by W Winters
My eyes open slowly and I stare straight ahead as my shoulders tighten. “You love your stories. Don’t you?” My voice is menacing, not hiding my disappointment and outrage.
“Oh I could tell you a story, but the truth will hurt the most.”
My teeth grind together, my patience wearing thinner and thinner as all the pictures I’ve seen of Jenny from when she was a girl hugging her sister, to only a few years ago when she was in school, play in my mind.
“They’d run in packs and terrorize the people.” He paces again, I can hear him doing it and a part of me wants to turn around; I want to look him in the eyes and see the man who plays with fire like he has. The only reason I don’t is because he has the upper hand. He has Jenny. He has the answers.
“They attacked people, but farms mostly, leaving the families little food for themselves…” He pauses and lets out a soft sound, nearly a chuckle although I’m not certain it’s humorous; it sounds sickening.
“They ruled and there was not much to be done. Much like you and your brothers,” he says and the S hisses in the air. “They don’t run wild here anymore though, because hunters found a way. Well, there were two ways.” I remain silent, biding my time, struggling to stay patient with him.
“The first, I’m not a fan of,” he says and steps closer to me, but still I don’t react. “They’d find the female mates and put them in cages for the males to see. When the males would inevitably come to find their mates, they’d try to release them, to no avail. And then they’d wait there for the men to come, with their tails tucked under them, begging in whimpers for their mates to be freed.” Every hair stands on end as he tells his tale. All I can think about is Bethany. “I’ve been told you didn’t even need a gun to kill them when they did this. When they came to get their mates, they were so willing to do anything and accept anything in order to free their mates, you could turn your gun around and beat them to death with the end of a rifle.”
My skin pricks with the imagery that floods my mind. The fog of my breath in front of my face paints the picture of a wolf, bloodied and dead and next to it a caged mate, with bullet wounds ending her life.
“Are you implying something, Marcus?” I dare to ask him, feeling the anger rising. “If you’re threatening-”
“Bethany is safe,” he answers before I can finish and the simple confirmation is more relief than I thought imaginable, given my current position.
“The other way though… I… I find it more fitting,” Marcus says, and continues his story. “The farmers would dip a knife into bloodied water. Wolves love the taste of blood. They knew that, so they’d tempt them. They’d dip it and freeze it over and over. Practically making a popsicle, made just for wolves.”
The swing blows and creaks again as he tells me, “They’d leave the knife for the wolves, and the wild animals would lick and lick, enjoying their treat and numbing their own tongues with the ice. They’d continuing licking, even after they’d sliced their own tongues. After all, they love the taste of blood and they couldn’t feel it.”
“The wolves would bleed out?” I surmise.
“They would. They would lick the knives even after the ice was long melted, and bleed themselves to death.”
“Now, if only I’d heard that at bedtime, maybe I would have had better dreams,” I lay the flat joke out for him, downplaying the threatening tone he chooses, and keeping my voice casual.
“Humor is your preference, isn’t it?”
I don’t bother answering.
“What’s the point to your story, Marcus?” I ask him bluntly.
“I brought you a gift,” he answers. “I brought you a bloody knife.”
My jaw clenches as I wait for more from him.
“Trust me, you’re going to want this one, Jase. I think you’ve been waiting for it for a long, long time.”
“What is my bloody knife?” I ask him, gritting my teeth and praying it’s not the body of Jenny Parks. That’s all I can think right now. Please, don’t let it be her.
“Inside the trunk of the lone car across the street is your package. I sent you a video, you should watch. He’s had a high dose of your sweets. I’d think it’ll wear off by tomorrow… Good luck, Jase.”
Bethany
“This is completely and totally shady,” I mutter under my breath and then look over my shoulder to make sure no one saw me walk into the alley behind the drugstore. It’s nearly 3:00 a.m. so the store is closed, as is everything else around here. “Could you freak me out any more?”
Meet me behind Calla Pharmacy. I have something for you.
That’s the text Laura sent. And the messages afterward were a series of me asking why the fuck we were meeting there and her not answering my question, but insisting that I come.
“You have no idea the shit I was imagining on the way down here,” I scold her although it’s only concern that binds to the statement. The buzz from earlier has worn off completely, as if the current situation isn’t sobering enough.
“Sorry.” Laura’s hushed voice is barely heard as she grips my arm and pulls me farther down the alley to where she parked her car.
“We can do shady shit at my house,” I say, biting out the words.
“What if it’s bugged or something?”
All I can hear is the wind as her words sink in.
Concern is etched in her expression as she looks back at me and then nearly opens her trunk, but she stops too soon and places both of her palms on the slick metal.
The streetlight from nearby barely illuminates us.
“It’s dark and cold and you’re freaking me out,” I finally speak and ignore the way it hurts just to breathe in air this cold. I lift my scarf up to cover my nose before shoving my hands in my pockets and asking, “What the hell are we doing here?”
Every second it seems scarier back here. It’s a vacant small lot, no longer asphalt as the grass has grown through patches of it. It’s all cracked and ruined. Even though it’s abandoned, there are still ambient noises. The small sounds are what spike my unease.
Like the cat that jumped onto the dumpster and the cars that speed by every so often out front. I should have told Jase. I should have messaged him, but I didn’t.
“Why did we have to come down here? And why couldn’t I tell Jase?”
“We just had to, okay.” Laura’s fear is barely concealed by irritation. “And he doesn’t need to know about this. I did something,” she quickly adds before I can get in another word. Her soft blue eyes are wide with worry and she looks like she can barely breathe. Her gaze turns back to the trunk and chills run down my arms.
“There better not be a body in there,” I tell her more to lighten the mood, but also out of the sheer fear that she fucking killed someone. At this point, I don’t know what to predict next.
“Jesus,” she hisses. “I didn’t kill anyone.” She searches behind me and then over her shoulders like someone might be watching. “I’m not one of the crazies in your nut hut.”
There’s a small voice in the back of my mind telling me that Seth is somewhere. Seth is watching and Jase will know everything she says and does right now. But only if Jase knew I left, only if Seth is watching me nonstop. The thought is comforting for a split second, and then I regret not telling Jase.
“You promise you didn’t say anything?” she asks and I nod.
I remind myself, this is Laura, Laura the friend I met in college, the girl who I ran to when I got dumped and needed to consume my weight in ice cream and fall asleep in front of romcoms. My Laura. My best, and really, my only friend.
There isn’t a damn thing she could do that would be problematic. With that thought lingering, I get to the bottom of it. “Why are we here?”
“Look… first…” It’s a heavy sigh that leaves her when she stares at me. The look she’s giving me is begging for forgiveness and acceptance.
“You’re freaking me out,” I admit and grip her hands in mine. They’re cold, just like the a
ir, like my lungs, like everything back here on the cold winter night. “Just tell me; I won’t be mad.”
Laura’s never done anything like this and I don’t know what to expect. I always know what she’s going to do and say. She’s the voice of reason more times than not. But this… “I have no idea what you did, but it’s okay. Whatever you have to tell me or show me, it’s okay.” I hope my words comfort her like they do me. Even if they are only words.
“You have to accept it,” she tells me and her voice is sharp. The worry is gone in her cadence, replaced by strength.
“Accept what?” The question I ask goes unanswered. Instead a breeze blows, forcing Laura’s blonde hair to blow in front of her face although she makes no move to stop it. Bits of soft snow fall between us and all she does is stare at me and then make me promise.
“Promise you’ll take it. Promise you’ll never mention it again.” She inhales too quickly and finally moves, shifting on her feet to look behind me before adding, “Promise it leaves with you and you forget where you got it.”
My stomach coils and I nearly back away from her, but she grips my hand instead. “What the fuck is it, Laura?”
“Promise,” she demands.
“Whatever it is, I promise.” The pit in my stomach grows heavier as the trunk creaks open, darkness flooding it and hiding what’s inside at first glance.
It’s only when she pulls it out and shoves it into my chest that I see it’s a black duffle bag.
The trunk shuts and the thud of it closing is all I can hear as I hold the bag. It can’t be more than fifteen pounds, but until the hood is shut I have to hold it with both hands and then rest it against the flat back of the car.
“Don’t open it. Just take it.”
I look Laura dead in the eyes as I answer her, “You’ve lost your fucking mind if you think I’m not looking at what’s in here.”
“Don’t. In case someone’s watching.”
“What is it, Laura?” I ask her again, my voice even but somehow sounding eerie in the bitter air.
“Your way out of the debt,” is all she tells me until I grip her wrist, forcing her to look at me instead of walking back to her driver’s seat like she intended.
She glances at my hand on her wrist, and then back up to me before turning to face me toe to toe.
I don’t expect the words she says next. The casualness of her statement, yet how matter of fact it is.
“If you want to be with him, this is the world you live in. There’s a risk of people going after you. If you don’t… I think you’re still in that world, regardless. It has a way of not letting go.”
A silent shrill scream rings in my ears from the need to run, the need to do something. It comes from anxiety, from the need to fight or flee. I choose fight. I was born to fight.
She finishes, “But at least this gets rid of the debt.”
It takes a second and then another for me to comprehend what she’s saying.
“The debt? I owe him-”
“Three hundred grand.” She nods as she speaks. “And now you have it to pay off.”
“No fucking way.” I’m adamant as I shove the duffle bag into her chest but she doesn’t take it, she doesn’t reach out for it and the bag falls to the icy cracked ground. “Where did you get it?” I hiss the question, with a wild fear brewing inside of me. “Take it back,” I beg her before she even answers.
Her baby blue eyes search mine for a moment and I’m left with disbelief and confusion.
I tell her with a furious terror taking over, “You don’t have that kind of money.”
“I didn’t and then I did,” she answers simply.
Emotions well in my throat. “Take it back, Laura. However you got it, give it back.”
“No,” she says first and then adds, “I can’t anyway.”
“No, Laura, fuck! No.” I have to cover my face as it heats. “Please tell me-”
“I’m more than fine,” she cuts me off. “I wanted to do something for a long time. An offer I had and wasn’t sure if I wanted to take or not.”
It’s only the ease of her confession that settles me slightly.
“You can always go back.”
“No,” she answers me, “I can’t and I don’t want to. I’m not taking the bag back either and I have to go, I have the night shift and you promised me. You promised you’d take the bag.”
“What did you do?”
“I can’t tell you,” she murmurs. There’s no fear or desperation when she speaks to me and my head spins with the denial that this is even happening.
“You can, you can tell me anything.” I feel crazed as I reach out to her, stepping forward as she steps back and kicking the bag at my feet.
“I can’t tell you,” she says, stressing every word and pulling herself away from my grasp. “That bag is yours. And I have to go.”
She leaves me there with the duffle bag at my feet, the snow clinging to my hair and the cold of the night settling in to wrap its arms around me, the same way I wrap my hand around the strap to the duffle bag.
Jase
Years ago…
* * *
I knew something was off before I even opened the door. I spent the hour before coming here arguing with Carter about even bringing Angie here.
I didn’t trust her at The Red Room though. Not with the shit I have going on and the people that come and go. I tried to help her before and she took off, coming back worse. And the last three nights she destroyed the place, searching for anything to numb the pain she was in. She was fucking skin and bones. Her cheeks were so hollow. Addiction will do a lot of things to a person. It turns their curious smirks into glowers of pain, their bright eyes into dull gazes to nowhere.
It wasn’t just the addiction though. She couldn’t be sober because then she remembered what she’d done.
Fuck, the memory of it makes me sick.
“She’s not with me, but that doesn’t mean I can’t help her.”
“You can’t help everyone, Jase.” Carter’s hardened voice is clear in my mind. He looked me in the eyes and told me, “You can’t help her. You can’t and shouldn’t. You shouldn’t have brought her here.”
“I don’t want to help everyone.” I bit back the answer, feeling the anger rise inside of me. It was the first disagreement we’d ever had. I had to do it, though. “I want to help her. Just one person.”
“Why? She’s not yours.”
He didn’t get it. For the first time, he showed his confusion. He didn’t understand that I didn’t want her, I just wanted her to be okay. Even if she was nearly a stranger, even if I’d never want her to walk through the doors of the bar again once she left.
I needed to feel like I could make it right. We all make mistakes, but it’s okay if you can make it right. I just needed to make it right.
“You shouldn’t have brought her here.” That was the last thing he said to me as I made my way back to the guest bedroom, questioning everything I’d done. I’d like to think that was why I thought things were off when I got to the door. But it was something deeper than that.
With my hand on the doorknob, I remember how I told her to just sleep before I left. Get some fucking sleep to help her with the withdrawal. Her eyes were so sunken in and dark as she screamed at me. It could have been the cocaine or the heroin. She looked nothing like the woman I’d known before.
I had to empty the room out to keep her from throwing things. She liked comic books, so I went out to get her some. It would only be weeks. Only weeks of helping her get back on her feet, then she was someone else’s problem. Then she’d be able to think clearly and choose whatever she wanted to do next. But as it stood, the addiction made every choice and it was leading her to an early grave.
I remember the way my scar shined on my hand, the light brighter there than on the metal knob as I pushed the door open.
It was quiet, too quiet for her not to be sleeping in the empty bed.
The bathroom door
was closed and I glanced at the clock. 3:04 a.m. Someone once told me the Devil gets a minute every day. 3:07 to come and do his darkest deeds. I stared at the clock, knowing the Devil’s deeds were done all day long, whether he was here or not.
Every second I sat on the chair in the room, I thought about what to tell her. I didn’t know her well enough to know what to say. All I could think of telling her was that it would be better tomorrow. That she just had to take it day by day. It takes weeks to get through the worst of it, sometimes longer.
She didn’t listen the first time, or the second, but maybe she’d listen now. Maybe tomorrow. Back then, I had hope.
The next time I looked at my watch, nearly forty minutes had passed. It was then that I realized it was still too quiet. Far too quiet.
I knocked at the door, but she didn’t respond. “Angie?” I called her name, and still nothing.
I knocked harder, feeling that gut instinct that something was wrong. I remember the way her name felt as I screamed it and hammered my fist against the door, all the while, it was far too quiet.
Testing the knob, it wasn’t locked, so I pushed it open. I knew then though, the Devil had come and gone. And that I was too late.
She’d shut the shower curtain, but even through it I could see the slash of red on the tiled wall. I’ll never forget that first sound I heard that night when I went to check on her. It was the sound of the shower curtain opening.
The blood was all over her hands and arms. The first thought I had, was that she must’ve regretted it and tried to stop the blood from the cut at her throat.
She tried to take it back.
I didn’t cry for her in that moment, but I leaned back against the wall, taking in her red hair and how it matted to her bloodied skin. Her eyes were still open, so once I could move, I closed them for her, even though my hand shook.
I failed her. I did this to her. It was all I could think.
Falling to my knees next to the tub, I prayed for the first time since my mama died. I asked God to take over for me. To help her and forgive her and forgive her sins.