by Schiller, MK
I’m sitting in bed, reading my books on mythology, when Harlan comes home. The door slams tonight. That’s never a good sign.
He’s at my door before I can hide.
“What the fuck, you little bastard! Mr. Arnold called me today.”
He saw my cuts. But worse, he saw the burns. The burns can’t be explained.
“I…I don’t know why he did that,” I stammer.
“Did you tell him I beat you, you little shit?”
“No,” I insist.
I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. Not that Mr. Arnold isn’t right.
Harlan grabs my T-shirt and lifts me off the bed. I close my eyes, getting ready for the inevitable. I’m so skinny he can wave me around like a rag doll. I think about crying and pleading, but I know those things never work. My weakness fuels him.
“You like to cut yourself? Let me show you what a real cut feels like.”
I feel the gash on my arm. His knife is sharp, the incision a tiny line at first until it seeps blood. The pain is numbing, though. I feel light-headed as the warm stickiness of blood oozes down my arm. The way he holds the knife I know he isn’t done with me. I’m going to die tonight. I’ll drown in my own blood.
Harlan screams in pain. “What the fuck!”
Sassy stands between us, a low growl in her throat. Harlan’s on the floor. His hand is bleeding from her bite. The blade of his knife glints on the carpet. The tip of it is stained red.
The dog walks between us, never taking her eyes from him. I have no idea what Harlan sees in her eyes, but it must scare him because he mutters a few more obscenities about how I’m not worth it and backs out of the room.
My feet are unsteady. I barely make it to the bathroom, and when I finally do, I throw up. Sassy still waits at the door, keeping guard on me. I find some rubbing alcohol and a few butterfly bandages. The alcohol burns my skin, and I bite down on a rag to keep from crying. I don’t want to remind Harlan I still exist. I contemplate finding another knife and finishing what he started. I sit on the floor, studying the way the tiles interconnect, counting them. Counting always helps me calm down.
That’s when she comes toward me.
Sassy.
I pet her. “Thank you, girl.”
She lays her head on my lap.
I’m not sure if it’s her voice or my own telling me not to do it, but it gets me through the night. When I wake up in the morning, still on the tile floor, she is there with me.
I didn’t think Harlan would keep her after that, but he does. She becomes my dog now. She gets me through many nights for many years, until I finally find the courage to tell Mr. Arnold the truth. Mr. Arnold is the gym teacher for all the schools in Linx, so he has stayed with me over the years. He never makes me run when I tell him I feel sick, which is a lot of the time. He doesn’t yell at me when I can’t climb the rope or swim laps like the other boys. It takes me a long time to trust him.
One day, I notice the drop of blood on the brown carpet in my bedroom. The stain has been there for years, but seeing it this morning does something to me. I tell Mr. Arnold the truth.
Too bad I overestimate Mr. Arnold and way underestimate Harlan.
I get called down to the principal’s office. I almost run when I see Harlan there in full uniform. But it’s the look on his face I’ve never seen before. He looks ashamed.
“You said I wouldn’t have to face him,” I stammer at Mr. Arnold.
“I’m sorry, son. This wasn’t my idea. The principal called him.” Mr. Arnold is clearly pissed. But he’s also tame. He won’t fight for me. He’ll tell someone, but he won’t go against the grain. And in Linx, there is plenty of grain.
Principal George Blake was Harlan’s science teacher. They play poker together. George is old as hell. He keeps a bottle of scotch in his side drawer. On his desk calendar, he writes a number every day in thick black marker—the days until a retirement that should have happened years ago.
He and Harlan exchange pleasantries as if this is a social call. Everyone in this town is connected. I fucking hate it. They talk about George’s grandchildren for a long time. Harlan has always had this ability to put people at ease, whereas I make them uncomfortable.
I take a seat, swallowing down the bile threatening to spill out of me.
“George, you know I would never harm my son. What kind of man do you think I am?” I have to hand it to Harlan. He sure can act.
“I don’t doubt that, Harlan.”
“Then why are we here?” he says, shaking his head.
“Aiden has some marks on him that can’t be explained. It’s my job to report this.”
“I told you, he did that to himself.”
I can tell old George doesn’t believe him…but he wants to. He wants to real bad, and that puts me at a disadvantage I won’t be able to overcome.
Harlan continues, his voice thick as if something is choking him. “Ever since Amy ran off, he’s been like this. I’ve tried everything. I even took him to therapy. And you know how I feel about shrinks.”
I want to tell ol’ George I’ve never been to therapy, except they are talking about me like I’m not in the room.
George laughs at the therapy remark and nods. There is a picture of his grandkids on the desk. They all have matching toothpaste commercial smiles. I want to knock it down. I force myself to stop shaking. Mr. Arnold told me I’d talk to a social worker. This isn’t how it is supposed to go down.
“Harlan, I don’t think you did this. I mean, Aiden has always been an odd kid, but I can’t explain it, either. I brought you in here to give you warning of what’s going to happen.”
Warning? Why did he get what I didn’t? I got no warning when he decided I didn’t deserve to eat for two days or sleep in a bed—my hand goes to my throat—or breathe.
Harlan takes his sheriff’s hat into his hands. “George, you know me. Remember how I caught the man that terrorized your daughter.” The way Harlan describes a peeping tom would almost be comical, except for the look on George’s face. He’s buying the bullshit like there is a bullshit shortage in the world. “That was me, buddy. Remember how I fixed your ticket last week? Also me.”
“I will never forget what you did for this town. Or for me personally. That’s one of the reasons I’m telling you this. You know how it works. It doesn’t mean you’re guilty. It just means that someone will be looking into Aiden’s accusations once I make the phone call. You’ll have a chance to explain yourself.”
Harlan nods, his eyes trained on me. “You’re right, George. I don’t know why Aiden is doing this to me, but it’s obviously a cry for help. I love my son. I’ll do anything for him. You know that.”
What? The hairs on the back of my head stand up. Loves me? Harlan hates me. He loathes me. He tells me life would be better if I never came into this world.
“I tried to do everything in my power to help him. I even got him a dog. He loves that dog. You should see how they are together. I’m really proud of the way he takes care of her.”
“I’ve seen him walking it,” George turns to me with a wide smile. It’s a weak attempt to gain my trust.
Fuck you, George.
“I suppose the state will take him away?” Harlan asks.
“It’s not up to me. I’m just making the call.”
“Don’t worry, Aiden, everything’s going to be all right. I’ll take real good care of Sassy. I promise.” He smiles wide, showing a row of tobacco yellow teeth.
His meaning is not lost on me. He’s going to torture my dog. Maybe even kill her. It’s like the games he’d play when Amy lived with us. He’d barter one of us against the other. Amy always took the punishments meant for me. Harlan got some sort of sick thrill out of the deal.
I grip the wood armrests of the seat so hard that my fingers hurt. I won’t leave you, Sassy. You saved me. You gave me a purpose when I had none. Now it’s my turn to save you.
“Mr. Blake, don’t call.”
“What?”
“He’s right, I do it to myself. I need help.”
Old George lifts an eyebrow in surprise. Harlan had pulled a Hail Mary, just as George hoped for.
“You burned yourself, Aiden?”
I force myself to look him in the eyes.
“Yes sir, I did. I took my daddy’s cigarettes and burned myself with them.”
The look of relief on George’s face makes me want to hurl. But it’s the smug expression Harlan throws me before he fixes his face back into its mask of fake melancholy that causes my fists to clench.
I no longer want to kill myself. I want to kill Harlan.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Emma
I don’t say anything about the dream he had in the car. But he’s in an odd mood. The hotel is the kind of place people use for prolonged stays, but we just have one night there. It has a stove, microwave, and mini-fridge. Not much of a kitchen, but I can work with it. The drawers contain a few utensils. A cabinet has a few pots and pans. There are two place settings, too. We deposit our bags and take inventory of it all before we go shopping.
He wears cargo shorts and a white button-down shirt. I decide to wear a white sundress. I’m tired of him seeing me in jeans or sweats. I’m tired of seeing myself in those things. His eyes scan me. Thank you, white sundress. Good job.
We head out to the grocery store. Doing something normal with Aiden is strange. He carries the plastic basket as I toss things into it.
“What are you making me?” he asks, his body pressing against mine, his lips against my ear. “Whatever it is, it better be a lot, ’cause I’m starving.”
“How about a stir-fry? Is that okay?”
“Perfect. I can help.”
“You cook?”
“Cooper, I’m offended. You’ve tasted my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot.”
“Actually, I can make real food, too. I’ve been cooking for myself for long time now.”
I take a large, blood-red orange and aim it at the basket. The shot was too long, but Aiden holds the basket up, catching it.
“You gonna put that in the stir-fry?”
“Nope. I’m just in the mood for an orange.” Ever since the stunt at the bar when he held the fruit against my lips, I’ve been craving it. His smile turns wicked as he takes another orange, rubbing it against his chest before tossing it into our basket.
“Me too, Cooper. Me too.”
“Should we get wine?” I ask him.
“Sure, as long as you don’t throw it.”
He sets down the basket. We peruse the wine aisle. I hum along with the in-store radio. There are no lyrics, but the song sounds familiar. Aiden wraps his arm around me, his muscles pressing against my back. I tilt my head. He kisses my cheek. I could be in this position a long time. It’s a little too comfortable, especially after a long drive.
“We never had our dance.”
“No.”
“Dance with me now,” he says, keeping his hands on my arm.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Why not?”
I look around. “Um. We’re in a grocery store.”
“Is that a rule? We can’t dance in a grocery store?”
“I don’t know.”
He grins, his large hands caressing my arms. “Let’s see if they throw us out.”
He turns me toward him. He puts one of my hands on his hip and the other on his shoulder. Before I know it, he’s leading us, spinning me. He moves with confidence. I follow every step, like we have a natural rhythm. He leans his forehead against mine.
“Looks like you lied to me, too, Sheffield.”
He blinks his eyes. “I did?”
“You said you couldn’t dance.”
“No, angel, I said I didn’t dance. I never said couldn’t.”
“Then why now?”
“I guess I found the right partner.”
I try to tame my gushing girl-smile to no avail. The song is long and slow. I’ve heard it before but can’t place it. Aiden fills in the lyrics, though. His deep, raspy voice almost has a drawl. As he completes each verse, my heart beats a little harder.
“Who is this?”
“How can you be such an expert on classic rock and not know Gordon Lightfoot? The song’s called ‘If You Could Read My Mind.’”
“Oh yeah, I like this one—very romantic.”
A few people stop to stare at us between picking out beer or wine. I’m not embarrassed, though. I’m lost in the moment, because Aiden’s eyes hold me as much as his arms do.
“You’ve got some moves, Sheffield.”
“It’s easy to move with you, beautiful.” His fingers rub my lower back. “Get ready for the dip.”
“No dip.”
He exaggerates a hurt look. “Are you gonna deny me the dip?”
I stand on my tippy toes and kiss his check. “Okay, dip me.”
Before I know it, his strong arms clasp me and I’m at a low angle. I almost gasp at the shock, but he covers his lips with mine, swallowing all my uncertainties.
I know what being high means—the kind that drugs induce. I’ve experienced it in college a few times. Also, the natural kind where you exert your body in such a way that you reach a plane of potential few people get to. I’ve never gotten there myself, but I know that’s the kind of high Aiden seeks. But I have never experienced this floating on air feeling where my normal laugh becomes a giggle and my body flushes whenever he touches me.
The spell lasts until we’re walking out to the parking lot.
“It’s not a romantic song,” he says, putting the groceries in truck.
“What?”
“It not a romantic song. Not really. He walks away from her in the end.”
“Why would he do that?”
Aiden shrugs, starting up the car. “Who knows? Everyone’s got chains.”
Oh, Aiden, if only I could read your mind.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Aiden
Emma makes a mean stir-fry. It’s got flavor and spice. We light the candle we bought at the store. We drink red wine. We talk about normal things: our favorite movies and music and places. Like me, she’s into black-and-white cinema. Her favorite film is Casablanca, though, whereas mine is Hell’s Angels.
We laugh and talk and eat. As good as this feels, we’re still not normal, probably because we’re not free. I see every question on the tip of her tongue. I see it in the way she worries her lower lip and how she looks at me. She’s wondering about my nightmares and the secrets I hold. As long as this barrier looms over us, I will never be real with her. I have a huge “no trespassing” sign blocking us.
“You had another nightmare in the car,” she says. “When I was driving.”
“Did I? Must be something I ate.”
“What was it about?”
“I don’t remember.”
She doesn’t accept the lie. Not this time. She puts her hand over mine. “Whatever it is, I can take it. I just want you to let me in.”
“What do you want from me, Emma?”
“I get that you don’t want to talk about it, but I’m worried about you.”
I almost choke on a water chestnut. “You’re worried about me?”
“No one should have the number of nightmares you have. Maybe if you talked about it, it would help.”
“Cooper, I’ve been having nightmares for a long time. Talking about all the bad shit in your life doesn’t make it better.”
“How would you know, Aiden?”
“Why do you push, Emma?”
“Because you pull. You pull away. I don’t want you to. I see you struggling with something. I just want to take you away from it.”
“You get off on this, don’t you? You enjoy how fucked up I am.”
She scrapes her chair back. She takes her plate and mine, heading toward the sink.
“Emma…”
She lets out a frustrated sigh and slams my plat
e back on the table. Good thing it’s plastic. “You’re wrong, Aiden. I’m not looking to fix you. I don’t get off on your hurt. You made my problems yours when you said we were an us. Doesn’t ‘us’ go both ways?” She rifles through her bag, taking out her pajamas. “You can clean up, since I cooked.” She holds her shoulders stiff, the gesture at odds with the way her voice cracks.
I gather our dishes and clean up the tiny kitchen. I slam my fist on the table as the water turns on. Is she crying in there? I want to let her in, but how can I? She won’t look at me as the strong man I’ve scrapped and fought to be. She’ll see me as the weak, scarred person I really am. I’ll bring her down with me into the dark places where light barely surfaces. I’ll change her perceptions about her own world. I promised myself I would not take away her innocence, but that’s exactly what I am going to do.
The bathroom is full of steam when I walk in. I strip and open the curtain.
“Can I join you?”
She shrieks.
“Well, I’ve never had that reaction before.”
Her eyes widen. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack, Sheffield? What’s up with the Norman Bates routine?”
I laugh, rubbing her shoulders. “Sorry, angel, I wasn’t thinking. May I come in?”
She nods, stepping back for me. I close the curtain and focus on the small gap between us. She looks at my chest, then up at me as if she’s asking for permission. I take her hand and place it against my heart. She runs it down my body. Her fingers caress each scar, each burn, each slash. I almost back away from her, but I force myself to allow her touch. It frightens and calms me at the same time. She looks pained when she stares at them.
“Do they hurt?”
“Not anymore.” At least, not physically.
I lean my head back, the warm water rushes against my body. I take the soap and lather it up in my hands, before rubbing her down. She takes it from me and mimics my movements, lathering me up. There’s not enough soap in the world to scrub away the darkness. I wash her hair with the bottle of strawberry peppermint shampoo she has brought into the shower. She attempts to do the same for me, standing on her tiptoes. The whole time we just stare at each other.