Twisted City: (Twisted City Book 1)

by Rebekah Vasick

  “I’m so sorry to hear that. Were you married long?”

  “Sixty-eight years. The happiest days of my life.”

  “I wish there was something I could do to help.”

  “Sitting here talking helps. It’s not healthy to keep the dreadful memories locked up inside. Maybe if I had found you sooner, I could have slept,” he sighs.

  For the next hour, we confess our pasts. The abuse we endured, the loneliness we felt. Together, we weep, more so for each other rather than our own pain. But he was right. Disclosing the truth to another person helped, and even eased my fears of my abusers discovering my whereabouts.

  “You know, dear, I believe I may sleep tonight. Thank you,” he says, smiling warmly at me.

  “Anytime, Mr. Thompson,” I tell him. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, sweet Eva.”

  I watch him shuffle away before I empty the dryer and return to my apartment.

  “Morning,” Alice sings as she strolls through the front door.

  I refuse to acknowledge her and remain seated on the sofa, glaring at the television.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  The sofa announces her presence as she sits beside me, but I continue to ignore her.

  “Okay, you’re mad at me, but why?” she presses.

  I glance sideways at her as all my rage from yesterday spews forth. “Because I know you’re keeping something from me,” I spit out.

  “What–I–but—” she stutters.

  I wear a satisfied smirk as I watch her fluster. It’s about time she endured the frustrations I have these past few weeks.

  She throws her hands in the air. “What do you want from me?” she whines.

  I turn to face her. “I want the truth, Alice. Why won’t you tell me who you’re dating? And explain the secrecy in the first place. I’m your best friend, and you’re treating me like I’m your mother.”

  I know I’ve struck a nerve, comparing myself to her mother, but she deserves it. She opens her mouth to retaliate but promptly closes it again. She gathers a lock of her hair and gazes at it (just as a fortune teller would gaze into a crystal ball) searching for the answer.

  “You’re right. You are my best friend, and I’m treating you like a stranger.” She looks at me through her lashes. “Not my mother. But it’s complicated.”

  “Why?”

  “Can I change first?” she asks, peering down at her blue dress.

  I draw my hands inside my hoodie sleeves and secure my arms around my legs, resting my chin on my knees. She glances up at me before retreating to her room.

  A light tapping on our front door saves Alice from my interrogation.

  “Expecting company?” she calls from her room.

  “No,” I say, confused.

  Before I have the chance to answer the door myself, she emerges from her room adorned in a pair of gray sweatpants and baby-pink t-shirt and opens the front door.

  “I’m looking for Eva. I believe she lives here?” a woman I don’t know says.

  After hearing my name, I release my legs and lean forward to capture a glimpse of the stranger.

  “Yes, she’s here,” Alice says.

  She steps to one side, allowing the woman to enter. However, the woman remains on the other side of the threshold.

  I ease from the sofa and tiptoe towards her. Her shoulder length brunette hair appears windswept, and on her oval face, she displays the tears she has shed all morning. As I continue to scrutinize her, I find certain similarities to someone I know. Under the film of tears, lives a pair of gray eyes I’ve seen before. Even her button nose and the shape of her mouth, though droopy, still resembles someone I’ve met. Her sloppy apparel, along with her windswept hair determines she dressed in a hurry, but why rush over to find me?

  In one hand she holds onto a crumpled tissue, in the other, a manila envelope. “Eva?” she asks.

  “Yes.” I edge my way towards her, not understanding why she won’t pass the doormat.

  “This is for you.” She hands me the envelope.

  As it slips through my fingertips, they clasp onto it like I’m holding on to a fragile object. My other hand joins its twin to help care for the precious gift once it leaves the woman’s hand. I look at the envelope to find my name printed on it.

  “You knew my father, Harold.”

  Harold? That name isn’t familiar to me. My eyes flutter back up to meet hers, while I moisten my lips with the tip of my tongue before I open my mouth to answer. She must be reading my thoughts as she answers my silent question.

  “Harold Thompson,” she clarifies.

  My hands lower against my thighs as I smile. “Oh, yes, Mr. Thompson,” I say. “Sorry. I didn’t know his first name.”

  The smile fades as a cloak of dread shrouds me. I wish I could shut down my senses or cover my ears as I anticipate her next words. Despite my desires, my hands remain heavy as they clutch the envelope.

  The woman tightens her grip around the tissue and lowers her eyes as she delivers the unwanted message. “We received a phone call this morning from Mrs. Myrtle. My father and a few of their friends meet at the cafe for breakfast every Sunday, and it concerned her when he didn’t arrive. So they called me and my husband to come and check on him.” Her voice catches in her throat. “When we arrived, we found him sleeping in his chair with that letter in his hand.”

  A fresh blanket of tears forms in her eyes before shedding to streak her face.

  The delivery of the bitter news causes my body to sway, and I reach out for the wall. I rest my palm against it as I silently plead for her to stop. I can’t hear anymore.

  “I knew he was dead before I reached out to touch his skin.” Her voice breaks completely, and she raises the tissue to hide her tears as she sobs.

  I twist around and lean my back against the wall and bring the envelope to my chest. The first set of tears slither down my cheeks.

  Last night, before he left for his apartment, he thanked me for helping him sleep. He knew he was about to draw his last breath.

  “I’m sorry, I have to go.” The woman’s voice is but a mere whisper.

  By the time I turn my head to thank her for bringing the letter, Alice has already closed the door and eases herself against the wall beside me.

  “I’m not trying to be insensitive here, but I’m a little confused,” she tells me.

  I reiterate my conversation with Mr. Thompson to her.

  “That’s so sad,” she says sympathetically, wrapping her arms around me.

  “I’d like to read this letter in private if you don’t mind.”

  She releases me. “No, of course not. Do you want me to leave?”

  I look at the envelope. “No, I’ll go to my bedroom.”

  With heavy feet and an even heavier heart, I carry my precious gift to my room and close the door behind me. Even as I sit on the edge of my bed, staring down at the letter, I cannot bring myself to open it and read the final words I’ll ever receive from Mr. Thompson.

  Somehow, I eventually convince myself to open the envelope, but tears obstruct my vision before I read.

  Dear Eva,

  It was such a blessing to meet you, instead of a simple hello as we pass by. You remind me of my dear wife, Iris. Such a sweet disposition, just like she had. I didn’t mention that last night, before I came downstairs to the basement, she paid me a visit. I was sitting quietly in my chair, and she informed me of the young girl who needed my guidance. When I noticed the light in the basement, I knew where to find the young girl. I understand how terribly difficult it is for you to discuss your past, Eva. But aren't you glad you did? The pain you carry alone, the burden of keeping your secret with only your best friend. To share that with another who truly understands is liberating, isn't it?

  This will be challenging, but it's imperative for you to put those people behind you. Remember, you escaped. You're safe now. You're not alone. You have a wonderful friend who will be a listening ear for you to
eradicate your pain. The peace you felt last night as we spoke, you can have that always, so let her support you.

  I finally understand the necessity for me to endure a little longer; I needed to meet you first. In doing so, you have helped me in return. For a decade, I have lived with my nightmares, and for the first time since Iris died, I can disengage from them. This is a magnificent gift you have given me, sweet Eva.

  When I returned to my apartment, Iris visited me again, expressing the importance to write to you and inform you that before long, a young man will enter your life, to become your protector. Just as my Iris chased away the demons and helped me with my past, this man will do the same for you. Don’t be afraid to tell him everything. Though he hasn't experienced what you have endured, he will understand. The words will flow effortlessly, just as they have with your friend and me.

  Now, my eyes are growing heavy, and I must say goodbye. Though I won't be visible, I will always be with you in spirit, always watching over you. When you're alone and need a friend, call upon me and I will be there.

  Take care, sweet Eva.

  Your friend,

  Harold Thompson

  The tears stream down my face and splatter onto the letter. With the cuff of my hoodie, I dry the tears.

  I leave my room and find Alice waiting by the breakfast bar.

  “Here.” I hand the letter to her before easing onto the stool and nestle my chin in the palms of my hands.

  Once Alice finishes reading the letter, the only word to escape her lips is, “Oh.”

  I understand why when she hands the letter back; tears have stained her face with black makeup.

  She hands me the letter.

  “Wonder who he is?” I muse, sniffling.

  “Who?”

  I glance towards her. “The man I’ll be able to talk to.”

  She wipes away her tears and rests her hands in her lap. “I have no idea.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Thompson is with his Iris again.” A smile dances along my lips. “I’ll miss him.”

  “Me too. And I never had the pleasure of getting to know him like you did.”

  I fold the letter and slide it back into the envelope. “I never want to lose this.”

  “You won’t. Keep it safe in your room and ask Mr. Thompson to guard it for you. I’m sure he will,” she says with a small smile.

  “I’m sure he will too.”

  As I gaze out the window of my living room, I welcome the warm rays of the sun to soak my skin. It’s a rare occurrence to see the sun in December. The tranquility that imbues the room intrigues me. Even the traffic below has subdued, and I have to look at the street to believe it’s still there.

  A light tapping on the front door draws my attention away from the road. Ordinarily, I would ignore the intruder, especially when Alice isn’t home, but today, I mosey over to the door to welcome the guest.

  My hands rise to cover my mouth as I behold him standing there before me, adorned in his usual attire: a red plaid shirt and a gray pair of sweatpants.

  “Mr. Thompson,” I whisper.

  The wrinkles around his mouth and eyes deepen as his smile emerges. His soft gray eyes glimmer. “Hello, Eva.”

  My wide smile spreads across my face as I lower my hands and step to one side. “Please, come in.”

  Once inside, with the door securely closed, we amble over to the sofa to sit.

  I study his face. In the short time I’ve known him, a sadness dwelt within his gray eyes, much like my haunted ice-blue ones. But now, joy has banished the sadness, to reign in its stead.

  “Are you happy, Mr. Thompson?” I ask.

  “I’ve never been happier.” He reaches out a wrinkled hand to cradle mine.

  As my fingertips glide across the smoothness of his skin, I note the fullness of his flesh and the warmth that radiates from it.

  “I miss you,” I tell him. “It’s too agonizing to say goodbye.”

  “But there’s no need to say goodbye. I promised you I would be here for you,” he reminds me.

  “It would be wrong for me to commandeer your time. What about Iris? I’m sure she’s been waiting a long time for this reunion.”

  “Time works differently here. Even though I waited years, it was a blink of an eye for her. This is how it’s possible for me to be here whenever you need me.”

  “Thank you,” I say as I lower my eyes to observe our hands.

  “Eva, there’s something else.”

  My eyes flutter up to acknowledge him.

  “You’ll believe you can love him, but he’s not the one.”

  I furrow my brow. “Who are you talking about?”

  “Be careful with him. He is not what he seems.”

  “Who, Mr. Thompson?”

  He gently lifts my hand to his lips and leaves a tender kiss behind. “Dear Eva, your true love is near.”

  My bedroom replaces the heavenly scene when I open my eyes. I remain on my back and stare at the ceiling and draw the comforter under my chin.

  Tonight, the pale moon filters through my window, casting shadows around my room. I focus on the oval shadow produced by the light shade, while my mind replays Mr. Thompson’s words.

  You’ll believe you can love him, but he’s not the one.

  The only man I’ve fallen in love with is Angelo. Is the warning about him?

  An eerie glow filters through the darkness. As it mingles with the moonlight, it casts ominous, green shadows across the ceiling, expelling the serenity I experienced with Mr. Thompson.

  I stretch across my bed to retrieve my phone from my nightstand to dispel the eerie glow and find two messages waiting for me, both from John.

  I can't wait for Wednesday.

  X

  There’s no room in my head for John. I’ll reply tomorrow.

  Instead of returning my phone to its resting place, I bury it under my pillows, in case John sends more messages. Once again, I return to my back and stare at the shadow of the light shade and rest my hands on my chest.

  The heavy stone materializes in the pit of my stomach as I conjure up the image of Angelo. Oh, how I wish he could be my true love. But I trust Mr. Thompson and his warning. I mustn’t trust Angelo.

  “Hi, angel. You’re looking beautiful as always,” Angelo greets me the second I walk through the door. “Is that another dress your boss bought you?” The mischievous grin materializes on his lips.

  “Yes, it is,” I say, flattening out the invisible wrinkles.

  “It’s a lot like the one you wore to your audition, isn’t it?”

  Stunned by his observations and memory of my dresses, I take a moment to reply. “It’s very similar. I suppose I should come clean. That first dress belonged to Alice. But now I have my own.”

  “Blue suits you. It matches your eyes.” He reaches out a tender hand to glide his fingertips along the side of my face and under my chin, leaving behind the gentle warmth which I wish to capture before it fades away.

  “It matches your tie,” I say. Though it sits perfectly on his shirt, I adjust the knot of his tie, nonetheless.

  A stabbing in my heart forces me to acknowledge our inappropriate behavior. I retract my hand and cup it to my chest with its behaving twin.

  On the ride to the club, I promised myself I wouldn’t allow him to flirt with me. But here I am, flirting right back. I stare down at my feet and reprimand myself for our flirtatious interaction.

  “Wait one second.” I look back up at him, “You called me angel again. Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “I mean, why ‘angel’?”

  He leans close and tucks my hair behind my ear. The heat radiating from him warms my chest, while his fragrance imbues my nostrils, leaving me light-headed. His soft lips caress my earlobe. My eyes flutter closed, and my hands fall heavy at my sides.

  “Your perfume,” he whispers.

  Though I heard his response, I can’t convince my mouth to speak. Instead, I tilt my head to the side as his nose glid
es along my cheek and along my nose to the tip. Butterflies flutter around my stomach as I awaken to his touch. I open my eyes and gaze into his ocean pools, where I become lost to the world. The hummingbird beats her wings as she pleads with me to kiss him.

  The music fades, as do the guests, as Angelo and I are transported to a secluded realm where only we exist. My lips part slightly, allowing me to moisten them with the tip of my tongue as images of our lips connecting flicker through my mind. My body quivers while my breath shudders. However much I want to kiss him, I’m too timid to pursue it myself.

  Feeling the need to say something, anything, I respond with another question. “What does my perfume have to do with the nickname you’ve given me?”

  The spell that binds us together breaks at my words and I regret opening my mouth.

  He stands tall and runs a hand through his hair before hiding it in his pocket. The mischievous grin appears again before he chuckles and I realize how foolish this question was to ask; the name of my perfume is “Angel.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and resist the urge to smack myself on the forehead. “Scrap that,” I say. “Temporarily lost brain function for a moment.”

  I open one eye to witness his reaction, fully expecting to find him laughing at my humiliation. The mischievous grin remains, though not from my blunder. He’s staring down at his feet, while his hands remain hidden within his pockets. With both eyes open, I ogle him shamelessly, only to blush when he gazes at me through his lashes.

  “Not a problem,” he says.

  Be careful with him. He’s not what he seems. Mr. Thompson’s voice echoes through my mind as though he’s standing right next to me.

  Within seconds, we’re immersed in the crowd and music. My nervous fingers twist around each other and I avert my eyes.

  Yes, he’s desirable, but there’s no hope for us. Even if he wasn’t dating my best friend.

  Alice! In the time I’ve spent with Angelo, I haven’t thought about her.

  The sudden acknowledgement of Alice invites the guilt to grip hold of me again, to taunt and judge me.