Elastic Heart

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

I was dressed in all black, wearing a black shirt, black leggings, and gloves. Maybe it was cliche, but I hadn’t exactly had cat burglar training. I had taken Anthropology instead of Intro to Framing in college. I was going off whatever I had seen on TV and read in books. They taught me: wear all black and bring a knife.

  I left my gun in the car. Only bring what you can comfortably run with. I didn’t know where to stash my gun since I was wearing all tight clothing. Also, I was trying to be inconspicuous. I figured dressed in black with a noticeable gun bulge sort of screams “I’m up to no good.”

  As I looked through files on the computer, I heard a sound. I ejected my USB and ducked down, out of sight, my breathing hitched. I hadn’t expected anyone to be at the office, and perhaps that assumption would be my undoing.

  I waited for what felt like hours, but when I checked my phone it had only been minutes. I decided to wait for a few more before getting up. For all I knew the sound had been in my head. As I got ready to stand I heard the sound again, this time much clearer: “No, Senator Morris!”

  My gut turned to ice. I knew that sound. I had made that sound. I ran to the location of the voice, no longer caring whether or not I drew attention.

  I ran into the alley after hearing the sound of distress, but when I burst forth it was silent. The silence was a haunting yet brutally magnifying force. It magnified the crush of my shoes against the snow and made my breathing nearly deafening. Even though it was the dead of night, the white snow lit up the night. I could see everything.

  There’s something inherently eerie about night. Call it biology or call it mumbo jumbo, but my senses are always on high alert when the moon comes out. Outside in the alley, a light breeze was blowing that gave me goose bumps. The breeze carried the smell of a nearby Chinese restaurant and the night air became an amalgam of fried egg rolls and that dark earthy smell that seems to only come on Halloween night. Lucky me, it was the middle of December and it smelled like creepy ass Halloween.

  I trailed my hands against the cool brick exterior, feeling the grooves and loose grains against my gloved finger. The breeze was chilly and smooth on my arm, like an unwanted lover. Even though everything appeared fine, something stuck in my gut like a twisted knife. Something still wasn’t right.

  Still trailing my hands on the brick, I turned the alley corner so that I was no longer on the side of the building but at its back. I peered up at the moon. It was copper colored, like blood, supposedly a rare occurrence. People called it beautiful, but I knew better. Nothing that beautiful could come without strings.

  The alley was illuminated only by the moon, but the bright white snow meant I could see everything clearly. Too clearly. I saw him. Senator Mitch Morris had a girl pinned against the wall, his hand down her skirt. Her face was frozen in terror and his hand was over her mouth.

  No. No. No. No.

  The memories threatened to crash back like a tsunami destroying an island. I fell against the wall, trying to catch my breath. I could have turned back and never seen it. I could have continued with my plan and never been in the situation. I still could…

  The girl let out another pleading cry and Morris shoved his hand harder against her mouth. Her eyes watered in pain.

  Dammit. I had to do something.

  I shoved my own memories back until I was completely, utterly numb. If you had pierced me with a needle I would have felt nothing. Walking slowly up to Morris, I prepared to make my move. I sidled up behind him until I was so close I could smell the sickeningly sweet aroma of his aftershave—an expensive cologne, probably. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, and a raping monster with any other scent is still as evil.

  Morris didn’t notice me. He was too busy being a lecher. The girl he was assaulting, however, did. Her eyes widened, threatening to pop out. I wished I could have given her some hint that I was her friend, but in order to do what I was about to do, I had to go completely numb. I couldn’t feel anything. Compassion was gone.

  The only weapon on my body was the knife and my knife training consisted of cutting up tomatoes. Somehow, I thought Morris would be a little more difficult than the occasional slippery tomato. I was only about a foot away from him. My gut clenched.

  I could leave. I could turn around and run away and he would never know. I could still get out.

  But I didn’t.

  Because that girl was me once, and everyone had turned and run away from me.

  I swallowed and turned off my brain. Thoughts would only hurt. Getting ready to use my knife, I elbowed Morris in the neck. He coughed and sputtered, taken off guard. Using that to my advantage, I pressed him against the wall, knife to neck.

  Morris wasn’t a big man. He was maybe only an inch or two taller than my 5’7” self, but his presence was imposing. As I shoved him against the brick wall, I had to keep reminding myself that I was the one with the knife.

  Finally I had evidence. Finally a witness to take down Morris. I wouldn’t need to frame him. It was one thing if one intern called him a rapist. You could call one intern a liar and a whore, but when two interns come out of the woodwork…and what if—now I was just dreaming here—but what if when me and the new girl came out, more of his victims surfaced?

  I was starting to get giddy. I finally fucking had the guy. I turned my head to tell the girl to call the police, my mouth already forming the words, but she was gone. I saw her bare feet disappear around the ally. My heart sank. I knew she was terrified. I’d been there before. Still, when I’d signed up for saving her, I hadn’t known I was signing up for being alone with Morris. For it all over again.

  Maybe she saw me as a vigilante. Vigilantes didn’t need help, after all. I mean, when was the last time a citizen stuck around to help a superhero? Check: never. I wasn’t a vigilante though. I was terrified. Literally quaking in my boots. I had a knife up to my demon, the thing that had haunted me for months.

  Now what?

  “My name is Nami DeGrace. I was your intern.” I gripped the knife’s handle, trying to be tough. If any crack in my foundation was exposed, Morris would use that to gut me open.

  Instinctively I shoved the knife harder against his throat. A small slice of satisfaction hit me when a tiny bit of red blood popped out, like sprigs of Christmas holly decorating his neck. His eyes widened, but to his credit he still acted calm. I wasn’t sure if that was bravery or idiocy.

  Probably a little bit of both.

  I nearly pressed the knife harder when he didn’t speak. I had said my name and told him who I was, but he didn’t acknowledge me. Could he really have forgotten me? Could he have forgotten what he had done to me?

  Memories of that night came crashing over me, like when I was a teenager swimming in the ocean and I went too far out. The waves crushed me and dragged me so far under I scraped my skin against the coral. I was saved by a lifeguard.

  Before the lifeguard got to me, I remembered thinking how I was going to die. I couldn’t get above the water because the waves kept crashing and crashing. Any time I tried to break through, another would crash on top of me and swirl me in its deathly grip. Then something grabbed my arm and pulled me up.

  My eyes stung with saltwater and my throat felt like the membrane had been scraped away. I could barely see through all the sand and salt in my eyes. Now, as I kept my knife to Morris’s throat, that same feeling of hopelessness commingled with bitter relief fell over me.

  He had known exactly who I was when he’d pushed me to the ground. He’d told me I was a “good little intern” who was getting her reward. I’d begged and screamed for him to stop, but he’d only laughed. He’d laughed at my tears and laughed as he stuffed one of my socks into my mouth. Thanks to him, I didn’t have any socks in my house. My feet were continually cold.

  Though he said nothing to me, I could see it in his eyes now. He had that same laughter he’d had the night he’d raped me. It was a smug, cocksure glint that told me he felt safe even with a knife to his throat. Morris had grown t
o believe himself infallible. No matter how hard I pressed the knife to his throat, he wouldn’t talk to me. That would have been admitting he’d lost some of his power.

  “I’m not here to kill you,” I stated, releasing the knife’s hold on his neck just a little bit, hoping that might loosen his tongue. And I wasn’t—there to kill him that is. After the combustion with Law, my sanity and demeanor were edging on precarious, but I wasn’t planning on killing him.

  I’d seen him with that girl and had snapped. After watching Morris that night in the manufacturing district, it had been eating me up inside. What was I doing, after all? What was my purpose with all of this surveillance if not to make sure he couldn’t hurt any more?

  When I’d left Law for the office, sure I was planning something reckless. Framing someone wasn’t exactly baking cookies, but murder? No. I wasn’t planning that. I looked back at Morris, expecting fear, but what I got was ease and…was he laughing? He was! The fucker was laughing at me.

  I slapped him across the face, keeping the knife steady.

  I felt my fists curling and my control slipping. I didn’t have my gun with me, for which I was actually grateful. Being so close to Beezelbub, I wasn’t sure of my grasp on control. Just having the knife was making me drunk with power. I could end his life so easily. I could rid the world of a rotten, festering wound that was slowly killing it.

  Everyone would sleep better at night, even if they didn’t know why.

  “Nami! Nami DeGrace!”

  Paparazzi.

  I dropped the knife, snapping my head to the paparazzi as the blade hit the ground with a sickening clang. I’d thought I was done with them, or at least that they were done with me. They’d stopped camping outside my apartment a little over four months ago. The only reminder that they’d been there was their empty soda cans and burger wrappers like tumbleweeds on my lawn. I’d changed my email and phone number, so that gave me the illusion that they no longer cared. I had disappeared to a new apartment and I’d thought they’d disappeared with me.

  Dammit, I hated being wrong.

  “Nami why are you here? Are you trying to win back Senator Morris?”

  Bile filled my stomach and tried to exit my throat. I couldn’t see the reporter past the bright white of the flash. I’d been caught, but not as an attempted murderer. They’d “caught” me trying to entice Senator Morris. Honestly, I’d have preferred to be a murderer. It was much better than the alternative. I’d rather be known as the girl who tried to kill the devil than the one who tried to love him.

  I turned to leave when something—or someone, rather, stopped me in my tracks. “You used to be such a good little intern. Perhaps you need to be…reminded.” I spun around to see Morris, a smile on his face that might as well have been dripping with my blood. My fists clenched as I contemplated my next move. Bulbs flashed, cautioning me that whatever I chose would be witnessed and recorded forever.

  Gritting my teeth, I flew past the paparazzi, knocking Morris and the cameramen to the side. Their indignation was short-lived as I heard more questions hurtled at me. I ran down the street, not looking back. My knife was still nestled at Morris’s feet. Without a doubt, he’d won this round. When I turned another street and the paparazzi were no longer heard, tears filled my eyes.

  I barely cried in months, but the realization that Morris might always win was too much. I was climbing Everest without oxygen. I used to think the worst thing that could happen was death. Now I knew better.

  I walked through the nearly empty streets of Salt Lake City, feeling completely hopeless, useless, and powerless. I used to like how nighttime in Salt Lake was quiet. Now I just felt lonely. The sky was a starless void; clouds tumbled over one another like tumorous black masses.

  I didn’t want to go home. Home meant I’d failed. Home meant Morris got to keep being Morris.

  I couldn’t go to Law’s.

  So I ambled around during the witching hour. I must have been adrift in my mind because I didn’t notice the sound of danger. By the time I did, it was too late.

  “Give me all your money.” Are you fucking kidding me? I spun around to face the joke. Three men dressed in black with ski masks held knives to me. Was this really happening? I looked around to see if anyone would help, but it was just me on the street—not like anyone would offer aid, anyway.

  I couldn’t muster any other emotion besides indignation. I had literally just come from the devil’s den, and now this?

  “What is this?” I asked, eyeing the men and their knives. Of course I hadn’t brought my gun. Of course this would be happening to me. I was Nami DeGrace, bad luck magnet.

  “Knock your purse to us.” I held my backpack tightly at their request. It didn’t contain much, not even any money. It only held my USB and what few files I thought might be useful in framing Morris. It was all I had made of this pointless night. It was everything.

  “Who sent you?” I asked suspiciously. Was it possible Morris had sent some of his goons? Did he know what I’d taken?

  “Look, bitch,” one of them said. “Knock the purse over or we gut you, simple.” The man looked to his left and right, shaking the knife slightly.

  “It’s not a purse,” I explained desperately. “It doesn’t have any money in it.”

  “We’ll decide that.”

  “No.” I clutched my bag tighter and inched backward. Glancing back, I could see I had about a yard before the street opened up to another busier street. I wasn’t sure I could outrun them, but it was my only shot. If I made it to the street I could scream bloody murder and hopefully someone would hear me. If I stayed, I was as good as dead. I took off at a sprint.

  “Fuck!” one of them yelled out. I could see my freedom. The street approached me. I reached a hand out toward it, but liberty was yanked away. One of them grabbed my shirt and pulled me back. I fell to the concrete, my head landing with a sickening crack. All three towered over me, peering at me with disdain.

  “Shoulda just given us the damn purse,” one of them said.

  “It’s not a purse.” I still clutched the bag, my arms feeling limp. I didn’t know when the first blow landed, just as I didn’t know when the last blow ended. It was a symphony of hits, punches, and shots. My ribs crunched and my organs crumpled. I tasted blood.

  I stared up at the moon. It was red, looking like blood had dripped all over it. It was apt that it was called the blood moon. Was it coincidence or fate that I would bleed out on the night of the blood moon? Probably neither, just my own stupidity. As I stared at the starless, cloud-covered night sky, I realized something: I was without.

  Without purpose.

  Without reason.

  Without a soul, even.

  I’d been mugged and the first thing to come into my head was “It must be Morris.” Even then, I still believed it could be him. Morris had become my god. He was omnipotent and omnipresent. Months later, he was still inside me.

  I rolled over to my side and vomited. I vomited the day, which consisted mostly of a muffin I’d had for breakfast and water. On the crumbly, dirty sidewalk, I returned whatever was in my stomach, and probably a bit more. My hurling turned to dry heaves. I was too mangled to move, too shattered to stir. I had to lie there as my expulsion leached its way across the pavement and toward me, weaving its way into my hair and skin.

  I had officially hit rock bottom. I viewed my freedom, the alleyway opening, sideways. In the opening, a shadow of a man appeared. Inwardly I groaned. Was this horrible night not over? Had another demon appeared to finish me off?

  The moon above was growing bigger, like it was coming for me. I felt like I was joining the sky. The clouds parted, showing the full, red face of the moon. Copper-colored, like blood after it had dried. Or maybe I was just seeing the blood that had spilled from my own head.

  Slowly the shadow advanced. I gasped when I finally saw who it was. “Law?”

  Law picked me up and carried me down the street. I coughed, blood seeping down my chi
n. My vision started to swirl. I felt lightheaded, drugged, and dreamy. I wasn’t sure if I was talking or thinking, but the sentiment was the same. “I think you might’ve been one of the good guys…”

  I felt warm, despite the freezing air around me. The edges around my eyes were growing fuzzy and black. Everything was either all black or blackening. I could only feel, feel as Law’s warmth disappeared when he lay me down in what I assumed was a car.

  “Nami?” Law asked, his voice betraying concern. “Nami hang in there.” I knew I should probably be fighting the warm feeling that was engulfing me. I knew that, but part of me was so sick of fighting. It would be so easy to give in. When the car started and I felt the engine rumble against my skin, I was so ready to float away, to let go of everything, even if that meant letting go of me.

  “Nami what the fuck happened?” I barely registered his voice.

  “Were you one of the good guys, Law?” I murmured, sinking farther into the warmth of the car.

  “Stay. With. Me.” Law’s voice sounded as if he was everywhere. “Nami, god dammit, stay with me.” The fuzziness kept growing, like a vignette closing in on me. Thoughts no longer had meaning, everything just was. Soon everything was completely black.

  “Rise and shine, beautiful.” Law’s face was the first thing I saw. Chiseled-five-o’clock shadow-covered-chin. Hazel eyes, like the color of good whiskey, glared in scrutiny. Tight, drawn lips that curved in a smile when he saw me wake up.

  I blinked as if trying to reboot my system. At first, everything felt foreign. The warmth on my skin, the velvety smooth feeling of the blankets, it was all wrong. I was used to scratchy and cold. Where was I? I blinked some more, trying to gauge where I was.

  In a bed, that much was sure. Instead of feeling terrified, though, I felt safe. I almost wanted to curl up in the warm sheets and die. I would never admit it, but the bed smelled like Law. Rich and spicy and masculine, it made me want to roll around in the blankets.

  The room was decorated in golds and pale blues and the carpet was plush. Ornate drapes were drawn over a large window, so I wasn’t sure what time it was or how much I’d slept. As I took in the rest of the scenery, it became clear I was in Law’s hotel bedroom.