I set my hand on the chipped crystal doorknob, turning it slowly and pushing ahead. Everything about this feels wrong. I tell myself that the dream I had the other night was just that – a dream. It was born out of stress and desperation and longing. It was a consequence of having to keep up appearances when all I want to do is be with Adrienne. Marry Adrienne. Live with Adrienne. Come home to Adrienne. With those words chanting in my head, I open the door.
I'm not prepared for what I find.
The smell is strong, stronger than I'm prepared for. The smell of rotting flesh almost makes me gag and I raise my arm to cover my mouth and nose. Trash and old plates and food are on the floor. A broken plate is against the baseboard next to the radiator, and food is stuck to the wallpaper. What it used to be, I have no idea. It's black and green and molded over now. Clothes are strewn about and hang on the bed frame. I glance around, the gravity of the situation not quite hitting me at first. Until I realize Adrienne is nowhere in sight. I stumble toward the bed, not paying attention to what I'm stepping through. But as I hear a crack under my foot, I stop and glance down. I know what it is before I look, but I have to know for sure.
It's an empty vial. And it's not the only one on the floor. There's needles as well, dotting the dingy carpet around the bed. The bed is in disarray. The sheets are stained with drops of dark brown blood as well as food and wine. The duvet is shoved and bunched at the end of the bed and the pillows are piled in the center. I can see the outline of her head in the top pillow. A strand of her hair is curled on the once-white Egyptian cotton, reminding me that she was once here. But she's not anymore.
The bathroom light is on and the door is open. As I turn to look inside, it takes me a moment to comprehend what I see there. I move toward it unconsciously, not sure if what I see is real or not. I push the door open wider, ignoring how much stronger the smell is the closer I get. I tell myself it's not a dream, even though it feels like it. I should be used to death by now, after all.
She's wedged between the bathtub and the pedestal sink, one leg curled under and the other straight out in front of her. Her skin is a mottled blue and purple and her eyes are like milky glass beads. She stares, unseeing, at the cracked tile floor. Flies buzz around her head. One lands and crawls on her cheek. I pull my suit jacket over the lower half of my face and crouch down to study her. It's pretty clear what happened. There's a vial of morphine next to her and a used needle cradled in her palm. As I stare down at her face, which has been distorted by death, I can't help but feel responsible.
I should've seen it coming.
“Shit,” I hear Bryan hiss behind me. He doesn't bother to protect himself from the smell or the view.
“Where's your man?” I say, standing. Bryan stares down at Irina on the floor, his face not betraying any emotion he might be feeling. I appreciate that, because although I'm not shattered by Irina's untimely demise, I can feel a rising sense of panic in regards to the one person who should be here, but isn't. I need his cool head. I need him to help me find her.
“I haven't located him yet,” Bryan says, his voice dropping. He knows it's not good.
“This never should've happened,” I say through clenched teeth, not sure who I'm more angry with – myself or Irina or the missing man or Bryan. Bryan steps out of the way to let me pass. I move around the cluttered bedroom quickly, searching the first places the come to mind. Stoop to glance under the bed. Throw open the doors to the closets and root around inside. Only a few garments I've bought for her remain on hangers, dangling like forgotten clothes on a line. I clench my hands in an unworn silk dress as I feel the panic taking over. I force myself to breathe, telling myself that she's in the house somewhere. She's scared or sleeping or maybe she's even still drugged up. I have no idea how much Irina's been keeping her sedated. Based on the looks of the room, both of them have been sedated for awhile. There's no way to know until I find her.
The problem is there's a million hiding places in this house. If she's hiding.
I shut the closet door firmly. I can feel Bryan behind me, waiting. I want to beat someone, anything, until blood pours and bones crack, but not now. The person he hired fucked up and I'll punish him for it later. For now, I need him.
“You search the upper level. Every inch,” I say, my voice echoing in my ears foreignly. It doesn't sound like me talking, it sounds like someone else. “I'll take downstairs.”
“We'll find her, sir,” he says, and I believe him. At least, I want to believe him.
*****
I was hungry, I remember.
I hadn't eaten in over a day, maybe two. It was so difficult to keep track of time. I called for Irina, but she didn't answer. My voice was weak, though, and I couldn't seem to make it stronger. The water glasses beside the bed, all three of them, were empty. My throat was dry. I was weak but I climbed out of bed, using all of the upper-body strength I had left to try to lower myself to the floor as softly as possible. I wrapped my stained nightgown around my thighs and gathered the material enough to tie it into a loose knot at the hemline. I'd found it was easier to get around when the material didn't drag too much. I was tired of getting the hem caught on the loose nails. I reached up and grabbed one of the empty glasses, which I cradled in my lap as I slowly pulled myself to the bathroom.
I gulped at the water until I choked, but it tasted too good to stop. I could taste the iron in the water, but I didn't care. Water was water, and I was dehydrated from the opiates that were slowly fading from my system. The water rushed loudly into the tub but I refilled my glass once more before I shut it off. I couldn't reach the sink, so the only water I could reach was the tub faucet. I couldn't complain, though. I was just thankful I could get around at all.
When I drank my fill, I set the glass on the tile beside the tub and then got on the toilet to pee. It was easier than it used to be, since Irina and I devised a system. She'd found two wooden crates on the grounds somewhere, one taller than the other. It created a wobbly set of steps up to the toilet. If I was careful and didn't rush, I could climb up to the toilet on my own. Not having to rely on someone else in order to take a piss was one of the only tolerable parts of being back in my mother's house.
When I finished in the bathroom, I turned my attention to the bedroom door. Irina had kept it locked in the first few weeks, but she'd gotten lazy. I'd been in such a bad way that I rarely got out of bed anyway, let alone tried to move around the house. I didn't want to venture into the house, anyway. I didn't want to be there; I didn't want to stir up any more of the bad memories. Since I'd been back in the house I swore never to return to, I'd been hiding from them all.
But I was hungry. For the first time in a long time. So I let my stomach lead me to the door. When I opened it, I took a deep breath, like I didn't know what I expected. Everything looked the same as it looked when we lived there, but darker and dingier and covered in dust. It smelled stale and mildewed, but above all of that, I could smell fresh roasted chicken. At least, I thought I could. I had no idea what time it was, but the sun was still in the sky. It was almost time for the daily dinner drop.
“Irina!” I called out, but my voice was still faint. It barely echoed at all down the hallway. I tried again, and then listened for her footsteps. After a few moments, I came to the realization I would have to go further. Crawling out into the hallway was torture, but I gritted my teeth and did it. It took me awhile, and I got filthy, but I pulled myself to the servant's staircase, which led directly to the kitchen. As I paused and leaned against the wall to catch my breath, I couldn't hear anything but my own heartbeat. The smell of fresh, delicious food was perfuming the air, though, and my stomach clenched in response. I opened my mouth to call for Irina again but then I heard it.
The sounds were unmistakeable.
The moans that sounded like a mixture of pleasure and pain. The groaning and creaking of wooden furniture as two bodies moved against it. I could hear a man's voice, a deep voice I had never heard before. He was s
aying something, but I couldn't make out the words. Then a light laugh, a laugh I most definitely recognized. I grabbed ahold of the plain wooden railing that ran along the wall and lowered myself down the first step. I tried to be as quiet as possible, out of habit. I was used to creeping around this house, being neither seen nor heard. It'd been years, but it was impossible to divorce myself from the instinct. It was like I was a kid again, sneaking and spying and hiding in shadows.
When I'm halfway down the stairs, I can finally lean forward enough to get a partial view into the kitchen. I can see him fucking her, his pants down around his knees and the globes of his ass pale in the low light of the kitchen. Her legs around wrapped around him, her toes flexing with every hard thrust of his hips. She's speaking in her mother tongue, like she's possessed and out of her mind. I can understand the feeling. Some cocks are too intoxicating, too perfect in how they slide inside and fill you up. When I was a kid, I had no idea about the mysteries of it all. How one man could somehow make you feel better than a dozen men, even though you might think that more would be merrier. How one man could make you addicted to the way his hips moved and his mouth said your name and his body felt on top of yours.
Sex was sex, I'd always thought. Dirty, quick, and when it was over, you pushed your dress down and got on with your day. But it's not always like that. I watched them until it was over, until he hunched over and shuddered and moaned her and she pulled him close. Then they got up and dressed themselves again. They kissed, lingering together for a moment. Then he put his phone to his ear and left through the back door. This time, I didn't move, even though I knew she would see me. And sure enough, she turned and gasped as she saw me sitting there, on the step.
“I'm hungry,” I said.
Two weeks later, she died of an overdose on my bathroom floor.
The man came back when he heard my screams, but he didn't stay. He ran in and tried to wake her. When that didn't work, he simply left her there, dead in the bathroom. He left me, as well, all alone. No matter how much I screamed, he never came back. When I couldn't scream anymore, I heard my mother called to me from the hallway and I followed her voice. She was still in the house, of course. She'd always been there. She'd been whispering in Irina's ear the whole time, making her think that the drugs would make it all okay. She'd almost made me believe it, too. It was still her house after all, no matter how many years passed. She was as much a part of the house as the foundation or the roof. I followed her voice down the hallway and to the stairs. I followed her voice down to the kitchen. As I crawled to the door and pushed it open, I could hear it again, clear as day. I hadn't heard it since the day of my mother's funeral, but I still recognized it.
The house was laughing at me.
It still is.
*****
I feel like I've been here before.
As I throw furniture around the living room and hear it crack satisfyingly against the floors and walls, I have the nagging sense that I've been here before. Not in this room, not in this house, but in this same situation. I've been looking for Adrienne for most of my life after all. Tracking her name and passport number from country to country. Following her through hidden, dark rooms in quiet museums. Shoving through burned debris, looking for a trace of her clothing, or a strand of hair or some tangible sign that she was there. Stumbling through a hedge maze in the middle of the night, soaked through with rain. She's cheated death on multiple occasions and somehow, always came through on the other side. But it feels different this time.
This time, death is all around us.
The dust has barely settled on my wife's grave. There's a dead girl upstairs as well, her body rotting with every second that passes. Francine Hamina died in this house, too, I haven't forgotten. I can see Jessica's hollowed out eyes and sunken cheeks as she sat beside me in the car and told me that, looking like she was a few steps from the edge herself. I didn't care about any of it. I didn't care who had to die so that Adrienne could live. But at some point, it would be time to pay for my sins. I just hope my payment hasn't come due.
I call out her name again for the hundredth time, even though I know she won't answer me. I rake my hands through my hair, feeling a level of desperation that I haven't felt in a long time. Maybe since the night of my father's stroke. The night he went from being one of the most powerful men in the Western hemisphere to being a gray lump of skin and bones in a hospital bed. I hate being out of control like this. I especially hate that I have no one to blame for it but myself. I scream for her again and again, but she never answers.
“Dorian,” a deep, calm voice says, snapping me back to reality.
“Did you find her?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
“I think you should go,” Bryan says. “It's not good for you to be here.”
“I can't go yet,” I say, the urge to punch him in his jaw getting stronger with each passing second. “I'm not going to leave without her.”
“You need to distance yourself from this situation,” he says, ignoring me. His jaw is clenched though, like he can feel the impact of my fist before I even swing it.
“That's what I've been doing!” I can't help but lose my temper then. My composure is non-existent. “I loosened my grip for one fucking second, to do what had to be done, and now I don't know if she's dead or alive. It means nothing without her!”
“Dorian,” he says again, and it angers me even more that he's trying to calm me when there's nothing in the world that I will calm me again if harm has come to Adrienne. “She's alive.”
“Where? Where is she?”
“She's here, on the grounds somewhere. I can find her, but I need to concentrate. I also need you to give me time to work. Can you do that?” he says.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. I grab the lamp on the table closest to me and fling it against the nearest wall. It feels good to use my muscles like that, to expend all of the energy out of it until my heart is beating and my pulse is racing. It feels like running. I know it won't last and eventually I'll collapse from fatigue but, for now, it's all I need.
“Where would she go?” he asks. “Where would she hide?”
“I don't know!” I scream and it feels like the whole house shakes. Then I realize that it's thunder, distantly rumbling above our heads. Then a thought occurs to me, a violent, vicious disgusting thought. “Where's your man?” I repeat my question from earlier as the black rage unfolds inside of me. “If he touched her...” I let my thought trail off because I can't finish it. The thought of it is too much. She was a fighter, but without Irina, she would be helpless. Then another thought occurs to me. An even worse thought.
She was angry at me. Angry enough to want to get revenge. Angry enough to want to run away and leave me. Lonely enough and disturbed enough and desperate enough to try to be with another man. A deranged picture show plays in my mind, and I can see her holding out her arms for the faceless man, pulling him in close. I can see her fucking him. Shit, I can see her and Irina fucking him together. I can see all the drugs that they inject, all the ways they pull him in and seduce him. I can see the man carrying my Adrienne out into the dark night and far away, to a place I'll never find her.
It's just insane enough to be reality. With Adrienne, nothing's ever been sane. Since she's come into my life, everyday has been unpredictable and intense, too intense to stand. Is this love? I have no idea. I just know I want her. If she's run off with someone else, I'll punish her. I'll look for her until I find her and then I'll punish her. With those words swimming in my head, I can feel a sound rip from my throat and it takes a minute to realize it's something almost inhuman, between a howl and a scream. I make my way to the kitchen and shove open the kitchen door so hard it slams against the side of the house. I can feel Bryan behind me but I don't stop. My only thought is that we're wasting our time in the house. She's not here, anymore. She's gone.
The wind has picked up and the leaves in the trees rustle above. The sky rumbles menacingly,
reminding us that at any moment the heavens could decide to release hell. I keep moving, even though I don't know where I'm going to go. I can hear Bryan repeating my name but I ignore him. Suddenly, all of my attention is on the big, dark tree at the far end of the yard. The hulking shadow with branches that sway in the wind. Without thought, I move toward it, stumbling over the jagged stones that used to form an orderly path to the garden. I fall on one knee, but get up and keep moving. I follow along the low stone wall, using it as a guide. The land is overgrown, wild. I keep moving even when I trip. Getting to the tree is all the matters. I don't know why; I don't question it. All I know is it reminds me of Adrienne, more than any room in that fucking house does. It was where we first met, all those years ago, but that's not the only thing. When she climbed up into it's branches, it was like she'd done it a million times before. It was like she knew the branches as well as she knew her own limbs.
I have no idea if I've gone crazy but I don't care. If I'm wrong, I might just fling myself off the side of the cliff and have it be over with. The fall will kill me before the water does. It'll be painless after that. But it'll also be giving up. Giving up on everything I've done so that we can be together. Forgetting about everything we've done. Forgetting everything I feel. I don't know if I can do it. I've never given up on Adrienne. I don't know how.
The roots of the tree stretch out from the base like tentacles, tripping me up with every step. But I don't stop. It's pitch black in the shadow of the tree, any moonlight in the sky no help to me. I reach my hands out until I tough the rough bark of the trunk and then I drop to a crouch, stretching out to feel the ground. “Adrienne?” I can hear myself say. And then I feel something. Something cold and soft and not supposed to be there. She's laying against the rough bark and the downy, wet moss. I almost don't believe it. I run my hands all over her, up her thighs to her neck and to her cheeks. She's cold, too cold. She's only wearing a thin gown and nothing else, not even her compression bandages. Her hair is wet and her skin is clammy. I straddle her legs and tilt her head up toward me. Even though there's no light, her skin still glows with an unearthly light.
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