“So nothing happened last night? This morning?”
“No.” Her voice sounds soft and serious now. “What happened?”
I still haven’t decided how much I want to tell her. She’s dealing with so much already. But more importantly, I want to be close to her when I relive last night.
“I’ll tell you when I come over,” I say. “Is it alright if I come over?”
“Of course,” she says. “Anytime, hon.”
“Thanks. Oh.” I feel guilty again, because I didn’t think of this sooner. “Have you talked to Abby today?”
“Not yet.”
“I’d better call her.”
“Nicholas…did he hurt you?”
“I’m afraid he hurt someone else. You’re sure you’re alright?”
“I’m sure. Come over soon, OK?”
“OK.” And I don’t know how this could possibly help, but still, I say, “Be careful.”
5. Abby.
“Are you alright?” I say.
I don’t hear anything for so long, I’m afraid we’ve been disconnected. Then she says, “Leave my friends alone.”
“What?”
“You already took everything else from me. Isn’t that enough?”
“Abby, it’s me.”
“I’m not as stupid as you think, you know. The real Nick doesn’t have my phone number.”
“I wrote it down in my purple notebook. Remember?”
She’s silent for a while. “You’re right. Sorry. But how do I know it’s really you?”
“I guess because I’m calling to ask if you’re alright. I don’t think he’d have any reason to do that.”
“That’s true.”
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah.”
“How’s the stab wound?”
“It’s good. How are you?”
“I’ve been better.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
“I know you’re probably not the monster, Nick, but if you are, this might be my only chance to talk to you. I just want to know if my family’s alive somewhere.”
“I’m not him, Abby.”
“OK. Do you think they’re alive?”
I can’t find enough hope inside me to say, “Of course.”
So instead, I say, “I don’t know.”
“How do you deal with it?” she says. “I mean, not knowing what happened to your mom.”
“It’d probably be better to talk with someone else about this. I’d better go.”
“I’ll give you the addresses when we meet up at Cicely’s.”
“Addresses?”
“You know. For the family friends. You asked me yesterday.”
“Oh yeah. Thanks.”
“Nick, do you think we could hang out sometime?”
“We’re both going to Cicely’s, right?”
“Yeah. But I mean a one-on-one sort of thing. You and Cicely are such good friends and everything. I usually don’t get much chance to talk with you when we’re all together.”
“Oh.”
“So, can we hang out sometime?”
I grimace at the idea, but she lost her family. And I stabbed her. “Alright.”
“Great! Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere’s fine.”
“I really hope you’re not the monster.”
“I’m not.”
After hanging up, I:
1. Put down the phone.
2. Wipe my sweaty palm on my pants.
3. Consider that the psychopath only threatened to hurt someone I know in order to scare me.
4. Hope everyone’s alive and well.
5. Return to the living room.
6. Sit beside Meta.
“I really fucked up,” Gordon says.
“What happened?” I say.
Gordon grabs his hair with both hands. “I had an epiphany while you were in your room. And not the good kind where you realize life is beautiful or you want to become a rock star. This is one of those moments of clarity where you finally see yourself for the monster you are.”
“You’re not a monster.”
“OK, I’m a dick then. Here you are, all traumatized by whatever happened to you last night, and you’re too afraid to talk to me. Because I’ve given you every reason to be. I’m an asshole.”
“You’re a good guy.”
“I read about this poll recently, taken by Amnesty International a few years back. Out of I think 1000 people, over a quarter thought if a woman gets raped and she’s wearing revealing clothing at the time, she’s either partially or fully responsible. After reading that, I wanted to scream at all those fuckers for blaming the victim. Then what do I do after you tell me some psychopath may be after you? I blame you. Jesus fuck, I’m the king of hypocrisy.”
“You were just trying to help me.”
“Don’t defend my behavior, Nick. It’s not gonna do either of us any good.”
“Sorry.”
“The most fucked up part of all this is that I’ve been denying your experiences the same way other assholes have denied mine. I’ve talked to a fuckload of family and friends about the sort of hatred that’s directed at me because I’m disabled, but most people don’t take me seriously. They think I’m lying or exaggerating. Maybe the truth just doesn’t mesh with their view of reality, and they don’t want to believe I could be treated so unfairly for no good reason. Maybe that’s why I didn’t want to believe you. But you deserve better than that. You’ve treated me with more respect than anyone else in my whole fucking life. So if you want to talk to me about what happened to you, I’ll listen. With open ears and an open mind. No pressure though. I’d understand if I’m the last person you’d want to open up to.”
He’s not.
In fact, he’s almost the first:
1. Cicely.
2. Sol.
3. Gordon.
“I’ll tell you everything,” I say. “But first, I really need to go to the bathroom.”
“Thanks.”
“For having to pee?”
“Shut up, Nick.”
Inside the bathroom, I find:
1. A collage of photographs on the wall, all of a woman in her house, her yard, her car. In each photograph, I only see a part of her body. A hand, a leg, but never her face.
2. A letter taped to the mirror, in my handwriting.
3. Blood in the sink.
I remove the letter from the mirror, slow and careful, and read:
Dear Nicky,
I told you I always get what I want, and that’s true. The only reason you didn’t kill Meta like I asked you to is because I didn’t want you to kill her. I only wanted to inspire you to choose a dog’s life over a human’s. So now you’re responsible for what I’m about to do. Of course, by the time you read this letter, the deed will already be done, and I’ll be at home watching my stories.
By the way, that’s not really blood in the sink. It’s water and food coloring. Also, I wanted to mention that I borrowed some of your old lists a while back so I could learn your handwriting. I hope you don’t mind.
Anyway, have a great day.
Sincerely,
Pete, your friendly neighborhood overlord.
P.S. I’ve written down Ruth’s address on the back of this letter. You might want to pay her a visit.
P.P.S. You think you don’t know anyone named Ruth? Think again.
I don’t know anyone named Ruth, but I:
1. Find the directions to the address online.
2. Drive there with the urge to drive faster, but I’m not Batman, and I could hurt someone.
3. Recognize the house from the photographs in my bathroom.
My heart thumps, hard.
I try to restrain myself, but my imagination swells with hope.
I see my mother answering the door.
Then she hugs me tight.
She’s beaming, crying, explaining.
My mother’s name wasn’
t Ruth when I knew her, but things change.
I knock, soft.
And the door opens.
“Kin,” I say.
“Can I help you?” Kin says.
“I wanted to know if you’re alright.”
She crosses her arms. “Is this some religious thing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Whatever god you’re ballyhooing, I’m not interested.”
“I’m not trying to ballyhoo anything, Kin. I just had a nightmare last night, and you were hurt. I want to make sure you’re OK.”
“What kind of sick tactic is this? Are you supposed to be my knight in shining armor?”
“It’s not like that. I care about you, Kin.”
“Would you stop calling me that? I have family, and you’re not one of them.”
A terrible thought claws its way inside me. “Ruth?”
“How do you know my name?”
“I’m Abby’s friend.”
“I don’t know any Abby. Whatever list I’m on, take me off it. I don’t want you or any of your people bothering me here again.”
“This is gonna sound crazy, but we know each other. Someone made you forget me. I think he made you forget yourself too. Your name is Kin.”
“I don’t believe in past lives or whatever you’re getting at. Does this nonsense ever work on anyone?”
“I’m only trying to help.”
“Your time would be better spent with someone off-center and gullible. I’d suggest the neighbors.”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Your truth isn’t my truth, kid.” She sighs. “I’m starting to feel a little sorry for you, so I’m going to leave you with a little advice. You don’t need anyone else to agree with you for your beliefs to be important. As soon as you accept that, your life will be a whole lot less frustrating. Now go home and think about that for a while.” She takes a step back.
Then I:
1. Take a step forward.
2. Say, “Kin, wait.”
3. Receive #26 on my right cheek.
She looks at me with those I-don’t-know-what-got-into-me eyes. And I want to tell her exactly who he is.
Instead, I say, “I’m sorry.”
She:
1. Opens her mouth like she’s going to speak.
2. Sighs.
3. Closes the door.
I want to:
1. Knock hard until she answers.
2. Tell her I had the chance to save her.
3. Apologize for failing.
But I don’t.
When I return to my car, I find a letter on my windshield.
I read:
Dear Nicky,
In case you’re not clear about what happened, Kin’s gone. I removed her from existence and I replaced her with Ruth, who I created in my spare time on Saturday.
You probably think I did all this to hurt you, but that’s only half the truth. I wanted you to learn a little something about what I’m capable of.
Your fiend,
Pete.
P.S. We only come into contact if and when I desire it. If you and your friends don’t stop looking for me, I’m going to do the same thing to Cicely that I did to Kin.
P.P.S. Wash your car. It’s filthy.
Standing by the front door, I decide not to tell Cicely about:
1. Kin’s removal from reality.
2. My kidnapping.
3. The letters.
Telling her all this would only make her want to find the psychopath that much more.
And I’d do anything to keep Cicely away from him, even if it means:
1. Lying to her.
2. Sabotaging all her efforts.
I stand there a few more minutes before ringing the doorbell.
Then Cicely hugs me, tight. “How are you, hon?”
I say, crackle, “I’m fine.”
“Shall we move to the couch?”
We move.
Cicely holds my hand. “Is everyone OK?”
“What do you mean?” I say.
“On the phone you said the perpetrator may have hurt someone. Did you find out anything?”
“Everyone’s fine. I just had a nightmare last night. It seemed so real, and I overreacted. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it, hon.”
I feel like:
1. Crying.
2. Throwing up.
3. Rolling myself up in the pastel blanket beside me.
But I manage to:
1. Sit there.
2. Smile a little.
3. Say, “Do you have any new leads?”
And Cicely says, “A little bird told me she knew the whereabouts of our perpetrator, but it turned out she was only trying to con me out of my worm farm. So I ate her for lunch. Other than that, nothing to report.”
Cicely and me, we watch Happiness of the Katakuris until Abby shows up.
“Would you like some snowflake sweat?” Cicely says.
“That means water, right?” Abby says.
“Right.”
“That’d be good.”
Cicely heads into the kitchen.
“Did you call me earlier?” Abby says, sitting on the chair beside me.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Thank goodness.”
Cicely returns with the water.
“Why don’t you take my seat?” I say. “You’ve got a stab wound, and the couch is more comfortable.”
But the real reason I want to move is because it’s painful to sit so close to Cicely.
“Thanks,” Abby says.
Then I:
1. Get up.
2. Walk toward Abby to help her up.
3. Trip on my shoelace.
4. Fall.
My:
1. Hand springs forward at her face.
2. Elbow knocks over her glass of water.
3. Knee lands hard on her right foot.
And Abby:
1. Yells.
2. Grabs her face.
3. Recoils her legs.
“I’m so sorry,” I say.
“Don’t worry about it,” Abby says, lowering her hands.
“I’ll be right back,” Cicely says.
“Did I break anything?” I say. “How’s your foot?”
“I’m alright,” Abby says, as blood oozes from her forehead.
“I’m really sorry, Abby. I should be more careful.”
“It was just an accident.”
Cicely comes back and:
1. Wipes away the blood under the cut with a washcloth.
2. Says, “Can I apply some clay?”
“Is that your nickname for antibiotics?” Abby says.
“No, it’s Terramin clay. It’ll help.”
“Alright.”
While Cicely dabs the clay on her forehead, Abby:
1. Smiles at me.
2. Says, “At least you weren’t holding a knife this time.”
I don’t:
1. Laugh.
2. Smile back.
3. Feel any better.
Maybe I convinced myself that my curse brought about the stabbing so that she would slap me.
But there was no slap this time.
And I know these accidents have:
1. Nothing to do with my curse.
2. Everything to do with the fact that I’m not cut out to connect with anyone.
“All done,” Cicely says. “Take two mermaid scales and call me in the morning.”
“Thanks,” Abby says. Then she offers me a piece of paper. “It’s all the addresses you wanted.”
“Oh,” I say. “Thanks. I’ll check them out tomorrow.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Cicely says.
“No, I’ll be alright,” I say, fast. “It’s easier for me to catch someone in a lie if I set up the traps myself.”
“OK.”
“So Nick,” Abby says. “When do you want to go out?”
And I:
1. St
are at my knees.
2. Say, “Anytime.”
“What about tonight?” Abby says.
“Not tonight,” I say. “I have a lot of work to do. I should go, actually.”
I don’t want to, really. But what I want doesn’t matter anymore.
Back inside my car, I hold the paper Abby gave me, and I know there’s a slight chance the addresses might lead to Pete.
So I not only rip apart:
1. The paper.
But:
2. Something precious inside me.
Because from now on, I have to:
1. Suffer alone.
2. Let loose the deceitful asshole I used to be.
I need a drink.
And of course, feeling this way is a warning sign. I know I’m on road to hurting:
1. Myself.
2. Everyone around me.
But in the end, I’d rather live in my own hell than the one Pete would create for me.
Something taps my window and I:
1. Tighten up all over.
2. Expect to see Pete standing there, holding a burlap bag, smirking at me.
Instead, I see Cicely.
After I roll down the window, she says, “Can I come in?”
I nod.
Then she:
1. Joins me in the car.
2. Says, “What happened to you last night, Nicholas?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“You don’t have to go through this alone.”
“Nothing happened, Cicely.”
“Then why is every fiber of my being telling me a different story?”
“Because you’re imagining things.”
Cicely:
1. Sighs.
2. Draws a horned duck on the window with her finger.
I glance at my watch.
She faces me again and the sight of her tears rolling down her face makes my chest hurt.
“Please tell me,” she says, crackles.
“I can’t,” I say.
“Why?”
“Because you’ll disappear from me.”
Then she:
1. Wipes her tears with the tennis ball.
2. Sniffles.
3. Holds my hand.
4. Says, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Love and hatred swirl around inside me.
Love toward Cicely.
Cursed Page 11