If You Dare

by Alessandra Torre

  The last hand drops from my cuffs and they leave. I roll my neck and wait. Sniff. I stink. Literally, stink. I try to think of the last time I had a shower. After Derek, that needs to be my next question. Where and how I can bathe. At this rate, my arraignment will consist of everyone holding their noses and running for the exit.

  Twenty minutes, my concern over my odor passed, the door opens and Derek steps in. He’s changed, probably got a good scrubbing in his five-star hotel’s shower last night. The outfit of today is a white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled a few flips up, with dark jeans, a pair of sunglasses in one hand, the entire ensemble setting off his dark tan and once-again-meticulous hair.

  “Good morning.”

  I nod in response, taking the moment to openly study him before smiling at him. I picked the smile out just for him, flipping through my reservoir of grins before deciding on fresh-faced innocent. It shakes him and his reach for the chair stalls, his eyes skittering over my smile before he looks away, pulling out the chair and sitting down before me. Not next to me like last time. Interesting. He sets his glasses down on the table between us and settles back in his chair. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine. Why’d you come here?”

  The blunt question doesn’t offend him. It shouldn’t. He’s had four years to adjust to my style. “I assumed you would need a psychological evaluation, or that I would be called to give my professional opinion as your primary doctor.”

  “Shrink.”

  He tilts his head in acknowledgment. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks, right now, that he drives a Range Rover. A white one, which he vacuums out on Sunday afternoons and only uses premium gas in. His fuckin’ jeans look IRONED. The tortoiseshell Ray-Bans he set carefully on the table are sparkling clean. You could drive this guy to insanity by just leaving your wet panties on his kitchen counter. He looks like he crawled out of a Banana Republic ad, then enrolled and got a master’s in OCD.

  “So now that you’re here, you’ll stay… what? Till the arraignment?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure. If you don’t have a trial, my purpose here isn’t really clear. But…”

  I wait.

  “… an incompetent individual isn’t able to plead their own guilt.”

  I stiffen, my wrists flexing out before the metal reminds them of their place. “Crazy can’t tell crazy?” That’s bullshit if I’ve ever heard it.

  “There is the possibility that I can testify at the arraignment.”

  My jaw tightens, my teeth grinding together. “No.”

  “You don’t even know what happened. How can I let you testify the inverse?”

  “Let me?” Oh… that… that is kerosene poured on the fire of my irritation.

  “You know what I meant.”

  “I know that I need every bit of control I can get right now, and you’re stripping me of that.”

  “A normal woman would thank me.”

  “If you declare me mentally incompetent, they’ll lock me up.” I say the words so quietly, they are a whisper.

  “It’s not a jail, Deanna. It’s a hospital.”

  “That I can’t leave. Where I’ll be drugged up twenty-four hours a day.” I shake my head and a lock of hair sticks on my mouth. I blow out a huff of air and it falls aside. “I’d rather be in jail.”

  “You’re not doing a good job of convincing me of your sanity right now.”

  I look down at his fucking glasses. “You don’t understand.” I wonder how much time is left.

  “Let’s talk about Sunday night.”

  “I can’t remember it. I’ve tried.”

  “Deanna.” His voice is soothing, it says my name like it is whipped cream being spread. I want to both eat the cream and vomit it out, all at the same time. “Just walk me through the last things you remember.”

  “I was in the hallway, with Jeremy. We were headed to my room.” I had my keys in my hand, I can remember that fact. I remember, in the elevator, his hand rested on the small of my back, his fingers easing under the hem of my sweatshirt and just resting there, on the naked skin. It felt so good, so normal. I stop thinking.

  “You know what happened.”

  “No.” I shake my head, a frantic gesture. “I don’t.” This is a distraction; we need to return to the other conversation, deciding whether or not I will end up in a padded cell.

  “You do. You’ve just blocked it out. Either you have residual effects from your stupid stunt during your fight with Jeremy or you have dissociative amnesia. It can happen when a person blocks out something, normally a stressful or traumatic event that they can’t emotionally deal with.”

  “I don’t know what happened.” A thousand repetitions will make it true.

  “Deanna, you don’t have to be afraid. It is what it is. The unknown is worse than reality.”

  “That is, quite possibly, the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.” Reality is a thousand times worse than a blank stretch of time. Reality will give me a clear vision of his pain, of my guilt, of the horrific moments that changed everything forever.

  “Unless you’re innocent.”

  “I’m not innocent.”

  “We need to find that out.”

  “That’s the cops’ job.”

  “You already pled guilty, Deanna. What could it hurt?”

  “Another stupid question. You’re two for two, Doc.”

  “Let’s go through a quick meditation session. See what we can unlock.”

  “Let’s not.” I don’t want to unlock hell. I’ve got enough going on without it.

  “You need to at least try to remember.”

  I’m scared. That’s the truth of it. Scared that once I know what I’ve done that I won’t be able to move past it. How will I ever be able to forgive myself for that? At the moment, despite the psychological disaster that lies between my ears, I still love myself. Still think of myself as a good person. Can still look in the mirror in the morning and approve of the person that I see. But once I go into Sunday night, once I pull back that mask and see my actions underneath… I can’t undo that discovery. And I don’t think I can live with the knowledge of what is there.

  “There’s probably a reason my brain doesn’t want to know it.”

  “I’ve never known you to be scared before.” I hear it, in his calm and controlled words. The challenge that stands on a box and screams at me through the space.

  “I don’t want to be hospitalized, Derek.”

  “Unless you remember, I’m not supporting your guilty plea.”

  I stay quiet, my chin stubbornly set, my mind clicking through my options, the worst of it all the tiny speck of feeling that he is right. I know what happened that night. I know how Jeremy ended up in the hospital. I’ve seen the photos, heard the details. I just need to find that information inside of me. And, to be quite honest, I’m pretty sure I’ve hidden from that knowledge. In all of my mock attempts, I’ve boarded up that door and thrown a mountain of shit before it.

  But maybe I should dig through that mountain. Pry open the door and look through. Stare into hell’s face and suffer for my sins. I swallow. “We don’t have long enough.” Thirty minutes, max. That is what the guard had said. We’ve already eaten up fifteen, easy. Maybe more.

  “Don’t worry about that.” When he speaks, it’s a tone that relaxes, and for once, I yield.

  “I’m scared.” I don’t look at his face.

  “Do you remember your mantra?”

  I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this transcendental meditation bullshit to relive hell. “It’s the concussion,” I object. “I think that’s why I can’t remember. Dr. Pat said it was possible.”

  “Close your eyes, Deanna. Just give me ten minutes. Start the mantra slowly.” I hate this voice of his, this calm peaceful tone, melodic in its syllables, entrancing in its push. I think of Mike, I think of what if. And then I close my eyes, for no reason other than to drag vengeance to its rightful owner, and start the mantra.

  CH
APTER 71

  Past

  I WAS SO drugged, at that moment, pulling Jeremy into my apartment, toward my bed, his laugh tumbling after me. Drugged with love, with lust, on a high from our date and our kiss and the moment that was about to occur. So drugged that I almost missed the box, tipped over at the foot of the bed. The kitchen drawers, two of the six open, their cheap guts exposed to the fluorescent light. The safe, which I may not have shut, its door open wide, my knives dumped unceremoniously out, like fallen chopsticks, the guns still tucked inside in neat order. But what I didn’t miss was the person, by my window, the cardboard ripped off, the open sill letting in the night breeze yet doing nothing to clear the stench of violation.

  Simon was in my apartment, his head whipping to me, his hair a wild mess of spikes, his eyes widening when it made the connection with mine. I stopped, a sudden motion that had the strong chest of Jeremy colliding with my back. I didn’t have time to speak, to react, before Jeremy’s hands grabbed me and shoved, his body pushing forward and in between me and Simon, his arms spread out as if to create a wall to protect me.

  That irritated me, my surprise at seeing Simon replaced with an anger at Jeremy. I don’t need protecting, especially not in my own apartment, my home. I did take advantage of the moment of protection, my eyes taking in the details I initially missed, Simon’s search not missing an inch, disarray stretching from one mildewed wall to the other. Good lord, he even dumped out my dildo drawer. I’m sure that gave him quite an eyeful. My gaze paused on the pile of knives, my yellow Spyderco knife carelessly along the top of the pile, and something inside me clicked to the “On” position. I felt it happen, felt the switch of my mind, felt the closure of my focus, the flee of my sanity, the takeover of my mind. I felt it all and ignored it, ripping my eyes from the knife and ducking under Jeremy’s arms, stepping closer to Simon.

  “Explain to me, right now, why I shouldn’t kill you.” I spoke carefully, a thousand sensors in my body taking notice of my state. A thousand notices, all ripped from the walls and discarded by my current state of mind.

  “I found them.” Simon’s eyes shone, a medicated shine, and when he lifted his hand, I looked, at the clear bag in his hand, duct tape still stuck to its top, the orange bottle inside. I’m surprised. Then again, it looked as if he’d taken a while with his search. My eyes flicked to the window, to the pile of cardboard shreds littered on the floor beneath it. He saw me look, and smiled. “Almost had given up. But who covers up a window, right? It drove me crazy, the longer I stayed in here. I don’t know how to you do it. The damn thing was taunting me.”

  Funny, it taunts me too. Maybe the reason isn’t my insanity. Maybe it taunts any living thing. I felt Jeremy’s hand wrap around my arm and I shook it off. Held my hand out to him in a cool your shit gesture.

  “So I ripped it off. Opened the damn window. Stuck my head outside. And that’s when I saw it.” He shook the bag and it began to swing, a pendulum before me. “Taped to the outside brick. You sneaky little bitch.”

  It is true. I am sneaky. I had also really, really wanted an excuse to stick my head outside, and that hidden place had offered it. I said nothing and wondered how hard I’d have to shove the blade to break into his chest.

  I took a deep breath and stepped back. Smiled. Raised my hands in defeat. “You got me, you found them. Now please get out, it’s almost nine.” Nine, the deadline we had rushed home to meet, our schedule carefully organized in order to fit an hour of sex in before my curfew, an hour that was slipping from us with every second I dealt with this asshole. It was already dark out. The knives were behind me but I’d only need one.

  “Oh… I didn’t just find them sweetheart.” Simon kicked out, and his tennis shoes collided with a book bag I hadn’t noticed. A faded red JanSport. A piece of masking tape holding its front pocket closed, a carabiner hanging from its handle. Like Simon planned on hitting a rock face anytime soon. When he kicked, the bag shifted, and pills settled, a shake of sound like a giant box of Tic Tacs.

  I was confused, then I understood.

  My medicine cabinet. Three or four years’ worth of meds that Dr. Derek kept sending and I kept ignoring. They’d stockpiled, one neat row before another, each new bottle marking the passage of time. Simon found them, thought he hit the drug mother lode, and shoved them all into this cute little backpack. His face seemed to think I’d care. I didn’t.

  “Don’t call her sweetheart.” The hard voice came from behind me, from the third party in this room that I’d almost forgotten. I turned to Jeremy. “It’s okay.” I smiled again. My cheeks were beginning to hurt. “He’s leaving.” I turned to Simon. “I’m sorry about the pills. I was upset because you didn’t unlock me.” I met his glazed, cocky stare, and dropped my eyes. He must have opened the bottle. Took a handful. He wasn’t the shaky addict right now. He was high and confident. He needed to go. I lowered my head and turned my back to him. Walked around Jeremy and toward the door. Smiled as I heard Jeremy speak to Simon. Smiled as I heard them buy my act. Smiled as I bent over and wrapped my hands around the Spyderco.

  CHAPTER 72

  Past

  JEREMY SHOULD HAVE known. That something was wrong, that something was off. But the whole situation was off. Walking into her apartment, his focus had been on one thing: getting her beautiful body naked and underneath him. Hearing her voice break as he pushed inside to the place that made everything sane disappear. There was nothing in life like the connection made when their bodies met. When she whimpered beneath him and took him, ran her fingers over his side and wrapped her legs around him. Whispered his name in the heartbeat right before she came.

  He’d been so focused on that goal, the maddening tick of time passing… now only ninety minutes, now eighty-five… now sixty-four… that he hadn’t been aware, hadn’t been prepared. It had pushed at him, that nagging premonition that he always had when he twisted her unlocked knob, when he saw her enter and leave her apartment without hesitation. But by now, that feeling was second nature, easy to ignore, especially when her small hand was in his and she was pulling him forward, his cock already hard in his pants, her giggle a foreplay of things about to happen.

  And then… that piece of shit. Standing there like he owned the place. Smiling and taunting her. The woman he knew would have tackled the man. Cut him to shreds with her words. But the woman before him did nothing of the sort. She bent, yielded. Ducked her gorgeous head and pacified. Used soothing words and gestures and asked him nicely to leave. A thousand warnings that he ignored, his heartbeat calming, his step toward Simon accompanied by all of the words he wished Deanna had said. Get the fuck out. What did you take? I’m calling the cops. You worthless piece of shit. He felt empowered, confident, more over Deanna’s reaction than his words. It was his own high, an affirmation of everything he had, deep down, known about her. She wasn’t dangerous. She could control herself. She wasn’t crazy, just passionate at times. It was all okay, they would be fine. Simon’s eyes had hardened, his mouth curling back into a snarl, and it was in that moment when the knife flew, straight and perfect, over Jeremy’s left shoulder.

  CHAPTER 73

  Past

  MY SECLUSION HAS led to a lot of obsessions, but knives have always been forefront. My first year, I learned to spin them in my hand. Flip a switchblade out, then in. Out. In. Out. In. I bought a dozen, cut myself fifty times, and eventually got to the point where the knife was an extension of my arm. I could flip out an arm, then return to a pocket a switchblade, pocketknife, and tac blade with my eyes closed. My second year, I danced with guns, a difficult obsession when you’re restricted to an apartment. My third year, I returned to knives, this time with a focus on throwing. I practiced with darts, then moved to knives, then stars. My fourth year, I refined and perfected the skill. My throw at Simon was the first time I took practical application of my skills.

  Go figure that I’d miss.

  They didn’t understand what the knife was at first, neither of them did. I
t wasn’t until it pierced the bag, slicing through the clear plastic, the prescription bottle hitting the floor with a loud knock, that they looked at the wall, at the thud that had sounded, plaster giving easy way to the blade, the yellow handle sticking straight out of the wall. Jeremy turned quickly and was still too slow. I stood with my legs slightly spread, one before the other, my hand still outstretched toward the blade. I tilted my head and frowned, my tsk loud and hollow in the room. It’s funny how everyone shuts up when knives come out. Too bad the Spyderco hit plaster and not skin. No worries. There were plenty more. I crouched before the pile, Christmas coming early, a grin blaring out, everything perfect, everything red, and this was my time, my moment, my victim. My fingers wrapped around a handle and I moved without looking, around Jeremy, toward the asshole by the window whose eyes were wide, fear coming and he had no idea. I broke left, avoiding the block, and when I lunged forward a hand wrapped around my arm and yanked hard and everything was broken, interrupted when I fell into the chest of Jeremy and heard his voice. “Deanna.”

  Deanna.

  Deanna. I pushed against him, irritated. Simon. Simon is getting away, I need to drag my blade across his skin and bleed him dry. Jeremy holds me tight, repeats my name.

  “Deanna.”

  Deanna. Fury rips through me, my vision blurring, my control and compartmentalization crumbling in one quick burst of anger. Fuck this man and his firm hands. Muscles can’t beat blades. I see, in slow motion, the widening of his eyes, the change when he goes from attention getting to defense. But he is too slow, my hand jerking forward, my finger hard on the blade’s release, the snap of the metal joyous to my ears.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The words didn’t belong in this space, in this moment, certainly not from my future victim. I heard his whisper and didn’t understand it, didn’t see his arm move, his body twist, wasn’t prepared when my face exploded under the whip of his elbow. I only felt a brief moment of blinding pain, and fell backward, but I never felt the impact with the floor.