I never meant to approach her again. I didn’t want to disturb the peace, sully the beauty and the light, the life I can’t take any part in. She hurts me by living on, by being breathtakingly beautiful and strong, by making a life for herself and our child.
I need it badly. The hurt. I deserve it.
I watch them, my girls, feeling a twisted sense of pride over what I’ve achieved. It’s something I knew I’d never experience, but here they are. My baby and my woman. Proof I’m human.
Kerry would surely disagree.
Kerry.
I think she suspects I’m around. She suspects, and she punishes me by refusing to hide, by refusing to be afraid anymore. And it works. They exist in this world, and I’m left alone and broken.
Shattered.
The little one has my eyes. I would want to hold her. Just once. I bet she’s soft. Like her mom. But I’ll never know her. She can’t know me. I’m too fucked up, too dangerous. That little lady and her mom don’t need me in their lives.
I can’t figure out why she kept it. My child. No one would have blamed her if she’d have gotten rid of it. My daughter. Not even me.
This binds us. She must know this, and yet she chose it.
This ties us together forever.
I can never leave her, and I can never be with her. I hate myself, and I will always wonder if things could have been different between us, if it could have gone on a different path. The pull they have on me is stronger than anything I’ve ever felt. I’d go to the end of the world and back for them.
She looks so lost, forlorn. Sydney has tried to find an in to get to know Kerry, but she is a recluse and Sydney hasn’t had a chance so far. I ache when I see her, and the urge to help grows. Surely she’d at least accept some money?
Finding a way into her building and bypassing the alarm is a piece of cake. I inhale the scent of her, sniff the little one’s pillow. She smells of powder and sunshine. It makes my dark heart clench in despair.
A note on her kitchen table. Just that. I don’t want to bother her, I have no right, but just that.
A note.
The next day she is gone.
Really fucking gone.
The last trace of them ends by an ATM on an adjacent street.
Kerry doesn’t resurface. As the weeks pass, my whole life turns into a ball of agony, eating away at my insides.
Is she dead? How the fuck does a regular person manage to disappear completely?
“It’s all right. Back down, Ivan.” Salvatore stops his guard from jumping me as I storm into his office. “What seems to be the problem, nephew?”
“Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole fucking life!”
“So much anger. Have a seat.”
“I prefer to stand,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
“Well, I fucking insist. Get a hold of yourself. In my house you behave like a man, and not a whimpering boy. Sit, and spit it out. I’m busy.”
I remain standing. “The girl.”
Salvatore’s face is impassive. “Yes?” He supports his elbows on the desk, tenting his hands.
“Kerry Jackson.”
“Yes. Our brave little redhead. What about her?”
His fucking superior attitude suddenly gets the better of me and I snap. I shove all the contents off his desk with one swipe of my arm and lean in, nose to nose. It takes a mere moment and I’m ripped back by the brute, my arms held behind my back in a crushing grip.
“Fuck you!” I squirm and jerk. “Let me go!”
Salvatore waves his hand and the monkey behind me releases me. I square my shoulders and straighten my sleeves.
“What happened, Christiano?”
“She’s gone,” I grit. I clench my fists as heat floods my cheeks.
He frowns. “I know.”
“I can’t fucking live like this! Just— give me something to do. Any-fucking-thing. Use me. The dirtier, the better. Bury me in work or I’ll—”
I swallow the rest. I don’t know how to live anymore.
“I’ve always protected you, Christiano. Your mama literally held me by the balls once, when you joined my business. I don’t think she—”
“I was a kid back then. I doubt she feels the same now, and besides, what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Luciano, I need it. I need to fucking fight. I need a warzone.”
Something dark flickers through his gaze. “You were always my best man, Christiano. I’ve always hoped this day would come. I’ll find something for you. Now tell me, if she meant that much to you, why the hell did you go and follow my orders?”
I clench my jaw as nausea rises in me. I still feel her warm skin, her thudding heart, smell her fear. I still see her before me, shattered, her thin frame, her dark frightened eyes. I did that. I can’t blame anyone else.
“I hurt her bad, Luci. Bad. And now she’s gone. With my baby.”
He tsks. “You’re an idiot. You could have had everything. She’s such a pretty girl. Clever too.”
Yes.
She is.
Part II
Alterum Non Laedere
Chapter 17
Middlebro, Canada
Kerry
I shake the bottle and then let a couple of drops fall on the inside of my wrist. The content is warm, but not hot. It’s close to perfect. A grunting from the little bed at the back of the other room makes me smile.
“I’m coming, honey.” I jump off the kitchen counter where I’ve been sitting while preparing her evening snack and walk the few feet to her. Looking down at the expectant, deep brown eyes that sparkle when she sees me, my heart fills with tenderness.
“Momma,” she gurgles. “Angwy.”
“I know you’re hungry, baby. Look what Mommy’s got.” I beam back at her and wiggle the bottle before her. My little Cecilia, my Cece, waves chubby hands in the air and tries to catch my arm.
“Impatient, are you? Come here.”
I lift her and she molds into my embrace as I lower us together down on the bed. The night is just right. It’s absolutely quiet in our house, and slightly chilly, but we’re good under the blanket. My daughter lies beside me and sighs contentedly as she gulps down the lukewarm content. I listen to the sound of her swallowing and to the low cracking noises from the tree outside as one of its branches repeatedly hits the far side of the house. I need to cut that thing down one of these days, but at the same time it has almost come to be a friend. Something I recognize, that I can trust to always be there, and that won’t hurt me. It’s normalcy. One of many things surrounding me I consider normal, that I need to be normal.
I look at my beautiful daughter and caress her forehead.
Cecilia Erin Jackson.
Erin to commemorate her late granddad, Cecilia because it’s pretty, and Jackson… because she is one. She’s nothing else, just fully, completely a Jackson, stemming from a long tradition of proud, unyielding women.
Her eyes are drowsy. She’ll be sleeping any minute now. I hear a gurgling, sucking noise from the bottle and without looking at it I know it’s empty. It falls to the side as she drops it. Her eyelids flutter. I should have had her eat earlier so we could have brushed her six little teeth. Now I don’t want to bother her in her sleep.
But all in all that’s just a tiny issue, and I know which battles to fight and which to shrug at.
I dip my nose in the angle where her neck meets the shoulder and inhale deeply, relishing her wonderful powdery baby scent. Then I stroke her silky brown hair and smile. This is what keeps me going. This is what makes me want to live.
Cecilia stirs when I get up, but she doesn’t wake. She’ll sleep solidly until four in the morning when she’ll have her regular night fright, then she’ll sleep until eight when we both wake and our daily routine begins again. One day I know I’ll have to return to the world. When she’s a little older. When she needs to start socializing with other children. When it’s not fair of me to deprive her of her life.
I wash the bottle,
scalding water and a little detergent, shake the drops out and place it upside down on the counter. Then I dry my hands on the kitchen towel as I stare at the pitch-black window, seeing nothing but my own reflection. Anything could be out there. Everything is out there. Like so many times before, I see two gleaming brown eyes before me. Then I blink and they’re gone.
I hope that day is still very far away.
Turning off the light, I cross the living room, aiming for my armchair. I didn’t take much with me when we moved up here, but this was one of the few objects from my old life I kept. I have a fireplace. I have a huge pile of books, many of them read once already, or even twice, even more still unread. I have a small house and a huge SUV that’s very, very fast if needed.
I have my daughter.
I don’t have a TV, only a radio and a CD-player. I’ve made friends with some people who are good to know downtown. The hardware dealer, the grocery store owner, a carpenter and his wife, but they never come here, I’ve asked them not to, and they are still with me because they haven’t asked questions. They have no idea who I really am. To them we’re just Kerry and Cecilia Reed and we’re running from my abusive husband. It’s not a lie, not entirely, it’s just tweaking the truth a bit.
He doesn’t have the right to this child, does he?
He doesn’t.
No, he doesn’t.
And God knows he is abusive. I clench my teeth at the thought, and then shake it off. Water under the bridge.
My hand hovers over the book I’m currently reading, but then I look at my journal and pick it up instead. It’s heavy in my hands. Or, no, it’s not really heavy, it’s the content that’s heavy. Sad. Dark as the night outside the four walls that shield us from the cold. Opening the book, I take out the pen from between the pages of my last entry and begin to write.
‘October 22
He has no right. He has no right to see my baby. Am I afraid of what he’d do if he ever found us?’
I feel guilt. I know I shouldn’t, but still I do. Cece will never know a father, she will never experience the close and loving relation I had with my own dad. But hers is a dangerous creature, not quite human, unreal in his hate and fury. Very unsuitable. I glance at the shotgun that hangs next to the front door. Always ready, always loaded.
I shouldn’t feel any guilt. It’s for the better.
‘Probably, yeah.’
I have replayed the events at the harbor so many times in my mind that I don’t even know anymore what really happened and what are the fruits of my imagination. Were my wounds real? The bleeding, the bruises and the scrapes. Did they really exist? He almost killed me, but at the same time I remember such a vivid knowledge deep inside that he wouldn’t, that he, in his own twisted way, wanted me. In a sickening, selfish, perverted way. Just not dead.
I remember a lot of pain. A lot. During… and after… I spit blood-tinged saliva, my eyes were bloodshot, I cried from the pain every time I swallowed.
I look at Cecilia. My daughter. She was conceived that one night we had together, when I still thought he was someone else. It’s a weird thing, that something so beautiful can come out of such a monster.
I can barely remember. It scares me.
‘It would be a disaster if he knew where we were, if he found us. I think I’d rather kill us both than let him lay his hands on me, on us, again. If I can’t kill him first, that is.’
I haven’t cried a day since I found out I was carrying Cece. Before that, though, I cried my heart out in my isolation. I was so alone.
I put down the pen and flick through the pages, quicker past the darker times. I flip back and forth, dreading to catch a glimpse of even one wrong word.
Why do I even do this? Why can’t I put it to rest?
But I know why. I live in limbo. Still. The protective shell I once carried inside me is corrupt and I have built an artificial one, surrounding me and my daughter on the outside, with our move, and our anonymity. I haven’t moved on, I’ve just put the lid on, and I know, I know, it’s unfinished. The pain hasn’t gone away, and I don’t know what it’ll take, what I’ll have to do. I just know I have to keep us safe, and that’s all I do, all I can focus on, or I’ll shatter.
I wish it wasn’t true. None of this. I still see the man I first met, the warmth, that tiny flutter in my belly, and it’s so confusing. It hurts so much.
The writing doesn’t look like my own from those first days, there are misspelled words, and jumbled sentences, and it was ink and I just couldn’t go back and correct it. Instead I turned the page and kept pouring hurt all over innocent white paper. Then there are so many pages with blurry letters, the paper crumpled from dried tears and hasty words.
And it goes on and on and on.
Then there suddenly aren’t. The writing looks like mine again, I write of hope, of a blessing, of a need larger than my misery.
Cecilia.
She looks so much like her father. Beautiful, unearthly beautiful. But it doesn’t hurt, she isn’t him and she won’t inherit any of his malice because I will pour my love over her, and keep her safe and happy. I won’t let him touch her, not mentally, not physically. I’ll never let him see the beauty his violence created. He doesn’t deserve it. He can live his pathetic existence. I don’t care. I stroke the book in my hands as I close it and then let it fall to the floor beside me. Not much is happening. I haven’t got anything to write really. I consider it a good thing. I close my eyes and allow my head to fall back against the cushion.
I am so tired.
A piercing yell startles me. Rubbing my eyes, I glance at the clock by the fireplace as I rise from the warmth of the chair to look in on my baby. I didn’t know time had flown by that quickly. Through the window a moonbeam hits a poor plant I once had the ambition to care for. Now it needs not only caring, but resuscitation. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
Cecilia is content with me tucking her in and I fall onto my own bed next to hers, exhausted, on edge, my own ghosts haunting me like every night. I can’t help it. I still feel his rough hands on my bared skin. I still see him before me as clearly as if he’s standing in the room.
He still hurts.
Christian
His body shakes and twists as I shove the knife deeper into his chest. His arms flail and he reeks of sweat and fear. His cheap shirt is stained and crumpled. I’ve gotten blood on my sleeve and it infuriates me that this fat, ugly, low-life dares to soil me with his filthy blood. If he hadn’t struggled so much this would’ve been over with by now. Looking at him, at his life, this place, I can’t understand what makes him want to live at all.
Well, for fuck’s sake, die already!
A pale face and frightened eyes fixate on mine as he tries to get up off the floor and away from the rage that has fallen upon him for unknown reasons, to both him and me. His hands keep slipping in his own pool of blood and urine, all of his chins wobble, and the noises that emanate from deep down in his throat are pathetic. I don’t know what he did wrong, or whom he upset, and I don’t give a shit. He’s too old to be in the business, whatever his business was, but not too old to try to save himself.
I kick him in the chest, and he falls over on his back, his eyes rolling, showing more bloodshot white than iris. Crouching next to him, I cock my head and study my handiwork. He’s a goner no matter what, but I never leave work half-done. Almost never. I sneer and grab his head in a steel grip. He makes a terrified gurgling sound and coughs blood just before I twist his neck, the crack loud and final.
His body twitches one more time before relaxing at last, his battle lost. I hold him for a moment longer, reveling in my superiority, my heart rate soon down to its normal beat.
It’s over.
As I let go, his head falls to the side, his eyes unseeing, his pupils dilated. He wouldn’t have had to fight, it was just a waste of energy, the end result is always the same anyways.
Someone’s demise. Blood on my hands.
Literally.
&nb
sp; I know what they call me behind my back. The Ripper. I know what I’ve become. What I didn’t use to be.
A living nightmare.
I know they fear me. Even the very people who ask for my services, and pay me well to do their dirty work.
And I don’t fear fucking shit. When you’ve already lost it all, there’s nothing that can hurt you.
Before I stand, I yank the knife out of his chest. The sound of metal grinding against his chest bone reminds me vaguely of chalk on a blackboard. I wipe the blade on his psychedelically blue, pink, and red shirt until it’s clean, leaving the piece of cloth even more eclectically tainted than before.
In the hallway I glance in the mirror once, checking for visible stains. There are none. I snap off the gloves and pocket them, correct my shirt and sheath the blade. Without wasting another thought on the heap of flesh in the other room I listen out the corridor for a moment. Shoving my fingers through my hair, I then push down the door handle with my elbow and exit apartment 494 in an anonymous complex in yet another dull city.
Done deal.
As I jog down the four floors from the dead guy’s apartment, my mind at ease and my steps light, I meet a woman and a small girl. They hold hands and make it slowly up the stairs. The little blonde girl is dressed in a terrible combination of a pink ballerina skirt, purple rain boots and a red jacket. She’s maybe a year and a half, or two years old at the most. I’m good with attention to details, but my experience with children is limited to say the least.
They’re in the middle of a conversation and bits and pieces of it reach me as I fly past them.
I shoot off a disarming smile to the mother. I’ve found that people tend to rationalize when they remember things. They won’t remember a pleasant experience in connection with something unpleasant. She won’t connect me with the gruesome murder in her house that she will soon know about. The plump, mousy-haired woman smiles back and her cheeks blush and then we’re past each other. I’ve already forgotten about her when I hear a familiar word.
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