The commissioner gave few details regarding the investigation in the murder of Brandon and Velma West, which left their six year old son a ward of the state, but did agree to a press conference regarding the previous murders, which is now scheduled for Tuesday...
Feeling confused, almost sick, and curious at the same time, I carefully placed the article back where it was. If the people in the article were Blake’s parents, I wondered why my mother would have clipped the section of newspaper and kept it for so many years. As I mentally dismissed it to her simply keeping track of the investigation of a local psychopath long since deceased or imprisoned, I noticed another article at the foot of her bed. I tilted my head to the side and gazed down at the article.
Survivor’s Testimony Convicts Serial Killer
According to the prosecution team, Jaye Campbell’s testimony was paramount in the conviction of Ted Wayne Mastick in the murder of her husband, Jonathon. Assistant District Attorney Nelda Freemont shared her belief with Wichita Eagle reporter Tom Whiteside that the trial was destined to be a mistrial until Mrs. Campbell came forward immediately prior to the selection of jurors.
With her throat cut and left for dead, Mrs. Campbell walked to a neighbor’s home and calmly asked to use the phone after realizing her phone lines had been severed during the invasion of her home…
I began to sob.
Apparently, my father had not been killed in a car wreck, and my mother’s scar wasn’t the result of a glass shard. Within seconds my mother was up on her feet attempting to comfort me.
“Why…what…I can’t…even think,” I blubbered.
“Riley, please. Listen…”
“To what,” I shouted. “Another lie?”
“Riley,” she said as she wrapped her arms around me. “I couldn’t tell you the truth. I just couldn’t. I was trying to protect you.”
“From…from what?” I asked as I pushed her away.
“From being hurt,” she said.
Now a full-blown sobbing mess, I stood with my hands against my thighs and cried, heaving to find my next breath. She leaned over, wrapped her arm around my shoulder, and held me against her side.
“When you’re a mother, you’ll understand,” she said. “You will. Everything I told you was true. Your father and I were in an accident, he died, and my throat was cut and I ended up in the hospital. All I failed to tell you was the truth about what exactly the accident was.”
“He was…he was murdered,” I blubbered.
She was much calmer than I was comfortable with. As I continued to fight for my next breath, she stood and held me. I guessed she had a few decades of time to come to terms with what happened, and I had only had a few minutes. As she patted her hand against my back, I remembered what I had read about the West family.
I turned my head to the side and glanced up and into her eyes. “And Blake. Were they…were they his…”
She nodded her head. “Those were his parents mentioned in the article, yes.”
I bit my lower lip to prevent it from quivering.
“What…why…How did you know?”
“Last night, when he told me his name…” She paused and inhaled a deep breath. After a long sigh, she continued. “I figured out he was the orphan from that murder. After what happened to your father and me, I became obsessed with the case for a while. It was my way of letting go. Riley, I’m so sorry.”
I tried to stand, couldn’t, and continued to lean against my thighs. My mother pulled me to the edge of the bed and helped me sit. As I sat with my face in my hands, she continued to explain.
She began to speak in a soft comforting tone without much emotion at all. As she spoke, I did my best to listen, and hoped to understand why she did what she did.
“That man killed people here for a long, long time. I testified against him in court. I put him away, Riley. It was harder than you might think, and setting that part of my life aside would have never happened if you knew the truth about what I had gone through. Forgetting it would have been - and still is - impossible, but even functioning with a daily reminder of what happened would have crushed us both. I felt if I told you the truth you’d go through all of the pain and hardship I went through, and I just couldn’t do that to you. All I wanted was what was best for you,” she said.
It wasn’t difficult for me to understand how much pain she had gone through. Just with my experiences with Stephen, I suffered greatly. She was right. For her to share what happened with me as a child, my life would have been totally different.
And, for me to understand what life would have been like knowing would have been impossible. As I turned to give her a hug, I hoped deep in my heart that Blake had no idea of what happened to his parents. I hoped somehow he escaped the truth no differently than I had.
“I love you,” I said as I wrapped my arms around her.
“I love you so much,” she said as she held me in her arms.
As we sat on the edge of the bed and held each other, I realized everything she had done she did with the hope of preventing me from being hurt. She realized the pain I would go through based on the pain she had felt.
Ultimately, my mother was protecting me from harm.
And I loved her even more for doing so.
BLAKE
I had felt for the last month that Riley and I were making progress and working toward a meaningful relationship, but hadn’t really felt the relationship was solid until the previous night in her room. Now praying Mr. Racine didn’t press the subject, I hoped to be in and out without any problems or red flags.
“The meetings, Mr. West. Let’s talk about the meetings,” he said.
“Progress, not perfection. That’s what they teach us, and that’s what I’m practicing. I’m making progress. Next subject, please,” I said.
“No, we’re going to discuss them and what your expectations are surrounding the meetings,” he said.
“Fucking whatever. You ask, I’ll answer,” I said.
As he scribbled on his pad I began to pick at the sole of my shoe.
“Alright. We have both agreed your problems with drinking spawned the desire to attempt another approach at life, and the meetings were a proven method for many people to stop drinking.” He paused and glared at me.
I tossed my hands in the air. “What?”
“I’d prefer that you pay attention,” he said.
I glanced up from my shoe. “Drinking spawned meetings. Meetings are good for many people. I’m a multitasker, Mr. Racine. Continue.”
He tapped the pen against his lip, eventually stopped, and allowed it to dangle loosely from between his thumb and forefinger. “Very well. Now, what I would like for you to discuss is why you feel a need or necessity to utilize the meetings as a stepping stone to recover from an addiction to sex and drugs when neither have been of concern. Can you expand on your thought process?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“Mr. West. Unless something has happened I am unaware of, you aren’t nor have you ever been sexually active,” he paused and raised the pen to his lip.
“What’s your point?” I asked.
“Mr. West. Your application of the principles of the twelve step program to recover from sex addiction is without merit. We discussed this briefly six weeks ago, and you refused to discuss it in the last meeting, choosing to storm out and…” he paused and flipped through his notes.
He studied the pad of paper for a moment and eventually glanced upward. “Demand that I refer to you as ‘Brainiac’ upon your return.”
“Okay. Are you going to make a point?” I asked.
“My point is this. You’ve suffered from grandiose delusional disorder in the past, and it appears you’re suffering from it again,” he said.
“I’m good,” I said.
“Are you of the opinion you’re a sex addict?” he asked.
I shook my head, “Nope.”
He nodded his head and pressed the tip of the pen to t
he pad. After writing for a moment, he shifted his gaze upward and locked his eyes on mine. “And why aren’t you of that opinion?”
“Never had sex before,” I said.
“So, you haven’t had problems in the past with having sex with your clients?” he asked.
I shook my head from side-to-side. “Nope.”
He scribbled on the pad for a moment, paused, and then continued scribbling. After exhausting himself and flipping to one more new sheet of paper, he placed the pen beside the pad and nodded his head.
“Have you had the urge to drink?” he asked.
“Well, no shit, Doc. I’m a fucking alcoholic. I want to drink right now. I want to drink when I wake up. Before I go to bed. Hell, I wish I had a beer to drink while I’m taking a shit. Yeah, I got an urge, but I’m not acting on it,” I said.
“Very well. Have you seen improvements in your life since you’ve chosen to abstain?” he asked.
“Yeah. Big ones. I met the girl. And, we’re sexually active,” I said.
He cocked an eyebrow.
“No, really. We are,” I said.
“And how does that cause you to feel?” he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Okay, I suppose.”
“Any problems with repressed memories or flashbacks?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. I mean I remember all that shit, but it doesn’t bother me so much. I mean it does and it doesn’t.”
“Can you explain further?” he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders. “Well I went to her mother’s house and met her mom and everything the other night, and after we were done eating her mom got sick and left and then she gave me head in her old bedroom. Riley, not her mom. Just to clarify.”
“Oh, and it was awesome,” I said.
“The memories, Mr. West., explain the memories,” he said.
“Oh. What about them?” I asked.
“You said the memories do and don’t bother you. Until you rid yourself of the cross, Mr. West, I fear you’ll have a difficult time ridding yourself of the feelings. Would you like to explain your thoughts?” he asked.
I shook my head. “There’s nothing to explain. You know what happened. If it happened to you, would you want to sit and think about it?”
“We’re not talking about me, Mr. West. We’re talking about you.”
“The fuck we are. I’m talking about you right now. That’s what I’m talking about, you. What would you think about it? You know, if it happened to you? Would you feel good or bad when you thought about it?” I asked.
“It didn’t happen to me, Mr. West. It happened to you. Now, would you like to talk about how the memories make you feel?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said.
“Very well. The sexual act. Did the act bother you or was it pleasurable?”
“Pleasurable,” I said.
“During the act were there any periods of flashback or thoughts of the past?” he asked.
“No, not really,” I said.
“I see. Have you any fear if you continue there may be?” he asked.
“May be what?”
“If you continue sexual activities have you any fear there may be flashbacks or recurring memories?” he asked.
“I think I’m good,” I said as I glanced at the clock.
“Based on…”
I sat and glared at him. I was done talking, and all I needed to do was make it another ten minutes and I could leave.
“You believe ‘you’re good’ based on what, Mr. West?” he asked.
“Based on the fact I believe I control that shit. You know it doesn’t come from outer fucking space, it comes from my brain,” I said.
“So, you’re in control?”
“Yeah, I’m thinking so,” I said with a nod.
“So, the belief of sexual addiction. Were you in control of that?” he asked.
I nodded my head. “Well, if you want my opinion, I created it to keep from being sexually active because I either had fear of the old memories or because I didn’t want to hurt anyone. You know. Sex has always been off limits to me, and short of whacking off I’ve always avoided it.”
“And your stories of sexual exploitations?” he asked.
“You know what they were,” I said.
“I believe I do. Do you?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“Care to explain?” he asked.
I glanced at the clock. It was nine o’clock and I needed to get to work. I stood from my seat, cracked my knuckles, and popped my neck.
“Sure thing Doc,” I said as I walked across his office.
I opened the door and turned to face him. “They were stories I made up in my head that never happened. I think my subconscious wanted an excuse to avoid sex because I was afraid of it. Well, now I’m not afraid. See you in two weeks.”
“Mr. West. One more thing,” he said as he raised his hand in the air. .
“Sure, I’m in a good mood,” I said. “What you got?”
“Are you going to be honest with your female companion and let her know you’re a virgin?” he asked.
“Not planning on being a virgin for long, Doc. See ya in two weeks,” I said.
And I walked out the door.
RILEY
At eighteen years old, we’re provided with the label of an adult, but being an adult at an early age requires making adult-like decisions. I sat three years beyond my declaration of reaching adulthood and watched Blake eat his sandwich convinced I didn’t ever want to be an adult.
I preferred to live the remaining portion of my life not dealing with the decisions and complexities associated with being an adult. Remaining a little girl forever would allow me to live a life without complications, responsibilities, or making decisions which were potentially life-altering.
Yet.
It was time I acted as an adult.
“How is it?” I asked.
With a mouth full of food and a combination of vinegar and oil running down his forearms, he raised the sandwich in the air slightly and continued to chew.
“Good,” he said over the mouthful of food.
He nodded his head toward my sandwich. I glanced down. I hadn’t so much as touched my food. I reluctantly reached down and picked up the hoagie, feeling if I didn’t at least eat a portion of it we would probably end up in an argument of some sort.
“Good call on the sandwich. This bread is soft as fuck,” he said as he wiped the oil from his arms with a napkin.
“I like this place,” I said.
“Not hungry?” he asked as he tilted his head toward my plate.
I shook my head and lowered my sandwich to my plate. “My stomach’s upset a little bit.”
“Well, it’s not something you ate, because you haven’t eaten yet today. Maybe ‘cause you need to eat,” he said.
I shrugged and picked up the sandwich. “Maybe.”
I wanted to find out what he knew about the murders, and if he knew nothing, I preferred to be the one to tell him what happened. I had tried to place myself in his shoes and consider if he had told me what happened to my parents, and consider how I would have felt hearing the news from him. My belief of the sadness and rejection which would have followed is what prevented me from proceeding to tell him so far.
But I felt I needed to.
For us both.
The thought of us being in a meaningful relationship and me keeping secrets from him was impossible for me to process as a necessity. I sat watching him finish his lunch knowing at some point I would have to tell him something, and allow that morsel of information lead into a conversation revealing everything I knew about his parent’s death.
When was the question.
I tore the sandwich in two, took a bite from one half, and placed the pieces on my plate. After studying them for long enough to convince myself it looked like I had eaten much more than I actually had, I shifted my eyes to Blake.
“Can we go sit somewhere when we get do
ne?” I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders. “Sure, where are you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe like a park or the Waterfront by the lake or something.”
“Somewhere peaceful,” he said.
I nodded my head. “Yeah.”
“Sure. You gonna eat that?” he asked as he motioned toward my plate.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “My stomach still feels icky.”
He reached for my plate and picked up the half of the sandwich I had taken a bite of. I grinned at the thought of him choosing it over the uneaten half. As he proceeded to devour the sandwich I realized just how simply he lived his life. Had I not asked about his parents, I was convinced he would have never mentioned them. Had I never asked about the toolbox on the sidewalk, he may have never mentioned Tyler again.
Blake was different.
As he wiped his mouth with a napkin and checked his fingers for residual matter, I ran through potential scenarios in my head of how to propose what I had learned of his parent’s death. Upon deciding I would simply proceed with whatever felt best, I picked up the remaining half of the sandwich and took a small bite.
“I’m just goofing around,” I said. “You ready?”
He nodded his head and stood. “Sure you don’t want that?”
“No, I’m really not hungry,” I responded.
After paying for the food and walking out to the motorcycle, we rode six blocks to the Waterfront, an outdoor mall which had been developed around a lake. The lake had several benches and a walking path, and I hoped I felt more comfortable talking once we sat down and relaxed together.
We walked half way around the lake hand in hand, and eventually chose a bench on the far side of the lake. As he gazed out at the body of water, he crossed his arms, sighed, and sat down.
“This is peaceful,” he said.
“It is,” I said as I sat down beside him.
In comparing the Blake I met to the Blake sitting on the bench, the differences could almost be described as drastic. When we met, he was fidgety and nervous acting. Now, he sat quietly and gazed out at the lake, seemingly at peace with life and everything around him.
Blurred Lines: Tattoo Romance (Bodies Ink and Steel) Page 12