Crowned with Guilt (Remember the Reaper Book 1)

by S. K. Rose

  There’s more in this letter but my vision has started to blur. Wiping tears away, I rip out several letters and find more of the same. Dad asking me for forgiveness, to please return just one letter telling him how I am, asking how Mom is doing, please could I respond just to let him know I’m okay. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

  My trembling body goes deadly still when my eye catches a single line.

  I know that boy survived, they told me in court that he suffered a traumatic brain injury, but he’s alive. I hope that wherever you are that you’re still with that boy and helping him through the suffering I caused. I wish nothing more than his and your happiness in life. I’m just so glad he survived, Sugar, that I’m not a murderer. I may even be able to get out of here sooner with good behavior. I’m gonna fix this.

  It was dated six days before he died. His last letter.

  She.

  Knew.

  She fucking knew!

  Of course, she fucking knew.

  She knew my Andrew was alive and didn’t fucking tell me? No, that’s not quite true, though. She didn’t just leave out that vital detail, she perpetuated the lie. She had told me she was going to Andrew’s funeral, but I was forbidden to go. She returned hours later to tell me how horribly sad the family was, all the crying and agony. How I had destroyed them.

  Years of carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders, a burden she could have lessened with one simple truth.

  Just three words: He’s still alive.

  No more tears squeeze out of my bloodshot eyes, something has scooped out my insides. Everything that makes me tick is now replaced it with the Monster. Hands now steady, I fold up each letter and slide them back into their proper envelopes. I lay them back exactly how I found them. Before turning, I grab the last cigarette from a carton I spotted sticking out of a drawer and tuck it behind my right ear.

  I close my eyes and embrace the newfound silence of my mind. I crack my neck to each side and exhale a long breath. A tide of calm embraces me.

  It’s almost serene.

  I place my hands on one side of the dresser, and with great difficulty, I flip the heavy piece of furniture onto its side. It crashes into the middle of the room. Drawers slide out, spilling their contents, the letters from my father fly through the room. I wrap my fingers around the neck of an empty beer bottle and let it fly across the room with all my strength behind it. The bottle hits the wall opposite of me with a satisfying shatter that tugs the side of my mouth into a small smile.

  Locating all the bottles within reach, I begin throwing them in each and every direction. They shatter and glass flies everywhere, like fireworks going off, except instead of tiny flecks of light, it’s shards of glass.

  The destruction pumps a new high into my veins, lighting my blood afire.

  This is sooo much fun! More!

  I retrieve the baseball bat Mom always kept behind her door, handy for any violent party guests. Tightening my fingers around the handle I feel powerful, indestructible. With a yelp of excitement, I take a swing at the ugly lamp on her nightstand. My next victims are the cheap mermaid figurines she keeps on a shelf. I smash her nightstand into splintered pieces of wood that dance through the air.

  When there’s nothing left to smash, I rip open her single goose feather pillow that was passed down from her grandmother. Tearing the material open wide, I throw it up toward the ceiling fan and shriek with joy as the feathers swirl and spin through the air like a flurry of snowflakes around me.

  I obliterate everything in sight, and my smile grows with the devastation.

  A grin plastered on my face, I fly out of the room and back down the hall. With each step, I use the bat to knock frames and lightbulbs from the wall. Giggling, I sidestep a large piece of broken glass and continue my way down the stairs. Once I’ve reached the last step, I hop over the huddled form of my mother. My eyes slide right over her as I continue my adventure to the living room where the coffee table is conveniently lined with more beer bottles.

  A squeal escapes my throat as I pick up and carefully examine one. Liquid still sloshes around inside. I sniff and scrunch my face in disgust at the stale odor.

  “Mommy, I know you always told me to be quiet, but I must practice for the big game tomorrow!” I sing to the lump.

  It’s my voice but not my words.

  I stop for just a second, hearing a tiny part of me scream something, but like I do with the bad feelings and memories, I shove that shit down and lock it up.

  We’re busy playing, Tessa, hush.

  Without warning, I toss the beer bottle up and ready my bat. I keep my eye on the prize and take a big swing once the bottle falls into position. I hear a satisfying crunch as the bat makes contact with the glass. It shatters instantly, showering me in tiny shards of glass and beer. I peek at the lump and laugh with glee.

  “Mommy, did you see that? I should have been on the baseball team with this arm! It’s a shame you wouldn’t let me try out for anything. A fucking shame!”

  The monster and I can’t get enough and we begin to pick up speed with each swing, hitting only about half of the bottles that go into the air. Bits of glass bounce off my skin with each bottle I successfully destroy.

  Too quickly I’m faced with an empty table, I swing back around to my horribly rude audience.

  An applause would have been nice Mommy.

  I reach down and feel the lump for a pulse one last time. She’s still alive, by a thread. I crouch down at her head and gently move a stray hair away from her face and tuck it behind her ear. She’s too far gone; she doesn’t know I’m here, and in this instance, that makes me sad. She missed all the fun, and that’s truly a shame.

  I pull the cigarette from behind my ear and stick it into my mouth, reaching across her, I avoid the melted spoon and grab the lighter. After a few unsuccessful flicks, I finally light up the cigarette that’s fixed between my lips. I take a few long drags, relishing the feel of the heat going down my throat. I exhale the smoke slowly across her slackened face.

  Leaning in closer the monster and I solemnly whisper a goodbye.

  “It’s okay to let go now, Mommy, the Reaper is here.”

  After one last puff of the cigarette, I remove it from my dry lips and put out the cherry directly between my mother’s eyes. I twist it softly into her weathered face until it goes out.

  She doesn’t even flinch.

  Rising off my haunches, I’m struck with a realization. An epiphany, if you will.

  The monster’s voice, I’ve placed it.

  It was the sad voice of a skinny, eight-year-old girl.

  I was the monster all along.

  I turn on my heels and walk out of my childhood home.

  Chapter 32

  ─────

  Andrew

  Mom and Marybeth immediately go inside, conspiratorially whispering as they disappear back into the house. I’m not sure what that’s all about, but I can almost guarantee they are up to no good. Females are always making stuff more complicated.

  We scared the shit out of Tessa, but I can’t pinpoint exactly why. She could have just been embarrassed; I guess I would be if I were in her shoes. Which reminds me that she took off barefoot and in my old clothes. With a sigh, I head through the house and out the front door to sit on the front porch swing. If she comes back to grab her stuff, I’ll be here.

  I try to clear my mind, but it’s just not happening. This girl has me all twisted up.

  Is she going to be okay? Where would she go? Would she go back to that slimy nightclub? And why does she reserve that tortured look of pain just for me?

  Next door I hear a sequence of loud crashes and an inhuman shriek. My eyes flick over in that direction, although it’s a normal occurrence for our neighbors.

  I asked Mom recently who lived there, and she told me that a woman and her daughter live next door. Apparently, the mom hits the bottle hard. I’ve never seen the girl and don’t know how old she is, but there’s a twi
st in my gut whenever I think about anyone in such a crappy situation. The father is in jail so it’s just the two of them. I hear noises and yelling going on next door at all hours, and I’m certain it isn’t a safe place for anyone, let alone a child. My hope is that I haven’t seen the girl because some family member has whisked her away to a safe place.

  Zoned out, I’m still staring toward the house next door when I see the front door fly open and Tessa come strolling out holding what looks suspiciously like a bat. I stand up quickly and begin walking toward her.

  Why the hell was she next door? Does she know the family?

  As I get closer, a knot begins to form in the pit of my stomach.

  Something is wrong.

  That’s definitely a baseball bat in her right hand, but there are also pieces of something glittering in the sunlight all over her hair, skin, and clothes.

  What the—is that a feather on her shoulder?

  She makes her way to the rusted iron gate, and it creaks and groans when she swings it open. Her bare feet slap against the concrete of the sidewalk as she walks in my direction.

  She’s close enough that I can see the details of her face now, and although she’s looking right at me, I don’t think she’s seeing much of anything.

  I pick up my pace until I’m standing so close I could reach out and touch her. The glittering objects all over her are shards of dark glass. Bleeding cuts of various sizes cover her exposed skin. I gently take ahold of her free hand and hold out her arm, examining the extent of the damage. Her eyes are cloudy and dull, and it scares the ever-loving crap out of me. I return her arm, but don’t let go of her hand, as I give the rest of her body a quick once-over. The cuts all appear to be shallow, but she’ll need the glass removed from her skin and the cuts cleaned.

  I lace my fingers with hers and try to find even a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

  “Tessa?” I breathe.

  No response. I glance down at the crown hanging around her neck.

  My heart pounds loudly in my chest as a memory floats through my mind but refuses to stick. Without thinking, I place my fingertips gently under her chin. Lifting it, I force her eyes to meet mine.

  “Princess?”

  The word slips out, and it feels so right.

  For the life of me, I can’t figure out why I had the sudden urge to say it, but it doesn’t matter, because her eyes widen and snap into focus. Without warning, they fill up with tears, and to my surprise, she hurls herself into me. Without thinking I wrap my arms carefully around her, not wanting to graze any wounds. Her face burrows into my chest, and I feel the vibration of her quiet sobs. The stench of stale beer hits my nose, the glass must be bits of beer bottles.

  As I hold her trembling body in my arms, something in my heart clicks into place, a strange feeling I can’t begin to comprehend.

  Could be that I’m imagining it, or maybe it’s some alpha male part of me that craves a damsel in distress, but that doesn’t feel quite right. All I know is that whatever I feel for this mysterious girl is something I’ve never experienced before. I’ve always felt the need to love and protect my family, but this is something so much more powerful.

  This broken, blue-eyed beauty is my girl, even if she doesn't know it yet, and I will do everything in my power to protect her from whatever bad shit she’s running from.

  Maybe she’ll always be a little broken, and maybe I can’t scare off all her ghosts. But even if l have to wake up each day devising a new way to light up her blue eyes and see her smile, she’ll be my girl.

  I’ll pull her out of the darkness and bring her into the light.

  She breaks away abruptly, still sniffling, the flood of tears easing up. I ache for the warmth of her body as soon as it’s gone.

  “I-I’m sorry, I just,” she starts, but I don’t let her finish.

  “Let’s get you cleaned up.” I guide her back to the house where I see Mom and Marybeth watching us from the porch. As we get closer, Mom’s eyes widen in alarm once she sees the blood.

  “Oh, dear, let me get my first aid. Mary-Elizabeth, quick, grab the tweezers and get me a bucket of soapy water. Andrew, sit her down at the kitchen table and then get her some Tylenol and a glass of water.” Mom immediately starts shouting orders.

  Once we’re inside, we separate to do as she says without hesitation. Once she has everything, she picks up the tweezers and sits in a chair across from Tessa.

  “Alright, honey, I need to remove these shards of glass that are still in your skin. It will hurt a little though. You ready?” Mom speaks with a softness that Marybeth and I rarely hear. Tessa simply nods her head, her eyes looking at anything but us.

  “Alright, she doesn’t need an audience, chitlins. Head upstairs and get out of my hair for a bit.” Mom is sanitizing her tweezers as she relays her newest demand.

  “But Mom—” Marybeth starts.

  “Now. Thank you.” We recognize that tone; she won’t be budging on this.

  Marybeth grumbles her way upstairs, and I give Tessa one last look that she returns with a shaky smile and a nod. After giving my mom one last glare, I head upstairs to my room.

  Chapter 33

  ─────

  Tessa

  I fucking lost it. I know that. Even though it was reckless and a tad insane, I don’t regret a single second of it. A part of me has been waiting a long time for that chance, for some sort of fucked-up goodbye to my childhood—a crucial step toward the long road of closure.

  Everything is a little hazy after I picked up the bat. I don’t exactly remember leaving the house, but I do remember hearing that single word.

  Princess.

  He called me Princess, his green eyes brimming with concern, just like the day we met a lifetime ago. By the look of confusion that crossed his face immediately after, I’m positive he doesn’t know why he said it. Probably just some old reflex that was triggered by my tears.

  All I know is that single word lit my heart with hope.

  Hope that he’ll be able to get back those lost memories.

  I hiss and jolt back as Mrs. Blackwell removes a large shard of glass from my shoulder. She clucks her tongue, warning me to stay still. As she works on delicately removing each splinter of glass, she begins to talk, each word fills me with dread.

  “I saw you and your mother for the first time a few weeks after you had moved in. You were just a little thing, maybe five years old. I remember being furious with how skinny you looked and the tattered clothes they put you in. I should have asked right then if you were okay. I should have called CPS. I should have done something, anything, but I was too selfishly wrapped up in my own life and family. Clyde was working a huge case, and the twins were a full-time job. By the time I found out about all the drugs and abuse, well, it was too late. Maybe things would have gone differently if I had just—” She sighs heavily.

  I let out a breath I’d been unaware I was holding. She did recognize me after all.

  “Every year I would drop off some of Marybeth's things for you, clothes she hardly wore and some toys and books. I started seeing you in her clothes and I actually felt proud of myself. Can you believe that? You must understand, Tessa, that I never saw any visible bruises on you, never saw them lay a hand on you. I had a gut feeling, and I ignored it like a fool.” She blinks several times.

  “When I saw you this morning asleep in Mary-Elizabeth’s bed, I recognized you immediately. Same chocolate brown hair, same dainty nose and lips, and still just skin and bone. Besides the fact that you’re a skinny little thing, you’ve grown up to be a very beautiful young lady, and it pains me to think about the hell you have been through.”

  “Mrs. Blackwell, I—” I have to tell her I’m sorry and that I will never come back here. She must hate me.

  I hate me.

  “Hush, child, I’ve been waiting for years for this chance and I have to get it off my chest while I can.” She looks at me sternly. Her hands are free, I hadn’t even noticed
she’d finished picking out all the glass.

  “What happened was downright horrible. When I saw all the blood and my baby wasn’t moving I felt so damn scared and helpless. I was angry for what felt like a very long time. He was such a kindhearted little boy. Why did this have to happen to him? I eventually wrung the truth out of Marybeth, what little she knew. Andrew had been sneaking away to visit you every week for what we figured out was years. Oh, honey, did I feel like an idiot when I put all the pieces together. All the times he would seem to just up and disappear, the missing food and books from our library. After that, my anger changed into something unexpected; it became pride. My sweet boy did what no one else—not even his foolish mother—would do. He looked after you. He became what I can only assume was your only friend, and did his best to protect you the only way he knew how.”

  Goosebumps break out across my flesh at her words. She takes my hands into hers and absently rubs her thumb across my knuckles.