to you without a weapon to say that. If you kill me, I am ready for that.” Tears fill her eyes as she meets mine moment-for-moment.

  “Why did they let us adopt Zack? They could have stopped us before it happened.”