by Amy Cross
This is what I missed the most while I was gone. While I was in that awful place.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Rachel - Today
“How are you feeling today?” I ask, standing in the doorway. “Did you think I'd forgotten you? I just wanted to play the piano for a few hours.”
I wait, but all I hear is a faint creaking sound from the bed.
“Did that annoy you?”
Again, no reply.
“You used to talk so much,” I point out, slowly stepping into the room. “Your voice is still burned into my mind. You made me believe what everyone was saying about me, until I actually started seeing that poor little boy in the house. I always assumed that you were mean because you enjoyed it, Father. So don't you enjoy it now? Don't you want to spew more of your venom? I honestly find it hard to believe that death has mellowed you in any way.”
Still, the only sound comes from the bed's metal frame.
“You seem to be wriggling a lot, Father,” I tell him. “You're a ghost now, so why bother? Or are you trapped here by some kind of force? Is that how it works?”
The creaking sound becomes a little faster as I reach the bed, more frantic. It's as if finally, after everything that has happened, he's scared of me.
Good.
I want him to be scared.
But I always need him to speak.
“I don't regret what I did to you,” I continue. “Sometimes I even replay it in my mind, over and over again. I enjoy that. It feels good to know that you suffered in the end. What's it like being a ghost, anyway? Do you remember all the pain? I imagine I'll be joining you soon, and then we can haunt this miserable house together. Does that sound good? The two of us, haunting together? Maybe that's how it was always supposed to be. I'm barely much more than a ghost myself these days.”
Besides, I know that it would only take one more mistake for me to be hauled back to the hospital. And this time, I'd probably never be allowed out again.
Father's wriggling more and more now, as if he's desperate to get away. Reaching down, I place a hand on his leg and I realize that I can still feel him. That's good. That's what I need. I can feel dried blood, too, on his trousers. I didn't think ghosts would bleed, but I can't say I'm sorry. I'm holding a pair of scissors in my right hand, and the time has finally come to make him pay for what he did to me. After all, it was his constant torment that made me believe Anthony was haunting me, and for that he must suffer. I've killed him once, but now I have him back with me in the house, and I can make him pay over and over.
He tries to say something, but his voice still sounds muffled.
Frantic, but very muffled.
“Apologize,” I whisper. “Say it, Father. Apologize for all those things you said to me.”
I wait.
All I hear is the creaking of the bed as he tries to get free. For a ghost, he seems very scared.
“No?” I ask. “You won't apologize?”
I pause.
I smile.
And then I raise the scissors high above my head, holding them there for a moment before driving them once again into his body. The blades slice into his thigh and I hear an agonized, muffled cry. Twisting the scissors, I feel them grinding against bone before finally I pull them out. I can already hear fresh blood dribbling onto the bare floor.
“Say it,” I sneer. “Say that you're sorry. It's all I want now. You told me a thousand times how awful I was. Just tell me once that you're sorry.”
I wait.
He's still groaning.
I raise the scissors again, and this time I bring them down against his groin. The blades hit another section of bone and slip slightly, but I can tell from his cries that he's in agony. I was worried his ghost wouldn't be able to feel pain, but clearly that's not a problem. For that, I can only be thankful.
“You still can't say it?” I ask, sliding the scissors out of his body. “Do you hate me so much? Just admit it, Father! You were wrong!”
When he doesn't reply, I move the scissors along to his shoulder and then drive them once again into his flesh. I can feel his body shaking and trembling, but still he refuses to say the words I need to hear.
“I'm not asking you to tell me you love me,” I whisper. “Just tell me that I'm sorry.”
I wait a moment, before twisting the scissors and bringing another groan of pain from his lips. I thought he'd say the words by now, but perhaps I underestimated his hatred for me. Even in death, he refuses to admit that he made a mistake.
Twisting the scissors again, I feel warm blood running over my hands. I never thought a ghost could bleed, but then again I'm not exactly in a position to question how these things work. Still, he seems to be resisting my efforts to make him say the words, so perhaps I need to come up with something else. There are some shears in the garden, and I'm sure I could cause him even more pain if I brought those up and started cutting through his body. And since he's a ghost, he can't die, so I can torture him for as long as it takes.
Perhaps we'll be trapped like this forever.
“I will hear you say the words,” I sneer, pulling the scissors out. “You'll apologize to me, Father. I won't let you rest until you do.”
I hesitate for a moment, telling myself that I should go and fetch the shears. First, though, I can feel a growing sense of anger in my chest, and I know I have to make him suffer even more.
“Say it!” I yell, as I stab him several times in the shoulder and chest. “Say it!”
Overcome by anger, I stab him again and again. I can't hold back, I can't control myself. I have to make him say the words.
***
Pulling open the back door, I stumble out into the garden and immediately feel the cold night air on my face. I lost all track of time in the bedroom with Father, but it must be night now. Light rain is falling, and I take a moment to get my breath back.
“I'm sorry.”
That's all I want.
Why won't he say it?
Stepping forward, I make my way carefully down the steps and start searching for the shears. I've already used the scissors so much, I don't think there's much more I can do with them. So instead, I'm going to get to work with the shears and cause him more pain than ever. I tuck the scissors into my belt, saving them in case I need them later. For a moment, however, I have to pause and try to get my strength back. I unleashed such a fury of anger on Father, and now I'm exhausted.
“Um, hello?” a female voice says suddenly. “Can I ask you something?”
I freeze.
The voice seemed to come from nearby, maybe over by the garden fence.
“I'm sorry to bother you,” she continues, “but... My name's Monica. I live next door, and I was just wondering if you've seen my son. His name's Aidan and...”
She pauses.
“Well,” she adds, “to be honest, he hasn't been home since yesterday evening, and this isn't the first time he's taken off without telling me where he's going, but he usually goes on his bike and... Well, the bike's right here in the driveway, so I'm trying not to worry but...”
Her voice trails off.
“Aidan?” I whisper, feeling a flicker of concern in my chest.
“I'm sorry,” she replies, “I can't really see you very well, it's so dark out here. He mentioned talking to you, though. I don't suppose he happened to tell you about any plans he had over the next few days? I don't want to panic and call the police, but I'd really like to know where he is.”
My chest is tightening slightly. “Aidan...”
“Yes, Aidan. He's my son.”
I pause for a moment, thinking back to the last time I saw him. He tried to help me, he even went into the house to check whether there was anyone lurking inside, but then he...
He left.
I remember him leaving.
At the same time, I also remember him staying.
I remember him collapsing on the floor after I...
No, that didn't happen. Tha
t can't have happened.
“So did he say anything to you or not?” the woman asks. “I guess not. Sorry, I just saw someone moving about out here, and I thought it was worth a shot. If you hear from him, though, could you tell him to give me a call? Just to let me know that he's okay? He'll probably complain that I'm being over-protective, but you just never know, do you? There are some awful people in the world.”
I hesitate for a moment, before turning and hurrying back inside. The woman calls after me, but I ignore her as I stumble through the kitchen. I bump into the wall a couple of times, but finally I get to the bottom of the stairs and start hurrying up. My mind is racing and I keep telling myself that I'm not crazy, that I couldn't have done something truly awful, but at the same time I'm starting to remember flashes from the other night.
I hit someone.
While Aidan was here, I...
And I dragged someone up the stairs.
“No,” I whisper, fumbling my way across the landing until I reach the bedroom door. “Please, no...”
I almost trip several times, but finally I get to the bed. Reaching down, I feel the bloodied mess I made with the scissors earlier, and then I run my hands up to the neck and onto his face. I should feel Father, it should be him, but instead my fingers brush against the features of a younger man. A moment later, I discover something taped over his mouth, and I realize that I must have gagged him. Moving my hands to the top of his face, I try to tell myself that I'm wrong, but finally I feel the metal ring in his eyebrow, and I let out a gasp of shock.
“Aidan,” I stammer, realizing that I've made a terrible mistake. “No, please... Aidan...”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Rachel - Today
“You're going to be okay!” I stammer, desperately trying to pull more bandages from the packet. “It's okay, Aidan, I'm going to patch you up.”
My hands are trembling, but I know I have to work fast. I don't remember exactly how many times I stabbed him with the scissors when I thought he was Father, but I definitely injured him in the legs, groin, chest and shoulders. Reaching down, I place two fingers on the side of his neck and feel that he still has a pulse, which is something of a miracle given that I was filled with so much anger. He's lost a lot of blood, though, and I need to patch him up as quickly as possible.
He lets out a faint groan. Now that I've removed the gag from his mouth, I can hear him trying to speak, but he seems to be fading in and out of consciousness.
“I'm so sorry,” I tell him, pulling a length of bandage from the roll and then fumbling with the scissors for a moment, trying to tear a section away. “I didn't know it was you, I thought it was...”
My voice trails off as I realize I can't possibly explain what was going on in my head. Instead, I focus on ridding my mind of extraneous thoughts and trying instead to deal with Aidan's many injuries. Usually I risk overthinking these things, but right now I'm in such a state of panic that I'm working almost on auto-pilot. My hands have even stopped shaking, and I manage to start bandaging the most serious wounds. Even though I can't see a thing, I instinctively know what to do, and I can already tell that he's not bleeding so heavily.
“Just let him die,” I whisper suddenly. “Killing people is what you're good at.”
I freeze.
That wasn't me.
It was my voice, coming from my mouth, and my lips moving, but somehow it was Father speaking through me.
“I have to help him,” I stammer. “I have to -”
A sudden shudder passes through my chest.
“Cut him open some more!” I sneer. “Make him suffer before he dies! Like you did with me!”
I shake my head, but it's clear that somehow Father is in my head. Either that, or I've completely lost my mind.
“I'm going to help him,” I say firmly, although my voice is starting to tremble with fear. “I'm going to make him better.”
“Is that what you think?” I add a moment later.
“Stop!” I hiss. “Not -”
Suddenly I let out a cry of pain as I feel the scissors' blade slicing against my wrist. I pull back, shocked, before realizing that I cut myself on purpose. For a fraction of a second, Father seemed to be in full control.
“I'm not insane,” I whisper, trying to stay calm as Aidan groans again. “I'm -”
“You've been out of your mind all your life,” I sneer, once again channeling Father. “I could always see it. Your mother saw it too, before she went away.”
I shake my head.
“And now look at you! Talking to yourself!”
“Leave me alone!” I blurt out, grabbing the scissors again. This time, I carefully cut my arm from the elbow to the wrist, and the pain seems to push Father's voice away.
I take a moment to steady my nerves, but I know I need to work quickly, while Father is out of my mind. He'll be back soon.
For the next hour at least, maybe two, I work steadily to keep Aidan alive. I have to cut my arms regularly, to bring the pain that holds my mind steady, and soon I lose track of which blood on my hands is mine and which is his. All that matters, though, is that I keep him alive. And although the injuries I caused were significant, his pulse remains steady and I'm increasingly confident that I can patch him up. He'll need to go to a hospital, of course, but at least he seems to be overcoming the worst of the damage.
“There,” I say finally, once I realize I've done all that I can. “I told you. I promised I'd make you better, and I did.”
He mumbles something, but his voice is so low and weak, I can't make out a word.
“Now to rip each of those stitches open,” Father sneers using my voice. “One by one. Make him scream and -”
“No!” I hiss, stepping back.
Suddenly I start smiling. From nowhere.
A moment later, I feel the first rumble of a laugh.
“Stop!” I whimper. “Please...”
“You're pathetic,” I add, unable to hold the words back. “You can't even see what you've done to this man. He's probably a goddamn mess.”
“I need to get you out of here,” I continue, trying to work out how to move Aidan. I could go and get help, but then strangers would come into the house, and I can't let that happen.
“Why do you care so much about this stranger, when you couldn't even be bothered to look after me?” Father asks.
“I did everything I -”
“Liar!” he screams through my mouth. “You're just a dumb -”
I let out a gasp as I drive the scissors into my arm, but at least the pain pushes Father out of my mind.
“I have to do this,” I whisper. “Aidan...”
Finally, even though I'm not sure I can manage, I reach down and gather Aidan into my arms, and then I lift him so that I can carry him out of the room. My body aches and I'm terrified I might drop him at any moment, but slowly I make it to the landing and over toward the top of the stairs. Each step feels as if it might be my last, yet somehow I manage to keep going on weak, trembling legs.
“Help me,” he whispers, and I can feel him shifting slightly. “Please...”
“I am helping you,” I tell him. “It's my fault you're like this, but you're going to be okay. I'm a nurse. I've looked after you and -”
Suddenly a smile cracks across my face.
“I should break your back,” I continue. “I should fucking cripple you.”
I flinch.
“That wasn't me,” I tell him. “Please, you have to understand, it wasn't me, it was...”
How do I explain without sounding like a complete monster?
I have to be very careful as I make my way down the stairs, but eventually I reach the hall. Once I've managed to get the door open, I carry Aidan out into the morning light and take him across the damp, cold lawn. I keep walking until my bare feet reach concrete, at which point I figure I've reached the pavement.
Nearby, hushed voices seem to have noticed me.
“He needs an ambulance,
” I explain, before slowly kneeling and setting Aidan down. “He'll be alright. I'm a nurse, but he needs to go to hospital. Please, can someone make sure that he gets help?”
I hear footsteps coming closer.
“Is that Aidan?” a woman asks, her voice filled with shock. “Quick, someone get Monica out here! Tell her Aidan's hurt! Call an ambulance!”
“He's really fine,” I stammer, getting to my feet and stepping back as I hear more footsteps hurrying this way. “He's fine now, at least. I patched him up.”
“Aidan, can you hear me?” a man asks. “Jesus, what happened to him?”
I take some more steps back, making my way across the lawn until finally I turn and hurry toward the porch. I miss by several meters and bump against the wall, but it only takes a few more seconds for me to fumble my way over to the front door. Now that I remember what the house used to look like, it's easier to find my way about.
“Hey, wait!” a voice yells. “You! What happened to him? You can't just dump him out here like this!”
“Go fuck yourselves!” I shout back at them, but it's Father using my voice again. “You're lucky there's anything left of him at all!”
“No,” I whisper, scratching my arm in an attempt to bring more pain. “That wasn't me...”
By the time I've made my way back into the house and slammed the door shut, my whole body is trembling. I lean against the door and slide down to the floor, waiting for Father's next words. I can somehow hear him laughing in my head, maybe I can even feel him laughing, and there seems to be no way to push him out. At the same time, I can hear voices shouting outside, and a few minutes later there's the distant siren of an ambulance on its way.
“Aidan will be alright,” I whisper, before turning and starting to crawl to the front room.
“Where the hell do you think you're going?” Father asks.
“Piano,” I gasp, figuring that if I can start playing the piano – no matter how out-of-tune it might sound – I should be able to cast Father from my mind. After all, the piano has always soothed me, ever since I was a child.