Darkness Within

by Isabel Lucero

  “Donovan—” she starts.

  “Listen,” I say, pulling her up and making her look me in the eyes. “I’m more myself when I’m with you. Every day I have to put on this mask. I have to fit in with the happy people—the normal people. When I’m with you, I feel like I don’t have to always do that. I may not be happy-go-lucky and full of jokes and romantic lines to spill to you, but I’m me. And to me, that’s a big deal. I’m relaxed and comfortable. I’m not pretending I’m something I’m not. You pretty much know what you’re getting with me, whether that’s good or bad, you know. I won’t apologize for not being like every other twenty-something year old guy out there. I don’t want to be like them. I’m happy how I am, even if I’m not a good person.”

  She caresses my face, her palm rubbing over the scratchiness of my beard. Her eyes roam my entire face before she speaks. “Thank you,” she says softly. “I’m glad you feel comfortable with me, and I’m sure that’s a big step for you. I don’t understand why you feel like you have to wear a mask, because you seem like a good person to me.”

  “Good people can still do bad things.”

  She tilts her head and pushes some of my fallen strands of hair back. “People make mistakes.”

  “If mistakes are repeated, what do you call that?”

  The side of her mouth lifts. “More mistakes?”

  I smirk. “I’d call it decision making.”

  “So, you’re choosing to make mistakes over and over again?”

  “I don’t think of them as mistakes,” I tell her honestly as I let my thumb stroke her cheek.

  “Then maybe they’re not.”

  “Just because I don’t think they are, doesn’t mean I’m not aware of what other people would classify them as. They’re more than mistakes, Analeigh, but I lack the compassion to care about that.”

  After a while, she exhales loudly and says, “I don’t care what you do, as long as you’re good to me. Maybe that’s selfish, but it’s true.”

  “Well, I have no intention of hurting you.”

  “Then we have no problems,” she says with a smile, letting the previous conversation go. “Hey, you know what women are good at doing?”

  “What’s that?”

  She gets up, sitting Indian style and bringing the sheet up to cover her naked body. In the process, she uncovers me. “Oops,” she says with a giggle. I continue to lie there with one hand under my head, not moving to pull the covers back. “Oh. Confident are you?”

  I shrug. “You’ve seen it, felt it, and tasted it. I’m not shy.”

  She playfully rolls her eyes, but adjusts the covers just enough to cover my cock. “Anyway, women are good at listening. So, if you ever want to talk to someone about anything, even little things, I hope you know you can talk to me.”

  “Do you think I need to get something off my chest?”

  She shrugs. “You’ve been distracted today. You get in this daze, and your face contorts into one of anger. Just wondering what’s going on in that head of yours.”

  Well, she’s right. I have been distracted. “I caught someone outside my house last night.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I don’t know. I was outside and heard a noise, when I followed the noise, it ended up being some guy who ran away from me. He jumped into a waiting car and they took off. I’m just trying to figure out who it could’ve been.”

  “And why?” she says, her voice getting higher. “That’s kind of scary, Donovan.”

  “Yeah. I don’t live near too many people, so someone being back there just lets me know it was me they were looking for. Then the shithead took off, making the suspicion grow, so I’m a little pissed off about it.”

  “Fuck yeah!” she says, getting louder. “I’d be pissed too. That’s insane. Do you think they’ll come back?”

  “If they do, it won’t be right away. They got caught, so I’m sure they’ll know I’ll be looking out for them now.”

  “Did you call the cops?”

  I snort. “No. They won’t be able to do anything.”

  “Maybe they can just sit outside your place and keep an eye on things.”

  Well, that’s the last fucking thing I need. “Nah, they have more important things to worry about, I’m sure.”

  “Do you have any idea why someone would be watching you?”

  . “Nope.” Because if someone saw me kill or dispose of someone, why track me down? Why not call the cops? I’ve been wracking my brain with potential reasons. Maybe, just the way I track people down to get information on them before killing them, someone is doing that to me. But they’d have to have a reason, and I stay too low under the radar for anyone to even think about me.

  “You’re getting worked up. Let me give you a massage,” she says, taking note of the tension I hold in my body.

  She crawls behind me as I sit up, putting each one of her legs on either side of me. Her small fingers squeeze the muscles in my neck, and I’d be a fucking liar if I said it didn’t feel good.

  “I’ve never had a massage before.”

  “Really? Never?” she asks in disbelief.

  “Never.”

  “Well, I’ll make sure to make this one really good.” After a minute of her focusing on my neck, her hands move down to my shoulders and upper back. “Oh, ow. What’s this?” she questions, touching the area around the cut on my shoulder.

  Fuck. I completely forgot about that. It’s the cut from Nick’s dad, Terry. It’s not deep, but it’s a good couple inches, and from what I saw in the mirror, it’s pretty red.

  I flip around, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her into a lying position beneath me. “A battle wound. No big deal,” I say with a smirk. “You got time for another round before you go to work?” I ask, grinding myself between her legs.

  “Oh. Mm,” she moans, closing her eyes and lifting her hips. Without looking at the clock she says, “I have time.”

  We spend the next half hour in the bed, pissing the neighbors off again.

  MONDAY IS SHITTY. Not in that I hate that it’s no longer the weekend kind of way, but because Nick is obviously distracted and keeps looking off site in the direction of his dad’s makeshift grave. On top of that, Miguel is under the impression that we’re friends and keeps trying to talk to me.

  I don’t understand him. Some days he stares at me from afar, acting like he hates the sight of me, and other times he’s coming over and trying to talk to me. I’d prefer it if he just acted like I didn’t exist.

  “Fucking Mondays, huh?” Miguel says wiping sweat from his forehead as he walks up to me, interrupting my break.

  “Mm,” I murmur, lifting my head slightly in acknowledgment.

  “You notice anything going on with Nick? He’s been acting weird. Kind of jumpy.”

  I look to my right and find Nick standing near a house he’s supposed to be working on, but instead he’s staring off in the direction of where his dad’s buried. “Nah, I haven’t noticed,” I lie.

  “He told me what his dad did to his mom. Pretty fucked up.”

  “Then there’s your answer.”

  He rubs the back of his neck, looking at Nick. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Even though I’m not paying much attention to Miguel, I can feel him staring at me. “Anyway, how was your weekend? You do anything? What about your girlfriend? How’s that going?”

  My head turns slowly in his direction and I pin him with a glare as I take a drink from my bottle of water. Usually I can put on my front and be civil with people, but when you hate someone, you feel like you have to let them know you hate them even if you don’t say it.

  He knows I don’t like him, it’s too obvious to ignore, but he keeps trying to make nice with me. Fucking pussy. He must be one of those people who can’t stand when someone doesn’t like them. Someone should tell him trying too hard isn’t a good look.

  “You’re trying too hard, man,” I say with a shake of my head, taking on the task.

 
“Whaddaya mean?” he asks with furrowed brows.

  “We’re not friends and you know that. I know you fucking hate me. I don’t care, though. For whatever reason you seem to need me to like you. Why are you always coming around and trying to be buddy-buddy? You don’t give a fuck about my weekend. What’s your game?”

  He actually takes a step back, his face turning red, either out of humiliation or anger. I don’t know and don’t care. “My game? I don’t got no fucking game. I’m just trying to be nice. Seems like you could use a friend.”

  “What the fuck?” I say with a humorless laugh. “I look like I need a friend? What gives you that impression? Because if I’m giving out that kind of vibe, I need to do something different.”

  “You’re a fucking asshole.”

  “Yeah, I thought you already had that figured out. Do you not remember our last conversation? Why are you trying me? I told you to leave me alone.”

  “Fuck, man. I just thought you were having a bad day. Sorry for trying to be nice,” he spits.

  “Miguel, anytime you come around, you make my good days turn into bad days. I mean what I say. Leave me the fuck alone. I don’t like or trust you. Your constant need of approval and attention bugs the fuck out of me. Your incessant questions about me and my life have all my red flags going up. You never ask other people what’s going on with them, because you only care about yourself. Why are you up my ass all the time? Really. I want to know.”

  “Fuck you, man! Why should I tell you anything?”

  “Really?” I laugh. “Why would I tell you anything? You’re not willing to tell me why you need to know so much about me, but you want me to tell you everything. You’re fuckin’ insane. Get out of my face, Miguel.”

  I turn my back on him and wait for him to walk away. He stands there for a few seconds before I finally hear his footsteps as he leaves. Soon the footsteps are back, and I start to truly question if he has a death wish.

  “Hey, man. I’m freakin’ out. What if someone goes out there?”

  It’s Nick. I turn around and look into his panic-stricken face. “Nobody’s gonna go out there. If they do it’ll be because you keep fucking staring in that direction. What’re you doing? Nobody is even thinking about walking out there. It’s too far away.”

  He rubs his palms on his pants. “I don’t know. Sorry, I’m just—” He stops and looks back over there before looking around at everybody on the site.

  “Stop it. You already have Miguel asking questions about you. Nobody knows anything and nobody will as long as you stay cool and keep that shit to yourself.”

  He exhales and glances up into the sky before looking at me and nodding. “I know. Okay. I’m fine.”

  “No you’re not,” I state plainly.

  “I had a dream about him,” he says, lowering his voice. “He came back to my house, and he was bloody and covered in dirt, like he had crawled out of the ground. He was still alive and coming back to kill me. It freaked me out, so I left and just drove around.”

  “It was just a dream. He’s dead and definitely not coming out of that ground.” I hesitate and debate on asking the question that just hit me. “Did you drive near my house last night?”

  “What?” he questions, making a face. “Why do you ask that?”

  The fact that he doesn’t say outright that he didn’t makes me curious. Also, his face looks nervous, but I couldn’t decipher if that’s because he’s afraid I know it was him, or if that’s just what his face is going to look like from now on because of his dad.

  “You said you were driving around.”

  “Not way the fuck out there.”

  “All right,” I say, leaving it alone. Who would he be with anyway? I don’t think it would be him, but he’s the only one who knows exactly where I live.

  “Guess I should get back to work,” he says.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  The rest of the day I keep an eye on Nick and he doesn’t look out there as often as he was, but he doesn’t stop altogether. I think about inviting him out for a drink, but it’s Monday and Kathy flies in tomorrow, plus I have shit to do.

  A few minutes after I leave work, Analeigh calls me.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey. Sorry to bug you right after work. Well, you are off, right?”

  “Yeah, just left. What’s up?”

  “I got a flat and need to get to work. Do you think you can come help me?”

  “Sure. Where are you?”

  She rattles off directions and I head straight over. When I finally show up, she climbs out of her car and throws her cell phone on her seat before coming towards me. She looks frantic.

  “Thanks for coming,” she says, giving me a hug. “I just got off the phone with my boss, so they know I’ll be late.”

  I walk to her trunk. “You got a spare? Jack?”

  “I got a spare in the trunk. I don’t know about a jack,” she says, scrunching her face up. “I know. I need to learn how to do these kinds of things.”

  When she pops her trunk, I pull out the spare tire and find a tire iron. She doesn’t have a jack, but luckily I have one in my truck. I take my top off, leaving me in just a wife-beater, dirty jeans, and my work boots. She talks to me as I change the tire, asking questions about how to do it, so I explain everything to her as I do each step.

  As soon as I get the flat tire off, she wanders to the front seat and grabs her phone. Putting the spare on doesn’t take long, and soon I’m lowering the car back down. She comes back to watch and ask question, but her phone goes off again, so she goes back to answer the text.

  I inspect the tire, trying to find the reason for it being flat. Hopefully it can just be repaired and doesn’t have to be replaced. I’m not sure if she can afford that. I rotate it, looking for a screw or glass, but I never find anything in the tread area or grooves. I inspect it again, slowly, and I finally find where the hole is. It’s on the side. Not anywhere where it could be accidental. This puncture wound was done intentionally.

  I run my finger over it, prodding the hole with my fingertip. The cut is fairly clean, probably done with a knife or blade of some sort. The question is why?

  When I look back up at her she’s still focused on her phone, looking a little rattled. I toss the tire in her trunk and wipe my hands on my jeans before making my way towards her. When she sees me, she tosses her phone to the passenger seat and gives me a smile. “Done?”

  “Done.”

  “Thanks so much, Donovan. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

  “It looks like this was done intentionally,” I tell her.

  Her eyes grow wide. “Wh-what?” she stutters.

  “You didn’t run anything over. There’s a cut on the side. Someone did this on purpose.”

  She runs to the trunk and reaches out a shaky hand to the tire, rubbing the cut with her finger. “This couldn’t be from anything else? Like, what if I got too close to a curb or something?”

  I shake my head. “Nah. A curb isn’t going to make a cut like that. Now, tell me, who would’ve done this and why?”

  Her body turns in my direction but she doesn’t look up at me right away. Her wide eyes search the ground before flicking up and meeting mine. Her lips part like she’s about to talk, but no words come out.

  Something about this doesn’t sit right, but I can’t wrap my mind around what could possibly be going on. She has to tell me, but she seems too scared to tell me anything, and that raises flags.

  “Analeigh, what’s going on?” I ask.

  Her lip trembles. “I’m sorry, Donovan.” Then she drops her face into her hands.

  What the hell?

  SHE SLAMS THE trunk closed and walks backwards to the front seat. “I’m so sorry. I have to go. Please don’t be mad. I’ll explain everything, but I have to get to work.” Her eyes glisten with unshed tears. “I’m sorry.”

  And then she’s in the car and speeding off, leaving me standing on the side of the road confuse
d as fuck.

  Probably a full minute goes by before I get back into my truck. I stare at the back of her car until I can’t see it anymore, trying to figure out what in the hell is going on. Did she do it herself? Why, though? Does she know who did it?

  The whole drive home I try to make sense of her reaction, but I don’t come up with anything. She probably won’t call until late tonight when she gets off work, so I know I’ll need to occupy my time by planning on what to do about Kathy.

  After eating and taking a shower, I turn on the news and pull out my notes on Kathy’s schedule. I know when she goes out to lunch with her friends, when she has people over for book club and wine drinking, and when she doesn’t plan anything, choosing to stay home all day. Kathy stays pretty social, but I don’t think it’s because it’s who she is, I think she does it because it’s what’s expected. She puts on a front just like me, hers is just different.

  I puff on a cigarette as I contemplate what needs to be done and how it needs to be executed. My mind continues to wander to Analeigh and my eyes go to my clock every few minutes, waiting for the phone to ring.

  Something on the TV catches my attention, so I turn the volume up as the newswoman reports on a body being identified.

  “The police were able to contact the victim’s only living relative and she has since identified the body. The victim is twenty-two year old, Stanley Keen. The police still don’t have any suspects and are hoping for any possible witnesses to come forward with information.”

  My phone vibrates on the table and my eyes flicker towards it, seeing Analeigh’s name on the screen. She’s not calling. She’s texting. I always thought that was the cowardly way of handling things.

  Analeigh: Hey

  Me: You ready to tell me what’s going on?

  I get straight to the point, hoping she’ll just come right out and say it. I almost want to call to force her to have to talk to me instead of send texts, but if she feels braver doing it this way, then so be it. As long as she tells me the truth.

  Analeigh: I should’ve told you sooner, but I have this ex-boyfriend and he’s not happy about me moving on already.