Echo

by E. K. Blair

  I touch my reflection in the mirror. Somehow, it feels safer than to touch my actual face. There’s always a disconnect in one’s reflection, and right now, I need that distance. But the reflection I see is me at age twelve. I look at me—at her—and my heart begins to pump harder, fiercer, sadder.

  Her blue eyes are filled with a pain she hides from the world, and I want so badly to reach through the glass and save her from the life I know she’ll endure. I know that deep down she’s buried a small light of hope, and it kills me to know it’s just a wasted dream. This sweet, little, red-headed girl is destined for a life filled with anguish and despair, and there’s nothing I can do to save her. Her future is inevitable, written in the stars, and bound to the solidity that the fairytales she dreams about don’t exist. They never did.

  Tucking my fingers in a tight fist, I feel the tingles in my palm. Everything clouds around my head in a swarm of shit memories and thoughts.

  I’m stronger than this. Don’t break; I’m stronger than this pain.

  But maybe I’m not strong. I just allowed Declan to fuck me the same way Carl did, and I barely even fought him. I succumbed to him like the trash I am, gave him a piece of my worthless body for his selfish use.

  SMASH!

  A hundred eyes stare back at me, sad, pitiful, loathing eyes. My eyes. The clinking of broken glass falling onto the marbled sink is a song of despair, but it’s ruined with my panted breaths. I look into the broken mirror and I hate what I see. I hate what I am. I hate it all. And I want to hate Declan for what he just did, but I can’t. I can’t, and I hate myself even more for that fact.

  I deserved it. I deserve even worse.

  If this is his way of punishing me, then I’ll suppress the need to fight him. I’ll bear it and take it without enmity.

  Concentrating on calming myself down, I turn on the faucet and cup my hands under the cold water. My knuckles sting as the water flushes the split skin. It takes my blood and runs red down the drain. I allow the coolness to numb the wound.

  After taking a few sips from my hands and rinsing my mouth out, I start opening the drawers and cabinets to find a couple bandages to cover my knuckles. Once I have the band-aids in place, I undo my pants to clean up. Flinching when I wipe myself, I look to see the toilet paper streaked in blood from his assault.

  I splash a little water on my face, and finger-comb my hair, before I open the door and take slow steps through the bedroom. I’m timid and nervous about walking out of this room, about facing Declan, about what will happen next. Making my way down the stairs, I don’t see him, so I head to the kitchen where I left my coat and the keys to the car.

  I stop when I see Declan leaning over the counter. I don’t move. I don’t make a sound. His back faces me as he’s bent over, leaning on his elbows with head in hands. The rise and fall of his shoulders is noticeable as he stands there, slightly disheveled in his tailored slacks and untucked button-up.

  When he senses my presence, he shifts his head to look at me and I notice his reddened eyes. The shame is written all over him, staining him in humiliation, but I’m the only one who should feel it. Not him.

  He pushes back from the counter and stands up, facing me, and when I take a slow step into the kitchen, I’m overwhelmed with the need to give him honest pieces of me. To open up with truths he’s never heard before. To finally let him inside of me.

  “Being with you has been difficult,” I admit, my words trembling. “It takes me to the extremely dark place of my past.”

  “Then why me? Why not choose someone else?”

  “Because,” I choke out as the tears flood my eyes. “B-Because you always held my hand,” I weep. “For some reason, that simple touch made it okay. Made me feel safe. I’ve never had that touch before.”

  He doesn’t respond to my words as he looks at me with tormented eyes.

  So I stand here in front of him and tell him the truth as I continue to cry through the shame of who I really am. “On my tenth birthday, my foster dad forced my brother to molest me while he watched and jerked off.” Admitting my disgust for the first time in my life suddenly makes it all too real. Tears fall from my cheeks as I bear my disgrace in front of my love. “I was only a kid. I didn’t even know what sex was until I was lying underneath Pike on a filthy mattress in the basement.”

  “Christ,” he breathes in horror at my words.

  “After that day, I found myself in that basement nearly every day for years. I couldn’t believe in heaven or God when I was being forced to do things people want to pretend don’t exist. But what happened to me made me believe in evil. And that the devil is real and lives inside the savages of this world.”

  Declan turns away from me, resting his hands back on the counter and dropping his head. His breath heavy as I add, “My foster dad . . . he had a thing for belts as well. He got off on stripping me naked and whipping me until I bled.”

  His fists ball tightly at my words.

  “You used to frighten me when you’d use your belt on me. All I could think about were all the beatings I was forced to endure as a little girl.”

  “Stop.”

  “This is the truth,” I sob. “This is what I never wanted you to know about me. I’m ugly and nasty and dirty and—”

  “Stop!” he shouts.

  I watch the muscles that rope his arms flex with tension. His eyes are pinched shut, and I startle when he slams his one fist into the solid granite with a guttural outburst.

  I’m paralyzed, scared to move, completely exposed, and mortified. Never have I opened myself up like this. I never had to with Pike because he was there. A witness. A participant.

  With his eyes still closed, he says in acrimony, “Do you have any idea what it’s like to love the person you hate?”

  Love? God, he can hate me all he wants if he still loves me.

  Opening his eyes, he takes a couple steps toward me. “Because I do hate you. More than anything on this earth. I hate you with every pump of blood my heart proffers. I want to punish you in the worst ways, make you suffer and hurt. But God help me . . . I love you.”

  It’s what I’ve been longing to hear, to know he loves me. But his words are filled with lachrymosity. Whatever may come of us, this love he has for me will always be tinged in venom. But even in the lies of before, it was corrupt. Cursed from the very beginning—and I was the culprit.

  “But then . . . ” he starts, “ . . . you tell me these truths. The truths I wanted from the beginning that you hid from me, and I feel like a bastard for wanting to hurt you, but I still want it. I still want to make you suffer.”

  “I deserve it,” I murmur.

  “Why did you continue to do it?”

  “Do what?”

  He struggles for a moment when he clarifies, “Why did you continue to have sex with your brother as an adult?”

  Embarrassment heats my neck, and I feel so filthy having to expose this. Hanging my head in shame, I keep my eyes downcast as I answer, “At some point, when we were kids, we started sleeping together in private. In his bed. It wasn’t forced, and in those moments, he’d make me feel okay.”

  “Okay?” he questions in confusion, and when I hesitantly move my eyes to look up at him, I say, “I always felt gross and worthless. But something about Pike made me feel clean. He made me feel loved and safe. He was all I had in the world.” I begin to choke on my words, telling him, “And he did love me. He always protected me.”

  “He raped you,” Declan spits through gritted teeth.

  “No,” I defend. “He didn’t. He was being molested himself long before. Carl, our foster dad, he forced Pike to do that stuff to me.”

  “He didn’t have to do it. He made the choice.”

  “He knew if it wasn’t him, that Carl would do it himself. I was safer with Pike.”

  “But Carl . . . did he . . . ?”

  I nod. “Yes. It took a while, but eventually he did.” And then I admit, “The first time was when I was twelve. H
e raped me the same way you just did.”

  Instantly, Declan has his arms around me and I’m crying. He grips the back of my head and cradles me tightly against his chest. His hold is strong and hard but warm. I band my arms around his waist, clinging to him.

  He’s everywhere, all around me, encasing me in the safety of his touch.

  Home.

  When I begin to settle my emotions and calm myself, he whispers in my hair, “I’m sorry. I lost control on you.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “No. It’s not okay,” he declares when he pulls away to look at me.

  “It is. I hurt you. I’m so sorry, Declan. You will never know how sorry I am for what I did to you. I deserve every punishment.”

  “I don’t want to be that man.”

  “You’re not. You’re nothing like that man,” I tell him. “There were times my mind went to that place with you, but you’re not like that. I’ve always felt safe with you. I’ve always been certain that you’d never really hurt me.”

  “But I do hurt you. And I like it. And I want more of it.”

  “Then take it. I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you anything to make you feel better. If it’s my pain and suffering you need, then have it. It’s yours.”

  His hands tighten on me as I speak, and with brows knit together and a locked jaw, he grunts in frustration when he releases me from his hold. Raking a hand through his hair, he growls, “What the fuck is wrong with you? You shouldn’t want this. You shouldn’t want me. What right-minded person would subject themselves to this?”

  “I never claimed to be right-minded. I know I’m screwed up. I know I’m so far beyond damaged I’m irreparable. But I also know that you won’t find the same amount of satisfaction in punishing anyone but me.”

  “Why do it then? Is it to make yourself feel better for what you did?”

  “Partly.”

  “And the other part?”

  Taking a few steps over to him, I say, “Because I love you.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  “But I do. I never thought anyone could have the power to make me feel as safe and clean as you do. You have the power to make me feel worthy of living. That somewhere out there, life just might have a purpose for me.”

  “Then why leave me? Why didn’t you stay and call the medics? Why did you leave me to die?”

  It’s in his words I hear the heartbreak I caused.

  “I told you. I was scared. Everything was happening so fast, I didn’t know what to do. I panicked.”

  He releases a slow sigh and takes a moment before speaking again. “I’m sure I already know, but I need to hear it from you.”

  “What is it?”

  “I know Pike is dead. And I know he died the same day he shot me.”

  I swallow hard when he says this, and I already know his question before he asks, “Did you have anything to do with his death?”

  My chin begins to quiver, and when I can’t hold on to my emotions any longer, my face scrunches as I confess, “I will never forgive myself for what I did. I loved him so much.”

  “I need to hear you say it,” he says sternly.

  Fighting back my tears, I take in a deep breath and let go of it slowly before giving him the trembling words, “I’m the one who shot him. I killed him.”

  “I want to be mad at you. I want to throw it in your face, but that would make me a hypocrite, and it’s because of your lies.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing!” his voice rips when anger takes over. “I don’t want to hear anything else from you. Every time we talk, the shit you say . . . it’s impossible to understand and digest.”

  He walks back to the center island, facing away from me as he looks out the windows.

  “Get out,” he orders on a dead breath.

  He’s unmoving as I walk around him to pick up my coat and keys, but the struggle is evident within him. I want to say a thousand words, but I know better. So I keep my mouth shut and do as I’m told.

  I leave.

  “WHAT ARE YOU doing back here, lassie?” Isla questions when I walk through the front door with my luggage.

  “I missed my flight. Is it all right if I stay another night?”

  “Stay as long as you like,” she says when she walks over and takes one of my bags. “Were you able to reschedule?”

  “Not yet. I never even made it to the airport. I’ll have to call the airline tomorrow.”

  “Does this have anything to do with the McKinnon boy?” she asks.

  Walking into the formal sitting room, I take a seat, answering, “Yes.”

  “Heartache is difficult.”

  Looking over at her sitting across from me, I give a slight nod. The day has been draining and I feel weak from what happened with Declan. With so many questions swarming in my head, I say, “Can I ask you something?” as I lean back in the chair.

  “Of course.”

  “Do you believe that people can change?”

  She takes a moment and then gently shakes her head a couple times. “No, dear.”

  I reflect on her answer as defeat looms overhead.

  And then she elaborates, “I believe we are who we are and the essence of what we are built upon is unchangeable. But I believe we can change how we make choices. But just because we can change our behavior doesn’t mean we’ve changed the core of who we are. It’s like someone who’s an alcoholic. They may rehab and make better choices, but I don’t believe that inner voice and craving ever goes away. The change is solely in their choice to not drink, but they still desire it.”

  “So, evil is always evil?”

  “Yes. And good is always good. But I trust in my faith that we are descendants of rectitude. That each of us, no matter how bad we may think ourselves to be, the core lining of us is threaded in holy fibers.”

  It’s in her words that I’m taken back to my home in Northbrook. The memories of my father and I play in clips of tea parties, nighttime songs, piggyback rides, bedtime stories, and fits of laughter. And Isla is right . . . there was a moment in time I was clothed in nothing but goodness. I was pure and free and honest. But I was just five years old when my light was snuffed out.

  The day my dad was taken from me was the day nothing would ever be the same. I lost more than just my light—I lost myself. Lost it entirely. I allowed the world to decay me. But how is anyone supposed to be strong enough to fight back against something so monumental? I was just a little girl. The only person I had in my corner was Pike, but then again, he was just a boy himself. We clung to each other because we were each other’s only hope.

  I thought I was making all the right choices, but as I look back in the wake of my life, it’s filled with nothing but destruction. And now, I’m the only one that remains.

  Well, almost.

  Declan is still here, but in a sense, he was destroyed as well. His heart still beats, but not like it used to. My choices—my decisions—they’re poisonous. I used that poison for power, but it backfired.

  “Are you okay?” Isla’s voice interjects.

  “I made bad choices,” I say without thought. The words simply fall from my lips before I can stop them.

  “Welcome to life, my dear,” she condoles. “I could write a novel with all the mistakes and ill choices I’ve made in my years. But I’ve come to realize that’s what it’s about. Sometimes we have to fall to know how to stand back up. Sometimes we have to hurt people to recognize our flaws and to see that we need to better ourselves.”

  “Did you ever find that some of your choices were so bad they were unforgivable?” I ask as regret stirs in my veins.

  “Yes,” she admits with her chin held high. “But even though I knew they were unforgivable, I was still forgiven.”

  “Who was it that forgave?”

  She pauses, and when the corners of her mouth lift in a subtle smile, she answers, “My husband.”

  “You hurt him?”

  “I hurt him t
erribly.”

  “Why did he forgive you?” I ask.

  “It’s called grace. When we love, and when that love comes from the purity of your heart, you give grace. You find compassion and forgive because we’re all flawed. We all make mistakes, but love’s devotion doesn’t cast stones.”

  I want to believe the love Declan once had for me did come from a pure place. That there’s still hope for forgiveness. That there’s still a shimmer inside of him that still wants me. Because for me, it’s more than a shimmer—it’s a raging fire of need and desire I have for him. But after what he did to me today, I don’t see this working out. Isla’s words are nice and flowery, but flowers eventually wilt and die no matter how much love you give in tending to their needs.

  “You look like you could use a distraction,” she says before suggesting, “Why don’t you settle back into your room, and when you’re ready, how would you like to help me prepare dinner?”

  “That actually sounds lovely, but unfortunately, I can’t cook.”

  “Everyone can cook. All you need is someone to guide you.”

  Smiling at her invitation, I accept her offer, and agree, “Okay then. But I’m warning you now, I’ve been known to incinerate food beyond consumption.” I laugh at the memory of the first time Declan tried teaching me to make champagne chicken and I charred the meal. But that laughter is tainted. It’s bittersweet. My time with Declan back in Chicago held some of the best moments in my life, even though I was just an illusion of a better version of me.

  “If I could teach my daughter how to cook, I can surely teach you,” she tells me as we stand.

  Picking up my bags, I look over and tease, “But is her cooking any good?”

  “She always made the best meals.”

  “Made?” I question her use of the past tense.

  “She left this world many years ago.”

  “How did she die?” I question, knowing all too well the annoyance of the overused I’m sorry people give who clearly haven’t suffered a death filled with I’m sorry’s.

  “It was a senseless act of violence, but that’s part of life, dear,” she says, attempting to downsize the ache, but her loss is seen in the gloss of the unshed tears of her eyes. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she says and then walks out of the room.