“It’s special to me too,” I said.
Elian’s jaw relaxed and his fingers uncurled, no longer angry firsts.
“I’ll take care of your star, Elian. It’s safe with me,” I assured him. Safe. Safe. Safe.
Elian turned away from me and picked up his beer, drinking the last drops.
“It’ll be dark soon. Let’s go light a fire,” he said, his voice thick and coarse. I assumed he was embarrassed by his outburst. A typical male response to emotion. I was sadly disappointed to see him displaying it.
Then he advanced across the room and reached out as though to grab ahold of my face. I was shocked. I went immobile. I hadn’t expected it. Elian was unreadable and the flutter in my chest was a mixture of excitement and apprehension.
What was he going to do?
If he dared touch me, he’d lose everything. I’d never met a man so ready for his annihilation.
Then he held me. My face cradled in his hands.
He wasn’t gentle or delicate but rough and determined. His thumbs pressed into my cheeks. I could feel the pads against the curve of bone beneath the skin.
I pulled my breath in through my teeth, a soundless hiss. I walked toward the one place I shouldn’t go…he had told me to stay. I didn’t.
I went anyway…
Green eyes stared long and hard into coal black. Lips moved with words not spoken aloud. The air was thick and warm. Fingers digging their way inside. Taking all of me even though I wasn’t giving.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
I closed my eyes.
He kissed me.
Electric. Charged.
Sliding lips. Tangled tongues. Hands never moving but mouths everywhere.
Elian bit down on my bottom lip. Hard. Brutal. I tasted the blood and I tasted everything.
There were sounds unlike anything I had ever heard. From him. From me.
Slick and wet.
“Let me in,” Elian whispered against my bleeding lips.
Let him in.
Let him in.
Let me in.
I pulled away, breathing heavy and quick. I felt dizzy. Like I was floating.
Up to the stars.
I covered my mouth with my hand and realized I was shaking. I pulled my fingers away and saw the bright red.
Elian saw it too. He didn’t apologize.
I was glad.
I would have hated him for it.
The letter came just as it always did. On the third day of July.
Same day.
Every year.
The day of my awakening.
A dawning.
The day I entered hell.
The day he was taken away.
It fell through the slot in my door, landing on the rug that muffled the noise of my beast.
I knew the day. I woke up feeling it in my bones.
Shaking. Sweating. Hard to breathe.
I picked up the pile of mail and carried it into the kitchen. I carefully sorted until I found the one that I knew was there.
Cream colored envelope. Scrawled, barely legible handwriting. My name spelled out in careful letters. I pressed it to my chest, then lifted it to my cheek. I could feel the words inside, pressing against my skin.
Their promises.
Their affection.
Their doom.
I purposefully folded the letter that I would never read into a perfect square and walked back to the room where I slept. I pulled the flower-patterned box from beneath the bed and opened it.
I placed the folded square on top of all the others.
I stared down at the remnants of my love. My life. My future.
And then I closed the lid.
“Hi.”
He was there.
The push and pull twisted me into complicated knots. Confusion. I felt it. For the first time, I felt doubt.
“Hi.”
We looked at each. Elian was wearing dirty jeans and battered shoes. His shirt was stained and looked as though he had slept in it. I thought about him rolling in unclean sheets and felt…sad.
“I had fun last night,” he said, casting a look around, terrified of being overheard. And perhaps hoping at the same time.
I saw the flash of territorial flame in his eyes.
“I did too,” I told him. Because it was true. After he kissed me, Elian built a fire. We sat close, arms wrapped around each other. We were folded up in a cocoon of our own making and I gloried in it.
In him.
In this thing that was happening between us.
Because it was as it should be.
“I want to see you again. Tonight.” He sounded desperate. He was sucking the air from my lungs.
So fast.
So soon.
“Tonight.” I let the word roll around on my tongue.
Elian nodded. “Tonight.”
My pen glided lazily along the edge of my notebook.
You slip in quietly,
Before the storm.
Burrowing inside
Clawing deep.
I dig you out
Before you can take root.
It’s too late
To save what was already lost.
When you came in
From the rain and snow.
To massacre my heart
With your vicious smile.
“Is this about me?” I didn’t realize he was so close, standing on the other side of the counter. He towered over me—shadows and possibilities.
I didn’t close the notebook. I didn’t bother to shield my words from his observant eyes. He could see all of it.
“That sounds a bit narcissistic, don’t you think?” I asked, putting the pen down, not meeting his eyes like he wanted me to.
Elian chuckled and ducked his head down like a bashful dog. I thought about running fingers through his hair and scratching behind his ears. Would he roll over and show me his belly? A total act of submission?
“Yeah, I guess it did sound like that. I just meant that you wrote it now when I came in. I only wondered—”
“Do you want it to be about you?” I asked, cutting him off.
He swallowed. His throat bobbing up and down. His Adam’s apple was easier to look at right now. Easier than dancing green eyes.
“I…uh…”
“Yes,” I told him. Softly, sincerely.
Here we were, discernable moments of inescapable connection. Forged by unwitting hearts and unwilling souls. Together, in this darkness.
“Can I see you tonight?”
“Not tonight. Tomorrow,” I promised. Not tonight.
He was disappointed. I could tell. I was disappointed. I wanted to spend time with him. He was anchoring me in ways he couldn’t possibly understand.
I turned round and round, my mind spinning out of control but Elian was holding me steady. Still.
With him, I could…pretend.
But not tonight.
“Do you have plans tonight?” he asked and I found myself bristling at his question. He had no right to ask. He had no say over what I did or when I did it.
My business was my own.
“Yes,” I snapped, angry without meaning to.
Elian blinked. Long lashes covering all seeing eyes. I relaxed in the briefest second of invisibility.
“I didn’t mean to grill you. I just…Layna, there’s something going on here. With you. I’ve never—”
“Layna, there are customers that you need to ring up,” Diana’s terse voice cut through Elian’s earnest appeal.
I hadn’t realized there was a line that had formed behind Elian as I hid from his eyes. He had a way of making me forget.
“I have to work, Elian. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, closing my notebook and shoving it underneath the counter.
“Okay. Well, if you have time later, you can come by the studio—”
“Maybe,” I interrupted.
Elian turned to leave, but I stopped him. I reached
out, grabbing ahold of his arm. My fingers curled around his wrist. He went rigid, and I felt it. His falling.
“Just don’t see her,” I said. Firm. Absolute. He didn’t think I knew.
But I knew.
Elian frowned.
“When you go home tonight, go alone. Please.” It was my turn to sound desperate. Needy.
I wasn’t sure I liked it.
It made me uncomfortable.
But I didn’t take back the words. They hovered there, in the air between us. Making their point.
“There won’t be anyone else,” he promised and I believed him. There wouldn’t. I had to make sure of that.
“There’s no one else,” I echoed, letting him know that for me, it was the same.
“Good.” Elian didn’t smile. But he wanted to. I wanted to smile. But I didn’t.
We stood, unsmiling, but the joy was there.
And we felt it for reasons that were our own.
I came home from work and got a shower, changing into pajamas. My stomach knotted up and I felt faintly sick.
The clock’s ticking hammering in my ears, giving me a headache.
I wasn’t doing well.
My control was slipping.
I could feel it.
I ran in circles all day long avoiding, waiting.
Now here I was behind closed doors, enclosed by four walls. Safe. Secure. Trapped.
Nowhere to go.
Nowhere to run.
One day of the year when I allowed it all to come crashing down.
To swallow me whole. To ruin me completely all over again.
I turned on music. Something I never did. Something I hated to do. Something that only served as sadistic, melodic reminders.
But tonight I would.
I found the song I was looking for. Waylon Jennings crooned about a black rose in Virginia.
I sat down on the couch, crossed my legs beneath me.
And remembered.
“Why do you keep leaving?” I wanted to know. He was gone longer and longer each time. I didn’t like it. Mom was sad when he left. She’d complain that he left her to do everything by herself. I hated how she blamed Daddy for everything. But when he came back, she smiled and pretended that we were a happy family.
And we were.
When Daddy was home.
“Sometimes I have to get away.” My father sat down on the edge of my bed. He came home late, just before I had to go to sleep. It was a school night. I shouldn’t be at this hour. Matty had gone to bed a long time ago. But I wanted to talk to Daddy. Sometimes he’d talk to me more than he talked to Mom. It made me feel special that he trusted me.
“Don’t you like being around us?” My lip started to tremble and I felt like crying. My daddy’s love was the most important thing in my world. I didn’t like thinking that he didn’t want to be around me.
Daddy reached out and patted my cheek and smiled. A face I wanted to see but in my memories it was gone. I could only see his eyes.
Coal black. Just like mine.
“Of course. One day, maybe you could come with me. I’d like that. Because you’re like me, Lay.” He tapped a finger over my heart and I smiled. Daddy said I was like him. I couldn’t think of anything better.
“Here, where it counts. You and I are the same.”
I nodded. “Can I tell you my new story?”
Daddy frowned. “You’re not sharing those stories at school, are you?”
I shook my head, my long hair flying around my head in my vehemence. “No, Daddy. I write them in the journal you gave me. Just for me. And for you too.”
I pulled out the small spiral bound notebook and held it out for my dad to take. He did and opened it to the last page where I had written about a little girl who fell down a well and was slowly eaten by snakes.
I especially liked the part where they slurped on her eyeballs. I had included sound effects and everything.
I thought it was my best one yet.
“Is this Stella?” Daddy asked when he was finished. I liked to use the names of the stars in Dad’s stories in mine. He seemed to like that too.
I shook my head. “No, her name is Jessica. Just like the story you told me last time,” I said proudly.
My father’s eyes were happy. They were all encompassing.
“I like this one.” He tucked me into bed, pulling the covers up under my chin. “I have a new story to tell you now.”
I got excited. I loved Daddy’s stories about the stars with names. They were supposed to be sad but I never felt that way.
I didn’t get sad like other kids. I didn’t cry when Bambi’s mother died and I didn’t feel upset like Matty when we saw the dead kitten on our walk to school.
I felt…nothing.
But I did feel happiness. Excitement even. When dad told me his stories and when I wrote mine.
“Tell me, please!” I begged, starting to feel sleepy.
My father smoothed my hair back from my forehead. “I discovered a new star. Her name was Elizabeth. She got into a fight with her mother and ran away from home. She was sad. Like all the stars. She just needed someone to love her.”
“Just like Stella. And Emma. And Rosie.”
Daddy nodded. “Just like Stella. Emma. And Rosie.” I could hear how saying their names made him happy. He liked saying them. Especially to me.
“Elizabeth was smart but didn’t think she was. She was the girl no one noticed until it was too late.”
My breath caught in my throat. My daddy wasn’t looking at me. He was looking…somewhere else. I wasn’t sure he was there with me at all.
“You notice her eyes first. Blue and wet with tears. She cries when she thinks no one is looking. She cries for a life she will never get to have. She’s lost. Like so many others.” His voice is hushed. Barely above a whisper.
“What happened to Elizabeth?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“She’ll be a star forever now,” my daddy said smiling, so brilliant it was like looking at the sun.
Happy.
And I drifted off to sleep dreaming of sad, sad girls with blue eyes. Of families that didn’t love enough and my father that loved just right.
Of stars that were always and constant.
And blood…
I stared into the flickering flame of the candle that sat on the coffee table. I missed my father’s stories. I missed hearing about the sad stars. Stories tinged with the cruel truth.
My father’s stars that he brutally murdered.
Stella.
Emma.
Elizabeth.
Rosie.
And the countless others that were stars forever. Lost but not gone. Always in my mind.
That’s where they stayed.
But I knew the twenty in the papers weren’t the only stars. There were more. In the silent hours of the early morning I’d let my mind wander to those other girls. And I was desperate to know them. To hear them. To tell their stories for my father.
Even as I hated him and who he was, I loved and missed him in equal measure. The contradiction was too much sometimes. I was being torn in two.
I fought against them every single day. Sometimes I wanted to surrender. To give into the dark promise that he offered.
My father’s blood ran deep. Too deep. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to break away. And sometimes I didn’t want to.
Most of the time I accepted my inevitable fate. To fall into the obsession.
Because the blood…
It’s what I wanted.
It’s what I craved.
From the time I was a child I knew that I was different.
And my father nurtured it. He celebrated it.
It became the link that bound us together.
The blood.
I began to shake. My fingers twisting and gripping at the fabric of my shirt. Ripping and pulling.
I let myself remember. No matter the cost. No matter the pain.
The day w
hen I realized exactly whose blood ran in my veins.
The day it all began to make sense.
“Your father isn’t coming home.” I stared at my mother as though she were speaking another language. She looked awful. Her brown hair, much lighter than mine, was stringy and unwashed. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen.
Matty made a noise and started crying. I wanted to tell him to shut up. I hated it when he cried.
“Where is he?” I asked, feeling a door slam shut. The end. That is what this was.
“He’s gone.” And that was it. She wouldn’t explain. I stopped asking questions.
And then my friend, Tasha, told me the truth. Not in a nice way. But in words tinged with ridicule and accusation.
“Your dad’s the one that killed all those girls.”
The Nautical Killer.
Everyone knew. But my mother would never talk about it. It was as though my father were just gone. On a fishing trip that was a little longer than usual. And perhaps, at the time, it was for the best. To pretend that he was off doing something he loved.
But no one else would let me forget about the man I called father.
“Are you a psycho too?”
“Is that why you never cry?”
“Is that why you’re so freaking weird?”
Was it?
Was I?
I was horrified by my father’s crimes but also oddly relieved to know the truth.
Was I just like my daddy?
Did the sick compulsions lie dormant inside me?
Some days I felt them there. Ready and waiting.
Rotting.
I fought against them all the time.
Other days I didn’t fight them at all.
My phone rang and I picked it up, knowing it was him.
“Layna. How are you?”
I didn’t say anything. Tonight of all nights the words just couldn’t be spoken.
“I feel it too. Today especially. I got my letter. Did you get yours?”
“Yes,” I whispered to my brother.
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
Silence again. Solitude. I loathed it. I loved it.
Contradiction.
“I didn’t either.” My brother’s voice was older but still familiar. I hadn’t seen him in six years.
Six years.
I didn’t know what he looked like anymore.
I only knew his voice.
I couldn’t let myself have any more than that.
The Contradiction of Solitude Page 9