by Melissa Marr
Instead of replying, Michael gets up and gets dressed. Maybe it’s easier for him if he’s the one to leave. The rental is paid, so I could stay here and sleep. I don’t want to be in New York; I need to get home where I’m steadier. It’s the middle of the night though, and I’m still woozy from the pills and the memories. Once he’s gone, I’ll tend to my hand and sleep. Tomorrow, I can go home. I might not have money, but I can sell myself for enough for a ticket home or take it if necessary. I don’t like hurting people, but if I need to make someone bleed in order to protect myself, I will. Reid taught me that too.
New Orleans keeps me steady. I need to be back in my home, back where music tethers me. New York doesn’t simmer with blues and jazz. New York doesn’t have chicory coffee and gris gris and the Mississippi. It isn’t my home.
I remain in the doorway of this strange room in this wrong city as Michael pulls on trousers and a shirt. I am motionless as he tugs on socks and shoes. Despite everything, I want to say something to keep him from leaving me, but I can’t. He just saw what I’m really like inside. He thought he wanted to know, but my reality is a bit less pretty than the stuff of his fiction.
“Are you coming to the pharmacy with me or waiting here?” He looks over at me. “If you want to stay here, it’s okay. I’ll get what you need and be right back.”
I stare at him.
“If you’re coming, though, you need to get dressed.”
“Okay.” I walk over to the dresser, careful to avoid the glass still on the floor. I’m not sure what people do in these moments. I’ve never had one. My nocturnal screams are not something that I’ve allowed others to witness. No one shares my bed for sleep.
Not since Reid.
Not until Michael.
Trying to figure out how to get dressed without getting blood on my clothes isn’t new, but it’s harder with the things I packed for this trip. Michael likes me in colors, and the best option I have is a pair of dark blue jeans and a red blouse. There’s a black cardigan I can pull over it. I concentrate on the clothes, on the minutia, as I try to figure out what I’m to do.
I no more than pull the jeans out and Michael is there, taking them from me and kneeling at my feet. In that moment, he is so much like Reid that I fear that I’d do anything he asked of me.
“Step in,” he says.
Silently, I let him help me, feeling safer now that he’s treating me like this. Reid did this, helped me dress after I was hurt. Sometimes he hurt me a little extra while he was helping me, but that was just to make sure I was going to be good again. “Good girls don’t cry,” Reid always said. “Bad girls have to cry.” If I was good enough, he didn’t make me cry when he dressed me.
Michael isn’t hurting me. He buttons my jeans and then picks up my bra from where it had been tossed earlier that night.
“I’ve never put one of these on a woman. Usually I only take them off.” His voice is light, teasing, not pushing me toward the memories.
But even as he does that, he lets me know I’m not special: plenty of women have touched him. That, too, is about power. It’s how he tells me I’m replaceable.
I’m not. There is no one in the world who can give him what I can. We both know that. I let the illusion stand though. It serves both of us well to pretend I don’t matter to him.
“Once upon I time, I was with Reid. He . . . hurt me. There was a tub. And red. And I wasn’t sure I’d survive.”
Now, Michael looks at me like I’m special.
He puts my arms through the straps and turns me around. It’s oddly non-sexual, as if he’s afraid to touch my breasts. He hooks the back, not quite as tight as it should be, but I’m not going to complain. Complaining is bad. That’s a rule.
Softly, I say, “Can you . . .”
“What?” he asks.
I turn so I can see him, reach into my bra and pull my breast upward so it’s settled in correctly. I don’t need to, not really. What I need is for him to see me sexually again. “Can you do like that, but on the other side?”
He complies, trying to be clinical, but I catch his wrist and force his hand to stay where it is. At the same time, I press closer to him so my breast is filling his hand.
“Tess . . .”
I pull his wrist tighter to me, letting him feel how hard my nipple is in his palm. “I had a nightmare, Michael. I’m not any different than I was when you were pounding me into the mattress earlier tonight.”
“Point taken.”
I release his wrist, and he keeps his hand where it is. He watches my face as he slides his palm to the side so he can pinch my nipple. This, this is what I need. I don’t want to be the woman in the memory he glimpsed. I don’t want to be the person who bled because Reid was angry and the other woman was already dead. I don’t want to be the one responsible for her death.
And I really don’t want to be the one who had to beg to stay alive.
I want to be a woman so caught in this moment, this place, that I forget my past. I want to forget—not forever, but just for a while—that Reid existed. I’m not Teresa. I’m not Tessie. I’m Tess. Stronger than Teresa, built from her broken pieces. Stronger than Tessie, whose pieces were stitched together by Reid’s will and word.
I walk forward, pushing Michael back toward the bed.
“You don’t need—”
“You want me to feel better, right? This will help.”
He backs up until he bumps into the mattress. “I don’t see how this—”
“Shut up, Michael.” I drop to my knees and fumble with his trousers. It’s been a while since I’ve had to do this with my left hand. It isn’t as graceful as I like to be when I’m acting the seductress, but Michael is a man. Men are compliant when women go to their knees.
He lets me have control.
I fumble through button and zipper and tug his trousers and boxers out of the way, careful not to let my bloodied hand touch them. A fleeting thought that I’ll have to deal with blood on the floor after all crosses my mind, but then Michael objects again, “Tess, you really don’t need to do . . .”
I remember the things Reid taught me then: Good wives don’t have to die.
I am a good wife.
I am.
Afterword, I tell Michael about the day I knew that I had to leave Reid—even though I know he’ll write it in his book.
Or maybe because he will.
Maybe writing my story in ink on my body isn’t enough. Maybe I need Michael write it, maybe that’s why I wanted him all along. He’s doing it. I know he is. I haven’t read it, and I know he lies. It’s what men do. It’s what writers do. It’s what I did to stay alive.
26
A Girl with No Past
“Get in.” He pointed at the tub.
When I didn’t move, he set the bottle of wine down on the bathroom counter hard enough that I flinched. Red wine. That means it was for guests. Reid liked white. It was cleaner. He liked everything to be clean.
And good.
I tried to be those things for him. I really did. Sometimes, the rules shifted, and Reid didn't tell me. Sometimes, he liked to explain my mistakes. He watched for them so he could teach me to be good. Tonight, though, I’d made a mistake worse than ever before.
“You don’t need to use the tub.” I looked down as I speak; he didn’t like insolence. “I didn’t mean to—”
“In the tub, Tessie. Now.”
“I was wrong, and—”
“Get off the floor and into the fucking tub.” He wasn’t touching me, not moving.
Neither of us were looking at the girl slumped in the corner. She was sprawled there on our floor. Dead. I didn’t know her name. I tried to learn their names before they died. It bothered me that I didn’t know hers before she died.
Names are important.
Once I had another name. I had another life. Before Reid.
"Tess!" He jerked me to my feet and dropped me in the tub.
I scrambled to get out, trying to get o
ver the edge and away, even though he was watching. The chains he used were on the floor. I got one leg out, but then I lost my balance and fell onto the chains. They made a clinking-clattering-angry sound.
“Stop.” He grabbed my hair with one hand to keep me steady. With the other hand, he knocked my chest and shoved me back into the tub.
I half-fell into the far side of the tub, hitting my arm hard enough that it would bruise.
Bruises heal.
The things that happened to the girls in the tub didn’t.
Reid turned on the water so it poured down from the shower head. He didn’t bother with the temperature. He didn’t speak. He simply stared at me as the icy water sluiced over me.
I looked down.
The water running toward the drain was pink.
Blood. He was rinsing the blood off me.
I couldn’t look at him, and I didn’t want to look at the girl on the floor. She was dead. I was wet and cold, and she was dead.
“I don’t want to stay in the tub.” I said, as if what I want matters.
It didn’t, not to Reid.
27
Michael
Once Tess was asleep, I slipped out of bed and walk to the living room. I knew there was a story here, but I’d had no idea how much of one until her night terror tonight. The sounds of my pen on the pages seem loud in the tiny apartment, but I want to capture it, every moment, every feeling that she shared.
That chapter seems out of place. Do I move it? For now, I write it as she shared it. Mostly.
There’s no way this book won’t prove the critics wrong. Calling me a has-been? First book a fluke? Once they read about Tess, they’ll be begging me for interviews.
I write until my eyes are heavy. I will need to go back and make changes. Her Reid is my Edward. He is the modern Rochester, his wife in an attic as he entraps others. He is Angel Clare before his death, a man who created his own demise. He is Victor Frankenstein, destroyed by his monster.
And I am going to be the name on the cover, the one who wrote the tale. I’m creating the story from the pieces I know and the pieces I want to add. Tessa and Edward will be my masterpiece. Her domestic violence tale will be greater, larger, more in my hands. What I don’t understand is why there were other girls. I wonder if it was one of those many-wives things. That would make for an interesting twist.
Not capturing all of it, but I write for a while longer, playing with revisions on earlier chapters, going back and changing threads.
Do I call him Reid? Or stick with Edward? I make a note to myself. I think Edward has more weight. I re-read, and then I climb into bed. I don’t want her to wake alone. I might not believe in love and all that shit, but I’m not a monster. Tess is more damaged than I thought. She obviously needs me.
And I need her story.
I slip back under the covers and think about what she did afterwards. The part I don’t write down. She was in the throes of a night terror, and instead of comforting her afterwards, I let her suck me off. Admittedly, being with her usually ends in some sort of guilt, but this was worse. She was begging for her life a few minutes prior. Whoever this Reid was, he hurt her more than I think I’d want to know if not for the book.
The first time I realized how many scars she had, I was grateful I wasn’t expected to speak. She’s given me an easy way to never mention them, and I’ve accepted it so far. Now, however, I want to know, to hear the stories that go with each mark. He did that, tortured her, and she escaped. There were other girls there, and I don’t know if any of them escaped too, but Tess is a heroine. Maybe I ought to consider an “inspired by true events” book.
Even as I think that, I reject it. I should protect her. That’s the moral answer. The reality is that I want the fictionalization of her story, making it worse where I need or better if the events are the sort to turn off high street readers. Does it matter why, though? If doing it my way keeps her safe, isn’t that enough?
She moves closer to me in her sleep, and I let my hand fall on her hip. It’s not sexual, merely a comforting touch to let her know she’s not alone. I can do that when she’s asleep. Awake, everything is somehow sexual, a negotiation or a rejection. Tess’s every interaction is about power dynamics, and for her, that’s often sexual. It’s the coin she best understands.
Tess, as beautifully broken as she is, doesn’t match the image of a victim that the media would like. She’s too brash, too vulgar. Between her tattoos and drugs, her sexual deviance and history of occasional prostitution, the real Tess is not the character I need. She’s too much for the readers I want to reach.
Her story, however, is compelling. I’ll edit and cut, and soften her edges. I’ll create a more sympathetic heroine. The fiction of Tess will be heartbreaking in a way that book clubs will embrace, and luckily, she has no desire for fame. I’ll take care of her. She doesn’t need to know that I’ll be the one paying the ridiculously low rent on her home, but if she does, I can’t imagine she’ll mind. She’ll stay in her beloved city without the burden of worrying about ending up homeless.
I’ll be her savior, and she’ll be there as my escape. As often as I need her, I can escape to the city where she thrives. Maybe if the book’s big enough, I’ll even write a sequel. All because of Tess, my broken sparrow.
28
Juliana
I’d spent two more days wandering the French Quarter with no more clues than I’d discovered the first night. If I’d been here for any other reason, I’m fairly sure it would be easy to see why people love this city. Music floats from so many corners. Some of the best is on the street, while semi-tuned cover bands blare from more than a few bars. The smells of food, cigarettes, pot, and spilled drinks give way to unmistakably unappealing smells the later it gets. Shops that range from antiques to negligées invite browsing as they blast their AC on full with doors propped open—if the trinkets don’t lure you, perhaps the cool will. It’s unapologetic in its efforts to sell every visitor something. And on a different trip, I could be enchanted, but today, I’m only frustrated.
Street hustlers look at the pictures of Teresa and shake their heads. Several times, I heard them say, “Tess.”
When pressed, though, no one admits it. No one will tell me a thing. I’ve run out of ideas. She’s here, or she’s been here. I’m sure of it. It’s not just because of the picture either. I see the expressions on people’s faces that say they recognize her, but they do nothing to help me. They lie. They shrug.
In their reactions, I understand how she’s stayed hidden. For whatever reason, no one here is willing to reveal where she is or even put me in touch with her.
I’ve given my name and number to several dozen people now. No one has called.
I ask every vagrant, musician, and shop worker willing to look at the pictures on my phone. I’m starting to think she is still a captive, and they are afraid of the Creeper. I can’t think of too many other reasons to see the flash of fear that comes over their faces more often than I can explain.
On the morning of the third day, my phone chirps. A text from an unknown number says, “Go to NOPD by St Louis 1.”
After only a couple of days in the city, I already know where that is. Exploring on foot makes it impossible not to get your bearings. There are several police stations, as in any city, but there is only one cemetery that draws every tourist: St. Louis Cemetery Number One.
That walled cemetery is the supposed resting place of both the voodoo queen, Marie Laveau, and the theorized tomb of serial killer Delphine LaLaurie. I laugh at the fact that even the dead are only reputed to be present here. Neither the living woman I’d believed dead nor these infamous dead women are truly locatable in New Orleans. The city, apparently, is designed for hiding women.
I can’t be too angry about it. Teresa Morris deserves to hide if she escaped the Carolina Creeper. With every report I’ve read, with every photograph of torn flesh, broken bones, and crudely drawn tattoos, I can’t imagine surviving after be
ing his victim. Sometimes in the days after my meetings with Andrew I dreamed about the Creeper's victims, but my dreams are often of finding more bodies, of finding him, of being the dead woman staring up and unspeaking. I don’t dream of being Teresa or Ana or any of them when they were alive. I don’t ever imagine having to live with the things he’s done.
The horror of it is more than I can process.
Some days, I could barely face the glimpses of things I can tell he’s done to his victims.
I walk to the police station, the one closest to the cemetery, along Rampart Street. The area here is dirtier. Tourists seem to stay closer to either the heart of the French Quarter, or Canal Street where it borders what is called the Central Business District. Other than that, they go further up-river in the Garden District. It makes me think that Teresa must live further away, where she wouldn’t be exposed to the constant flood of tourists who could recognize her.
The area around the cemetery seems to be more locals—or people on guided tours.
“What the hell were you thinking?” The voice greets me before I see him. Henry Revill, Durham Police Detective, is standing outside the New Orleans Police Department with his arms folded and a glare on his face that could make the sweetest woman confess to any manner of sins just to make him smile again.
I, luckily, am not sweet. I’ve also been on the receiving end of that glare more times than I can count. “I was thinking that I’m a grown ass woman who can take a trip without permission. Uncle Micky can cover—”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know why you ought to tell a person when you’re leaving town, Jules. There is an investigation. You are . . .” He looks at me, not like I’m a suspect, but like he just needs to see that I’m okay. That, more than the glare or the words, makes guilt flare to life in me.
“I’m in another city,” I say carefully. “He wouldn’t know where I—”