Losing Inertia

by VK Gregory

  The first thing I saw made my stomach leap, something was different, there were new updates, and I saw photos I hadn’t seen before. Eagerly I clicked on them, recognizing Daniel before the photos even opened. Every glimmer of hope sank as I scrolled through the photos, hundreds of him with living statues, some he was simply messing around, putting hats on them etc, some he was lifting skirts of women. I might even have taken those in good humour. But there were others which made me cold inside. Ones of him touching people, pictures as they withered beneath his hands, into ash. The excitement in his eyes was clear as he murdered them, there were even videos, I watched his laughter as he slaughtered people.

  Laughter and slaughter, only one letter different; here he was acting as if their deaths meant nothing. It was hard to believe he could find it funny. I watched in horror as he stood in a group of people and quickly spun around, murdering five people in seconds, one after another and then stood there, with his fingers in his ears, grinning as they screeched. The screams filled my empty room with their horror and pain. I compulsively kept scrolling through them, seeing the things he had done in these four days. Four days, it felt like a thousand, the present stretched into the past and the future, as if we had always lived this nightmare and always would. How could he have changed so much in that time?

  Or had he changed at all? This world was like a magnifying glass. Behaviour I had chosen to live with, ignore, overlook for years, things that had worried me, frightened me and almost driven me away in the past, were now isolated, isolated and magnified, in a world where it was only us. There was nothing holding him back.

  As I lay there, the phone in my hand, a cold shudder fingered its way up my spine, this wasn’t just about them. Those people on my phone, strangers. This was about me too; I wasn’t safe. Daniel was out there every day, murdering people, mutilating people, and then coming home to me. Touching me with those hands; murderous hands. The dawning reality of everything that meant, the memory of every word, every taunt spread through me, draining my warmth but filling me with something else. An unfamiliar feeling of determination. I set my jaw, locked my phone and jumped out of bed faster than I had managed to move in days. I had to leave. Biting at a cuticle I stared around the room trying to decide what to take, in any normal situation I would have packed a full bag, but there was nothing stopping me from entering other people’s houses, from taking things from shops, there was very little I needed.

  I grabbed a photo album, a child hood soft toy and my laptop and put them all in my laptop case, tears ran in streams down my cheeks as I held back the torrent that wanted to escape. There would be time to cry, but it was not now.

  I glanced out into the dark, I didn’t want to go outside, into the dark night. I didn’t want to be alone. I acknowledged how desperately I wanted company, even the presence of Daniel comforted me. Even a man who taunted me, hurt others, insulted me, but how long before his behaviour turned on me. The signs were there, even if I didn’t want to see them. I wrapped a dark shawl over my head to hide my blonde hair, tying it beneath my chin, and took my laptop bag downstairs, heading for the front door. But then something stopped me, I glanced in the mirror above the fireplace in the living room and saw her, through my sea of tears.

  My mother. Would he hurt her? She wasn’t safe with him if I wasn’t there. Or even if I was. I stared at her, frozen in indecision. If I left and he killed her, I would never forgive myself, if I didn’t leave and he turned on me, he would turn on her too.

  ‘I think he’s dangerous,’ I told her, staring at her familiar face, begging her to come back to life, ‘He’s hurting people, out there. I can’t stay, but if I leave, he could hurt you,’ I looked into her eyes for understanding. I considered if I could transport her, push her into my trolley maybe, but her body was a statue, solid as stone. And he could be home at any time. I was no good to anyone if I was dead. If he knew that I had seen his photos, which he might do by now, if he had checked on his phone and seen I had recently logged on - if he knew, would he hurt me? I tucked the shawl tightly into my coat and allowed myself to pause for a moment.

  I stared into her eyes, run, they said. Run now. Run away. I heard then a motorbike down the road. He was coming home, I had to leave, now. Go, she urged, RUN! I picked up my bag and ran to the back door, hearing the bike get closer. I would need to jump over the low wall to next door and hide until he was in the house. Then I could get away. I opened the door as silently as I could, closing it softly behind me. It was cold, and dark and I was terrified. I couldn’t’ see much as the moon was shrouded behind a thick cloud, but I was thankful of its help as I climbed quietly over the wall, and hid by the back in the garden. He wouldn’t see me here. I crouched next to a large plant pot and a prickly tree, I was breathing hard, trying to slow down my breaths, but my body suddenly needed to consume vast amounts of oxygen

  I could hear him opening the front door. He wouldn’t automatically look for me; he rarely did. I had time. As soon as I heard the door shut I hurried around to the front, stopping to look at the house and make sure all was still. I must not be followed; there was no sign of him as I made my way quietly down the road, trying to avoid standing beneath street lamps. I needed an empty house - no living statues. One far away enough that he wouldn’t notice my presence, but not so far I would get lost. I knew I had to stay away from the big shops and risk only the little ones too.

  At first my feet sped along the gloomy streets with speed and purpose, the sound of the road hollow beneath me, the only sound in the night. But soon the purpose faded, the reality of my situation beginning to dawn on me: how utterly alone I was, here in this world devoid of life. I had walked away from the only other moving person. My pace slowed to a crawl, the street lamps flickering overhead as I crept along; no night had ever felt more heavy with abandonment, it sagged beneath the weight of all the lives not living. I read a word once, a made-up word: Kenopsia, the eeriness of a place left behind. No night had ever felt so filled with kenopsia, so utterly devoid of life.

  Occasionally, I heard a noise, a shuffle, a bump, once I even thought I heard a growl. I was so jumpy that I was convinced I was being followed, pivoting around with my heart thumping wildly I stared into the dark, forcing my eyes to see through the shadows. I tried hard to listen, but I could only hear my heart thumping in my ears. With my feet hardly leaving the ground, I started backing away, walking half facing behind me, half facing in front, straining my senses to hear, see, taste, sense. I bumped into something hard behind me, the shock caused me to lose my footing and automatically I reached a hand out to steady myself.

  I grabbed an arm and for a second I thought it was Daniel - he had found me, and hundreds of mixed emotions swarmed me. But the way the arm yielded beneath me, hard then suddenly soft and withering, spongy like a rotten peach, I knew instantly what I had done. I let go and fell to the ground, the cold hard pavement greeting me, scraping my hands and knees. Then I looked and saw him. A man, maybe 6 foot or even taller, in black clothes, short sandy hair, eyes that looked kind. But it wasn’t any of that which made me shuffle away from him as fast as I could. It was the dog collar around his neck, the glimpse of white in his black outfit. He was a priest. I stared at him, watching as he shrivelled before me, listening as the screech picked up pace, loud and filled with agony. I wanted to cover my eyes, press my fists into them so I wouldn’t have to see, but I didn’t. I sat there on the cold dark road, so cold, yet sweating and shivering. Watching him wither and die in front of me. Unable to mobilize my muscles, I couldn’t move. Nauseous and trembling. Powerless to help.

  There was not enough air in the world.

  A scream stuck in my throat as I watched the priest turn to ash. Caught in the final throes of his torturous death, I never once looked away. There is something inbuilt into many people, a secular respect for those in the clergy. And I had just murdered a priest.

  Heaven had no place reserved for me now.

  Chapter Nine

 
I put my hands on the pavement, pushing myself up to standing, and as I did, I touched something, a hand. Screaming with realisation I let go, scrambling to get away from the horrors that surrounded me. Silently preparing myself for the inevitable screech of death that would follow, but instead I heard a voice,

  ‘Katy, are you OK?’ I didn’t know whether to be relieved or horrified, I wanted to turn and hug him and pretend I didn’t know what I knew, feel his familiar arms around me. Feel the treacherous illusion of safety. But I could still see the pictures of his reign of torture in my mind, and I scrambled to my feet, ignoring his outstretched hand,

  ‘Get away from me,’ I cried, forcing myself to look at him. The images came flooding back, unforgettable,

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong’ he came closer to me, his eyes forced into a look of concern, narrowed and kindly, but I saw only lies and cruelty,

  ‘You’ I sobbed louder than I spoke, I attempted to show calm, but I was frantic. if it betrayed my fear and horror, I didn’t care, ‘you are a murderer, I hate you. Never come near me again. Or I swear to God, I will kill you Daniel. I will kill you. You disgust me.’ He couldn’t hide the dawning realisation on his face; he knew I knew now. I could not go back.

  ‘If I see you again, I will kill you,’ I reiterated, meaning every single word. I couldn’t protect my livingstatue people, but I could protect myself. He didn’t reply, nor did he offer a single word of explanation or promise. I felt mildly disappointed that he made no effort to fight back, to persuade me to stay. But instead he stood there in the dark night, barely lit under the orange glow of the street light, casting his shadow on the ash pile by his feet. His stone-like face scrutinized me with eyes that didn’t blink.

  The bravado suddenly left me and my pulse quickened as I looked at him. I didn’t recognize him anymore, that look in his eyes. The eyes of a predator. What if he decided to hurt me right now? I had no way to defend myself. Quickly, I turned and walked away, avoiding the desire to run and show my fear, taking each step one at a time, just walking.

  I hoped he would not follow, but how could I know if he did? I took side streets and changed direction often to confuse him if he did. After about half a mile, I risked a glance behind me, but didn’t see anything but the dark. There were no feet on the ground, no breath in my ear. No one was that good at following.

  I looked around me, worried to note that I had no idea where I was. The street did not look familiar. A rising panic began to creep up my body, before cutting it short. It didn’t matter. I had nowhere I had to be, not anymore. This was as much home as any other street in Britain. I searched the street for a house I could claim, most of the door looked locked, and I knew a broken lock or window would be a tell-tale sign if Daniel came looking for me.

  Ahead of me a house looked promising. Passing by a man on the road, giving him a wide berth, I could see the open back door from the street. Around the back I saw a shadow of someone forever hanging clothes on the line. I opened their gate and walked around the back of the house, glancing at the strange sight of someone hanging clothes in the dead of night. With a silent thank you to the person, I walked in through the open door and closed it behind me. The house smelt doggy, a familiar, homely smell. Turning on the lights I could see a stark white kitchen. White tiles on the floor, a white glass table, white cabinets glimmered at me, reflecting shadows eerily in the night. On the table stood a cup of tea in a glass cup and saucer. the chair pulled out slightly as if the occupant had just left. I picked up the cold tea, a layer of separated milk floated in blobs on the top. Gently, I poured it down the stainless-steel sink.

  I quickly walked around the house, ensuring the doors were locked and there were no other dangers. It was an average semi, but with stark modern design, white, minimalist, lacking in colour or personal affects. The living room was white, with only one white sofa, and a white chair, not even a TV to break the monotony of the room.

  The bedrooms were equally austere, every room looked the same, until I opened one last door. The door itself looked the same as the rest of the house, so I expected to find the same uncluttered white interior, perfectly made beds and crisp white bed linen, but as the door opened the transformation struck me. While the entire house was devoid of colour, pattern or personality, this room felt like I’d stepped back in time. Bright, florid wallpaper adorned the walls, a loud bedspread of red roses lay on a cast iron bed and a frilly valance dangled beneath it. The room felt so out of place, I might have walked into a different house entirely. And it was here that I eventually found the dog, lying on the floor by the bed, his head resting on the ground mournfully, his eyes open and sad. Waiting forever for his owner that would never come to him. I deliberated choosing another room, the kitsch made me uncomfortable, but somehow that dog brought me much needed company. And the other room with its white carpets, stark bedspread and perfectly aligned side tables made me feel like I was in a hospital.

  ‘Hey poochy’ I whispered, giving the livingstatue dog, an air pat. He watched me, his eyes looked wary and defensive, ‘your owner’s outside, I’ll take good care of the house,’ I promised him as I crawled into bed, not caring that the sheets were likely used. My eyes were heavy with sleep, and my face numb with tiredness. It was only moments before I fell into a deep slumber, but in those moments, I thought of Daniel, and how empty a double bed felt when you slept in it alone.

  The next morning, I was relieved to discover that the house owner had a cupboard full of tinned goods, and a freezer full of food; I didn’t have to worry about getting out the house to the nearest shop anytime soon. But I couldn’t live out the rest of my life in this house. Nor could I ever return to Daniel. I sat on a chair in the living room of this minimalist house, with the blinds closed, in case Daniel happened to walk past. I was too afraid to run into him, too afraid to do anything.

  Looking for a book to read, I went back to the room. The only room in the house that looked like someone lived here. I breathed in as I entered, underneath the mustiness of unused air, there was something else. An underlying hint of something flowery, perfume or pot pourie, something strong but faded. I couldn’t’ see the source of the smell, but I did find a few books, carefully organized on a shelf. The titles were not to my liking, romance, love, sappy books by female writers. I looked around the room disappointed, apart from some small ornaments on the shelves and a couple of perfume bottles there wasn’t much else to entertain me.

  I sat on the floor next to the dog. Knowing I couldn’t touch him frustrated me. His soft and silky coat looked warm and tempting. But I just sat next to him, my hand near him but not on him as I considered my options. It was only when I reached my hand down to stand up that I felt the box underneath the bed.

  It was a big box, pretty and covered with flowery wallpaper. The same wallpaper that coated these walls. Excited at something to do, I pulled the box out and dusted off the lid. Dust. In this perfect house. This box was different. It hadn’t been moved in a long time.

  With shaking hands, and filled with intrigue I lifted the cardboard lid. Inside were stacks of diaries, tied up with ribbon.

  I opened the first one, a thick leather notepad. Not sure what to expect I flicked to a random page It smelt of age, like old bookshops and library books.

  I am alone. Alone and afraid. I believed in the goodness that I had seen for many years. How did this happen?

  My heart beat faster. Was this real? I flicked to the front, reading the very first page.

  He’s angry at me. I was late home. Just the once, my car broke down and I needed help changing a tyre. He came out to me, but a man was already helping me. He said I had cheated on him. He screamed at me. I don’t know what is happening.

  There were older books, filled with memories of courtship and love, but also control and worrying thoughts.

  He told me that we were going on holiday today. I was ready. I had everything packed and was waiting for him. but he didn’t come home. Not for two days and then said
he had made it clear that he meant a holiday for him. Not me. Not us. But I know what he said.

  I lay back on the bed, reading through the entries, stopping sometimes to think of the type of person who wrote these. Was she young, was she old? I dug around in the box, finding a package of photos. A wedding photo of a young couple, the woman was smiling, happy but not relaxed, but the tall man was standing overpowering her, his hand on her wrist, not in her hand like any newlyweds, but the wrist, tightly. His smile was tight and cautious. I looked at her again, seeing the innocence and marked anxiety on her young, soft face. Under the shade of the blossom tree, they could have been any new couple, but the diaries gave another dimension.

  Control. Always about control.

  He hit me! But it was my fault, I know what I did wrong. It doesn’t have to happen again. I just need to be more careful. He said he was so sorry, he bought me flowers. I love him so much. He’s a kind man he really is, some people might think he’s cruel, but you just have to get to know him. You have to know what he needs, and get it right. It’s really not that hard. I just need to work harder. I’ll show him how good I can be.

  I sighed. She had loved him. He had hurt her. But she had still loved him.

  I’ve got to leave. I’ve got to get away. I know it’s not his fault, I need to try harder, but I can never get it right. I need to go. I think about it all the time. But he’ll be lost without me, he needs me. I need him. I should be happy. I should just try to be happy. But he scares me. I’m worried how far he will go. He tells me no one will want me, he’s right. He’s always right.