by Soto, S. M.
“Listen to me, Blossom.”
“No!” I scream. “I’m done with your lies. I’m done with you and everyone always taking from me. Using me! Always using me!”
Slowly, he approaches again, and I eye the block of knives that is now right next to me. The thought of hurting him makes my stomach churn, but I can’t let him get his hands on me. It’ll all be over if I do.
Suddenly, like a slap to the face, the thought hits me. “Why did you really kill Ryan? It couldn’t be because you care about me, so why?”
His lips thin. This is the most emotion I’ve seen out of him this whole time. “I do care. He deserved to die. You wouldn’t say it, but I could see how much you needed him gone.”
“You’re insane!” I shout. “The only person I need gone is you!”
I choke on my breath, finally understanding everything. It takes me a few seconds longer than it should, but as I finally piece it all together, my rage boils over, trumping ever emotion.
“That’s why…isn’t it?” I ask quietly. “That’s why you did it. Because you wanted to turn me into you. You wanted to taint my soul, twist me into that dark version of you, so it would be easier to kill me, didn’t you?”
Something flickers behind his eyes, and I catch it just in time. It’s surprise. He’s surprised I figured it out, and it breaks my fucking heart.
“I hate you,” I choke. “I hate you so much. How dare you? How dare you taint me to make the burden on your shoulders easier! To make taking my life easier! You don’t deserve easy! I was falling in love with you—I started falling for a sick, cruel bastard like you. Can you believe that?”
His face falls, and a pained expression ripples over his features. “I couldn’t do it, Blossom. That was the problem. I couldn’t hurt you. Or kill you. Because I fucking care too much. I care about you!”
“Do you love me?” I whisper.
His lips thin. “In my own way, I do. I care about you.”
He takes a step toward me, reaching out for me, but I jerk away from him. Normally his words would be like a balm to my soul, but now? They mean nothing to me. He means nothing to me.
“Well, you know what?” I whisper-hiss, stepping closer to the knife block. “If this is how you care, if this is how you ‘love,’ your love is cruel. This love is a cruel love. And you, Percivale, are the cruelest man I’ve ever met. I let you touch me, despite what happened in my past. How could you?”
At the same time Percivale lunges for me, I scramble to grab a knife from the block. He manages to grasp onto my hips, his fingers painfully digging into my flesh. Tightening my fist around the handle, I jerk my arm out and freeze when I hear Percivale’s sharp intake of breath. Bile rises in my throat as Percivale’s blue eyes wrinkle with pain. We both look down, mesmerized by the sight of the knife in his stomach. A lone tear trails down my cheek, and I let go of the knife, stepping away like it burned me. A serrated pain is ripping through my chest like someone has taken a chainsaw to my organs.
Percivale drops to his knees, the material of his black shirt now damp and his hands drenched in blood. His face is pale, and the veins in his neck are straining as if he’s trying not to roar with pain.
“Oh my god,” I whisper in horror, slapping a trembling hand over my mouth. I look down at my free hand and almost lose the contents of stomach when I see the blood. I stumble away from Percivale, toward the back door, and a sob cracks through the air as I push out of the door and run.
Tabella Della Morte
Blossom
I run across the large expanse of the lawn. The willow trees shield me from the street view, but I pump my arms and legs, demanding myself not to stop. I don’t hear Percivale running after me, and the realization only makes me cry harder. He could be dying, bleeding out on the floor right now, and I’m running in the opposite direction. Tears trail down my cheeks, hindering my sight and making my vision hazy.
I’ve just killed a man I was falling in love with. The realization has me slowing down. I stop running, pausing along the edge of the property. I can see the street—I’m so close. I glance back over my shoulder at the looming house, and the tears fall harder. I can’t see any movement or anything from here.
I clench my eyes shut, trying to wipe away the image of him splayed across his white marble floor, bleeding out.
He would’ve done the same to you, given the chance.
You had to do it.
You were protecting yourself.
I tell myself all these things, but I don’t believe any of them. Not even for one second.
Shaking my head, I turn back around, and I run. This time, I don’t look back at the estate or think about the man inside. All I can think about is finding help and going home.
I run off the property, along the street of St. Charles. I run until my chest is burning and my lungs are on fire. I turn down random streets, stopping for breath on random corners until I hear the vibrant notes of jazz music and loud, vivacious voices. Pushing my body to keep going, I break into another run, more tears springing to my eyes as I realize I’ve made it onto Bourbon Street. There are people everywhere. Restaurants. Shops. All of it.
A phone. I need to get to a phone.
Pushing my way through the crowds of people, I walk into the nearest establishment. My hair is matted to my forehead as sweat trickles down my back, and my chest is heaving. Eyes widen on me, and the patrons all go silent once they get a look at me.
“I need a phone. Please. Someone let me use their phone.” My voice trembles from running and from the fear. Everyone continues to stare at me like I’m crazy, their eyes riveted on my hands and the blood stained there.
“Here.” An older gentleman thrusts his phone out to me, keeping his distance. He eyes me warily in the dimly lit restaurant—everyone does. My hands shake violently as I dial 9-1-1.
A sob bursts past my lips when I hear the operator’s voice. The tears come again, but this time tears of joy.
“Please help me. I’ve been kidnapped. I’m not safe. You have to help.”
There’s a click on the line, then the operator’s voice. “Ma’am, can you tell us where you are? Are you injured?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know,” I whimper. “I’m on Bourbon Street. In a restaurant. That’s all I know.”
There’s another weird clicking sound on the line. “Hang tight, ma’am, we’re sending units to Bourbon Street.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
I hand the phone back to the man, and if I thought all eyes were on me before, it’s even worse now. A man dressed in all black steps out of the back of the restaurant and points toward the exit.
“You can’t hang out in here looking like that. You’ll need to wait outside.”
My chest squeezes in a vise, but I don’t argue. Whatever these people see on a daily basis here is enough that they don’t feel an ounce of sympathy for me. I leave the restaurant and stand along the crowded street. I press my back into the wall of the buildings and wait to hear the sound of sirens. But they never come.
I wait hours.
I know this because the sun’s position has moved quite drastically, now almost setting. With the street even more crowded than it was earlier in the day, I push my way through people, trying to look over everyone’s head to see if I spot any uniformed men.
None.
A sensation settles at the bottom of my spine, working its way up slowly. It’s dread. I’d know it anywhere. I glance over my shoulder, trying to ignore the strange reaction in my spine and gut. I almost turn around, thinking all is clear, when I spot a tall, bulky man a few paces behind me, his eyes dead set on me.
My eyes widen, and like a switch going off in my head, I break out into a run. I weave through the bodies as I sprint, constantly bumping shoulders and running into partying people while looking over my shoulder, wondering if that man is chasing after me. He isn’t.
I don’t see him anywhere.
There’s a painful stitching in my si
de that makes me slow in the French Quarter. I glance over my shoulder, swiping the sweat off my forehead as I frantically check my surroundings. I keep running along Bourbon and make a left on a side street, St. Louis. I keep pumping my arms and legs, and a gust of breath leaves me when I spot a lit-up building a few streets ahead.
I should’ve stopped somewhere else along the main street and called again, but most shops say no soliciting. Not to mention I look like a mess, and to make matters worse I was already kicked out of one establishment. I couldn’t handle dealing with another one.
I turn down Royal Street toward the building, feeling my legs already trying to give out on me. I should feel elated. This is what I’ve always wanted. To get away from him. To be free. To go back to my bakery, to my old life. But now, after everything, is that really what I want? I don’t know anymore. I’m so confused. I don’t even know if Percivale is alive or if I left him for dead. The thought of him dead, his body cold and bled out along his kitchen floor, has my chest seizing with pain and a sob bursting past my lips.
I thought the whole file revelation changed things. A lot of things. But that’s not totally true. I still love and care for him. I’m still sick and fucking twisted in the head. I don’t understand myself or any of this.
I chew on my bottom lip in deliberation, my gaze shifting from this way to that. I don’t know where to go. I never thought this far ahead. When you get away from your captor and make it to the authorities, what are you supposed to do? Things will never be the same. There will be countless questions, some I’m not even sure I’d be able to answer.
Would I be able to give them Percivale’s description? Tell them all the things he’s done since he’s taken me?
Ice runs through my veins at the idea. I know it’s what I need to do. I need sprint inside that station and never look back, but do I really want to do that? Now that I’m standing here, my legs feeling like jelly, I’m not so sure.
Maybe I can just go in and say that someone hit me on the head, and I don’t remember what happened? I can’t remember where I’ve been, or who took me? Yes, that’s what I’m going to do.
A group of giggling women pass by, and I stop one of them. “Excuse me, do you know if this is the police station?”
They eye me warily, their gazes checking up and down my body, probably looking for wounds at seeing the dried blood.
“Duh,” one of them says smartly. “It only says New Orleans Police Department.”
My lips thin into a grim line, and they resume their stride, going back to their giggling.
I fast walk down the sidewalk. The closer I get to the police department, it seems the streets clear out a little more. It’s not so crowded with dancing bodies and tourists over here. The sound of my feet tapping against the sidewalk echoes around me, but when there’s the sound of a second pair of footsteps—a heavier step—I slow my stride. All the hair at the back of my neck stands at attention. That same feeling of dread comes back, full force. I glance around, looking for anyone behind me or near me, but I don’t see anyone. And that’s the problem. Where did everyone go?
Swallowing thickly, I quicken my stride, trying to get to the police station quicker. Part of me wants it to be Percivale. I want him to be okay. I want him to explain himself. I want him to reverse time and make everything better. But it’s not him, I feel it deep in my bones. It seems the faster I walk, so does the mirroring footsteps behind me. It’s clear they’re following me, and the thought alone has adrenaline shooting through my body.
That foreboding chill that travels down your spine? And settles in your chest? It makes me break out into a run. My legs are wobbly with fatigue, and my chest is screaming with pain. I can see the sign for the New Orleans police station. I can almost taste the safety.
I dig deeper, run harder, run faster. But it’s not enough.
I’m too late.
A fist twists in my hair, tugging on the roots, and I scream. A hand is slapped over my mouth and a maniacal “Gotcha” is whispered in my ear. I open my mouth to scream again, but pain crashes against my skull and my eyes flutter closed, my vision honing in on that blissful black tunnel.
* * *
I wake to a throbbing pain radiating at the back of my skull. It feels like I’ve spent hours with my head hanging upside down, all the blood rushing to my forehead. Only now? The pounding is worse. It feels like someone is playing the steel drums along my cranium. A groan tumbles from my lips when I try to move my body, but I can’t seem to get my limbs to do anything. Tears prick my eyes and I try again, this time using all my strength, but still, nothing.
“Wouldn’t try to move too much, cheri.” An unfamiliar voice tsks from across the room. The voice is deep and raspy, tinged with a Creole accent. My eyes fly open and land on a man standing no more than a foot away, watching me closely, like I’m something to spectate. The man is big from what I can tell. He’s mostly hidden in the shadows, but his silhouette is almost larger than life. He gives off that same dangerous vibe I got when I first met Percivale. The thought has a lump forming in my throat.
My heart is pounding violently, and my stomach is churning as I try to process what’s happening. I glance around us, and my chest tightens as I take in the floor. There’s a drain in the center, and the dried red stains leading to it can only be one thing. The realization has bile rising up my throat. There are bars all around me, encasing me in like I’m a prisoner. This place looks like a dungeon. It’s dark and gloomy. The air is cool with a hint of earthiness to it—something old that tells me this place has been here for a while.
Or it could just be the stench of death, I think idly.
“Who are you?” My voice sounds rough, even to my own ears. The stranger doesn’t seem to mind though. He doesn’t bother answering me either. Instead there’s smooth movement from his corner. I realize he’s doing something. He digs his phone out of his pocket and places it on speaker so I can hear the dial tone. “What are you doing—”
I stop midsentence when I hear his name.
“Percivale. I’m requesting your presence earlier than tomorrow. Be here by mornin’.”
My heart twinges when I hear his deep, raspy reply. “I’ll be there.”
He’s alive.
Oh my god. He’s alive!
He sounded like he was in pain, but somehow…somehow, he’s alive and he knows whoever this man is. Did he have this person bring me here? Because I tried to kill him?
My eyes burn with a fresh wave of tears, and I shake my head, internally berating myself for being so foolish. What was I thinking?
The line clicks off and vomit rises in my throat, threatening to spill at my feet that I now realize are bound together.
“Who are you?” I ask again, keeping my voice steadier this time around. The man smirks. I can see his face muscles move in the shadows. It’s cold and calculating and sends shivers of dread down my spine.
“You needn’t worry ’bout who I am. You’ll be taken care of soon enough anyway.”
My face pales.
This is the man Percivale had contact with. And I’d bet my life this is the man that wants me dead. The backs of my eyes burn with unshed tears. Deep in my soul I know this man is Arthur.
I’m so stupid. What have I done?
“W-why am I here?” I know the answer before he says it.
“Oh, sweet Blossom Jaymes. You’ve caused me quite a lot of problems. You’ve made one of my men disloyal. I can see why he’s so infatuated with ya. You’re not like us. You’re sweet as pie—I can practically smell it on ya, cheri.”
My chest squeezes. I realize now by running away from Percivale, straight into this man’s arms, I’ve just signed our death sentences. We’re both as good as dead. And even though this is all his fault, I can’t help but feel the need to protect Percivale. To want to keep him safe. It’s insane considering I just stabbed the man hours prior.
“I-I’m not,” I find myself saying. “I’m not this sweet, innocent girl e
veryone thinks I am. Percivale showed me that.”
Arthur raises his brows. “Did he now?”
“He made me do things. Showed me things—who I really am. He did it all because he planned on killing me. He was going to kill me with a taint on my soul. So, he wouldn’t feel like he was killing an innocent woman. I get it, I really do,” I say, my voice wavering with fear. “I promise I won’t be a problem. You won’t have to worry about me, I swear it.”
Just saying the words out loud makes my heart twinge, and pain fills my chest.
Arthur smiles and shakes his head at me like I’m a child, and compared to him? Maybe I am.
He tsks. “You should never lie to a man like me, Blossom. You should know that by now.” His voice is cold as ice as he steps out of the shadows, closer to me. “The second you broke free, you started causin’ problems. Calling the police, Blossom? You’re not as smart as your file says you are.” He chuckles darkly, and I whimper.
Ice fills my veins, and I choke on my breath. That’s why the police never came…it was him. He somehow stopped it from happening. This man, whoever he is, is much bigger than I could’ve imagined.
“And that’s where you’re wrong, sweet Blossom,” he continues, talking over the panic and hysteria building inside of me. “Percivale was never going to kill you. He was going to sacrifice himself for you. His life for yours. You over his revenge. He even had someone set you up with a new life, a new identity.”
My stomach bottoms out.
What?
No, that can’t be true. That would mean he cares about me. Possibly even loves me, and he doesn’t. He can’t. That’s not Percivale.