“No, ma’am. Not that I’m aware of.” The relief in his hurried words leads me to believe he’s telling the truth.
“Thank you, Detective Briggs. I think that’s all, then.” I stand and extend my hand, which he accepts with a remorseful glint in his eyes.
“I am truly sorry, Mrs. Kirkland.”
“It’s Donati.” The correction is unexpected. I hadn’t even contemplated changing my name back, but suddenly, I know it needs to happen. I’m not worthy of the Kirkland name. And besides, I can’t escape my Donati ties with a simple name change. Not unless I moved away and completely started over. What would be the point in that? The damage is already done.
Briggs nods with a frown. “I’ll walk you out.”
“No need. I can find my way on my own.” I don’t wait for him to challenge me because in a small way, I need to prove to myself that it’s possible. That I can navigate the world on my own since that is the only acceptable path for me.
A beautiful young man lost his life because of me. A man I loved, despite the flaws in our relationship. He was fun-loving and sweet and had his whole life in front of him—all snuffed out because of the danger surrounding me.
I will never,everallow such a thing to happen again.
When I think of the heartbreak I’ve caused, I physically stumble from the pain. I don’t know how Craig’s mother could stomach to look at me. All those people at the funeral—were they all watching me, wondering how I could be so incredibly selfish and heartless?
A barrage of crushing thoughts assails me as I rush home. I need to escape the eyes of the world, but even once I’m alone behind locked doors, there’s no hiding from my shame.
I will never stop seeing the blood that stains my hands.
And I don’t want to.
I must always remember the damage I’m capable of inflicting on others. And to that end, I allow the images of my dead husband’s mutilated body to wash over me, finally giving in to the violence of my grief as I collapse to my knees.
I haven’t leftmy apartment in a week. I resigned from the soup kitchen. They suggested I might change my mind in a few months. I won’t. Everything is different now, and it’s never going back to the way it was.
My mom has come by to see me, and though she’s worried, she’s given me space to grieve. She doesn’t realize it’s so much more than that.
The guilt is acid eating at my insides.
I hate that I could have been so hopelessly naive, and worry I’ll make another similar mistake. What if I see a friend at the market? What if an enemy sees us talking and decides to use my friend as leverage or punishment? Have my eyes been opened wide enough to know when I’ve put someone at risk?
Without the answers, I can’t make myself rejoin the world, which is how I find myself sitting on my bathroom floor at 1 a.m. with a candle in my hand. My sleep patterns are a mess. And television only numbs the pain for so long. I wander my apartment like a ghost stuck in a world where I no longer belong.
Do people use candlesticks anymore?
We were given a pair of Tiffany crystal candlesticks for our wedding. I’ve never been a crystal sort of girl, so the gift went in a cabinet along with the white candles that go with them.
During my late-night wandering, I didn’t want to turn on the harsh lights and remembered the candles. I grabbed one along with a lighter and ended up on the plush rug in front of my bathroom vanity.
Why there? Your guess is as good as mine.
Nothing in my life makes sense anymore. Why should tonight be any different?
I light the wick and am instantly enchanted by the dancing flame. Its soft curves are such a beautiful contrast to its devouring nature. Soothing calm with violent potential.
I wish I were a flame.
The world would be too scared to cross me. But that’s not my nature. I can’t be anyone other than who I am.
My existential wonderings are interrupted by a sudden searing pain. Hot wax has dripped from the candle onto my inner thigh.
I hiss and jerk my hand away, causing another series of drips to plop across my leg. The pain is intense but brief. Almost instantly, the wax begins to cool, hardening to an opaque white.
The transformation fascinates me.
As does the newfound absence of my seemingly incessant thoughts.
