And despite my best efforts to stay present, I feel myself disconnecting, hazy and hovering as I pound him, some distant part of me imagining each hit I land is on my father, while another part just wants to cry for the poor bastard in front of me. For both of us.
Blood splatters me with every hit I land, like I’m fighting a pile of macabre water balloons, bursting upon impact. Blood gurglesout of his mouth as his ribs break, his breath sluggish and wet. Blood seeps under my nails, into my soul, but I keep pounding on him until I’m certain he’s not waking up again. No one should have to wake up after their body has become nothing more than a bag of crushed bones and sinew.
I know exactly how that feels, and it’s enough to want to kill yourself to get away from the pain, if only you could move a single part of yourself to make it happen. And I won’t let Clara ever feel that way, not if I can help it.
Even if it means killing a man with my bare hands.
When I finally return to my body, I want to vomit looking at what I’ve done. I want to run away, to cry, to scream. To disappear from my reality again.
Because in this reality, I’m a killer.
My hands shaking, I struggle to find a place on the remains to check for a pulse, but it’s impossible. Until I take hold of his perfectly intact ankle and verify that there’s nothing left of the bookish man I met earlier.
Glancing at the camera in the corner, I want to rage, to yell, to do something to show how fucked-up this all is. But I don’t. Instead, I knock on the door to be let out.
I barely hear Smith’s reaction, which sounds like something between impressed and annoyed, but the retching of the guard I don’t know is loud and clear in the bushes beside the porch.
Following the well-worn trail to the side of the house, I strip off my clothes, then hose myself off, stuffing everything into a garbage bag Falk hands me. In exchange, I get some too small sweats, sandals, and a t-shirt, the tension of it all squeezing me, keeping my sanity questionable.
My nerves are on fire. My mind wants to flee. And now I’ll spend the next hour as a stuffed sausage.
Smith comes around, an old-school VHS in his hand. “Got it from the lockbox. Ready?”
Falk watches me, trying to gauge where I’m at. Then time gets fuzzy for a bit until the gate to the mansion opens, the winding drive ominous at four in the morning. I’m almost back to Clara, so I focus on my breathing again, on the stench of Smith’s shampoo in front of me, on the smooth leather of the seat beneath me, on the gagging coughs of the other guard whose name I don’t want to know.
A buzz has Falk pulling out his phone, and by the time we’re out front, he shoves it into his pocket. “Guess you did well enough for a bed and some comfort tonight,” he says, his voice heavy on sarcasm when he says ‘comfort.’
Which means he saw the video of Clara and me yesterday. Or two days ago now. I should be glad he bought our act.
I should feel something about anything.
But enough haze remains—I’m not strong enough to push it away. I’d rather drop out of it and crumble than force myself to feel much of anything right now.
Only then I’m standing in the blue room, the door locking behind me and a small lump in the middle of a huge bed huddled in front of me.
I just killed a man.
And they locked me in a room with a woman they think doesn’t want me.
I stand there, trying to grab onto the pieces of myself I need to not be a monster, to not be a wreck, to not be a goddamn Westerhouse, until the black of night fades.
And in that gray light, I see dark eyes staring back at me.
Awake. Waiting. Uncertain.
Sad.
For me.
Before it gets light enough for the camera to see much more than our shapes, she dips her chin, giving me permission.
But I already took a life tonight.
I can’t take anything else. Not from her. Not from me.
What would I give to go curl up in her arms, to feel what just happened? To mourn that man and my own damned soul? To have her hold me close and comfort me?
Instead, I lock myself in the bathroom, telling myself that I don’t know how long I’ll have here, that I should take advantage of getting cleaner than I could with a garden hose at three in the morning.
