Mercenary

by Michelle Horst

  ~ Olivia ~

  The world is a bright blur and my mouth is so dry that my tongue feels thick. I take a deep breath and the smell of antiseptic fluids fills my nostrils and a dull ache fills my chest.

  My eyes are heavy but I pry them open, squinting around me. The bright lights, the sterile smell – the hushed sounds – it’s all familiar. I push myself into a sitting position and a sharp pain shoots through my legs. I wait for the pain to ease before I push the blanket from me. My left leg is wrapped tightly in a cast.

  “Hello?” I whisper before clearing my throat. I reach for the button next to the hospital bed and press it, calling for a nurse.

  I remember only flashes of the accident. I remember enough to know that a car slammed into me.

  “Livvie, you’re back in the land of the living,” a nurse says. I can’t remember ever seeing her before, but then again, the hospital is too big to know all the staff.

  “How long have I been here?”

  I lean back against the pillows, already tired from trying to move.

  “You’ve been out of it for two days. Dr. Martin will come and check on you in a minute.”

  I raise my hand to brush my hair back so I can tuck it behind my ears when I feel the bandage. My fingers dance over the rough material that covers half my face with an urgency that’s being born from panic.

  “My face?” The words are hoarse and tense.

  My eyes flit to the nurse and then I see the pity in her eyes. She must be new. One of the first things we’re taught is never to show pity. You need to be cool and calm under all circumstances - otherwise you can make the patient panic even more. Just like I’m doing now.

  “What’s wrong with my face?” I ask louder. I look around the room for a mirror but don’t see one. “Bring me a mirror!”

  “Livvie,” the nurse says, and I can hear the panic sharp and clear in her voice.

  I throw the cover from me and struggle to the edge of the bed. I let my right leg drop from the side and then push my left one off. The cast is heavy and it pulls the rest of my body from the bed.

  The nurse moves to catch me but I shove her away. I grab the IV stand and use it as a crutch, ignoring the pain that’s starting to pulse in my leg. I shuffle to the toilet and grab hold of the basin so I can steady myself.

  My breaths race over my lips, drying them even more. My eyes find the mirror and for a stunned moment, I take in the stark white bandage. With a trembling hand I reach for my face and I start to peel the bandage away.

  “Olivia!” I hear someone snap at me.

  I keep pulling the bandage away and horror bleeds into my soul as stitches crisscross from the side of my nose to the tip of my ear.

  My breathing speeds up until it’s nothing but wheezes. Tears blur the horrible image in front of me and then a firm hand takes hold of my arm.

  “Back to bed with you.”

  I look to the nurse, a new one – older and experienced. There’s no pity in her eyes. She looks impatient and for some reason this calms me a bit. If she’s irritated with me, then it means she doesn’t care. I’m not pretty to her but I’m not ugly to her, either. I’m just a patient that’s interrupting whatever she’s busy with. She doesn’t see me and that’s comforting.

  I want the pain and heartache to swallow me whole, until I’m invisible to everyone.

  ~ Mason ~

  (6 months later…)

  I don’t have a preferred method of killing. I just go with what’s easiest. I don’t take pleasure in taking someone’s life but I do take comfort in the fact that the world is rid of one less monster.

  Before I left Social Services, I made a file. Call it a retribution list. I must’ve spent almost a year getting it all together – a file of monsters.

  It’s taken longer than I thought to work my way through all the hits. What was meant to take a few months has turned into years.

  There were twenty three when I began. The easiest ones to take care of were the drug addicts and those who were caught up in illegal shit. It’s easy to cover my tracks then.

  There are only four left. I left the worst for last. These four men aren’t alcoholics or drug addicts. They’re the kind that’s nice in front of others, but it’s a different story behind closed doors.

  Mackenzie’s father is one of them. Amanda Haywood killed her own daughter before turning the gun on Grant Haywood. Then she took her own life. In the eyes of the law, Amanda was the abusive spouse and mother, all because she couldn’t face another day in hell. She was weak. To her, death was a better option than being abused by Grant Haywood.

  If Amanda hadn’t confided in me, I would have judged her the same as everyone else did. But a week before she gave up, she opened up to me. It was Mackenzie’s ninth visit to the hospital that year. Amanda showed me her own bruises. She told me all the horrors Grant inflicted on both her and her daughter, and even though the proof was there, Grant was untouchable. He was a CEO of a wealthy company. He donated to many causes. In the eyes of the world he was perfect.

  Now he’s bound to a wheelchair and people pity him. To them the poor man lost his wife and daughter, and the bullet that was meant to kill him paralyzed him.

  Some would think that’s punishment enough but I disagree. No amount of punishment will ever be enough for hurting a child.

  I made a promise to Mackenzie to take care of the monster. I’m going to keep my promise.

  I’ve just spend the last two hours watching Haywood. He swims three times a week at an elite club. The easiest thing would be to drown him, but he has a physiotherapist that works with him, so that screws with my plan. I’ll have to look for another way.

  I haven’t seen Olivia since the accident. It’s not like I have any time to worry about her, but since the accident, she’s constantly on my mind. A woman in her mid-forties sometimes stops by the apartment.

  I walk up the stairs and when I reach my floor, I’m surprised to see Olivia’s apartment door standing open. Jane is standing in the doorway, looking in.

  “So you’re back?” Jane asks. That makes me stop and look into the apartment.

  Every time I laid eyes on Olivia, I used to think she was beautiful. She was healthy, vibrant – alive.

  My eyes meet hers for the first time since the accident and I see none of the vibrant life that used to pulse around her.

  Her blonde hair hangs lifelessly in her face. She peeks at me from between the strands, but this time, she’s not the first to break eye contact. I am. I’m not sure what made me look away, but I walk to my apartment, open the door and go inside.

  I throw my keys on the old table. The only furniture in my apartment is the table, one chair and the bed in the room. I have a small bar fridge for the essentials.

  I go straight for the bathroom and strip out of the clothes before I turn the water on and step into the shower.

  I close my eyes and let the water run over me, and that’s when I realize why I broke eye contact with Olivia. This time, there was no fear in her eyes. There was only despair. I felt her darkness call to my own.

  ~ Olivia ~

  Six months have passed since that car hit me. All I can remember of the last hundred and eighty days is the pain.

  The pain when I smile or eat.

  The pain when I see my reflection in a mirror or window.

  The ache of not being able to work with children because I’m ugly.

  I had to leave the hospital. Not that they told me to. It was after the first operation when the bandages came off. I went to visit the children’s ward and I could see the fear in their eyes. Some even looked away. It hurt so much to see that they were scared of me. I lived for those smiles when I walked into a room. I used to be the one to comfort them … now there’s nothing.

  I used to live a fairytale but now I’ve become the beast instead of being the princess.

  The hearing was a nightmare. The judge just looked at my scarred face and then suspended the drunk driver’s license. That
man got away with only a suspended license and two months of community service. He destroyed my life while his goes on all because he’s the brother of some huge investor for the city.

  It’s awful feeling like a victim. You have no control over your life, and all you can do is watch helplessly as it’s ripped right from your grasp. You feel vulnerable and lost, floating in an ocean of dread and then the law fails you. They were supposed to punish him, lock him away in some deep, dark hole, but instead he’s out there while I’m the one locked away. No one fought for me. It’s awful feeling like a victim, but it’s unbearable feeling like a scarred freak that’s not worth fighting for.

  I haven’t left the apartment during the day. I sleep during the day and stay up at night. Darkness hides a lot, including the scars on my face.

  It’s hard to keep track of the days when you live at night. They just seem to blur into the background until your world consists of greys and blacks – no more light.

  The man that destroyed my life gets to walk in the sun while I have to hide in the shadows.

  I want him dead. I want him to pay for what he’s done to me.

  My eyes go to the window opposite from mine. I’ve been watching Mason. He never closes his curtains. He’s caught me staring a few times, and then all he does is stare back.

  I’ve been watching Mason and I wonder what he does at night. Where does he go? Mostly, I wonder if he’s ever killed someone. I wonder about it, because it’s the only thing I can think of. Killing John Brown, the drunk who stole my fairytale from me.

  I was supposed to see someone, to talk about the accident, to help deal with the scars. I think it’s ridiculous how people think you can talk the hurt away. How the hell will talking take the scars away? Sitting on a couch in some stranger’s office won’t turn back time.

  I fantasize about ways I can take revenge on John Brown. Hours pass as I dream about shoving him in front of a train, or locking him in the trunk of a car so he’ll just slowly waste away while I drive around with him, knowing he’s dying a slow and painful death.

  At first those thoughts shocked me. I’ve never been a violent person until now. Now, the violence has taken on a living form inside of me. It breathes … slowly … in and out – and every breath drifts through me. It’s become a howling wind in my mind.

  Not that I have the energy to kill the bastard. It takes everything in me to just get up once in a while. My bed has become an altar on which all my dreams and hopes are being sacrificed. Every single day, I hide under the covers, feeling them slip further out of my reach.

  If I don’t get up, I don’t have to face myself in the mirror so all I do is lie here, staring out the window to where Mason’s room is.

  It’s the early morning hours when he walks into this room. He looks my way and I know he sees me. I wonder what he sees when he looks over here. Does he see the beast hiding under the covers, or does he see a pathetic little girl that’s given up on life? Either way, he sees something that makes him keep looking over here.

  I wish he would stop. I don’t want to be seen.

  ~ Mason ~

  It’s strange … missing someone you don’t really know. I miss the light she used to shine on my dark existence.

  I’ve been watching her for two weeks now and she never leaves to go to work. She’s always in her bed. I don’t know why she hasn’t gone back to work yet. The one time I saw her, I didn’t see anything wrong with her. She looked like she had healed from whatever injuries she had from the accident.

  But it’s been months and there’s nothing healthy about the way she’s hiding. Not that my life is a bucket of sunshine.

  On impulse I walk out of my apartment and over to hers. I knock on the door and wait. I have no clue what I’m going to say when she opens the door. After a few seconds I knock again, but instead of Olivia coming to the door, Jane’s door opens.

  I sigh heavily, not in the mood for Jane. She’s just a little too much to handle.

  “She won’t open,” she says as she leans against the wall. “I have a set of extra keys to her apartment.”

  I just stare at her, not sure if she’s offering to let me in.

  “Let me get them. I want to see if she has some bacon. I’ve been in the mood for some all day long.”

  I frown as she disappears back into her apartment, and I can’t help but think that Jane is the last person who should have Olivia’s set of emergency keys.

  She walks back and unlocks Olivia’s door. As if she owns the place, she walks right in and goes straight for the fridge. I watch her take out a few things before I step into the living room.

  “Damn, there’s only turkey bacon. It’ll just have to do,” Jane mumbles.

  I ignore her and look around. It’s not as clean as it always used to be. Every time I got a look into the apartment, you could see the coffee table shine. Now it’s covered in a layer of dust. My eyes go back to the kitchen and I see a pile of old dishes. Empty coffee mugs litter the counter.

  I don’t know why I’m here. It’s not like we were friends. Maybe because I feel the accident was partly my fault? Who knows?

  Jane tosses the keys on the counter and gathers everything she just took from the fridge in her arms.

  “You keep the keys. There’s nothing more in the fridge that I want and she doesn’t go shopping anymore.”

  I watch Jane leave and just shake my head. Vulture, that’s all that woman is. I take the keys from the counter and put them in my pocket before I slowly walk in the direction of the bedroom.

  Before the accident, she was scared of me. I hated it but it was necessary to keep her out of my life.

  It’s funny, I joined Social Services because I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to help kids who got stuck with the worst of the worst for parents. I wanted to help those poor children find their way out of the darkness and into the light, but their darkness swallowed me whole. Now it’s a place where I’m most comfortable – the shadows.

  I know Olivia worked at the hospital not far from here. Obviously, her uniform gave that away, but I’ve heard her talking to Jane about the children she worked with. She worked with the terminally ill, yet she kept shining her light – as if to give those poor kids a glimpse of heaven.

  She used to be a guardian angel.

  I stop in the doorway of the bedroom and look at the mess of covers with the small bundle underneath it.

  I clear my throat and that’s all it takes for the covers to fly to the side and her wide eyes to find mine. Her mouth drops open and I watch the color drain from her face.

  I see the red marks, almost like veins that are woven into her porcelain skin – and I finally understand why she’s been hiding.

  I couldn’t see the damage the car did under all the blood. The day she came home her hair was covering the scars. Now I can see each scar clearly, painfully tangled as it covers half of her face. The one scar starts at the corner of her top lip, and it pulls at her mouth, making it look like she’s about to smile. It reaches all the way to her ear. It’s the longest of the scars.

  “Jane,” I say and my voice sounds hoarse. I clear my throat and realize it’s hoarse because I feel overwhelmed with emotions. Besides guilt, I feel a sense of empathy. But mostly, I feel a wave of over-protectiveness wash through me. Someone needs to look out for this woman because she’s in no state to do it herself.

  “Jane left your keys after clearing out your fridge,” I say and this time my voice sounds stronger. “You need to get up.”

  Her eyes aren’t wide anymore, but instead filled with the same despair I saw when she came back – a kind of despair that dances in the shadows – luring you down into a pit you can’t climb out of.

  And I’ll be damned, but it calls to me. It’s so loud and clear that I can’t ignore it. It calls to that part of me that just wants to help and I know there is no way I’ll be able to leave her to drown in this depression.

  ~ Olivia ~

  I’m still shocked tha
t Mason Crowe is standing in my bedroom. Months ago, that alone would’ve been enough to put the fear of God in me. Now I stare at him feeling irritated and confused.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I say while getting up. My legs feel numb from lack of exercise.

  He surprises me even more when he walks to me, and then I stand frozen in horror as he reaches for my face – the scarred side. He brushes the hair away and I barely feel his fingers trail over my cheek.

  “Once it’s had time to heal, it won’t be red anymore. Why did you stop working?” he asks as if we’re actually friends.