Redemptio Animae

by Sydney Gibson

  The door was unlocked and open.

  I swallowed hard, moving the P99 from my back to my hip to keep my gun hand on it. I then pushed the door open a little wider, allowing the light from the late morning to fill the front of the house. For a split second I feared Kit's house had been broken into, there were clothes and random things all over the floor. Books, magazines, newspapers and random discarded take out containers with dried bits of food stuck to the edges.

  I stepped over the light grey suit jacket I had last seen her in, bloodstained and torn laying on the floor as if it was thrown in anger. I crept slowly through the house, looking for any movement in the sparse light the window blinds let in. There was a heavy smell of alcohol in the air along with the staleness that came with never opening windows or running a dust cloth over any surface for far too long.

  I reached for the light pull on the lamp that sat on a square table under the side window, when I heard a muted groan. I turned and instead of turning on the light, I twisted the blinds open slowly, gripping desperately to the grip of the gun. The incoming light revealing the scene of Kit crumpled up on the couch, breathing heavily and uncomfortably.

  I walked over to her, spotting the half empty scotch bottle lying on its side on the coffee table. I sat on the edge of the table and leaned forward, looking over the passed out redhead, studying her for a moment, trying to find the why’s in this scene before me. Her face was flushed, red at the cheeks, and sweaty from the immense amount of alcohol she had consumed.

  Her closed eyes were puffy and the gauze covering up her stitches needed to be changed, a red oval of blood sat in the center of the bandage. I ran a hand through my hair, sighing. I was frustrated with Kit and myself. I had hoped that my gut and my heart were wrong. That I was wrong about Kit running back to the bottle the moment whatever demons she shoved down had resurfaced. Resurfaced the moment her memories were triggered. Memories triggered by me.

  I watched Kit sleep uneasily. It was clear she needed to lie down properly and sleep off the booze and impending hangover. I stood up and walked around the small house, looking for her bedroom. Finding it in similar disarray as the rest of the house, I set to at least clearing off the bed. I went around, picking up clothes and random pieces of paper from the bed to throw out or set aside.

  One ball of paper caught my eye as it sat against the leg of her dresser. It was the logo of the Secret Service poking out of the edge that drew my attention. I didn't have to unravel the paper to know that it was the file Rebecca had given me that I had eventually given back to Kit.

  I stared at the paper ball. I wanted to unravel it and in turn unravel the mystery of why Kit was so hell-bent on self-destruction and so resistant to trusting again. I wanted to know why the woman out on the couch, the woman who gave me her life in place of mine and snippets of who she was deep down, was so afraid to let herself breathe and live again.

  My fingers moved on their own and began to tug at the crumpled paper edges. The first sentence was revealed, and before I could read past Agent Caitriona Witmer, I heard the glass bottle out in the living room fall and hit the wooden floor with a clatter clunk. Followed by Kit groaning and coughing.

  I dropped the paper ball in my hand and walked back out to the living room.

  Kit was trying to stand up, but was still far too drunk to gather her bearings properly. She grasped at the edge of the couch as she tried to latch uncoordinated fingers on the curved edge of the scotch bottle on its side. Teasing her as it rolled slightly away from her each time her fingertips made contact.

  I reached for the bottle first, slowly rolling it away from Kit before I reached for her. I gently grabbed her arm, hoisting her up and back onto the couch. She looked at me; her clear hazel eyes were now cloudy and stared past me, through me the way all drunks did when they were lost in a liquid fantasy. Lost was the clear intensity and the clear beauty her eyes were when sober.

  I clenched my jaw at the sight, sending sadness and slight pangs of anger through my heart. I whispered, "We need to get you to bed, Kit."

  Kit smiled at me, falling back on the couch slightly. I caught her, slipping her arm around my shoulder so I could lift her up, letting her drape all of her weight onto me. I was surprised at how light the redhead was when we stood up together. Giving me more to worry about and making sense why she only picked at the best enchiladas in the world. I took a breath and shifted her so I could wrap my free arm around her waist for more balance to begin walking her to the bedroom.

  As we navigated around the coffee table, Kit pressed her body harder against my side. The contact of her body heat made me want to back away, and then I felt her hand cover mine as it sat on her waist. Pressing my hand tightly against her waist. I had to clench my jaw harder to fight away the strange sensation rushing through my body. I hoisted Kit up again, breaking her hand free from mine to let it dangle down at her side.

  In her bedroom I rolled Kit on her back after gently laying her down. Watching as her breathing evened out and didn't sound so strangled as it did on the couch. I sat next to her on the edge, staring at the woman.

  Even dead drunk and flushed from the side effects of drinking more than the body could handle, Kit was still beautiful. Her hair had fallen free from the tight conservative bun she had it in, her makeup was smeared and yet, I could still see the woman was more than just a tough exterior topped with a taste for cheap scotch.

  Her dimples were hiding and I wondered if she ever smiled enough these days to let it have their moments in the spotlight. There was a lot I wondered about this woman as I sat next to her on her bed, worried but grateful that she was okay, drunk beyond belief, but okay. I turned and looked through the broken blinds to the sunny outside her dark room kept hidden from her.

  Kit was bringing up a lot of emotions that I had set to the side in the name of pursuing a life as a Senator and to protect my life within the Criterion Centre. I let out a breath; I silently hoped that this was just a lingering effect of having my life threatened and the drunk a few inches away from me saving it. The hero effect as I always called it. You begin to feel things for those who save you and vice versa, an instantaneous attachment born out of fire and fear. I rolled my shoulders and pushed my hair back, these feelings would fade soon.

  They would have to.

  I went to stand up and grab Kit the glass of water she would be desperate for the moment she woke up. When I did, and for reasons I am still unsure of, whether my hand moved on its own will or if it was propelled by something I wasn't ready to admit to, I reached out. Brushing some loose strands of hair off Kit's face, tucking them behind her ear. The simple touch made Kit's eyes flicker open. Even as her eyes were half-opened, they looked right in mine. She had a pained confused look on her face, blinking rapidly to gather her bearings.

  "Where am I?" The gravelly rasp made her voice barely audible, but it made me pause nonetheless.

  I smiled, "Home. Go back to sleep, you're safe."

  Kit nodded, deep in a fully drunk haze, she rolled over onto her side, "You look like my boss, Claire." She grinned crookedly as she snuggled in to a pillow, "But you're a lot prettier." Kit's smile transformed into a smirk. She then took two breaths and passed back out.

  Kit's words, although laden with scotch, made my heart skip. I shook my head, embarrassed at the reaction. Her words were a drunken backhanded compliment, nothing more.

  I waited a few more minutes until I was sure Kit was sleeping soundly before removing myself from the bed and leaving the room. I closed the door behind me and stood still, looking at the mess before me.

  I took a deep breath, steeled my jaw and pulled off my leather jacket. Setting it on the back of the couch I snatched up the bottle of scotch on the floor and dumped the rest down the drain. Rinsing the remnants of decent scotch down with the tap water, I then set to cleaning up her house.

  One messy pile at a time.

  It would fill the time while I waited for the last messy pile I had just put to be
d, to wake up.

  I was hot, ridiculously hot. So hot I woke up and cringed when I felt the pounding headache rush to the front of my head as I tried to sit up. I knew I had fallen asleep in my clothes again as they clung to my skin due to excessive sweating while sleeping. My body was pissed off at me; I had cleared out the scotch and managed to complete a full withdrawal. Then I dumped scotch back into it and it was struggling with what it was supposed to do with it.

  I rolled to the side of my bed, which I was amazed I had actually made it too without hurting myself or passing out on the floor in front of it. My last memory was of drifting off in a buzzed sleep on the couch as Mozart filled my ears.

  I rubbed my face with both hands, swallowing quickly to keep the impending row my empty stomach was having. I took a deep breath and looked to my right, snatching up the glass of water sitting on the bedside table. I sloppily chugged the water, clutching the glass as I wiped the few drops of water that had not made it in my mouth. I cracked my neck, rubbing at sore muscles. The tussle from the university had begun to settle into my body, I was sore and the more the scotch fell out, the more pain I felt throughout my arms and back. I reached up and pressed around my eye, cringing at the pain and the fact my gauze needed changing.

  I went to stand up and had to lurch forward to grab the small bookshelf I kept under the window, holding onto it until the dizzy spell subsided. I blew out a shaky breath, "I really need to stop drinking or stop stopping drinking." I craned my head towards the digital clock. Slamming my eyes shut when the clock's green numbers told me that it was two thirty in the afternoon. "Fuck. Fuck."

  I was late for work. More than, I was missing from work. I pushed off the bookshelf and gathered myself. I had to find my phone, Rebecca would have left at least seventeen voice mails and thirty texts telling me how late I was and how her standards were once again not met. I idly thought that maybe there would even be a thank you, but your services are no longer needed, email from her. I groaned and ripped off my sticky, sweaty white dress shirt, tossing it into the corner with the other pile of unwashed clothes.

  But there wasn't a pile of dirty clothes tucked next to the dresser like there had been for the last month as I debated doing laundry or just buying new clothes. I stared at the clean spot, the strange intruder in my room, trying to scrub my brain and pull out any memory if I had actually done laundry in the last few days.

  I began to slowly scan the room, noticing that a few other piles of clothes, garbage and untouched books were missing. Even the stain from where I had thrown my glass against the wall was missing.

  Someone had been in my house.

  My heart began to pound with my gut instincts. I snatched a baggy Tito's Liquor Stop t-shirt off the floor and threw it on. I then dug in the bottom of my underwear drawer, wrapping my hand around the butt of my silver .45, pulling the heavy gun free from the drawer and dropping it down to my side.

  I crept to the bedroom door and listened, I could hear the rustling of newspapers in the living room.

  Someone was still in my house.

  I gritted my teeth, took a few calming breaths, opening the door slowly, taking a quick peek through the crack.

  Someone, a female someone by the way the jeans fit around the hips, was bent over by the couch, Scooping up handfuls of at least six months’ worth of want ads. It would not have bothered me the least to see someone cleaning up my garbage, but it was the fact I could see the end of a gun in a concealable holster sticking out the back waist band of the jeans that female someone was wearing.

  I raised my gun, trying hard to control my shaking hands to get a clear sight picture in the center of the females back as she began to straighten up, hands filled with trash. I pushed air through my vocal chords to get them to cooperate at a louder volume than a dry rasp, "Keep your hands where I can see them or I bisect your lung before you can turn around!"

  The female paused when she straightened up completely, her long blonde hair moving to settle around her shoulders, she dropped the newspapers and held her hands out to the side.

  "Turn around, face me and start telling me why you are in my house." I lowered the gun for a second to regain control of my hands that were beginning to complain I was holding them up for longer than they wanted.

  The blonde turned slowly and when her blue green eyes met mine with an intensity that made my heart skip, I whispered, "Claire? What the fuck are you doing here?"

  Chapter 6

  "You're late for work, Kit." Claire's voice was quiet and oddly calming. Her eyes never left mine even as I pointed the barrel of gun at her heart. I dropped my hands and leaned against the door frame of my bedroom. I waved at her to put her arms down, setting the heavy gun down on the top of the TV stand next to me.

  "I know, but why are you here? Don't you have a perfectly good lackey to come and break into my house, scare the shit out of me for you?" I took a step forward and stumbled, I was still woozy and extremely dehydrated. Claire caught my arm as I reached out to steady myself, fingertips grazing the edge of the TV stand.

  "Kit, sit down. I'll get you some water."

  I wanted to pull away from her touch, but left her hand as it lay on my upper arm. I was too tired and too hung over to try and walk on my own. I flinched when I felt her arm slide around my waist. A warm hand came next, sitting lightly on my side above the waist of my dress pants. Claire held me firmly, guiding me to sit on the couch without a wobbled or stumbled step. I had a strange feeling begin to radiate from where her hand sat that continued even after her touch left me. I shook my head, blaming the alcohol for whatever it was I felt.

  Nothing more.

  It shouldn't and couldn't be anything more.

  I leaned forward, elbows perched on knees, holding my head as the headache started to pound like the percussion section of a symphony. I was getting more and more irritated every minute I was awake, "Are you going to answer my question?" The roll of my stomach made me clench my jaw tight. I had to command it to not lose its few contents in front of this woman.

  I heard the slosh of water filling up a glass and the soft rattle of my aspirin bottle being shaken. I swallowed and looked around, noticing now how clean my house was compared to how I had left if for the last few months, "Did you clean my house?" Pictures were hung up straight, books were returned to shelves, dishes were cleaned and put away properly and lastly, there were no piles of random items, random items that were tossed away carelessly when I no longer had an immediate use for them. The house was spotless and almost immaculate.

  I felt Claire sit down next to me, close enough that our legs touched for a moment. A glass of cool water was pushed into my view, "Drink this." A slender hand held out two white pills, "Take these. It will help the headache."

  I glanced at Claire from the corner of my eye, giving her a look. My patience was not great when I was hung over, especially when it was this bad. She was testing it as she pushed the glass closer, "Please drink this, then I will answer your questions." Her voice was still soft, concerned hinting at the edges, as if she was afraid to speak louder than at a library approved volume.

  I grabbed the glass and did my best to pick up the two tiny white pills from her palm with shaky fingers, chugging the water and the pills in a few sloppy drinks. I set the glass down hard and leaned back into the couch, closing my eyes again. The minimal amount of light from my open blinds made it feel like the sun was sitting on top of me. Staring at me like I was a circus freak.

  I could feel Claire staring at me as she began to speak, "I didn't break in. I went to knock on the door and it was unlocked and open." I felt her shift on the couch, moving away from me, our legs breaking free from the minimal contact they had. "I then stayed when I found you on the couch passed out and not in a very good state. I helped you get into bed and waited. In case you needed someone, something." She took a breath, "I did clean the house. Yes." It came out quickly, as if she was suddenly embarrassed she had played molly maid in my house.

&
nbsp; I opened one eye and looked at her, eyebrow raised, "And what compelled you to do so?" My tone was a mix of irritation and arrogance.

  Claire was looking down at her hands and not at me. It was as if she was nervous for some reason. "I wanted too." She looked up at me with a light, tight smile, "I owe you for yesterday." The tone in her voice was genuine and more, I could see it reflected in her eyes, those soft blue green eyes that seemed to sparkle when the ambient light hit them. It made me swallow hard as the light did exactly that, I suddenly wanted to distract where my mind was heading with these little details I was starting pick up about the Senator.

  I rolled my eyes and leaned forward, "You don't owe me anything, Claire. It's my job, well, was my job." I stood up, stumbling to the kitchen to refill the glass of water, "Is that why you are here, to deliver my pink slip in person? Is a clean house part of my severance package?" I drank the water quickly to hopefully drown out the answer to my questions.

  I knew I had fucked up by drinking last night. This morning and my hangover was a huge breach of my contract with Claire, with the Senator, on top of never really quite making it on time to my second day of work. I leaned against the counter to support my weight and turned to look at the couch, Claire sitting there staring at my clean windows, wishing she would hurry up and fire me so I could move on with this shitty day.

  Claire took a moment before turning to look at me over her shoulder, "Maybe you would like to take a shower before we discuss anything else. It will help clear your mind." Claire's tone had shifted slightly to one that was a little more serious.

  I sighed; I knew what was coming now. I had been down this road with Davey and the Secret Service.

  I pushed off the counter and set the glass down with a hard clank, "Yup. Alright." I walked to the bathroom, grabbing the pair of sweatpants draped over the back of a chair along the way. My stomach and heart was in complete turmoil. I knew I had fucked up big time and lost my only chance at possibly starting over. On top of that, there was something about the blonde Senator that actually made me feel guilty for fucking up. Maybe it was the way she looked at me like a person and not an employee, or maybe it was just the way she looked at me in general. I had seen that look once before and it blinded me. I clenched my jaw as more small memories fought through the haze of my cloudy morning after mind.