by E. K. Blair
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m still hacked into her accounts. I just thought you should know.”
“Thanks,” is all he says before hanging up on me.
I GRIP THE ratty, red-headed doll more tightly while everyone sleeps around me, forty thousand feet above soil as the giver of my doll lies six feet under. While I was packing, I found the gift Pike had given me on my tenth birthday stuffed in a box in my closet. I remember him being embarrassed about the doll, having stolen it, but I loved it. And I loved him for being the one person who truly cared about me at a time when I was so alone. This doll was the only good memory of that birthday, because shortly after he gave it to me, I was forced to face the demon in the basement. The demon that would utterly destroy me and mold me into the monster I am today.
“Would you like something to drink, dear?” the flight attendant asks softly.
“No, thank you.”
With my mind racing, I can’t settle down to sleep. I keep replaying these past few months in my head. Over and over. I miss Pike, but it doesn’t even compare to the ache of losing Declan. I hate that in his last hours his perception of me was tarnished. All I wanted was for him to believe I was good and pure, the way he always saw me, but in the end, he discovered it was a lie.
That dossier touched the hands of the men in my life, but it was Declan’s hands that hurt the most. It took me a while to open up that file to see what exactly was in it, but when I did, there’s no denying the facts from fiction. Declan knew I was a liar, a foster kid, a con artist. It kills me to think about how he must’ve felt when he realized the truth about me, because all I wanted was to love him, comfort him, and make him feel safe with me.
Who am I kidding though?
I could never love the way a man like that should be loved, but I was willing to try.
“Tell me what you’re feeling,” I remember him saying as I allow my mind to drift back.
“I hate this,” I said. “I hate every moment I’m not with you. You’re all that I want, and I hate life for not being fair to us. And I’m scared. I’m scared of everything, but I’m mostly scared of losing you. You’re the one good thing that’s ever come along for me. Somehow, in this fucked up world, you have a way of making all the ugly disappear.”
“You’re not going to lose me.”
“Then why does it feel like it’s slipping away?”
“It’s not. I promise you, it’s not. You’re just scared, but you have me now. I’ll take all that fear away, every piece of it that you carry around. I’ll take it away. I’ll give you everything you deserve from this life. I’ll do what I can to make up for all your suffering.”
I couldn’t ever dream of a better man existing, and I never wanted to fall in love with him, but I did. It was wicked and vicious and utterly beautiful, and it was mine. For a moment, he was mine.
And now . . .
He’s dead.
And so am I.
His blood is deep inside of me—I made sure of its home—but it isn’t enough to save me. Nothing is enough, and the anguish is boundless. There’s no release, no cleansing, no Pike to take it all away. I’ve lost my vice to relieve the ache, to give me my escape, to numb me. It’s overpowering, a red river of loathing, a debilitating and suffocating stabbing in the core of my very essence.
It breeds inside of me and my body chills in anxiety. A shrill ring echoes in my ears.
Bleeding, screaming, a tourniquet around ventricles pleading for relief.
Memories of his words strangle me, a noose tightening around my neck.
“We could have a life.” “You love me, right?” “I know what I want, and that’s a life with you. I’ll do whatever it takes to get that.”
I can’t breathe.
“Excuse me,” I stutter breathlessly as I stumble in a rush to the lavatory.
Locking the door behind me, I brace my hands on the sink and stare into my hollow eyes. I attempt to inhale slowly, but my body doesn’t allow it. A sheen of sweat coats my pale face, drained of blood, and the hunger inside of me needs to be fed. I need to expel it before it kills me.
My fist takes a life of its own, balling up and slamming itself into my sternum.
Again.
Again.
Knuckles pounding against frail bone, and with every infliction, the ringing in my ears dulls and my lungs begin to fill with much-needed air. I punch myself again and again and again, over and over, busting capillaries with each violent blow. Warmth spreads through my wounded flesh, and when my cheeks heat with tears, I fall back onto the toilet, my hands pressed against the wall of the tiny bathroom as I pant from exertion. My mind clears, but I’m confused by what just happened and why it brought me relief—pleasure, really. The tormenting sadness is gone, freed by the pain I just unleashed on myself.
That was the moment I discovered my new drug. It no longer came in the comfort of Pike or Declan. No. It came from the devil’s hand—my hand—and in that moment, I felt a sense of power in my ability to stave off the misery with a blissful brutality that births an endorphined high.
Sighing in refreshed relief, I stand and right myself in front of the mirror before lifting the hem of my top to see the destruction on my body. When I observe the blood pooling beneath my skin, swelling in pink glory, I smile in pride. Contusions mar my skin in reward, and I’m pacified.
This is pain I can deal with. No longer do I have anyone to lean on to alleviate this discord inside of me. All I have is myself. So with a sickening delight, I enjoy my moment of assuagement before returning to my seat to cradle my doll.
LANDING, CUSTOMS, BAGGAGE claim, and rental car. Here I sit in the parking lot, on the other side of the world from where I just came from.
Alone with no plan, no direction.
I sit awkwardly on the right side of the car, wondering if I’ll be able to drive without killing myself or someone else. No time like the present.
“Here we go,” I murmur to myself and then shift the car to pull out of the parking space.
As I leave the airport and start driving through Edinburgh, the scenery astounds me. Declan wasn’t lying when he said the landscapes were breathtaking. Freezing rain falls from the dark, grey sky over the Old World city. Stone buildings from another lifetime line the streets, and I’m in awe of the historic beauty. Horns honking pull me away from the sights, and I quickly yank the steering wheel when I realize I’m entering a round-a-bout the wrong way.
“Shit,” I screech while waving my hand in apology to the other drivers I nearly sideswiped. Driving on the opposite side of the car, opposite side of the street, has me tense and thrown off.
Turning out of the circle of death, I resume cautiously until I find a place to stop to get a bite to eat. I’m drained from traveling, and when I walk into the quiet restaurant, the hostess sits me at a table towards the back of the small dining room.
“Water?” the woman asks, hair the same shade of red as my own, piled up in a bun on top of her head.
“Please.”
“Flat, sparkling, or tap?”
“Flat,” I answer and then watch as she walks away, dazed in my unfamiliar surroundings.
These people are clueless to the world I just left behind, to the people I destroyed, to the beast I am. They sit, chatting quietly, very different from the loud and boisterous American manners, and I settle in the hushed atmosphere, looking over the menu.
“Here you go,” the waitress says in her thick Scottish accent as she sets the carafe of water on the table after pouring a glass for me. “What can I get for you, lassie?”
Unsure of the menu choices, I tell her, “Something warm and savory.”
“You’re American?”
I smile and nod, and she then suggests, “Rumbledthumps.”
“What?”
“Traditional Scottish dish. Will warm you up from the cold weather.”
It takes a few extra seconds to decipher her words through her accent. I never h
ad difficulty understanding Declan, but this woman’s native tongue is coated much heavier than what I’m used to hearing.
“Thank you,” I respond, handing her the menu, and after I take a long drink of water, I pull out my phone to attempt to get a game plan together.
Once I gain access to the internet, I type in the name of the estate Declan told me about. I remember him telling me it was outside of Edinburgh, but I can’t remember where exactly. All I know is, I need to see the house. I need to know it’s real. I need to see what could have been mine if only I’d run with him when he asked me to.
Pulling up the search engine, I type in:
Brunswickhill Estate Edinburgh Scotland
It takes only a few seconds for the property to pop up on several different realty websites. I click on the first link, and when a picture of the estate pops up, my stomach sinks. Sitting here, I don’t breathe as I stare at the home Declan begged me to live in with him. I swipe the screen with my finger to view the other pictures. One by one, I see what was so close to being my life—my fairytale. It’s just as he described: a Victorian mansion set within immaculate grounds covered in lush greens, flowers, trees, and the grotto. I recall Declan telling me how much I would love the grotto that’s built from clinker.
Why didn’t I run with him when he asked?
Scrolling down the page, I note the realtor as being Knight Frank.
After taking a few minutes to read the online brochure of the estate and looking through the rest of the photos, my food arrives. I take small bites of the potato dish, trying to find comfort in the richness, but my knotted stomach makes it difficult to enjoy. Beneath my skin, wounds slowly split.
Setting the fork down, I start searching online for the public records on the house. It takes a little while, but I finally find what I’ve been trying so hard to hide from. But it’s here in black and white, right under my fingertips. The words informing that the bank seized the estate, and the date this occurred was only a few short weeks after Pike killed Declan. I can still taste his blood from when I took my last kiss.
I read further to find that it didn’t take long for the place to resell to a private buyer using an undisclosed trust. I’ve come to know through Bennett that this isn’t an uncommon occurrence among the wealthy. But regardless of the new ownership, I still want to see it. I mark the address and pull up the directions to find it’s located about an hour away in Galashiels. Taking one last bite of food, I get the attention of the waitress so that I can pay and be on my way.
“SLEEP WELL?”
“Yes,” I reply to Isla, the innkeeper, as I pour myself a cup of hot water from the kettle sitting out in the main dining room.
As I was driving through town last night, I came across this little bed and breakfast and figured it would be a nice place for me to stay while I’m here. Isla greeted me when I arrived, and despite being halfway across the world in a foreign country, something about her demeanor set me at ease. She welcomed me, settled me into my modest room, and quickly excused herself, which I was grateful for. I was beyond exhausted and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
“So what brings you to Gala?” she asks.
Dipping a teabag into the mug of water, I’m not sure how to answer. I’m so used to lying and hiding my real self that honesty seems alien. Truth is, I’m not even sure I remember the real me anymore. And then I wonder if I ever truly did. I’ve been faking it for so long. The last time I remember really feeling in place within this world was when I was five years old. It’s like the second my father was stolen from me, so was my identity. And when he died, that identity did too, and all I was left with was a shell of what used to be me. I tried filling the emptiness with hopes and dreams, but that was a waste of time. Then I turned to Pike, using him to fill me with voidance and comfort.
And then there was Declan.
“Are you okay?” Isla questions with concern in her eyes, pulling me out of my thoughts.
“Mmm hmm,” is all I can manage around the agonizing block in my throat. After taking a slow sip of my hot tea, a desperate need to find myself takes over, and I do something I haven’t done in a very long time.
I tell the truth.
“I lost someone close to me. I came here to feel closer to him.”
“Oh, dear,” she sighs. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”
Her aged eyes are filled with sympathy. Through look alone, she speaks in silence, and I can see understanding and a pain of her own.
“I apologize for being too honest. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“Nonsense. If a woman my age can’t handle a little honesty . . . well . . . she hasn’t truly lived then.”
“I suppose.” And she’s right. Hell, I feel like I’ve lived a thousand years on this earth. I doubt you could say anything that would shock me at this point. I bet there isn’t a pain that exists that I haven’t felt.
“Will you be staying long . . . ?” she begins and then falters her words. “I’m so sorry, hun. It was late when you arrived and your name is failing me right now.”
It was in that moment, with that elderly lady who seemed to have answers to questions I had yet to discover, where I made a choice. I thought I had nothing left to lose, but that wasn’t fact. You see, somewhere deep inside of me was that five-year-old girl. She held the identity I lost so long ago, and I wanted it back.
“Elizabeth,” I tell her. “And I’m not quite sure how long I’ll be staying.”
“Well, Elizabeth, it’s nice to have you here. I won’t take up any more of your time. If you need anything, please let me know, okay?”
“Thank you.”
I take my tea and head upstairs to my room to unpack and freshen up. After I’m dressed and have settled my belongings in their proper places, I look at myself in the easel mirror that’s set in the corner of the room. Ivory slacks, taupe cashmere sweater, nude pumps. Clothes I acquired while living my con. They scream Nina, but I’m at a loss as to what is Elizabeth. Who is she really? It’s been so long since I’ve been her. I feel like I left her that fated day when my father was arrested. I’ve lived most of my life in a tomb, hiding from the afflictions of this world, until I became Nina.
And now, I’m a hollow illusion—a druxy dressed in gossamer.
I tuck a lock of my wavy red hair behind my ear before grabbing my keys.
With the address to Brunswickhill punched into the car’s navigation, I follow the highlighted route that weaves me through the narrow streets up a winding hill. It doesn’t take long to hit Abbotsford Road, and I know I’m close.
But not to him, only to his ghost.
My eyes sting with unshed tears as I round the bend and see the green sign on the stone gate wall that reads Brunswickhill. I’m locked on the sign as my chin trembles and my soul bleeds from the inside, filling me with the poison I feed from.
It’s real.
This place—the place he wanted to give me—it’s really real.
Pulling the car off the side of the road, I don’t realize how tightly my fingers are wrapped around the steering wheel until I let go and feel the ache. When I step out of the car in front of the wrought iron gate that hides my could-have-been palace, the phantom of death hangs over me.
Loss is consuming.
Emptiness is overwhelming.
Sadness is everlasting.
My feet move on their own—closer. I breathe deeply, praying for the scent of him to fill my lungs that don’t deserve it, but crave it. It’s nothing but sharp ice though. Frigid as my hands grip the cold metal of the gate, tears begin to fall from my already-swollen eyes.
The fissures of my heart begin to rip and shred—burning, stinging, piercing agony erupting. My knuckles whiten as my grip strengthens, and the misery and regret explode in a vile rage. Jerking my hands, shaking the gates, I lose myself in a maniacal outburst. I scream into the bleak clouds, scream so hard it feels like razors slicing through my larynx, and I welcome the pai
n, pleading for it to cut more deeply.
Slamming the gate back and forth, metal clanging, ice severing my flesh, I sob. I make it hurt coming out. Bitterly cold tears stain my face as my body takes on a life of its own.
I want him back.
How hard do I have to cry to get him back?
Why did this happen to me? To him? To us?
I just want him back.
“Come back!” My voice, shrilling in the air. “Please! Just come back!”
Thrashing around, drowning in wails, my body tires. My hands are frozen, continuing to cling to the bars of the gate as I fall to my knees. I feel my core chipping away while my body heaves. Desperate to catch my breath against my pounding heart, I close my eyes and lean against the wrought iron. Soon, my deep gasps turn into childlike, desolate whimpers.
I just want someone to hold me. To touch me and tell me it’s going to be okay. That I’m going to be okay. I want my brother, my daddy, my love—I’ll take anyone just to get some relief. So I sit here on the cold concrete and cry—alone.
Snow drifts down, weightlessly, falling over me as time passes. The whistling wind through the trees awakens me to the dropping temperatures, and I don’t even know how long I’ve been sitting here when I look up and through the gates. Wiping my tears, I stammer to my feet and try to get a better look at the property, but it’s hidden behind the trees. On the other side of the gate, the drive winds up a hill and through a mass of snow-covered trees, and beyond that is a mystery.
But I know.
He told me all about the house, the grounds, the flowers, the glass conservatory.
I look around to find a way in, but the gates and stone wall are nearly nine feet high, and there’s no way of climbing over.
What’s the point anyway? It’s not like anything’s waiting for me on the other side. I’m not even sure why I’m still here, and when I look down at my reddened, almost maroon hands, bloodied from the ice cuts, I know it’s time to go.
“DEAR, ARE YOU all right?”
“Just slipped on some ice while shopping,” I lie as Isla notices my dirty, wet slacks from where I spent most of the day sitting on the snowy ground. I know I look ghastly, and the part of me that’s trained itself well wants to poise up, but the weakness in me begs to slump its shoulders and take the embrace I know Isla would be willing to give. I don’t know which way to go.