by Demi Vice
I moved the blade across his neck, the gash getting deeper, his blood leaving his body like it was unwanted, and it was. He let out muffled screams, and I watched the blood trail down his burned neck, seeping into his shirt as it spread like wildfire. I knew he was going to burn alive, but I wanted his death to be as slow and painful as it could get. And if the cops were to come again and the fire didn’t finish him then, the loss of blood would do the job.
“I really am a man of my word. I told you I would finish the job myself and set you on fire. Did I not?” I looked down at his wrist and slashed them open, just enough to have his blood glaze his wrist, but not flood them. “You should’ve died in this house years ago, Eddy. You should have burned and fed the rats so they could’ve had their little barbecue party with your fucking corpse.” My upper lip twitched with rage.
He let out loud muffled yells, but his struggles were weaker as he lost more blood. I wiped his blood off my knife on his dirty jeans.
“Well, you’ve already taken too much of my precious time, and I have to get going.” I grunted, standing up, and picking up my matches. I lit the whole pack up and stood at the beginning of the long snake-like fuse I made. “Oh shit. I have one more pun left.” I cleared my throat. “Hopefully we see the brighter end to this story.”
Horrible not-really-a-pun pun number three: check.
I dropped the match pack and watched the fuse slowly light up. I didn't wait to watch him burn. Like I said, he had already taken too much of my precious time. I turned my back on him and walked away, heading for the doorless back door. By the time I made it to the front, his muffled screams were music to my ears.
About damn time.
I walked to the end of the block where a huge oak tree stood alone on the corner. It wasn’t until I hid behind the tree when I finally looked back and saw my grand finale. A two-leveled house, painted in an old dark-tan color, lighting up the whole street. Only flames, smoke, and ashes escaped the house this time. I leaned on the tree, smiling at my handiwork until I remembered my Black Kiss. I took my cap, wiped the bloody kiss off my boot, and shoved it into my back pocket. My hands were still red, but nothing pockets couldn’t hide.
Now it was time to burn some calories on my long ass walk home.
Bonus pun for shits and giggles: check.
AHRI
I finally read the letter. Then I reread it a hundred times as if the words needed to be decrypted. I bawled my eyes out, but this time my tears were happy ones. Peaceful ones. Ones that didn’t burn my eyes or trap my lungs in a cage.
I held the letter up above my face, the lights from the Chicago skyline acting my lantern in the dark abyss that was Jack’s bedroom.
We need to talk about that night, Tinks.
I’m sorry for what I said, but you can't keep avoiding me.
You’re the only person I have, and I did it all for you because I know what he did.
I know what he did to Aurora.
Please, talk to me. I fucking miss you and love you, Tinks.
I can NEVER hate you. - Luke
For some unknown reason. Luke forgave me. He even apologized to me when it should’ve been the other way around. I could’ve fixed Luke’s fate by turning myself in, but I stayed on the sidelines throwing loose change at his case.
I examined Luke’s chicken scratch writing like this letter was the meaning of life, the key to happiness, and to me, it was. I’d been in my own form of prison for the last four years, bottling up my emotions and throwing them into the sea, letting the violent waves of the ocean take care of them. For years I had never shed a tear, and even before that week, I’d rarely cried. I was convinced that surviving was my life.
Surviving, both physically and mentally.
Luke’s words mended my heart, but there were still some things I didn’t understand. The biggest being how did Luke know about Aurora? How did Luke know what he did to her unless he got a letter from her, and if so, what did his letter say?
Please, talk to me. I fucking miss you and love you, Tinks.
I can NEVER hate you. - Luke
I read my favorite lines over and over again, but like my environment, it felt like a dream. I could still hear the hurt and anger in Luke’s voice when he told me that he hated me. Or when he said to me, I should’ve been the one who killed myself, not Aurora, and trust me…I’d thought about it. Aurora was sent from above while I was sent from below. But I’d never regret killing my mother or aunt or trying to kill him.
I used the same method Jack used in his first kill. Poison. It wasn’t hard to do. My mom and aunt always sat on the kitchen floor when they were about to get high. They hid their drugs under the kitchen sink, taped to the side. It was easy for the cops to assume they wanted to chase a new high, mixing the rat poison pellets with their meth or heroin. But little did the police know it was me and I was fucking ecstatic about their deaths. The same euphoric feeling I had when I hid behind the tree as I watched him and his house burn before my plan had fallen apart.
If my plan had gone the way it should've gone then, I’d be with Luke right now. We would most likely be living in a shitty studio apartment, sharing a bed which he would’ve loved. I wonder if prison had changed him? Probably. I’d changed, but not for the best.
I thought more about Luke and me until it hit me. I would’ve never met Jack. That thought alone made me want to sink into the black cloud that was his bed. I wouldn’t be in this bed, looking up at the drapes hanging from the canopy or covered with a layer of black silk, if I’d never met Jack. If Luke had never gone to prison all of this would just be an impossible fantasy.
I folded the letter and sat up, looking around the dark room. I had woken up a few hours ago, but this was the first time I’d gotten up. I was late for my Diablo’s shift, but hell if I cared. I was still in my own little dark fantasy trying to figure out what was real or not.
“Jack?” I shouted once more, my voice sore from all the talking and crying.
Jack wasn’t home. I’d shouted his name hours ago when I’d first woken up, and I knew if he were home, he would’ve ran to me in a heartbeat.
I scanned the room which had Jack’s special touch. Clean. No more glass from the light bulb and no more floor lamp lying broken across the floor. It stood upright with a new light bulb, and my heels were nowhere to be seen, but there was something white at the end of the bed. A simple white dress shirt. Crawling across the bed, I found a ripped sheet of paper lying on top.
The only non-black thing I own, baby girl.
Change, shower, do whatever you want. - Jack
I looked at the label of the dress shirt. Prada. I grabbed the shirt and looked down at my velvet dress. Jack hadn't taken my clothes off. He always took them off. It was more for his sanity and selfish behaviors. I knew why he did it. One, he hated it when outside clothes touched his clean sheets. And two, he enjoyed it when I was in my panties and socks so he could rub his naked body on mine when we slept together. But Jack left me alone.
Another ripped sheet caught my eye, this one laying on the nightstand.
Open the drawer and follow the notes. - Jack
I did as Paper-Jack commanded and opened the drawer to find a phone exactly like his but in white. The clock flashed 11:49 pm on the screen.
“Jack!” I yelled again, but no reply.
I wonder where he was or when he was coming back. I still had a lot to ask him.
What did he go to prison? Was he still killing? Or was he retired like he wanted? What did he do in the morning when he said he was looking for a job? Was his money legal? What else did he lie about? His childhood? His scars? Link?
I deserved my answers.
I distracted my mind with my new phone. Playing and fiddling with what every person in the whole country, even toddlers, knew how to work. I went into a post-it memo app where there was a little note typed out.
Happy belated birthday. Told you I would get you a phone.
B.T.W. I’m still wo
rking on getting you that pony named Sprinkles.
Go to the kitchen.
- Jack
I placed my letter from Luke in the drawer and gripped my new phone, ready to listen to Paper-Jack again. My eyes dropped to the ground as my feet dangled off the bed. It still felt unreal. The thought of the floor turning into a black hole, sucking me whole, and spitting me out at Wazowski’s, crossed my mind. My big toe touched the black ice as if I was testing the temperature of the water. Nope, it wasn’t a dream. The earth was still fifty-nine floors below me, and everything still intact.
I glided over the floor, through the double doors and took in the massive penthouse. It was empty and in need of more things to make it feel like a home. Then again, Jack had only been out of prison for two weeks, and he’d spent most of that time with me. I walked closer to the wall, trailing my hand over the matte black surface. The whole apartment felt like someone had turned off the saturation knob in my eyes, making everything the only two colors Jack knew.
I went over to the kitchen to find another note, this time on top of one of those silver bowl things that servers covered food with. There was a glass of water and an Advil next to the silver bowl thing. Jack read my mind. I took my pill and drank my water as I read the following note.
Had to bribe the head chef to make this.
He only makes it for the Bayne twins and his daughter. -Jack
Under the silver bowl was the fanciest grilled cheese sandwich and tomato soup I had ever seen. The sandwich was cut in half, triangle shape, drizzled with an orange sauce and topped off with a perfect cherry tomato. The tomato soup was a vibrant red, fresh, and homemade. Nothing like the soup from Maddy’s that came in a can. It didn’t take me long to inhale the cold food.
Best. Fucking. Grilled. Cheese. Sandwich. Ever.
Sorry, Aurora.
I was about to put my plate in the sink until Paper-Jack scolded me.
If you live here, you learn to wash a dish.
Next stop my closet. - Jack
I found myself smiling. I wanted to explore more of the penthouse, but my curiosity wasn’t that strong. I went back into Jack’s room, but instead of going into the closet, I decided to take a shower.
I grabbed the white shirt and headed into the master bathroom. It was like he described. Huge, with white marble floors, black tiles, black cabinets, and a fucking waterfall shower.
It was more of a heavy spring shower than a waterfall, but I wasn’t complaining. Why would I? I was just happy I didn't have to wait for the water to turn clear. I lathered my body and hair for a few minutes, and when I was done, I went toward the only towel hanging on the bar embroidered with the initials JB. Jack’s white Prada shirt went past my bare ass, clinging to my wet body.
I didn’t go to the closet, my attention was stolen by the skyline of Chicago and the black hollow dent that was Lake Michigan. I pressed my forehead to the glass, my breath coating the clear glass with steam. I peacefully watched the city until I looked down. Nausea hit me once again and I was forced to step back and hold my grilled cheese down.
I guess you’re not good with heights, Ahri.
I cleared my throat and swallowed the taste of stomach acid and my dinner. Dragging my feet, I walked toward the sliding closet door. The door slid to the side with only a tiny amount of effort, and I was welcomed to a white room, aside from Jack’s clothes.
My toes gripped the soft, cloud-like carpet as I stepped inside. Jack’s expensive clothes on one side and on the other all the different Doc Marten styles you could imagine that came in black and his size. There was a pair of shoes that didn’t belong. My heels. Smacked in the middle of an empty shelf where my cheap twenty-dollar heels. They looked almost expensive with the light of the shelf, gleaming over them.
A smile spread across my face until I looked at the end of the closet…the mirror. It was the size of a large door, and it had a note taped to it.
84 right. 88 left. 33 right.
Enjoy. - Jack
Enjoy?
I stared back at myself in the mirror, face flushed, eyes no longer as charcoal and baggy, but instead wide as an eight ball. I grabbed the note, and slowly opened the mirror like a door.
“Holy shit.” I gasped.
My whole body felt like I was shrinking from anxiety. The safe was enormous with a starfish-shaped knob and a circular number dial at the top. I failed the combo until my fifth try when I turned the handle, and the metal creaked.
“What the fuck?”
There were dozens of long metal lock boxes, the kind that belonged in a bank. They were all labeled with duct tape and a Sharpie, all twenty-two boxes. The first one at the top labeled ‘Age 1-5,’ the second ‘Age 6,’ and so on until it stopped at ‘Age 26’ then started again at ‘Age 33.’
What caught my attention was a smaller safe at the bottom that had three different forms of protection. A number pad, a number dial, and a touch print. There was no note this time, so I knew it wasn’t my business.
What’s in the safe, Jack?
I ignored it to the best of my abilities and moved to the first long metal box labeled ‘Age 1-5.’ It wasn't locked, and the metal top flipped open to reveal documents and memories. One of which was Jack’s birth certificate with his original name, ‘Igor Patryk Baronski.’
I snooped some more, finding out Jack had universal donor blood, and that he’d spent six months in detox before being placed in Mama Baronski’s house. Just as he told me. There were only a few pictures of Jack as a toddler and one that spoke out to me.
Jack wore a bright purple shirt tucked into his large jeans. His hair was still raven black, but military shaved, and his two front teeth were missing as he sported his famous smile. Even as a toddler Jack had that smile. In his hands, Jack held a huge lollipop the size of his head. I turned the photo around.
‘Wszystkiego najlepszego, mój mały Uśmiech.’
My Polish might not be perfect, but I knew it said, ‘Happy Birthday, my little Smile.’
I put the first box on the floor and moved on the second. This one had more pictures and disposable rolls of film, twelve of them. I moved on to the next box, same deal with the photos and film rolls. I pulled out all the metal boxes ages 1-26 and aligned them on the floor in order.
All of the boxes had undeveloped film rolls and a few dozen photos, but only some had souvenirs.
A dragon ring, a leather necklace with a metal skull on it, a teenage mutant ninja turtle—the one with a blue mask—trading card, the acceptance letter to Van Gage High, and a few other things. My favorite keepsake was a page ripped out of Hamlet. All the text was blacked out except for, ‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.’ Jack must have read this quote a million times taking in how the paper no longer felt like paper, but tissue paper.
Jack said he loved Hamlet.
I spent at least an hour on the floor going through all the photos, ignoring the rolls of film. Once I was done, I picked my favorites.
There were seven.
The first being a picture of Mama Baronski and Jack. They’d taken a selfie, the flash from the camera blinding them both, but they were smiling. She had dirty blond hair, a warm skin tone, and a very pointy nose. She looked kind, a woman with a warm heart like Jack had described.
The words on the back were written in Jack’s six-year-old handwriting.
‘First camera.’
The second image was of Link wearing his ninja turtle outfit. His ash blonde hair was almost white, and his blue eye was the same color as the mask he wore. Link was crying in the photo. His eyes red and glossy while he pouted his bottom lip out as far as it could go. Link was eight, Jack was twelve.
‘Banana Split crying cuz I didn’t wanna put on my costume.’
Banana Split. Cute.
The third picture was of fourteen-year-old Jack, pre-rose tattoo. The scar on his neck was thick and pink, his hair was long and wavy going past his ears, and that smile was still there. It was weird seeing Ja
ck when he was younger, but in a way, he hadn’t changed one bit. The guy was practically immortal.
‘Getting a tattoo tomorrow.’
The fourth image was the creepiest picture. The one of the toddler in front of a mirror dressed in nurse scrubs. But what Jack had failed to mention was that the kid had blood on his shirt and gloves. Jack’s blood. The image didn’t scare me if anything it had me at ease. If it weren’t for Ceifador, Jack would have been eaten alive. Literally.
‘Guardian Ceifador.’
The fifth image was another one of Link when he was getting his first tattoo. Link was shooting Jack a death stare, but it was hard not to smile while Jack threw a thumbs up in the photo from behind the camera.
‘Payback for the rose. Enjoy the rich fuckers that’ll be your parents. Jacked Forever.’ I could practically hear Jack saying that.
The sixth image was of eighteen-year-old Jack smoking a cigarette in his black briefs inside a shitty, rundown apartment. He was a tall, skinny thing as he posed with his fist on his hip like a superhero. All he needed was a cape, and he looked like Superman ready for his photo shoot. Or should I say Wonder Woman. Because my God, Jack’s hair! Wavy and curly, cascading over his chest and still looking hot as hell.
It was odd seeing Jack with non-tattooed skin. He still had tattoos, but they were mostly on his arms. His flat stomach had no muscle on it, and it was completely exposed and full of discolored cuts. There were more than I thought.
‘I’m legal baby! Come and touch me! Happy birthday to fucking me!’
I laughed.
The seventh and last picture was my favorite of Jack. He was the same age as me, and he looked so peaceful and tranquil inside his clean and tidy bedroom. This apartment looked a lot better than the one he’d lived in when he was eighteen. A huge upgrade.