“I don't even know who she is,” I say, the words coming out before I can stop them.
“She's the one fucking your husband,” he says, but his voice is flat. He doesn't sound like he's gloating or happy about it. He doesn't sound excited anymore, like he's full of bloodlust. I sneak a look at his face but he's not looking at me. His eyes are closed as he steps fully under the water.
“I don't blame him,” I say. I'm not sure why I feel the need to say it, but I feel like I have to excuse Mitch. He died for me, after all. I'm not going to be angry at a dead man. He already paid too great a cost despite being completely innocent. It was my fault after all. Mitch is dead because I lead a psychopath like Elliot to his doorstep. That's something I'll have to live with it, until Elliot kills me, too. But I won't have another innocent life on my hands. I wouldn't be able to take that. But it wouldn't phase Elliot in the least. “I was a shitty wife,” I continue, saying the words out loud that I've felt for so long. I didn't love Mitch. I can't love anyone anymore. I'm a barren shell of a person. Underneath the skin and muscles and bones, there's nothing left. I know that now more than ever. Denial is kind of pointless, at this point.
“You don't care that he was fucking someone else?” Elliot says with a low chuckle. “Has this big house and all his money made you soft, Joanie?” He turns to me. “It doesn't matter if you were the shittiest wife who ever lived. Dead men tell no tales.”
“Please don't kill her,” I say and it sounds so pathetic but I don't know what else to do. Maybe I should fight him, make him angry enough to kill me. Then it'll be over and done with. We're standing here in my master bathroom having a casual conversation about ending someone's life while a dead body lays in the next room. It's surreal but not completely foreign. As much as I've tried to forget and pretend like it never happened, I've seen him kill and maim right in front of my eyes before. It feels like a million years ago, but we've buried a body together before. I remember Lassiter's face as we carried him to his shallow grave. His skin was mottled blue and his eyes were open and unfocused as we shoveled dirt over him. And I remember Trace's face after Elliot stabbed him on my parents' patio all those years ago. All of a sudden, it was like it was yesterday. I can see him clearly, how his skin went pale and mouth gaped open and blood trickled down over his lips. And now Mitch, which is the worst of all.
Elliot grabs me by the upper arms and my brain blanks out and my muscles freeze. All of the old thoughts flee my brain as he pulls me under the shower-head. I'm suddenly painfully aware of the exact moment I'm living. He's still wearing his leather gloves, for some reason, but I don't bother asking him why. He runs his hands down the front of me, over my tits and stomach. Then he turns me around to face the water and shoves my hair over my shoulder. He works me over, cleaning me off quickly. His hands are rough and strong on my back and I close my eyes involuntarily, letting him do it. I wonder what he's going to do. I wonder what he has planned for me. His fingers linger against the small of my back and for a painfully long moment, I wonder if he's going to try to fuck me.
“Good enough,” he says. “Go. Dry off.” He shoves me out of the way and steps under the stream of water, squinting his eyes closed as the water hits him in the face. I leave him in the shower and grab a clean towel off the rack. I wrap it around myself quickly, liking that I don't feel as exposed anymore. My hair is heavy and I twist it and squeeze the water out. It splashes on the tile floor. The door is open and beckoning. I know I should try to escape. I know that I should make a run for the garage and get in the car and drive away and never look back. But I can only stand there and stare at the door.
I can't leave him.
No matter how much I know I should, I can't. I can't move much at all. My muscles have gone sluggish and I feel weak. I wonder if it's the heat from the shower. The steam in the bathroom is making it hard to see. When he shuts off the water and steps out behind me, I don't budge. He wraps his arm around my waist and pushes me to the vanity. He pulls off my towel and I don't fight him even as my heart squeezes in my chest. He drags it down his face and over his head. His hair is shorn close to his head, I notice, like he recently shaved it. I study him in the mirror, wondering what else I missed. He has a pale ragged scar on his cheek and his eyes are sunken. His skin is stretched over his bones and his muscles are prominent. He's not as big as he's been in the past, but he's still huge. I wonder vaguely if he's been eating. His cheeks are hollowed out and his forearms are veiny. His skin is pale, like he hasn't spent much time in the sun. He used to be tanned from the Texas sunlight. He used to be able to pass as a normal human. As I look at him, I can see the years etched on his flesh. I can see the manic flare behind his eyes. He can't hide his psychosis and propensity for violence anymore. It's written all over him. He's absolutely and completely dangerous from head to toe.
But he's still Elliot. That'll never change. There's invisible chains between us and I'm bound so tight there's no way I'll ever be free. As I study him, he dries his chest and arms quickly, sloppily, then runs it over my shoulders and down my back as well. He doesn't look at me in the mirror as he does it. There's nothing sexual about it but when he touches me my body responds. My nipples get hard and the hair on my arms stands up. I'm not in control, I tell myself. He's being nice now, but how long until he gets mean again? I know it's only a matter of time. Right now, he's in a rush and I wonder again what he's planning to do. He said he would follow what I said, but I don't believe him. Besides, I have no idea what to do. At the moment, I can't think that far ahead.
He tosses the towel on the counter in between the sinks and sighs. I force myself to bring my eyes up to meet his in the mirror. He stares back at me and I wonder what the hell he's thinking. His breathing quickens and then before I know it, he snakes his left arm around my waist and he drags his right hand up my body, his fingers rudely roaming up over my tits. He pulls me back against his chest and drops his mouth to the curve between my neck and shoulder, sucking hard on the moist skin. He pinches my nipple in between his thumb and forefinger as he licks and sucks at my neck. I shiver, my knees knocking together as I press my thighs together, like that will stop him. Nothing can stop him.
“Joanie,” he hisses in my ear, tightening his arm around my waist and forcing the air out of my lungs. I gasp, dropping my head back on his shoulder and he takes advantage, wrapping his hand around my throat and pressing his thumb against my windpipe. “Touch yourself,” he says, his voice rough like sandpaper in my ear. I shake my head even though I know it's foolish to try and resist. He has all the power and I have none. “Do it. I want that pussy wet. Now.” He squeezes against my throat and I know he's serious. I slid my hand down between my thighs and run my middle finger over my clit. The combination of the sensation along with his pressure on my throat instantly reminds me how he used to fuck me, how he used to try to destroy me in the quest to quench his endless thirst. But I wanted him to do it. I wanted to be destroyed. I let him do whatever he wanted, even if it hurt.
Especially if it hurt.
“How could you?” he asks, the words rushed and out of control. I can feel his cock, hard and hot against the crack of my ass. “How could you let anyone else touch you? How could you fuck him?”
“I don't know,” I whisper because it's true - I don't. Mitch liked me and I let him like me. He fell in love and I let the relationship spiral into a marriage. I married him because I wanted to take revenge on Elliot. I wanted to hurt him and renounce him and pretend that I didn't care about him anymore. I did it the only way I knew how, with my body. I fucked Mitch like it would fix me. I fucked Mitch like it would make me forget all about Elliot. But it didn't. And now here we are.
I'm starting to get light-headed but I don't stop rubbing my clit because I know he's watching. He's watching every movement of my hand and he can feel the rise of my blood pressure instantly with his hand on my throat. I wonder when he's going to spread my legs and thrust inside of me. I can't think about anything else. I won
der how much it will hurt. I wonder how rough he'll be. Sex might take the edge off or it might make him crave blood even more. My pussy clenches at the thought. It's wrong and it's disgusting, but I don't care. I can't. I can't think anymore. Just feel.
“Fuck,” he whispers and then he releases me from his grasp. Air rushes into my lungs and it's a few seconds before I can focus on anything else but breathing. My brain buzzes as the oxygen floods back in and I squeeze my thighs around my hand. I know from experience that an orgasm is near, but it stays frustratingly out of my grasp. The feeling is just as addicting as it always was. But I need more. I need him. “We don't have time for this,” he says, his words muffled in my ear. He takes a step back and grabs my arm. “Come on,” he says, turning toward the door. I don't move because I can't. My muscles feel weak and my heart is pounding. I'm lightheaded and my neck is throbbing, mostly phantom pain from a bad memory from a long time ago. My throat seizes and for a second, it feels like I'm going to throw up.
Then he's guiding me out of the bathroom, half-carrying me as I stumble into the bedroom. We leave the bloody clothes and the wet towel in the bathroom and I vaguely wonder what we're going to do about them. We can't just leave them there for the police to find. He's completely naked and I wonder what he's going to wear. His dick is half-hard and it's distracting. My bare skin is pressed against his bare skin and it's painful. I hate his skin. I hate his face and his body and his hair and his strong hands. I hate everything about him. But he doesn't care. He's mumbling to me but talking mostly to himself since I keep missing things. I can't focus.
“I know what to do,” he says, the words floating up through the ether. “Don't worry, baby. I know.” I don't believe him, but I'm not in any position to argue. He leads me to the dresser and wraps his arm around my waist to steady me as he opens the top drawer. He grabs a pair of black panties and one of the over-priced tank tops I wear when I go to yoga. Then he finds a pair of my yoga pants. He helps me dress because my fingers aren't working. He pushes me down into the arm chair by the window and tells me to stay put. I don't move because I'm putting all my focus on not looking at the bed. I can't see it anymore. There's bloody footprints on the carpet, so I don't look there. There's blood on the walls and ceiling, so I don't look there. Instead I turn my head to the window and focus on the pattern of the curtains. I want to memorize it because I have a feeling it's the last time I'll ever see these curtains. It's the last time I'll ever see this room.
I'm about to disappear.
When Elliot returns to me, he's wearing one of Mitch's T-shirts and a pair of his loose jogging pants. The shirt is too tight on his chest, but he doesn't seem to care. He's still wearing the gloves as he holds out his hand to me. He wore those gloves to kill my husband. He wore those gloves when he almost killed me. I don't like the sight of those gloves. But he doesn't wait for me to take his hand. He grabs it and hauls me out of the chair.
“What are you...” I say, feeling like cotton balls are in my mouth. I fight through it, licking my dry lips. “What are you going to do with her?”
“I'll take care of it,” he says and then we're leaving the disgusting room. I finally feel like I can breathe as I make our way down the stairs, clinging to the bannister so I don't fall. I ignore the mess on the stairs because I don't want to look at it. There's so much I don't want to see. He follows closely behind, his footfalls heavy. His whole presence is heavy. The house feels like him now. All the violence has seeped into the walls. Luckily, he knows we need to get out of here. He knows the only option is to get as far away as quickly as possible. He grabs my keys off the hook and we go into the garage. Like he knows exactly what car I drive, he bypasses Mitch's SUV and presses the key fob to unlock the doors of my car. The lights flash and he opens the passenger door for me. “Get in,” he orders and I obey without thought, slumping onto the cool leather seat.
“What are you going to do?” I ask again, rolling my head on the headrest and feeling like my muscles are going to melt into the seat. I couldn't get up now if I tried. I just want him to drive me far away.
“Shh,” he says, putting his finger up to his lips. Then he leans in and brushes his mouth against my temple. “Don't move.” He runs his finger down my cheek and then leaves me alone, slamming the car door shut. I watch him as he goes back into the house and I wonder if I should follow him. I dig my fingers into the soft leather panel on the door, wondering what he's doing in there. Part of me wants to know and part of me doesn't. I don't think I could handle seeing him killing that faceless woman. I don't even know who she is. I wonder if I should care who she is. She was fucking Mitch so I probably know her. She's probably been to my house numerous times. She's probably been in my bed numerous times. All I know for sure is that I don't want him to kill her. I don't want Elliot to kill anyone else, ever again. But that might be wishful thinking.
He's a born killer and we're about to be all out of options.
My breath catches in my throat and I press my palm to the cool glass of the window as he returns, carrying the limp figure of the woman. She's small, probably no more than 5'5'' and she's still half naked. She has my towel wrapped around her waist and my pillowcase still covering her head. Strands of dark hair hang out from under the pillowcase. Her feet are bare. I can see that her toenails are painted a bright shade of red as he carries her past my window. There's a few specks of blood on her legs, but not much more. She's still whole, so that's something, I think. But she's not moving, either. The trunk pops open and I turn in my seat to watch him what he does. There's a dull thud as he rolls her into my trunk, amongst the plastic shopping bags I keep there for my weekly trip to the organic market and the loose high heels I drop in there sometimes after work when I'm tired of my feet aching. I always forget to clean the shoes out at the end of the week. I wonder what else is in there.
He slams the trunk shut and catches my eye through the back window. He leans forward, his shoulders straining in the tight shirt. It's strange to see him in Mitch's clothes. I don't like it. But that's the least of my problems, since I now have a dead woman in my trunk. After a moment, the blank page of his face changes and he smiles at me and winks. I wonder if he meant the gesture to be reassuring; it's anything but.
After a moment he jerks to attention and walks around the side of Mitch's SUV and out of my sight. I know exactly what he's headed for. Mitch always insisted on doing his own yard work, even though I used to argue that we should get a service. We have an extensive collection of garden tools along that wall. Saws, shears, hoes and shovels. I wonder what Elliot's looking for. My hand finds the door handle, but something stops me from pulling it. I turn again in my seat and watch through the windows of the SUV as as he strolls back to the door like he doesn't have a care in the world. As he steps up into the house, I can tell he's carrying something, but my view is blocked by the front of the SUV. He leaves the door open and I stare inside the void until my eyes go blurry, wondering what he's doing. My imagination is running wild and I tighten my hand on the door handle as images of him hacking Mitch's body to pieces assault my brain.
A muffled thump breaks my concentration and I jump in my seat. Behind me, in the trunk, another noise - louder this time – wakes me up out of my stupor. The woman is alive, apparently. That's a good thing. But it's still creepy as hell to hear her moving around in my trunk. I can hear her muffled moans as her predicament sets in. Then she starts to scream and I can't take it anymore. I shove open the car door and run back into the house.
“Elliot!” I call out, because I don't know what else to do. I can smell the fire before I see it, the gasoline and smoke pungent in the air. The smoke isn't heavy but I can see it rolling down the stairs like a mist. I stand there in the hallway like an idiot, frozen as the realization dawns on me that the house is on fire. I want to snap out of it, but I can't. My body won't move and my brain is taking too long to fire the necessary synapses to make me move. Elliot jogs down the stairs, carrying a small trash bag and the
gas can. I recognize the red gas-can as the one that normally sits beside Mitch's lawnmower. He grabs my wrist and shakes his head at me.
“I told you to stay in the car,” he says, chastising me like a child. I stare up at him, the words of rebuttal forming on my tongue. He has no right to act offended when he didn't bother asking me if I would mind if he set my house on fire. He turns and leaves me standing there as he walks into the living room. As I watch him as he walks to the curtains on the big double paned windows. He dips the edge of my expensive, custom ordered curtains into the gasoline. Then, as I watch, he lights a match. Smoke is already hanging in the air as he steps back to observe his work. The fire spreads faster than I would've imagined, shooting up the curtains to the ceiling.
After that, everything moves fast. In a moment of clarity, I grab my purse off of the table by the door and then he pulls me from the house as the smoke is getting too thick to breathe. I trip and almost fall down the stairs that lead into the garage, but he catches me around my waist and pulls me to his chest. He smells like smoke and gasoline and, yet still somehow like fresh fabric softener. But there's no time to waste. “I'll drive,” he says and I nod. He lets me go and I hurry away from him. My bare feet slap against the concrete floor as I run to the car and slide in. He sets the gas can back by the lawnmower and then jogs around to my car. He bangs his fist on the trunk as he passes and then he gets in the driver's side.
The garage door rumbles open as we pull out and I try to ignore the sounds of the woman's muffled screams over the purr of the engine. I crane my neck to watch the house as we pass. The windows in our bedroom are lit up and I can see the flicker of flames behind the curtains. He stops at the corner and flicks off the headlights and I turn in my seat to look at the house where I've lived for the past two years. All I have left are the clothes on my body and the car that we're sitting in. All I have left is the man who's sitting beside me.
Love Is Strange (I Know... #2) Page 20