by Katie Moon
Exhaling slowly, she felt her quivering body relax, and the last of her world was swallowed in total darkness.
Eric, I’m coming, my love.
28
Panting slightly, Mason slid to a stop in front of the shiny, mahogany door he usually was thrilled to see. The sound of his fist pounding repeatedly against the door echoed down the empty street, but no one answered. He glanced at the front window. The shades were drawn, and pitch-black shadows peeked out from between the shades. Mason lifted his hand and slapped it repetitively down on the wood door again. Where was she? Mason had a hunch. Glancing at the stairs that neighbored Brielle’s door, he loped forward, skipping two steps at a time. Suddenly, he heard something that made his blood turn to ice. A faint noise that resembled a wounded animal broke the silent night with a long, burdened scream. Mason’s head jerked up to stare at the blood red door from which the muffled shriek had escaped. He has her, Mason realized, horrified. Bounding up the stairs, he tiptoed to the front door and pressed his ear gently against the cold red paint.
So muffled that it was almost a whisper, Mason heard a rough, male voice. “Claire was so quick, so defenseless. This is more invigorating,” the man murmured, and Mason knew it was Randall. “But, like I said, I’m a survivor. And unfortunately in your case, that doesn’t hold true. So fighting would be useless.”
Mason’s heart was pounding so hard that he thought it would jump up into his throat. Randall was going to kill her. What could he do? He needed to stop him. Mason’s hands were trembling, fear crashing over him. He was no match for Randall’s broad, commanding physique. Mason rubbed his sweaty, shaking hands on his pants and set his hand on the doorknob, willing himself to slam the door open.
But panic crippled him. Mason couldn’t move. He felt the blood draining out of his face as he heard a bitter voice echo in the back of his mind: “COWARD!” His father had been right. He would be that same frightened little kid cowering in the corner if he went in, and he and Brielle would both be as good as dead. He would never be man enough to do what needed to be done. He really was the failure his dad had always said he was, and he would never be anything else. Mason bit his lip as guilty tears welled up in his eyes. He had always wanted to prove his vitriolic father wrong. But Mason’s fate had been sealed as a traumatized child. And now he would fail Brielle. Am I doomed to fail everyone? Mason thought miserably. Maybe I could call the police, and they could stop Randall. But he knew it was too late. They would never arrive in time, and she would be dead.
As Mason stood frozen in front of the door, a different voice echoed back through his mind, a soft, sweet voice: “Thank you. You’re really a lifesaver.” Mason’s eyes widened slowly. It was Brielle’s voice. She had said it only days ago. She had seen him as a lifesaver, a hero. Mason felt his heartbeat steadying. If his father really had marked him for failure, why had Brielle confided in him? Mason had always assumed his stain of cowardice was visible to everyone, a defect destined to ostracize him. But Brielle had never seen him as damaged goods. She had relied on him, believed in him. She’s still relying on you, a stronger voice whispered in Mason’s mind. Mason felt a dull shock spike through him, as if he was being awoken from a terrible nightmare. He took a step back.
You are not a coward, the unfamiliar strong voice said firmly. You are more than what your father made you. The commanding voice reverberated in Mason’s brain as he breathed in deeply. And Brielle needs you. No more hiding. Mason clenched both fists tightly, feeling a fiery tension spilling out from his heart, spreading down his limbs until it reached his fingertips. He was done living under the thumb of his father’s shadow. Fate was just a façade.
With all the strength he could muster, Mason ran forward, slamming his shoulder against the door. Cowering from his sudden display of courage, the door flew open obediently. Dashing into the dark apartment, Mason sprinted toward the open doorway through which he could see shapes shuffling restlessly. A strange sound that resembled a gurgling drain floated out through the open door. Cradling his throbbing shoulder, Mason rushed through the door.
Sprawled sideways on the floor, shackled to a broken chair, was Brielle. Thin cords wrapped around her arms tightly, and Mason could see angry red lines cutting across her forearms from the crude manacles. Blood pooled below her face on the ground, spilling slowly from a slanted wound that slashed across half her face. Under the thin coat of blood, Mason could see shades of purple and blue coloring her face. Horrified, Mason gaped as he saw her eyelids twitching rapidly in front of eyes that had grotesquely rolled back into her skull.
Randall’s domineering figure loomed over Brielle, twisting a thick cord tightly around her blue throat. Whirling around at Mason’s loud entry into the apartment, Randall jumped to his feet, locking eye contact with Mason. Mason knew he had crossed the point of no return. Either he was about to save Brielle, or else he was staring into the face of Death. Mason could feel his entire body trembling, but he dug his heels determinedly into the ground. It’s all or nothing. Throwing his weight forward, he slammed against Randall, throwing him painfully against the granite counter. Roaring angrily, Randall whipped his hands out, seizing Mason’s shoulders and swinging him around so he crumpled against the adjacent wall. Stumbling onto his feet quickly, Mason tackled Randall against the counter again, delivering a swift fist to Randall’s jaw before getting thrown back again.
“You think you’re going to be her knight in shining armor?” Randall goaded furiously. “She never gave a crap sack about you. You think you’ll somehow win her heart if you save her?”
Mason ignored him. Climbing to his feet again, he spit out blood as it poured into his mouth from a freshly broken nose. Swinging his fists lamely, Mason charged at Randall again. Randall dodged each blow with ease and swung an elbow down on Mason’s throbbing shoulder, causing him to drop painfully to the floor.
“She’ll never love you, you know. You’re fighting for a lost cause. Do you really want to die for the woman who never looked at you twice?” Randall asked mockingly as Mason struggled onto his hands and knees.
“Qualifying every choice by what can be personally gained from it is an empty way to live,” Mason muttered defiantly, ignoring the agonizing complaints from his injured shoulder as he pounced at Randall again.
A raucous laugh burst from Randall’s lips as his fist connected with Mason’s jaw, sending him flying into the kitchen door. Mason threw out his hands instinctively, trying to catch himself as he clattered to the ground. A loud snap erupted from Mason’s wrist as it bent at an odd, unnatural angle under him, and he grunted in pain. Randall was throwing him around like a ragdoll. There was no way this fight ended with Mason as the victor. A lump nudged uncomfortably against Mason’s chest where he had landed. Glancing down, Mason felt a sudden thrill of hope shoot through him. His heart drummed against his ribs, and he stared incredulously at the miracle that had just appeared in front of him. Lying flat on the floor, poking out from under his chest, was a bloody knife.
Mason couldn’t believe it. Right in front of him was his sanctuary, and Brielle’s. He could save them. Mason stared at the knife. A knife was different from a fist, though. If he failed to strike a deathblow, he was certain that Randall would turn the blade back on Mason. Once again, the whisper of doubt echoed in the back of his mind. “Coward.” Could he do what was necessary?
“That’s the mantra of the average. If all you can achieve is the mediocre, why wouldn’t you sacrifice it for someone else, right? You’re worthless living, so maybe you’ll be worth something dying,” Randall mused from behind Mason, unaware of Mason’s discovery.
“Unlike you,” Mason shot back, thinking fast. I am not a coward. Fear won’t break me. I have to do this.
Mason knew if he moved toward Randall, he would see the knife. He needed to provoke Randall into action. “You could have been worth so much living, but eventually, inevitably, people will see you for who you are. They’ll see you for the sick, sadistic person y
ou chose to be, and you’ll die alone in a prison cell, worthless,” he spat out. “Your miserable death will be celebrated, and then you’ll be absolutely forgotten. A worthless, ordinary face in an ocean of disappointments.”
Mason heard a loud snarl of rage explode behind him, and Randall’s hand latched onto the back of his shirt. As Mason was yanked back through the air, his fingers wrapped around the knife handle, clutching it like a lifeline. Rotating around quickly, Mason thrust the knife forward.
As if in slow motion, Mason watched the tip of the knife make contact with Randall’s chest, slowly disappearing from view. A stain of red began to spread out across Randall’s chest from where the knife handle protruded out. Thick red sludge poured down his chest, dribbling in large drops to the floor.
Mason looked up into Randall’s shocked face. Randall was staring down, as if unable to believe that the knife was in fact in his chest. His hands began to tremble, and Mason fell clumsily to the floor as Randall released him from his grip. Faltering backward, Randall raised his hand to his chest, attempting to grab the dagger. Within seconds, however, his arm had dropped heavily back to his side. Just as Brielle’s had, Randall’s eyes rolled up disturbingly into the back of his skull so only the whites of his eyes were visible. With a few tottering steps, he tumbled to the floor and became very still.
Mason scrambled on his knees to Brielle’s unconscious figure and pulled wildly at the cords that bound around her arms until finally, she rolled forward, free from her restraints. The rope hung loosely around her throat where Randall had dropped it. Mason ripped it off hurriedly and threw it across the room. Please don’t be dead, he thought desperately. Please, please be alive. He could not see her breathing. Cradling her head gently in his hands, he pressed his ear up to her nose. Mason waited, his breath held anxiously. If she was dead, it was his fault. His few seconds of doubt outside Randall’s door may been the difference between life and death for Brielle. How will I ever live with myself if she’s dead because of me? he agonized, And then he felt it. A breeze so soft it could’ve been made from a butterfly’s wings brushed against his ear. Mason gasped with relief as he pulled away, staring avidly at Brielle’s bruised face. Almost completely imperceptible, Mason saw a tiny movement around Brielle’s nose as she breathed in and out. With a rush of joy, Mason pressed his fingers gingerly to Brielle’s loose wrist and waited intently. A weak pulse beat through her veins. Mason could tell that she was alive, but on the brink.
Stuffing his hand into his pocket, he wrenched out his phone and tapped 9-1-1, his fingers shaking with an awful tremor. Crushing the phone against his ear, he listened closely for a connection.
“She’s alive!” he burst out, as tears began to slip down his cheeks, cutting across the slightly dried blood settled on his upper lip. “Tell Officer Corey that Brielle is barely alive, and the killer is Randall Bauer! We need an ambulance to Randall’s apartment, right now!”
29
Beep. Beep. Beep. She frowned and squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. She wished that beeping would stop. She must have forgotten to turn off her alarm clock. She just wanted to sleep in a little longer. The beeping was soft, like it was coming from a distance. Had Randall set off his fire alarm?
Randall! She had been with him last night! An image sped through her mind of Randall’s impending shape standing over her, gripping a long, blood-spattered knife. He had tried to kill her!
Brielle’s eyes snapped open, and she looked around, alarmed. She was lying in a pure white hospital bed, the blanket tucked neatly underneath her arms. Her arms were striped with thin, translucent tubes that were taped on her inner arm and snaked down the bed, out of sight. The room struck her as what she imagined a hospital room in heaven would look like. Pure white curtains hung to the left of her bed, accompanied by bright, white tile floors and white walls. She even could see flakes of white snow falling lazily from the cloudy sky past the nearby window. The only thing that did not match the all-white ambiance was the young man with curly black hair sitting on one of the white chairs, staring unseeingly at his intertwined fingers. He had a thick bandage draped across his nose, and Brielle could see a bruise spreading out from behind it to underlining his grey eyes.
“Mason,” she muttered through cracked, dry lips. Her voice sounded coarse.
Mason looked up at her, his dark curls flipping around with the turn of his head. “Brielle!” he exclaimed softly, a relieved smile breaking across his abnormally pain face. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, okay,” she said softly, looking around nervously. “Where’s Randall? How did you find me? He was choking me, he’s the one who killed Eric and Claire, I—”
“Randall’s gone,” Mason interrupted soothingly. “I put the pieces together and came to warn you to stay away from him, but when I got to your apartment, you weren’t there. Then I heard your screaming. I came in to see him with his hands around your neck. I—I wasn’t sure if I was too late. It almost was.”
“I thought I was dead,” Brielle whispered quietly, looking down and flexing her hands as if it was a trick and she would suddenly vanish.
Glancing to her left, she saw the source of the beeping: a bulky EKG sat next to her, displaying a steady green line that leapt several notches with every beep before settling back to its flat line.
Something did not make sense to her. After a moment, she looked up at Mason. “How did you know? That it was Randall? How did you know to come look for me?”
She saw, to her surprise, a slight blush color his pale cheeks. Looking slightly uncomfortably, Mason said, “The night Randall killed Claire, I… I saw you. I was watching you through your window. I mean,” he said hurriedly, seeing the blood drain from her face, “I mean I had come by to talk to you, but I hid when I heard Randall coming down the stairs. He was carrying her down. I thought she was drunk or something. I didn’t put together that he might’ve been involved until I heard on the news that her death wasn’t an accident.” He stared down at her hands, unwilling to meet her gaze.
“What? Why didn’t you say—?” Brielle broke off, stunned. In all the times they had discussed the events surrounding Eric’s death, he had never once mentioned that night. He had been watching her?
“Because,” Mason started, now blushing deep pink, “when Eric was killed, I knew what they’d all make me out to be. After all, I-I had been sitting outside your window. Awkward classmate hiding in a bush outside of your apartment just days before Eric died? They would’ve turned me into an obsessed stalker,” he said miserably, rubbing his forehead with his uninjured hand.
“What did you come to talk to me about?” Brielle asked slowly, not sure if she wanted to hear the answer. She still felt uncomfortable picturing him outside her window, with her none the wiser. But he had just saved her life. To reject his declaration of love after such a heroic feat would feel cold.
Perhaps sensing what had crossed her mind, Mason jumped in quickly. “It wasn’t anything specific. I just was in a dark mood, and you were easy to talk to. I shouldn’t have watched—that is, I should’ve just knocked. You were the first person to make me feel like somebody…. But anyway, I left right after Randall drove away,” he mumbled, looking extremely uncomfortable.
They both fell silent, unsure what to say. Brielle watched Mason closely as he fidgeted in his seat. He looked so ashamed, so miserable. Even with the ordeal she had just faced, she could see that he had more scars to be pitied than she did.
“I can’t believe it was Randall,” she muttered. Mason didn’t answer, but his look of relief suggested he was grateful for the change of subject. “He was going to kill me and make it look like a suicide. He was going to pin it all on me.”
“I know,” Mason replied, and she saw a dark cloud cross his face. “The police found the suicide note he had already written in your name. Once they knew he was the killer, though, it wasn’t hard to put it all together. His computer had everything they needed. He would’ve gone away for a very long
time, had he lived to face a jury.”
“So he’s—he’s really dead, then?”
Mason nodded. “He had the upper hand physically. He probably would’ve killed me, too, and then finished you off. So when I got my hands on the knife, it was my only option,” he explained solemnly.
Brielle twisted her fingers together, somber. “Even with all the evil he did, I still feel bad for him dying. I should be thrilled, shouldn’t I? But I’m not totally able to separate the man he really was with the friend I knew,” she said, and with a distressed look, she locked eyes with Mason. “Does that make me crazy?”
“No,” Mason replied emphatically. “Absolutely not. You’re good, and someone who is genuinely good doesn’t celebrate another human’s suffering. You trusted him. That’s not an easy thing to shake.”
“Does that make me good and trusting, or just naïve?” Brielle asked ruefully, turning to stare out the snow-dusted window. “I always thought people were inherently good. But here was a man who was talented, smart, and capable of so many great things, but he still chose to feed the devil inside him. It’s just… I worry he was right.”
“Right about what?” Mason asked.
Brielle bit her lip. “Randall said people were just self-serving by nature, and it’s just a race to see who can survive first. With everything I’ve seen in the past week, it’s starting to feel true. Selfishness is humanity’s disease. People are selfish, so they do wrong to others, and then those people learn to be selfish and do wrong. And it just spreads,” she lamented, looking defeated. “Good never stood a chance.”
Mason stared hard at her, conflicted. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Look, I don’t think anyone is born good or bad. I think everyone is just a blank canvas, and it just depends on what we decide to paint,” he said. “And sometimes, someone else might choose evil, and their paint can spill over onto our canvas.” He hesitated. “But we’re the ones who hold our own brush. We can paint over their mess and make something new, something good. It takes more work maybe, but there will always be people out there who stand up and take control of their masterpiece. People like you,” he added, a faint blush spreading across his cheeks.