The Gorgeous Slaughter

by Christina Hart

  I keep scrolling until I find what I’m looking for. And here it is. A photo of her at work, at the company Christmas party. I don’t have to search through the tagged heads to pick out Troy, but the tag confirms it. Troy Atkinson. Tall, handsome, preppy, gorgeous smile. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Standing right next to Tracy. Almost hovering over her with the height he has on her. And just by the picture I can tell he wanted the photo to be taken a different way. With his arm slung over her shoulder. With a stance that says she’s mine, and a proud smile on his face. I can see it in his dark eyes, the way he wants to claim her. I don’t think they’ve slept together—yet—but I can see why Charlie is threatened. Of course he’s threatened, the guy looks like he just escaped from a Gucci commercial. I can only imagine what he looks like with his shirt off. The muscles are barely contained in his tight fitting black sweater. And Tracy, next to him, in her slim little black dress, looks like she could have been his plus-one instead of his coworker. If I didn’t know better I’d suspect they purposely coordinated their outfits to look this great together in pictures.

  They look like they should be holding hands and I wonder if Troy was getting all of Tracy’s drinks that night. Virgin, of course. It was a work party, after all. But I wonder if he paused when they greeted each other, to stop and admire her and tell her how beautiful she looked. I wonder if there was mistletoe hanging above their heads at some point. If at some moment that night, they hesitated, looking at each other, considering if they should kiss. I wonder if they wanted to, if they still do. I wonder if Tracy looks at him and imagines what her life would be like if she were with him instead of Charlie. If they’d have a beautiful future full of beautiful moments and beautiful children. I wonder if she thinks about all the various things they have in common and what he could give her. She probably occasionally thinks about what his arms would feel like around her. If she would feel safer with him than she does with Charlie. If Troy has a past that isn’t colored with abandonment and foster homes, rejection and jealousy.

  I go to his page. I look through his pictures. He is very much single and I think he’s holding himself back for Tracy. Holding himself back on the mere possibility that one day she might be his. In his photos, he comes across as a down to earth and gentle man. He’s not much of a partier or a drinker. It looks like he plays cards with his friends every Thursday night. At every wedding he’s been photographed in, he is alone. Tracy could have been his date. No, she should have been his date. I imagine them toasting at the weddings. Slow dancing under the twinkling lights, looking at each other like they have no place they’d rather be. It could be so romantic if she would just leave Charlie alone.

  He has a dog. A big Great Dane, named Boss. He loves him. He loves life. He has a beautiful loft style apartment and I wonder what his voice sounds like. He’s an avid reader. He wears glasses at night and if possible, he looks even more handsome with them than he does without. He looks like someone Tracy would be with. He looks like the kind of guy every woman would want to be with. And I know in my gut that Tracy has thought about him romantically. How could she not? He’s all but oozing sex appeal and charm, even in the way he stands. The way he smiles.

  I stop the timer and look.

  It took me fifty-two minutes and thirty-three seconds to find what I was looking for. Now I wonder how long it will take me to get Tracy and Troy together at last. He looks like he’s more her type anyway. One day, Charlie will thank me for this. And Tracy and Troy can live out their days together in some gorgeous home on a lake, with several dogs and even more children. And they can reminisce how they met at work while she was dating her ex-boyfriend who she thought was the one, until she realized he was the one. Their wedding will be beautiful, lavish, ethereal. Their home will be beautiful, rustic chic. Their children will be beautiful. Their lives will be beautiful.

  And Charlie will be mine. And he will be happy, for once.

  Thirty-Five

  I have my dress for the services, and like Deadpool, I have my heart in the right place. I have every address for Tracy that I need. Her job address, home address. I was even able to find Troy’s address. Tracy’s was easiest to find, though. There was an article online about her parents’ home due to the size and luxury of it all. Of course she lives in Mendham. It’s so fitting. So rich.

  I have already put it in my GPS six times. Her address, just so I could see the directions laid out in front of me. Become comfortable with the route. I’m not great at getting places. I needed some formal sort of warning or introduction here as to where exactly I’d be going and what to expect along the way. And I know, you’re probably thinking this is crazy, wondering why I looked up her addresses. But it’s not crazy, it’s simple, really. Tracy should be with Troy. There’s not enough room in Charlie’s life for me with Tracy filling my spot. And do you think she deserves it? Why should someone who already has it all get the guy, too? I’m not bitter or jealous. I swear I’m not. This is about destiny. Fate. And hers is to be with Troy.

  I’m not going to just show up to her house and tell her that, of course. No. A letter? Lol. I’m not a punk. This has to be cleverly executed. I need to go in the middle of the night, when everyone in Mendham is tucked in under their Egyptian cotton bedsheets.

  I have a delivery to make. Flowers, from Troy. White roses, Tracy’s favorite. She’s so annoying but I will romance her to death.

  Luckily for me, I have a fake ID. Nikki got it for me to use to get into clubs with her. Another identity, an alternative name in a fictitious universe. Marissa Black. I couldn’t have picked a cooler name if it were up to me. It’s like my alter ego, the brave one. The one with less anxiety and more balls.

  Plus, if you go somewhere you don’t ever want to get caught being at, with the right hat and glasses, it’s like you were never there at all. But your smile, that will give you away every time. Same with the eyes. Once someone makes eye contact with you, it’s over. For some reason I never fully understand, people never quite forget a face. Maybe it’s because each face is so distinct, so different. The way the light casts a shadow over each face is momentarily unforgettable. You notice it. You see it. You look at them. And for a brief second, you familiarize yourself with them, and you know them. And then you look away, and they are gone. Sometimes you remember certain faces longer than you remember others. Sometimes you think about them daily for a while, wondering about that person. Wondering if you were supposed to know them on a deeper level. Wondering. Wanting. Yearning. Sometimes you think about what could have been.

  I have become victim to it too many times. The handsome stranger on the bus. In ShopRite. At the park. On the sidewalk. The potential soulmates, lost with another passing moment and not enough courage to say hello. For me, the little thoughts can sometimes become big thoughts. Obsessive thoughts. Dreams. Signs. Infatuation. One of my therapists told me once that they thought I had obsessive love disorder. They were convinced that excessive thoughts about someone, particularly viewing them as an object of my desire, an object I could gain, was a clear indicator that I had unhealthy attachments to said person. But I never view anyone as an object. And that’s where she was wrong. Plus, it sounded like an imaginary disorder to me. And I told her so.

  She asked me if I ever heard of schizophrenia and I asked her if she ever heard of getting punched in the throat. Because what the hell does she know? Love is meant to be your main aspect of life. And I live my life according to that notion. Romance is never dead inside me. But sometimes, someone wakes that up. And I live it all over again. From the start. But isn’t that why we’re here? What it’s all about? Think about it. Just about every book, every movie, in some way, is a love story of some sort.

  My phone goes off. It is Charlie. I asked him how he was doing earlier.

  “I don’t know. I think I’ll be okay. Thanks,” he says.

  I look at the timer. It has been forty-eight minutes and twenty-two seconds since I hit send.

  “I’m here if you want t
o talk,” I say, knowing he won’t want to.

  He needs time. I know that, Tracy doesn’t. She’s probably trying to smother him with her love at this very moment because that’s what she does. She tries to take over anyone’s life who will let her.

  I stop the timer and restart it.

  Reset.

  I have dye in my hair and it’s time to wash it out. I told myself I would wait until I heard back from Charlie. And now I can go rinse it out and become myself again. Dark hair. The opposite of Tracy. And I wish I wasn’t so impulsive. I should have kept my hair long. Now it will take years to grow back.

  I am out of the shower and looking at my laptop. I have the Google street view up outside Charlie’s apartment first. I see his car. A dark blue Jeep Grand Cherokee. I Google different makes and years and decide it’s probably a two thousand one. It suits him. Rugged, unpretentious. Manly. A little rusty in certain spots, worn.

  Tracy and Troy are so much easier, so about pride and possessions that they each took selfies with their cars when they got them. For Tracy, a two-door two thousand fifteen Mercedes E-Class, white in color (she hashtagged it all). It doesn’t stun me in the least that she has a Mercedes. I guess it beats the hell out of my two thousand ten Chevy Malibu. Our cars sort of represent us, don’t they? Mine: Gray, chipped, used, beaten down by weather, years, and corrosion. Hers: White, pristine, clean, unscarred. I look at her smiling face, beaming, sunglasses on, hair combed, and I bet her parents bought her that car. I bet they signed for it like it was nothing, didn’t blink an eye because money is just something they have and not something they need. Because money is never a thought in their heads they just have so much of it.

  And Troy, a black Audi Q3. I’ve never heard of that specific model until now, but I’m not a big car person. Okay, I’m not a car person at all. I got whatever would get me from point A to point B that I could afford. I never even entertained the idea of going to a lot. When I got my car, it came down to a who-knows-who sort of thing. Who will give me a break here? Who’s got the biggest piece of shit with a working engine?

  I change the Google street view to Tracy’s. It’s so much more upscale and fancy than the neighborhood I live in with my aunt. I’m sure it’s way grander than D Street and Southie where Charlie grew up, and where he lives now. Tracy would live here. All freshly cut grass and modern homes with million dollar mortgages and homes to die for. Too bad I can’t switch this thing to the inside of her house. I can almost smell the mahogany from here. Her fresh linens, neatly folded. A candle going. Maybe some music. Katy Perry? Perhaps. But when Charlie calls, I see her switching to Death Cab or The Strokes. I love them, too, I can almost hear her cooing.

  I enter Troy’s address from the slip of paper I wrote it on. He lives in Chester. Similar to Mendham in a sense. Stunning views, elegant buildings. Upscale. Luxury for days. The two of them are such a perfect fit it almost makes me mad. It makes total sense why Charlie worries that Troy is Mr. Steal Your Girl, because he pretty much is, and makes absolutely no effort to hide it. I could see now just why it infuriates him so.

  But that’s okay. Charlie won’t be infuriated much longer, and Troy, well, he won’t have to steal anything. Because I’m Mrs. Push Those Two Together. And Charlie, the sweet foster boy from the D Street projects in Southie turned perfect man for me, will realize that I’m the girl for him. The person he’s meant to be with. And Tracy will be a thing of the past like she was never here at all. She will be with Troy. Happy, carefree, joint bank accounts, even newer cars. No scars to worry about. No smile to paint on. Neither of them will have to worry about pretending to be happy. And isn’t that the point of life? Actually being happy, instead of pretending you are with someone who just drags you down, depletes you, makes you miserable? She doesn’t really want the storm clouds Charlie rolls in with, she’s too used to the rainbow.

  Thirty-Six

  The first time a boy said I was stalking him, I was, in fact, not stalking him. That term is thrown around too quickly, too easily. It’s tossed around like a hot potato and anyone who catches it tosses it on to the next person like some juicy secret they just can’t hold onto. Like some form of truth they need to give away, some piece of gossip they need to watch the next person respond to. See how it changes their face, makes them laugh, makes them eager to be part of the drama. Everyone wants to join the cast of the season or at least be an extra. Some milestone that would be the peak of the year. Some climax that would change everything. As often as life changes, it is just not that fascinating most days.

  Small town crimes don’t come around that often and when they do they are usually sudden and unplanned, or at least feel that way from the outside looking in. But stalking? That involves motive and planning, desire and time. It’s a little warped how people get so excited about crimes. How eager they are to watch it all unfold and play some small role in the storyline, even from a distance.

  I was fifteen when I was first called a stalker. I remember it fondly. I was sitting with Nikki on my bed. We were doing our nails, talking about what we were going to do that night.

  “Hey,” she asked, looking at her nails. “Do you still talk to Brett?”

  “Yeah, of course. Why?”

  She sat up and looked at me. “Do you guys still talk a lot?”

  “Yeah, kind of,” I said. “I mean, almost every day. I don’t think it’s gonna go anywhere, though. It’s been months of the same thing. He uses me when he’s bored. That’s it.”

  I wasn’t sure why she was asking. She knew all of this. She was around when my crush first manifested. She was around when we first kissed and hung out. She knew about all the sweet sixteens we danced at together, all the times in the cafeteria he flirted with me. Hell, she was actually present some of the times we hung out.

  “Girl,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s telling everyone you’re stalking him.”

  “Stalking him?” I asked, shocked. I sat up. My blood started to boil. “Wait, what do you even mean?”

  “The other night I was at Kevin’s party and Brett was telling me and a few other people how you call and text him repeatedly. That you call his friends looking for him, asking where he is. That you’re pretty much stalking him and he can’t figure out how to get rid of you.”

  “This is a joke, right? I don’t even have any of his friends’ numbers, first of all. Second, why would I call his friends looking for him?”

  “I don’t know, I thought it was so weird. Especially because like, you guys have a thing.”

  I shook my head and tried to understand what was happening. I couldn’t stalk him even if I wanted to. I didn’t have a car, or a license at that point. And I definitely didn’t have enough money to Uber around everywhere chasing after him in the shadows. My phone vibrated on the bed. I picked it up. It was a text from Brett, asking what I was up to.

  I tossed her the phone. “Does it look like I need to stalk this mother fucker? He comes to me, too. I don’t need to hunt him down through his friends. We aren’t even officially dating or anything.”

  She shook her head. “Wowwwwwwwww,” she said, dragging it out.

  I ignored the text for a while. Let the anger brew inside me.

  We went out that night, to a party. Smoked and drank with some of our friends. Inside, I felt rage. Hurt. Betrayal. I had liked Brett for the last four months. I’d been holding on to some glimmer of hope that what we had would turn into something real one day, something that meant something. In reality, he was stringing me along, letting me believe there was something there. We would never amount to anything. We would never be anything more than midnight make-out sessions and 2am phone calls. He would never be anything more than Netflix and chill. He didn’t just hurt my feelings, he delicately sliced them out of me and sautéed them, making a full course meal for himself that he’d been feasting on for months.

  I had no intention of “stalking” him, but if that was what he wanted, I could play along. He wanted to feel so important
that I’d go to great lengths to make him mine. To find him. To capture his attention. He wanted to be that important to me. I thought maybe that’s just how badly some boys wanted to be sought after.

  So I made his dream come true.

  It was a Thursday night in the summer. He told me he was going to the lake, his typical late-night hangout spot. I told him to have fun, and two hours later I had Nikki drive us over there. She parked her car in the back of the parking lot, by his car, and I sat on the hood. Around midnight I told him to call me. On cue, he came walking into the parking lot to his car. We were parked in a dark spot, somewhere the lights didn’t quite reach.

  “Hi, Brett,” I said.

  “Shit,” he said, startled. “Love, what are you doing here?”

  “Just doing my job,” I said, jumping down from the hood.

  He laughed, but it was forced and short. All six feet and three inches of him were a little jumpy, a little nervous. “What do you mean?”

  I walked toward him. I straightened the wrinkle out in his T-shirt. “Stalking you, right? Isn’t that what you want? You want to be so important that I come find you, in the middle of the night?”

  “This is crazy,” he said.

  “You’re crazy, Brett. I’ll see you next time, but you might not see me.” I let go of his shirt and walked back toward Nikki’s car, got in, and she pulled away.

  I left that parking lot feeling a little strange. Like for the first time, I was a little less meek, and had a little more power. If the stalker rumor didn’t stick before then, it sure as hell stuck after. But I didn’t care.