This Is War, Baby

by K. Webster

  I’m no better than Gabe.

  My logical side attempts to reason with me. Let her go. Drive her back to Oakland and deliver her to her parents. Stop obsessing over her. Move the fuck on.

  Yet, the irrational part of me fights. But I don’t want to let her go. If I take her back, Gabe will hurt her. Again. If I don’t take care of her, who else will? Her parents certainly don’t give a damn. What parent doesn’t report when their child goes missing? Something doesn’t add up.

  Ignoring both sides of the argument for now, I check my email for the twenty-eighth time since my last message. Nothing. Stretching out on my bed, I pour through documents filed at the court house in her county, her parent’s bank records I hacked into, police reports, news articles, and anything tied to the Winston name.

  Not one single shred of evidence that indicates she’s missing.

  With reluctance, I type in the Oakland police department in my browser and peruse through the names of the detectives. Since Baylee was involved in a sex ring, maybe she does have a case but it’s under wraps. It would make sense especially if the Feds were involved.

  There are several names of detectives that handle missing persons. Rita Stark is one of them. Her name makes me think of my clean house and stark white walls. Her name calls to me. I quickly copy her email address and open one of my many encrypted e-mail accounts. Maybe she can shed some light on Baylee’s situation.

  Detective Stark,

  I apologize in advance for coming to you under such anonymous conditions but I have my reasons.

  Would there be any circumstances why a missing person would not go be broadcast publicly and no reports be made? Perhaps if they were involved in a bigger case?

  Sincerely,

  Mr. Pacific

  Panic skitters through me as I hover the cursor over the send button. I know for a fact the dinky Oakland Police Department won’t be able to trace this message back to me. Fear of them finding out by some tiny miniscule detail like the made up last name though has me editing my email. Once I’ve changed my signature to Mr. Atlantic instead, I hit send before I change my mind.

  I climb off the bed and start pacing the room. Ten steps one way and ten steps back. Over and over again until I’m sure I’ve worn a hole in the carpet. When I check my email again, there’s one sitting in the inbox.

  Mr. Atlantic,

  What an unusual question. Perhaps we could discuss it further over the phone?

  555.672.4359

  Stark

  I frown and type a response.

  Detective,

  While I understand where you’re coming from, it won’t work. I am simply trying to find an answer to my problem. If a person, let’s say underage, goes missing, what are the reasons as to why someone wouldn’t report them? This is an important matter and I’d appreciate your honest feedback, not attempts to discover my identity. That, you’ll never know.

  Mr. Atlantic

  I don’t have to wait long for her reply.

  Mr. Atlantic,

  I’ll bite on the anonymous name, for now.

  This isn’t a certain young man that slung my files off my desk in a fit of rage is it?

  Listen, son. I will tell you what I told you before. If she went missing, her parents would have reported her missing. And I did look into your suggestion of truancy at her school. Her father decided to homeschool her and withdrew her from school the afternoon before you said she went missing. Your fantastical story of someone taking her while you two were in the middle of an explicit sexual act is quite creative and detailed, but I’m afraid it isn’t enough.

  You have to understand something. Her mother is very sick. I know you’re her boyfriend but sometimes families do things like homeschool their children when a parent is dying. The need to travel to doctor appointments out of state, especially if they find a donor like in her mother’s case, and spending time with the loved one before their passing is important. I understand your frustration, I really do. But until someone, besides you, reports her as missing, I’m afraid our hands are tied.

  Come talk to me again. This time, leave the anger at home. I want to help you.

  Stark

  I blink several times at the computer. She’s referring to Brandon. Brandon knows she was stolen and the police don’t fucking believe him. Swallowing down my unease, I respond.

  Detective,

  This isn’t who you think it is but you’ve certainly answered my questions for now. I’ll be in touch.

  Mr. Atlantic

  This time she doesn’t reply. I probably shouldn’t have said anything but I hate the idea of Baylee’s parents blowing her off for whatever reason. It doesn’t add up and Stark needs to open her eyes to that fact.

  I’ve wound myself up researching Baylee’s life to the point that I’m in a full blown episode. Since I can’t make sense or bring order to her situation, I’ve resulted in tackling things I do have control over.

  Like my closet.

  For the past two hours, I’ve tried everything on to make sure it still fits, rearranged the shirts in order of newness, inspected each garment for imperfections like split seams or tears, and bundled up clothing to donate. I’ve also made a list of everything I need to buy to replace the donated items.

  Once I’m done with the closet, I organize each dresser drawer.

  Then the bathroom cabinets.

  And then all of the files on my computer.

  I can’t get my mind to sit still and millions of different reasons as to why her parents haven’t reported her missing flit through my head.

  Maybe they really did think she ran off with someone. Gabe even. But wouldn’t they be worried about their daughter disappearing with an older man?

  Maybe her mother got called with a donor. But would they run off for surgery and not report their child as missing?

  Maybe they know she’s missing and they don’t care. But who could not care about Baylee?

  That last option is impossible.

  Maybe Gabe killed them. But why is there still normal activity on their bank records and why the hell is her father posting mundane shit on his Facebook?

  I’m no closer to finding answers and it’s scrambling my brain.

  I need to call Dad.

  “Warren,” Dad’s gruff voice crackles on the other line. “Is something wrong? Are you okay?”

  I rub my palm up my cheek and into my hair. “Yeah, Dad. Just wanted to hear your voice.”

  The line is silent for a moment before he speaks again. “I’m glad you called. What do you want to talk about? Want me to bore you about the New York client I’m finalizing a contract with?”

  I smile and crawl into bed. “Please.”

  For the next half hour, through plenty of yawns, Dad regales me with slightly embellished stories of his new client meant to make me laugh. I chuckle and find my eyelids drooping as the evening wanes on.

  “Dad,” I murmur, “I’m going to go now. Thanks for boring me to sleep.”

  His deep laugh soothes me, reminding me of when I was a small boy and would crawl into his lap before bed. “Always. I’ll be back in San Diego in three weeks or so. We’ll catch up then.”

  “Thanks, Dad.”

  We hang up and I lie in bed wondering how I’ll explain Baylee to him. He won’t be happy, that much is for sure.

  I drift off with Dad on my brain.

  “Lilah’s here.”

  I flinched at hearing her name and dragged the pillow from my face to peek up at my father. His dark hair was streaked with greys that weren’t there two months ago. Two months of hell and my father was quickly becoming an old man.

  “Tell her I can’t right now,” I murmured and started to cover my face again with the pillow.

  Dad growled from the doorway. The moment I heard it creak all the way open, my heart started to race. I’d told him time and time again to stay out of my fucking room. The pillow was yanked from me and I looked into his glowering eyes as he hovered beside
my bed.

  “Get up and go talk to that girl. You have to at some point. Now, Warren!”

  I flinched at his tone but I was already scrambling from the bed away from his nearness onto the other side. My flesh seemed to flare up because of him being in my room and I started to scratch at my forearms that were on fire.

  “Get out!” I hissed.

  His glare softened and he clenched his jaw. “Break up with her then. She’s been here every day like a lost little puppy. I can do almost everything for you but this is something I can’t do. End it and then she’ll go away forever.”

  The thought of losing my girlfriend—the one I loved so fucking much gutted me. But how did I keep her? I couldn’t even leave my room without having a damn panic attack. Dreams from that night haunted me.

  So.

  Much.

  Blood.

  And it poisoned my brain. I couldn’t think straight. All I could understand was the dirtiness and disease and toxins that surrounded me. Disgusting problems which I could control by holing myself in my room and taking several showers a day.

  It helped me.

  It calmed a raging storm within me.

  I felt a sliver of peace when I was scrubbing my hands raw under the scalding water.

  But it was times like now, when the outside world came crashing in on me, that I lost my mind.

  “Dad,” I begged, my voice choked up with emotion and threatening tears, “please go away. Tell her to go away too.”

  His eyes dropped and his bottom lip drew down, a slight quiver to it. I hated seeing my father so upset but I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t comfort him. Not emotionally. And certainly not physically.

  “I’m so sorry.” A garbled sob escaped him before he stumbled out of my door in an incredible rush.

  Hot tears burned my eyes and I clamped them closed. Balling my fists up at my side, I let out a roar of frustration. The anger inside of me was explosive and if it weren’t for me having a meltdown over the aftermath, I’d destroy my room with my two bare hands.

  Punch holes in every wall.

  Shove everything from every surface onto the floor.

  Rip my clothes from their hangers.

  Tear my comforter and sheets into shreds.

  Yank at the edges of the carpet and pull it right from the concrete.

  Crush the mirror above my dresser.

  Anything to match the way I felt inside. Punched to death. Shoved and shoved. Ripped to shreds. Torn in two. Yanked around. And crushed to bloody, gory bits. My heart was the worst—I didn’t even think it beat anymore. I would have liked to have taken my pocket knife and gouged a deep hole just under my ribs, shoved my hand through the bloody flesh, and gripped the black organ in my fist. Then, I wanted to rip it from me, detach it from my soul and inspect what was left. My guess was, nothing. Black, rotten pieces but nothing as it was before.

  Dr. Weinstein said these gruesome thoughts were normal for my condition. That, through therapy, we could talk through these grim imageries.

  But I didn’t want to talk about any of it.

  Not what happened to them.

  Not what I was always thinking.

  Not how I was too much of a fucking lunatic to hug my girlfriend or sit on the bed next to my father without my head crushing in.

  Dr. Weinstein was wrong. I was not fixable. You couldn’t fix what was wrong with me. It wasn’t mental—it was fucking tangible. I could feel the dark, twisty parts of me infecting every cell, membrane, and bone in my body.

  I was tainted.

  With her blood.

  Their blood.

  And the disease of my despair.

  There was no cleansing something so tainted.

  This was who I was now.

  This was War.

  I STARE AT the clock on the nightstand and when it reaches exactly three in the morning, I make my move. Soundlessly, I creep out of the bed. Along the way to the dresser, I shed my gown and open the drawers hunting for clothes in the dark. I’m sure I could turn on a light but I don’t want to clue him into what I’m doing. A sliver of light could wake him. I need a head start, not for him to catch me in the act.

  Once I’ve located jeans and a sweater, I dress with haste. I’m annoyed, once again, that I don’t have shoes. Running away is going to be hard without them. Frustration threatens to let a sigh out but I choke it back. Instead, I snatch out two pairs of socks and double up for the protection.

  Slipping out of my bedroom is easy and quiet. I’ve managed to make it to the front door undetected. My fingers hover over the keypad of the alarm. Panic causes my chest to constrict and my heart to nearly pound out of it. Pushing those numbers will make a sound. How far will I get before he realizes I’m out the door?

  I’ve peeked through my bedroom window enough times to know the driveway is about a hundred feet to the street. Across the street are bars, restaurants, and shops. If I can just make it across, I can blend in and hide.

  But everything will be closed.

  I swallow down the fear of running alone along the storefronts. Right into the arms of Gabe.

  Clenching my eyes closed, I shake my head.

  If Gabe were here, he wouldn’t wait. I know him. He’s arrogant enough to come right through the front door. I’m not going to run into him.

  Someone will find me.

  A passing car.

  Someone taking a late night stroll.

  Drunks trying to make their way home from the bars.

  Anyone.

  I snap my eyes back open and grind my teeth together. I can do this. I’m a fast runner—shoes or not. War isn’t going to count my steps—I mean, he probably will—but not in an effort to punish me should he catch me.

  He’s not going to catch me.

  He’s too afraid.

  My germs will eat him alive.

  The thought urges me on and I have to stifle a maniacal laugh.

  1-2-0-0.

  The beeps as I mash the buttons are like blasts on an air horn in the silent house. A dull roar resounds in my ears as adrenaline kicks in. Run, Baylee!

  I’m out the door and charging down the driveway before I even realize what I’ve done. I just ran away. From War. My heart sinks and I push away the unusual feeling of loss as I distance myself from the house.

  Seventy-seven steps.

  I have been counting them—a lingering memory of Gabe reminding me of every step I take. My knees buckle and I nearly stop. But then a voice jerks me back to life.

  “Baylee!”

  War’s booming voice thunders from behind me. Despite the loudness of it, I sense the pure anxiety in the way he said my name.

  “Please!”

  One simple word, and my legs slow to a near stop on their own accord. Ninety-two steps. I’m nearly to the desolate street. Risking a glance over my shoulder as I retreat from him, my mouth opens in surprise to see him charging for me. If things were different, I’d ask him how he’s managed to come outside without his respirator or shoes for that matter. His bare, muscular chest is ethereal and spooky under the moonlight. And yet…I like what I see. Even if that means what I’m seeing is a wild-eyed man chasing me.

  A car horn blares at me as the vehicle swooshes past me, jerking me from my stare down of War and I snap back to attention. I drag my gaze up and down along the row of buildings across the street.

  Nothing but darkness aside from a hotel about a mile down the road.

  I can do this.

  I can make it.

  My legs finally wake up and I start jogging across the street. There aren’t any cars at the moment so I easily make it across. I’ve still got my eye on the big hotel when something stabs the bottom of my foot.

  Pain cripples me and I stumble forward. Something grabs at the back of my sweater and I’m jerked back to my feet. I snap my head over my shoulder to meet the feral eyes of War. His nostrils are flaring in anger and I almost don’t recognize his foreign glare.

  He�
��s zoned out.

  An animal.

  And I’m in his unpredictable grasp.

  “Jesus,” he snarls and snatches my wrist.

  He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t fret about germs. He just drags my limping ass back to his home.

  And like an injured fool, I hobble after him while he mutters out numbers and words that make no sense. My heart is racing but my focus is on where he touches me. His touch, despite the need to get me to his house, is firm and gentle. I almost wonder if I could jerk out of his grasp. Yet, I don’t want to. I’m defeated and hurt and all I want to do is lie down under a blanket. Tears roll down my cold cheeks and I let out a sob.

  How will he punish me?

  When we get inside, he slams the door shut and releases me. I cry harder as his shaky hand flies over the numbers of the key pad. He’s changing the code, I know it. My eyes are blurry and out of focus from crying so I don’t make out the new one.

  “I have to shower,” he snaps at me and storms away leaving me a quivering, sobbing mess in the entryway.

  A shudder wracks through me the moment I see the blood all over the marble floor. It’s soaking through the socks and leaving a trail with every step I take. I should be worrying over how angry War is about my running away.

  But all I can think about is how horrified he’ll be to see the blood.

  Hoping on one foot, I make my way into my bedroom to shower. Once I’m clean and have my bleeding foot under control, I can clean up the entryway.

  The shower is hot and the blood does slow. When I feel brave enough to look at the damage, I sit down and draw my foot up to my knee under the warm water. A long, but not necessarily deep gash runs along the fleshy part of my heel. I use my finger and thumb to open the cut in search for any remaining fragments of glass or metal, whatever it is I stepped on. Nothing remains but it continues to bleed. When I’m clean and it finally slows, I climb out of the shower and wrap up in a towel.

  I hobble out of the bathroom in search of clothes and am shocked to find a first aid kit sitting on my bed. Once I’ve bandaged up my cut and dressed, I limp back to the entryway in order to clean up my mess.

  War, like a man possessed, is on his knees scrubbing with bleach at the floors. The blood no longer remains but he scours at the floor as if he’s ridding it of invisible toxins. He’s donned his black respirator and is wearing yellow gloves that hit midway up his muscular forearms. I can tell he’s freshly showered as his wet, messy hair is sticking out in every direction, bouncing as he scrubs. He’s wearing nothing but jeans and he looks good. Really good.