Mansions

by Whitney Bianca

  The only parts of her that are left might be the things she left behind.

  After her camera is bagged and placed safely in one of the armored cases we brought along, I leave Bryan and the others and go to her hotel. It's a quick walk. I can see it from the café. Some of the lower windows are shattered but, otherwise, it wasn't touched. The window boxes are still full of flowers. A bird still chirps in the tree out front. I throw around a bit more money and before I know it, I'm standing in the middle of her tiny room and breathing in her scent for the last time.

  Her bed is still unmade, like she just stepped out of it and she's going to return. There's a pile of clothes on the chair beside the window and a simple plastic comb on the dresser. Her worn leather duffel bag is unzipped and open, like she just finished rifling through it for a fresh change of clothes. The walls are plain and the bedding is thin and cheap. This is where she spent her last night and it angers me. If she hadn't been so stubborn, she could be alive and well in New York this very second, surrounded by all the luxury she deserved. I would've given her everything. An apartment in a distinguished zip-code. A car for her own personal use. Clothes, jewelry, a dark room - anything she could've dreamed of. Anything she desired.

  I linger too long in the meager room. By the time I finish packing her things and go down to meet my men, the sun is already low in the sky.

  We work until the sun goes down and the air turns chilly. We pack up and go to the hotel we're staying, a five star hotel in the nice part of the city. Music plays in the lobby almost like a war isn't on the verge of breaking out. I shower and wash the stink of the plane ride and the bomb site off of my skin, then I toss and turn in all night my soft bed. In the morning we get up and do it all again.

  But this day is different.

  Before we can begin again, endlessly sifting through the hundreds of tiny pieces that used to be humans, one of my men gets a call. An American woman was brought into a small hospital at the edge of the city with massive blood loss and external injuries the day of the bombing. She's alive, but barely, they say. They heard a group of rich Americans were looking. For the right price, they'll tell us the name of the hospital. I know it could be a scam. I know it could be bullshit. But I don't hesitate. Bryan and I and two of the other men go, following sketchy directions until we find the hospital. I'm almost shocked when the staff confirms that an American woman was brought there after the blast. I follow the doctors and nurses through the rows of beds, my men following behind me. When they finally stop on a single metal bed at the end of the room, I can barely maintain my composure as they part and allow me to see the woman on the bed.

  She takes my breath away.

  Her face is riddled with cuts and dried blood, but her beauty is intact. She's pale and her skin has a gray parlor from blood loss. Her lips are dried and cracked. Her black hair is plastered to her forehead with sweat. Her eyes are sunken and closed. She's sedated so she doesn't know I'm here. She probably has no idea the predicament she's in. I step around the side of the bed and slide my hand over hers. Her knuckles are scratched, and there's blood under her fingernails. But at least she still has both of her arms and all of her fingers.

  “It's her,” I tell the doctor and I nod at Bryan. He knows to do whatever it'll take. Pay them off, sign whatever he has to sign. I'm taking Adrienne out of this hospital immediately, and we'll be on a plane before the hour is up. She's coming home with me, back to New York where she should've been to begin with.

  Unfortunately, she's not coming home as she left.

  I lift the sheet away from her lower half, like ripping off a Band-aid. The nurse beside the bed drops her eyes, but I don't look away. I want to see what they did to her. It's hard to look, but I do even though I'm exhausted and it's difficult to keep my self-control intact. This is the new reality, I tell myself. As I stare down at her, I force all of my emotions down and away, until I don't feel anything. I don't feel pity. I don't feel sadness. I'm numb. Her life is in my hands and I don't take that lightly. In fact, it's the only thing I'm certain of, as I stand in that foreign hospital room and witness all of her blood and all of her pain.

  Adrienne Hamina belongs to me now.

  Forever.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Life is pain.

  Sometimes the pain is dull and throbbing and sometimes it's so sharp that it makes me vomit up whatever is in my stomach, whether it be broth, water or bile. Whatever its strength, the deep hurt is ever-present. It wraps around my brain like a thick, milky fog that I can't find my way out of. I can't see past it. It doesn't go away no matter how much morphine they pump into my veins.

  The room is dark and I don't know where I am. I don't particularly care either. It's too hard to care about anything. Women dressed in white come in and out all day, giving me water and stabbing me with needles. I don't know how often they come; I have no concept of time. I have no idea how long I've been in this room. I can't remember what happened to me or how I ended up here. My brain is never clear enough to think, anyway. The bed is soft and I sleep more than I should, but I can't stop myself. I used to want to wake up, but now it's too hard to push through the haze. Sometimes I dream of blue eyes, staring down at me like I'm an exhibit at a museum. Sometimes I dream of him on top of me and inside of me and I don't ever want to wake up. Other times I dream of scary things, of fiery explosions and red blood. Or sometimes of a red-haired woman and dark hallways and big trees whose branches seems to take over the sky.

  When I do wake, I scream for hours and I can't stop myself. I scream and cry and push away anybody that comes to help me. I don't want anyone to touch me, because it hurts too much. I refuse food whether I'm hungry or not and eventually, the hunger fades in with the rest of the pain. I wonder if this is what death is like. It feels like purgatory, some in-between place that's not quite life and not quite death. I've spent too much of my life pondering death and sometimes, even wishing for it. I wonder if this is the punishment for all of that, for all the times I didn't appreciate what life could be.

  I can remember what it felt like to run. I can remember the feel of sand between my toes. The feel of grass and dirt and cool ocean waves. Even though I don't remember what happened, I know parts of me are missing. At least I think they're missing. I can still feel my legs and feet, but I'm pretty sure they're gone. When I sleep, even in the nightmares, I still have them. Then when I wake up and open my eyes, I can't feel anything but pain. It's almost unbelievable, actually. I can't wrap my head around this new reality.

  The loss is too much to bear.

  Part of me thinks that eventually I'll fall asleep and I won't wake up. So I sleep and sleep and sleep, because there's nothing else I can do but wait.

  The end will come, someday.

  *****

  I stay away while her screams echo in the corridors. I sit in my study downstairs and watch the live feed from the cameras in her room, a room that used to be empty and dull. I watch her writhe and flail and then go still after they slide the needle into her arm once more. I watch the nurses scurry around her and then leave her alone to rest. When night falls, I'm so exhausted I feel like I'm going to collapse. I go upstairs with the intention of going to my room, but instead I go to her.

  At first, I stay close to the door, keeping my distance from the small, weak but somehow still powerful figure in the bed beyond. Her hold on me is strangely strong. Ever since I found her and took her out of that hospital, it's became different. Deeper. She's mine now, but in these first few days have felt almost like a dream. The whole room feels haunted, like a ghost is lingering in every corner. But it's just Adrienne. She's there in front of me, not a dream. She isn't a figment of my imagination. She was real.

  I pull a chair next to her bed and sit, wanting to be beside her but hesitant to get too close. She's sedated and I'm sure she isn't aware of my presence. Any touch, however slight, will cause her pain. Even the touch of the thin, sweat-soaked sheet that covers her or the soft mattress underneath
her will sometimes make her face contort in pain, despite the medication.

  I stare at her beautiful, flushed face for hours, wanting her to open her eyes. A strange urge wells up in my chest the longer I wait. She survived the move and the plane ride. Her bleeding is under control. Her wounds are bound and healing. She's going to be fine, they all tell me. She's made it through the worst. The rest is a waiting game. I want her to look at me, though. I want to talk to her. I want to be close to her.

  She may have lost her delicious toes and her slim ankles, but she isn't any less to me.

  I spent fifteen years in lust with a woman who was as intangible and wild as a warm breeze. It was easy that way. It was easy to fantasize about someone who didn't really exist. But she's no longer a fantasy. I've tasted her blood, her sweat, and her come. I've witnessed her in the rapture of pleasure and at the dizzying heights of pain.

  I'm more enamored with her than ever.

  And I'm selfish.

  I stand and move to the bed. Slowly, I lift the sheet off what was left of her legs. The skin above her bandages is red and mottled and I let my hand hover over her left thigh. Her pain vibrates in the air all around us. It's intoxicating. She whispers something I can't make out. In her morphine haze, she was whispering and crying out in French, the language of her dead mother. I leaned close to her as her face tenses in pain. I take her chin in my hand and make her look at me.

  “Adrienne,” I whispered. She opens her eyes and they're dark and delirious with agony. I brush my mouth across her dry lips. “Je vais prendre soin de vous.” The french crossed my lips easily. I'm going to take care of you.

  “I...” she whispered, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. Her pupils were wide and dilated. “I want to die.” Her voice is cracked. Unhinged.

  “Shh,” I murmur. I stroke her cheek and wipe away the hot tears that seep from her eyes. I see a hint of something in her eyes that I had never seen before. Or maybe it's always been there and I just never saw it before.

  Madness.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Lockwood was built in the 1920s by my great-grandfather, at the height of the boom years. It's a massive Tudor style mansion, with two wings and thirty rooms. It has miles of surrounding gardens that are meticulously maintained, but the house itself is dark and cold and gloomy and nowhere close to being my favorite place in the world. I actually have no idea where my favorite place in the world is, but if I had to choose, it would never be Lockwood. After the death of my father, it became the expensive albatross around my neck. It's a sprawling, ugly beast.

  Luckily for me, it's also the perfect hiding place.

  My wife Selene prefers to stay in the city or in our beach house in Southhampton on the weekends, so she rarely visits. In fact, she'd rather fly to her parents' vineyard in California than make the almost two hour drive up the Hudson. There's nothing to do, she says. There's no one to talk to. I don't blame her. In fact, I've propagated her dislike of the property. I want her to know that there's nothing for her there. Lockwood is off the beaten path, desolate, and far from any suspicion. As much as I hate it for various reasons, I can't stay away.

  It's the best playground for my deviant desires.

  Where Adrienne is concerned, all of my desires are deviant.

  Lockwood is all mine, just like she is. Every stone, every brick, every square inch belongs to me. It makes me feel calm to remind myself of this, like I can relax, finally, as I drive up to the looming house. The massive stone fountain in the driveway gurgles and spurts as I exit the car. Above me, the stars are already visible in the clear night sky. I climb the stairs to the front entrance, letting out a relieved sigh as I pass the threshold. I didn't realize how tightly wound I was. For as long as I can remember, my skin has been stretched thin over my bones and my muscles have been bunched and tight. I need a release. Badly.

  Violently.

  It's been three weeks since Adrienne's been at Lockwood and no one knows she's there. Not my wife. Not Jessica Stockton-Hamina. No one but Bryan and the staff I've hired to take care of her. I flew in a doctor from the West Coast for the first couple of days, but she's been stable ever since. From what the nurses tell me, she's making progress. I haven't seen her since those first few, pain-filled days and anticipation is burning within me.

  I throw open the door and I can hear her screams echoing through the house immediately. I smile when I hear the sharp sound of breaking glass. Seems my little broken bird's wings are healing nicely. I make my way across the foyer and up the massive staircase toward her room. The house is full of shadows, as always. The mahogany paneling that covers the walls soak up the light from the crystal chandeliers like a sponge. I stroll through the halls, past the oil portraits of long dead relatives, toward the room that I've given her. It's a big guest room at the left side of the house, adjacent to my father's old office and the library.

  The screaming grows louder the closer I get. The door is open and I stop in the doorway and take in the scene in front of me. The three Ukrainian nurses I've hired are standing around the bed, speaking in a flurry of their native tongue while they try subdue Adrienne. I can see her struggling, her flesh as pale as the white sheets she's thrashing around on. Her black hair drags across the pillow as she throws her head back and forth. Her screams eventually drop to low, animalistic grunts as she tires herself out.

  My eyes are drawn to the silver tray on the floor. Her dinner is spread across the priceless Persian rug, the spilled food already staining the hand-loomed wool.

  “What's happening here?” I ask calmly and the nurses turn to look at me. The two younger women go pale and the older one, the one in charge, narrows her eyes and flares her nostrils in frustration, like a stubborn horse.

  “She will not eat,” she bites out, her graying hair slipping out of her tight topknot. “Sir,” she adds as an afterthought.

  “Is that so?” I ask, cocking my head to find Adrienne's eyes in the gap between the nurses's bodies. She stares back at me, her eyes wild and her chest heaving. The head nurse barks out a few words in Ukrainian and the nurses step away from the bed. I can finally get a good look Adrienne. She's wearing a thin, sweat soaked chemise. It's Selene's, handmade in Italy. It looks a hell of a lot better on Adrienne, even if she looks like shit. I notice immediately that she's scarily skinny. Her ribs are visible. Her cheekbones jut out. Her hair is limp and oily. The room smells of blood and unwashed flesh. Despite the strength of her outburst, she's weak, I can tell.

  Anger flares up in me, red-hot.

  “What did I hire you to do?” I ask. My voice never rises, but they can sense the danger. The head nurse steps forward, as if shielding the younger ones.

  “She will not eat,” the head nurse repeats, trying to explain.

  “What did I hire you to do?” I ask again, injecting a hint of cold violence into my voice.

  “To... take care of the young lady,” the nurse replies, her face going pale.

  “She doesn't look well-cared for,” I say, stepping closer to the head nurse.

  “She is difficult, Mr. Armstrong.” Her voice has dropped to a whisper.

  “She looks like death,” I say, staring down at the older woman, my gaze never wavering. To her credit, she doesn't look away. “If her health continues to decline, I will personally hold you responsible. If she dies as a result of your negligence... well.” I snort out a derisive laugh, although I'm far from amused. For a moment, Adrienne's strained breathing is the only sound in the room. “I will personally dismember you, limb from limb, and toss you in the Hudson. No one will miss you.”

  The head nurse blinks but she's been trained well. She doesn't react beyond the tightening of the muscles in her face. This is why I love foreign help. They never question that I will do what I say I will. They never question their place on the totem pole. After a moment, she nods once.

  “Yes, Mr. Armstrong.” She takes a step back and drops her eyes to the floor. Obedience. I like that.

  “You,” I
say, pointing to the strawberry blond nurse trying to hide in plain sight by the door. She's young, no older than her early twenties, and looks terrified. The way her eyes widen in fright when she realizes I'm talking to her makes my chest tight with evil excitement.

  “Y-yes?” she asks, bowing her head.

  “Bring me another tray of whatever that was.” I motion toward the mess on the floor. She nods and then all three women hurry from the room. With a sigh to calm myself, I turn back to Adrienne. She's staring at me, her eyes glazed and her head resting against her shoulder like it's too heavy to lift. I take off my suit jacket and drape it over the wingback chair that sits next to the fireplace. Her eyes follow me as I step over the silver tray on my way to the bed. I stand over her, keeping my face neutral as I take off my cufflinks and Rolex and set them on the bedside table. “How are you, ma petite?” I ask, letting my eyes sweep her fragile body.

  “Don't,” she says, her voice hoarse. She swallows hard, then continues. “Don't call me that.” I smile, rolling up the sleeves of my crisp white shirt. She pulls the sheet slowly over her lap, hiding her legs from me. “Where am I?” she asks.

  “Where do you think you are?”

  “Somewhere I don't want to be.”

  “Ah.” I can't resist a slight smile. “But you are alive.”