Chapter 8- What's Left Behind
1470 Words
I don't know how long I slept after burying Daniel and disposing of his truck.
All I know is that my dreams are riddled with ice-cold hands wrapped around my throat.
Screaming.
The long drive out of town.
The sting of nettles against my hands as I pull the truck onto the shoulder of a deserted road and disappear it beneath tangled overgrowth.
The blisters burning on my feet as I slowly make my way home.
Headlights.
An old man's smile behind an outstretched hand, weathered by a thousand wrinkles.
Let me give you a ride home, darlin'.
Frank Ocean drifting from a crackling radio as his beat-up junker rattles down the highway.
My name's Martin.
A wife named Roberta.
Three children.
Eight grandchildren.
Twelve great-grandchildren.
He waves goodbye as I hobble away.
A shadow stands in my front window.
I blink.
It's gone.
One step...
Two...
Three...
Hands hard as steel clamp around my ankles.
I'm back in the basement.
I fall...
and fall...
and fall.
Bones snap.
Blood spreads warm beneath me.
I open my eyes.
Daniel lies beside me.
His neck bends the wrong way.
His arm is broken in too many places.
Blood stains his lips.
He smiles.
"Wake up, Lucy-Goosey."
When I bolt upright in bed my head sounds and feels like the inside of a drum, pounding and throbbing so hard that my stomach twists in protest when I sit up. My throat feels like I spent the night eating fiberglass insulation.
Water.
I need water. Now.
More pounding.
Is that someone at my door?
I haul myself out of bed with a groan that sounds more like a pathetic squeak.
I shuffle stiffly to the joining bathroom and turn on the faucet. I don't bother with a glass. I just drink greedily from the tap.
How long have I been asleep?
What day is it?
I struggle to navigate my own house with my head spinning and my body aching in places I didn't know I could feel all the way to the front door. I open the door at the third round of aggressive knocking, and I immediately regret waking up.
Daniel's mother, Hillary, stands in the doorway looking as though she stepped out of the pages of a magazine. Burgundy lipstick. Pearls. Not a strand of silver-blonde hair out of place.
She looks annoyed.
She usually does.
As soon as I open the door she steps inside and pushes past me.
I don't fight.
There is no point.
I shut the door and turn to face her with my back against it.
"Daniel isn't home, Hillary," I say. My voice cracks. "I'm... sorry."
"Clearly," Hillary says while surveying the house. "He hasn't been answering his phone. Now his partners at the firm are calling me asking me where he is."
Hillary sets her designer purse on the counter and finally looks at me.
"Care to enlighten me, Lucille?"
I freeze.
I can't help it under her cold gaze. It's like looking into the eyes of Medusa.
At my hesitation she sighs in exasperation, and looks me up and down.
"You look terrible," she chastises. "What on earth have you been doing?"
She crosses the room and reaches for my wrist without warning. I flinch.
"Honestly, Lucille," she murmurs, as though I'm the one being dramatic.
She leads me to the laundry room, catches the hem of my sweater and pulls it over my head before I can object.
She freezes when she sees the black-and-blue bruises blotching my skin. I stand before her in nothing but a tank top and shorts.
At first, I think she will be horrified for me, ask me what happened and kick into motherly mode. But when I look up at her face I only see a flicker of shock before it is immediately buried under cold resolve.
"You really must learn not to provoke him." she says as she turns away to throw my dirty sweater into the washing machine.
"I expect you to follow our family traditions, though you have been so defiant of them up to this point." She waves a hand from my head to my feet.
"Look at what that has gotten you."
She begins rummaging through the closet for detergent.
"That being said," she continues "I expect that you and Daniel will stop living in sin and be married soon. Marriage takes compromise. Resolve."
She turns to me with a painted smile.
"Marriage is difficult. Women these days simply don't have the fortitude that our generation did."
She dumps detergent into the washer and shuts it.
She pulls a towel out of the closet and thrusts it into my chest without looking back in my direction.
"Shower."
I start to protest, but she shuts me down with a dagger-like look.
"Shower." She says in a low voice. Then she pats my hand softly, almost grandmotherly.
"You go freshen up dear," she smiles sweetly. "I'll put on some tea. Then we can talk about Danny."
I only hesitate for a moment.
The only people I fear more than Daniel...
...are his parents.
Hillary Ashford wears pearls to church, cuts ribbons at charity fundraisers, and smiles for every newspaper photographer in the county.The public calls her an angel. Behind closed doors, she is as warm a Christmas frost.
Scott Ashford is the state attorney. Harvard. Golf with the mayor on Saturdays. Handshakes with judges. Photographs with governors.
Every few years, rumors drift through town like smoke.
Drugs.
Weapons.
Human trafficking.
Then the rumors disappear.
Sometimes...
So do the people who started them.
Once, over dinner, Scott lifted his wineglass and smiled.
"Nomen est omen."
The name is everything.
I take my time in the shower. I let the hot water run over my skin, melting away the bitter chill from the past few days. Blood and grime swirl together before disappearing down the drain.
Assessing my injuries in the mirror, I am truly shocked that Peter and Martin overlooked what they saw.
Bruises bloom across my body in vivid blacks and purples. Deep, finger-shaped bruises circle my neck where Daniel's hands had dug into my skin. Tiny cuts and scrapes lace my arms and side. My eyes are surrounded by crimson and violet bruising, one stretching across my left cheek and into my temple. A jagged cut splits the bridge of my nose, sealed beneath a dark scab.
I'm not surprised at all by Hillary's reaction, or lack thereof.
Daniel's cruelty had to come from someone. If it's not Hillary herself dealing out the blows it is certainly her husband.
I pull on a robe and leave my hair damp and knotted. As I walk toward the kitchen, cold shock courses through my veins.
Daniel is standing by the kitchen entryway, the way he used to when he watched me.
This time, though...
there was no coldness in his face.
There is sorrow.
Longing.
Grief.
I press my palm against my chest to steady the frantic beating of my heart.
I watch Daniel from the hallway. He walks into the kitchen, reaching for his mother as she sets up the tea cups.
His hand passes right through hers.
She doesn't even flinch.
She turns to retieve the kettle and walks right through them, as though he is made of mist.
I watch the shock register on his face and he reaches for her again.
His hand passes through her shoulder.
Again.
Again.
and again he tries to grab a hold of his mother. He tries to embrace her. Hold her.
She never looks around, never sees him.
To her, he is really gone.
His back is turned to me, and I watch him lower his head. His shoulders slump. For the first time in years, I feel something other than fear for Daniel.
I feel pity.
I almost reach out to him, even though I know it would look strange to Hillary to see me reaching for something she cannot see. I don't care.
Once upon a time, I loved him enough that seeing him hurt still hurts me.
As if he can feel my eyes on him, Daniel's shoulders tense up. He turns, coiled.
Rage is etched into every detail of his face.
"Look. What. You. Did."
He spits every word with hatred.
At first, he looks how I remember him, before he died. Now I am watching his body change.
His left arm drops first.
There is a wet crunch.
It folds where no elbow should bend.
Another crack.
His shoulder sinks lower.
His neck jerks violently to one side.
Snap.
The angle is wrong.
Horribly wrong.
His eyes cloud over into milky blue orbs.
Lifeless.
His blackened lips twist up into a grimace. His flesh looks decomposed. He glares at me.
"LOOK WHAT YOU DID TO ME." He screams.
- Writer
