Outer Banks And Outcasts

Somebody rings my doorbell. I get up from the couch where I’ve been cleaning out my uncle’s numerous assorted pistols, and when I open the door, there she is. A young teenage girl with really long ginger red hair and bloody hands is standing at my doorstep. She’s breathing all heavily and distorted. Her head is lowered, gazing at her own two feet. She grips tighter on to the pocketknife she has in one hand, so tight that her knuckles are turning white. “You’re late,” I reprimand her. She doesn’t respond. Her overly freckled face is still drawn to the floor, and her whole body is trembling. I try reaching one hand out to pull her inside before someone sees us, even though we’re in the middle of the woods. But before I can touch her, she suddenly lifts her head up and tilts it to one side. Her eyes, like twin dark blue moons, once empty and devoid of a life’s purpose, are now staring at me with a glow of pure malice. A vindictive serial killer’s smile crosses her lips as she says, “I did good, didn’t I?” As if to add dramatic effects to the moment, a flash of lightning strikes in the surrounding forest, merely a few trees away from my cabin hideout. Thunder booms directly overhead. There’s a severe storm brewing and coming in from the west, but I bet it pales in comparison to the one raging on inside of her right now. The wind is starting to pick up, rustling all the tree branches and blowing her long red hair to one side. I don’t think twice when I grab her by the arm and quickly drag her inside. I make sure to clutch her wrist of the hand that’s holding the knife in case she tries to stab me, and judging by the crazy look in her eyes, she just might. Once she’s inside, I notice splatters of blood in her hair as the strands glow bright orange under the artificial yellow light and flow behind her as I pull her inside and slam the door shut. Her clothes, mostly the sleeves of her light blue blouse, also have bloodstains, and look like washing them out is no longer an option. I’m going to have to let her borrow one of my shirts again. I’ll need to go clothes shopping at this rate. Still dragging her, I lead her into the living room and have her sit on the couch. Letting go of her arms, she surprisingly doesn’t make a move like I expect. Either she’s too tired or her sanity is gradually returning. I’m standing in front of her now, my figure looming over her and my shadow is cast over her small frame. After a moment, I ask her, “Can you please give me the knife?” Since I’m giving her a choice by asking her instead of telling her as well as using the word “please” in my question, she doesn’t feel the need to be hostile. She slowly lifts her arm up towards me and releases her grip on the knife’s handle, allowing me to grab it from her as calmly as possible. If I were to snatch it from her, she may have second thoughts. The blade is slick and coated in blood. Keeping the murder weapon isn’t a wise idea, but we are already low on resources as it is, and, somehow, as it has always been with me, parting with it just doesn’t feel right. I look back at her and notice she’s shaking like a leaf. Automatically, I grab one of the blankets laying on the couch, unfolding it and draping it over her shoulders. She look up at me again, but her serial killer’s smile has faded into a frown along with the overwhelming glow of malice in her eyes, which is but a slight blue glimmer now. Guess she’s gradually going back to her normal self. I heave a sigh and decide to go wash off the blood from the knife in the kitchen sink. Walking over there with the open floor plan of the room giving him access to continue monitoring her behavior that is seemingly getting worse and I think I know why. I turn the faucet on the hot water setting and steam bellowed above as I pour dish washing soap on the blade. Only the hottest water is enough to clean off blood from a pocket weapon. It’s a trick my uncle taught me when I was little. Awkward silence filled the entire cabin. Outside, the rain already started as it patters heavily on the windows. Sounds more like a beast pounding the tips of its claws on the glass over and over again. The television is still showing an old gangster movie that plays on a cheesy rerun channel, and the current scene displays a bunch of mobsters getting shot repeatedly in a firefight. Probably not the best thing for her to be watching right now. With as much tension in the air as there already is, I decide I need to ask her, “So, Michaela, was the person you killed someone you knew?” I use her name as if to show significance, trying to give the impression that I’m interested in her. If she thinks I want to know more about herself, the feelings of comfort and desiring to express oneself will follow, and she will enlighten my curiosity. But that doesn’t happen. About a minute passes and I don’t hear her reply. I turn my head to look at her, and for the first time, I can’t tell what emotion she is feeling. She sits still like a statue, her hands clasped at her chest. But I can say for sure that she definitely knew the person in some way. I saw it in her eyes. “…I did good…I had to have done good, right? …I must have…” she repeats to herself as if to reassure herself that the wrong she has committed is the right thing to do, yet there’s no emotion in her voice or her face. I’m not unnerved by this, though. I’ve honestly had more than enough moments in my own life where I didn’t like someone and just chose to get rid of them. I totally understand where she’s coming from, and I guess an analogous situation happened to her while she was out tonight. Her eyes are glued to the television that was left on in the background while I was cleaning out his guns. It may not be so safe to have left them on the coffee table in front of her like that, but thankfully they’re all unloaded. Even if she does try to grab one and make off with it, she won’t get far before realizing the empty cartridge, and only I know where the extras are hidden. I glance over at her through the corner of my eye and yell across the room, “You should really take a shower to get all that blood out of your hair.” “I’m too tired…I don’t feel like taking a shower now,” she says, surprisingly serious. “How do you expect to sleep and not get bloodstains on the pillows, then?” I inquire. She responds with, “I’ll wrap my hair in a towel.” “If not tonight, then definitely take a shower tomorrow,” I sigh again as I’m down to the nitty gritty of scrubbing the bloody knife. Once it’s clean, I leave it in the dishrack to dry. I next grab a spare dishcloth and soak it in warm water from the sink, ringing it out, and then carry it over to her. She seems in trance from the violent and gory movie flicks on the TV screen, but moments later, when she finally notices me standing over her, she just stares up at my face as I hold out the cloth to her in one hand. “Here. At least use this to get the blood off of your hands,” I tell her. She slowly and gingerly takes the damp cloth and begins wiping her own two hands with it. She hardly puts any effort into scrubbing, though. Like she doesn’t want to get clean. Like she doesn’t care if her skin is covered in someone else’s blood, as if she’s marking it as a trophy or a symbol, like a reminder of her actions. That’s just gross. Without thinking about it, I sit down on the other end of the couch. Moments of being quietness pass after Michaela finishes wiping her hands and holds onto the dishcloth with her hands on her lap. We are both watching the TV now, just as the movie showing switches over to a less suspenseful scene depicting the mobster’s family and their everyday life at home, which is uncomfortably full of swearing and kissing. However, it doesn’t take long until Michaela breaks the silence by wondering aloud, “How come those people are so capable of outflanking the police?” That’s a strange question. I just stare at her. Then she turns her gaze to me, and after merely staring at each other for what felt hours, I ask, “What?” “It’s just…the people in this movie are killers, aren’t they?” she expands her thinking, but still not enough for me to understand. “So what if they are?” I inquire. “I’m curious is all,” she continues, “People who have killed another or are trying to kill another are criminals, right? Criminals have to be arrested by the police and taken to jail. But these killers are roaming freely on the streets, and aside from them constantly looking over their shoulders, they act totally normal while they’re carrying guns and knives and other kinds of weapons on them. And they just keep going on killing others.” I ask, “And your point is?” She just stares at me. Right now, Michaela is making about as much sense as a five-year-old kid’s logic trying to process after having discovered something like p**n. It soon hits me that she’s looking for an answer to this thing that seems to be deeply puzzling her. It frustrates me and I clench my fists out of being annoyed, but then I decide to along with the conversation. “Uh, first of all, those people are part of a very discrete underworld network of groups of families with particular ethnic backgrounds dating back a couple hundred years when immigrants were still piling into the U.S.,” I take a huge inhale before continuing, “And they pretty much can get away with their crimes like killing because it’s virtually not possible to track them all down.” “How do they do it, though?” she questions. I sigh before speaking again, “I don’t know. Something to do with police records, I guess. Besides, they’re more in the big city. We’re in a small town. There’s a significant difference to how much ground they can cover.” “But if the police had those records, they could arrest those criminals?” “Like I said, it’s not possible.” “Why, then?” “What is it about this that’s making you so interested, anyway?” I really don’t need to ask, but I feel like I should. Michaela pauses to think of what words to use to respond, “Don’t you think it’s wrong to let a killer not be in jail? I mean, they committed something unforgivable. And if they’re unwilling to atone for their sins, what should they do?” I can tell right off the bat who she’s talking about, “Well it’s not like you’re in the clear, either. You’ve probably got as much blood on your hands as I do,” he states, finally fed up with this. This only makes Michaela tense up even more. Her eyes are wide as if she has just come to a horrifying realization, and she can no longer make eye contact with me. At the same time, the conversation drops, to my relief, and I look back at the television but doesn’t really pay any attention to the movie’s plot. Minutes pass like this, and the awkwardness is only growing. I cannot help but feel I’ve made things worse for the red-head girl sitting a mere few feet away from me. Being considerate of someone else, it sickens me to my core. Suddenly, Michaela whispers, “I don’t want to go to jail.” “Don’t tell anyone what you did,” I add on. “But surely someone will find the body eventually, and there will be evidence. Then the police will get involved. It’s only a matter of time.” “Go into hiding, then.” “But the people I live with will realize I’m gone and report me missing.” “You can skip town.” “With what money? And even then I’d still get caught.” “Change your identity.” “I don’t know how to do that.” “Well I don’t know what else you want from me!” I finally snap. Glancing back at her, she has become a shaking nervous wreck. The sclera in her eyes are all red and watering up, trying to hold back the tears. She knows what she did was wrong, but it didn’t matter to her in the moment. This girl has a good sense of judgement between what’s right and what’s wrong, but it gets clouded up when stressed. It’s not particularly different from my younger self. I still remember the way it felt when I hit me. Even the aftershock of how I’d stab or shoot the bastards. “Even so, I appreciate it,” Michaela comments unexpectedly. “What do you mean?” “You know. You’ve let me stay here for these past few days. It’s really nice having someone else to talk to, don’t you think?” I’m baffled, but I still reply, “I’m used to being alone. But I guess…it can get boring sometimes.” “Right.” Silence takes over again, and we are left with our own thoughts. She must be wondering how much longer she has until the worst case scenario, and it’s making her shudder from fear. Meanwhile, noticing that the situation is taking a toll on the poor girl, the questions begin to rise inside my mind. Why did I let her into my home? Why can’t I stop worrying about her? Why did our paths keep crossing? Why couldn’t I take my eyes off of her the first time I saw her? Why did I become so interested in her predicament in the first place? Unfortunately, I have no answers. All the more aggravating in the end. If there is a button that can let me go back in time to change the outcome from any circumstance in his life, I probably wouldn’t have pressed it. But that was before I came across Michaela in the woods three days ago. Instinctively, and in no mood to talk anymore, I stand back up and starts to gather an armful at a time of the pistols still resting on the coffee table to put them away. The case that stores them is right in the living room. I can sense Michaela’s cold and vacant eyes staring at me as he begins to stock each gun to their appropriate shelf, drawer, or hooks. I feel quite uneasy and a shiver runs up my spine, but I don’t let on that I’m getting nervous. Once I finish, I make sure the case is closed and locked, jiggling the handles a few times to ensure its security, and then I turn my head back to look at her. She hasn’t moved from her spot on the couch. Her face is drawn back to the television screen (did I just make it up that she was glaring at me before?) with her eyelids half shut. She blinks several times very slowly, and her head looks like it’s ready to collapse forward as it keeps dipping forward but catches herself every time. “You should probably go get some sleep,” I state, pointing one finger towards the hallway where the bedrooms are. She yawns loudly, “But I…I don’t think I can…get up right now.” “Well, I’m not carrying you to bed, if you think that’s going to happen!” I practically shout, and I can tell how exhausted she is, but I still don’t hold back. “It’s fine,” she tries to assure me, “I’ll just sleep right here tonight,” and as she says it, she shifts her body sideways, pulling her legs up onto the couch and laying her head on one of the throw pillows. She starts curling her body, wriggling her legs around beneath the blanket she’s still tucked under. Her knees bend just enough to reach her chest, and she closes her eyes and immediately drifts off. She’s making herself quite at home, it seems. This infuriates me, but all I do is let an irritated “Tch!” escape from my lips before I walk over to turn off the television with the remote control. Pressing the power button, the screen fades to black during a cliché movie scene where the hero confronts the bad guys. I take one last look at Michaela who is already sleeping soundly, barely budging and getting blood on the throw pillows. A slight smile crosses her lips. I thinks she must be feeling better now and I can’t help but wonder what she’s dreaming about, but then I shake off those thoughts, disgusted with myself. She moans, “…Outer banks…” Those words puzzle me every time. My guess is she’s a sleep talker and she must be dreaming about something related to what she says. However, over the course of the nights she’s been here, “outer banks” is the only thing she says in her sleep. Repeating the same phrase, over and over again. It’s starting to feel like there’s meaning to those words, but what? Stifling a yawn, I decide I should go to sleep, too. I walk over to the entrance of the hallway leading to the bedrooms, and I flick the light switch to the living room off before I continue my way to my bedroom. Leaving the door open so I can keep any activities in the living room within earshot, the light of the hallway seeps into the room. It doesn’t bother me, and I realize how tired I am after another entire day of being agitated from thinking and worrying about her. I plop down on my stomach onto the bed and shut my eyes slowly, as if trying to assure myself nothing will go wrong tonight. Not that it has yet, but my better judgement keeps screaming that she might try to get into the gun case if I let my guard down. It’s a rough fifty-fifty chance, but I’m so sleepy that my mind quickly succumbs to slumber within seconds, and the dream I am met with is the same recuring one that is actually a real memory from my past. I was just a little boy when it happened, and it happened more often than not, watching from a very close distance as the sensibly insane gunman pinned down his target. The targeted man was bleeding profusely from the head, with barely any energy left to grip the ankle of the heavy boot that had stomped on top of his chest. Staring into the poor bastard’s eyes like how a predator sees its prey, the gunman, who I just happened to be related by blood to, always inquires before making the finishing blow, “So tell me, what does it feel like now that you’re dying?”