Hellcat

Chapter 11

Wilder Sanchez

I take my shower around midday when the chilli is done cooking and I'm certain nothing is on the stove. 

I'm not really a bath bombs and bubble baths person, but I take the opportunity of my free Sunday afternoon to allow myself some rest and relaxation. The water is scented with lavender from the bath salts and the sweet floral whiff hangs in the air making my mind find it easier to relax.

I have taken out my old vinyl record, and it stirs up some relaxing classical tunes as I laze in the warm water. My hand hovers above the edge of the bathtub, holding onto a classical novel I'm supposed to read for my American Literature pop quiz this coming week. It's a book by Edith Wharton, I think the title is something with the word innocence mentioned in it. But the bathroom lights have been dimmed, the music is so soft and it all gives such a lulling effect that I end up falling asleep. 

I'm awakened by the repeated rasping at my door several minutes later. I can't of anyone who would be bothering me in my apartment at this time of the day and on this of the week. Lucas will be at church with the wifey and kid. And I've never met my landlord so it can't be him. Maybe it's my neighbour who has finally realised I was the one stealing his pills. But Mr Goldberg is a little senile so I don't think it's him. That only leaves one other person who knows that I live here. But how would Josh know this is the exact apartment I live in? He would have to go knocking around the doors of everyone in the entire apartment block? But why go through all that trouble? He could just ask me.

That means it's not, Josh dummy. Think Eli, think Eli.

The voice in my head does little to make me figure out who could possibly be at my door. At last, I decide it's a waste of my time to try figuring out who is at the door when I can go see for myself right now.

I slip into my ratty old terry-cloth robe, a gift from Lucas upon completion of a forced photography summer course in the summer before freshman year. Torn sleeve. Coffee stains. It is the comfort food of my sparse garment collection. I don't bother with slippers, wrap a towel turban-style atop my mass of wet red hair and walk to the front door.

There's no one there.

I frown.

Look around, Eli.

I don't need that wretched voice in my head to tell me to do the obvious. I think it's time I gave it a name.

I'm you, just call me Little Eli or Leli for short.

The Devil speaks.

Calling me the Devil means you are the devil as well.

Rolling my eyes, I end the argument with Leli, or should I say myself? and take a look around. There's a medium-sized cardboard box on my faded welcome mat.

I stare at it.

My name and correct home and school addresses are written on the side of the box which means it must be mine. But I don't remember placing an online order in the last two weeks. Well except the one for a new satchel for school but I had to revoke that when I realised my credit card had not been renewed so I had to get the new satchel from a flea market instead. But it's a good one made of grey waxed canvas with brown leather straps.

Consider this anonymous package a gift from the gods.

But are there even gods of the online commerce delivery world?

Doesn't matter. Take it.

For once, I decide to take Leli's advice without question.

Aw, we're finally bonding.

Is this normal that I have a voice in my head that communicates with me like an alter ego? Maybe I should go have my head checked out to be sure there's no brain damage from all those times I was carried carelessly by Lucas when I was a baby.

You were one ugly-ass baby, Eli.

Rolling my eyes, I drag the box into my living room, check the hallways one last time to be sure no one is around because I feel like I'm in the mood to tip a dispatch rider with whatever change I can spare from my seahorse pouch. However, finding no one, I proceed into my apartment, lock the door and head to my room to get dressed.

I take my time with the lotions and creams because I literally have nothing to do today. Well, at least not until two pm when I have community service with Abe but that's at least two hours away. I even get the time to style my hair and instead of the lazy ponytail I usually do, I try a French braid which only ends in disaster and pain so I wear a hood over my tank top from Old Navy to hide the mess I have made of my once luscious red hair.

The raccoons will be impressed

Shut up.

I slip on a loose pair of cargo shorts then finally head into the living room to examine the mysterious box.

I rip open the box. The first thing I take notice of are the envelopes. They are cream coloured and have a floral scent that makes me slightly dizzy the longer I inhale it. I pluck one from the bundle and I open it, carelessly so as to destroy the beauty of the envelope, and pluck out the letter in it.

I don't recognise the address at the start of the letter.

My Dearest Dwayne,

I feel sad and lonely. I miss you a lot. I’ve been thinking about you all the time. I'm missing you like crazy and I think I’m going mad. I simply can't stop thinking of the special times we had. Each moment lasts an hour and each hour lasts a day, just because you went away.

I need you here beside me. You are always in my mind, by the time I wake up till I close my eyes. I just want to see your face. I want to feel your warm body, hear your precious heartbeat and be lost in your embrace.

I gaze out of the window and look up at the moon. I miss you, Dwayne-baby. Please come back to me, come back to me soon. They say hope springs eternal. Well, I only hope it's true For I can't bear the emptiness that comes from missing you.

I Miss You!

Alicia.

It's a letter from my mother to my father. I read it again. And again. I don't realise tears are pouring down my cheeks till one plops on the paper. Carefully, I fold it up and pick another envelope. This time I'm more gentle with it. Because I know this may very well be my only opportunity to study the mind of my mother. She wrote this, from her heart. It's my only connection to her. I need to read more.

My dear,

I had a long day yesterday. A lot of work, bad traffic and crowds of people everywhere... I was really exhausted by the time I reached the house. Uncle Arturo isn't getting much better. The doctors are scared he's going to fall down dead any minute now. I sat down on the bed and wanted to turn on the TV to kill some more time before sleeping, but my mind started wandering.

Then everything just focused clearly. You appeared in front of me. Your angelic presence instantly calmed me down, my tiredness evaporated and my spirits soared turning glum into bliss. Yes, my darling, you do have that wonderful effect on me.

I remember when we first met in Uncle Arturo's restaurant. You were just a pretty-faced American to me. And you gave me that large tip and complimented me on how pretty I looked in my skirt. I was so bashful and clueless. And then you kept coming back to the restaurant. And one day, you asked me out. It was pure bliss after that.

I turned around to kiss you, only to find an empty pillow there. That's when I realized that I fell asleep and kept thinking, dreaming about you. I smiled.

Soon we will be together again. I can't wait for that time to come.

I love you so much!

Closing the letter and returning it to the box, I sift through the rest of the letters. Most of these are from my mom to my dad. But there's one that he wrote. And when I read it, I can completely understand why my mother fell in love with my father. His letter is charming and clever, straightforward but not rude.

Alicia, my love,

I have drafted this letter so many times I'm no longer sure what to even say to you. I want this to be a proclamation, without all that fluff and romantic nonsense. But when I think about you, your beautiful green eyes, your smile, your laugh, my mind turns to fluff and romantic nonsense. I have loved you from the day I met you. And I have made it abundantly clear to you.

I am writing these few lines to tell you that I cannot live any longer without you. I worship you always. I think you are a beauty and the nicest girl I ever saw and I adore you.

Being away from you both physically and mentally aches. And I can't take it anymore. So I'm coming back for you, my love.

I want you being the mom of my child and owner of our fate. I want to feel what I feel for you until the last moment of my existence because with this feeling there will be no barriers that can hold me of being together with my great love. That's you! I want to love you for the entire life not for 4 to 5 years. I want to reach acme, but this feeling will be even more joyful, if “I” can be replaced by “we”, and we both will touch the height of love, excellence and career prospect together in coming life. I will wake in the early morning to see how more beautiful life we will enjoy today.

And so I'm coming to Mexico to be with you. We'll figure things out. I want to marry you. To spend the rest of my days with you. I will see you in a few days, but for now, know that you have my heart forever.

Yours and Only Yours

Dwayne Carrero.

I'm touched by the letter. Until I remember that the same man who openly proclaimed his love for my mother brutally murdered her not too long after. I look through the rest of the stuff in the box. There's a vibrantly coloured African print fan whose origins are explained in a letter from Dwayne to my mother. He gifted her with the fan after a business trip to Cape Verde. Another thing I find is a gold locket necklace. When I open the locket, a small picture falls out. It's the first I've seen my mother's face. She's pretty, her hair is long and flows to her waist in thick black waves. Her eyes are green, like leaves in the spring breeze. She's smiling in the picture, and it looks like the picture was taken while she was in her prime, in her youth.

The final item in the box is a small black envelope, much unlike the other sweet-scented romantic ones. The paper that slips out of it is light blue and has a strand of curly red hair suck to its base with plain sellotape. The message is simple and has a chilling effect on me.

In case you were questioning your roots

Dwayne.

A rush of cold air sweeps over me as realization dawns on me. Dwayne sent me this stuff. He knows where I live. He knows where I go to school.

Lucas is right, we're not safe anymore.

For the first time since giving the voice a name, I agree with it. And this scares me less than the knowledge that my soon-to-be-free psychotic father will be on the streets in a matter of weeks.

I remember how I met Dwayne Carrero. I was a stubborn sixteen-year-old girl looking for answers. Lucas was not going to give me any. I had only recently moved out of his house. So I decided to go to the only other person who could tell me what I wanted to know. I still remember every moment of that day I went to visit my father in prison. It was the first and last time I ever saw him.

He looks everything like me. And Lucas. A jagged scar runs along the side of his face, his cheeks and temple are swollen red, tattoos cover the scabs and marks on his forehead and neck, and blood runs down his light brown stubble from his big red lips. Thick bushy eyebrows fringe his closed eyes which are littered with more bruises. The guards told me he got into a fight only a few minutes before I arrived. That's why it took so long to get the permission slips to see him. It must have been quite the fight.

From this angle, he looks more like the leader of a rag-tag biker gang. Or a notorious drug dealer. And not the coldblooded murderer and attempted murderer he is. But he appears calm, unlike a rogue, a somewhat aged yet beguiling man.

My gaze explored downwards. His shirt is torn, drenched in his blood and the blood of the inmate he fought with, and a few sizes too small for his mammoth body. I have to take a few steps back to examine his full body. I get lost staring. They hit him bad. But from the bruises on his wrists, I'd say he didn't go down without fighting. I feel compassion rise in me.

His eyes snap open and my heartbeat spikes. My feet falter.

His eyes are narrowed, rigid, cold, hard. His glowing dark eyes sparkle with malevolence. His lethal stare feels painful and piercing as if his glare is tearing my heart apart with a blinding white-hot light. All the compassion vanishes.

Dwayne. My mother's murderer. My dad. It's official. He's the scariest person I have ever seen.

His bloody lips curl up, freezing my petrified cells slowly, painfully. "Done staring at your daddy?" I'm stiff, incapable of motion or speech. He did this on purpose. He wanted me to see him beaten up, but not emotionally or mentally broken down. "I missed you so much, Sutton. That is still your name, right? Or my bastard son Lucas changed it?"

This is the first I'm hearing Wilder has not always been my name.

My ears welt. Warning bells coming alive everywhere.

"Wilder," I respond. "My name is Wilder."

"Wilder," he repeats. "Why has it taken you so long to visit your old man? Or did you not care about me enough? No, that can't be it. Lucas wouldn't let you, right?" I nod slowly, against my will. "I'm not surprised. He has always been jealous of the love I have for you."

Everything locks up. My muscles, my bones, my tissues. Pleasure fills Dwayne's eyes as they comb over me, the length of my body, (which is only as impressive as a pregnant koala), from my hair the replica of his to my shoes, lingering at places I refuse to think about. He's taking his turn to look at me. I feel violated by his stare.

He's not just looking, he's probing. He's drinking me in scintillas. And that thought scares me.

"You're such a beautiful creature I created Sutton," he marvels, his glacial eyes sparkling. "Don't you think?"

"My mom, I want you to tell me about her." Dwayne c***s his head, more interested than irritated. How shameless. "Why did you kill her? She was your wife." Dwayne furrows a brow and I force a smile. "She was my mother."

There was a time I was curious about what sort of man my father was. All those feelings are washed away the second his poisonous eyes meet mine.

Dwayne's lips twist into an irritable sneer. "She was quite pretty." The dangerous spark in his eyes grows. "And smart too. I like you, darling." The umpteenth warning bell goes off, this time it's taken the form of a chiding voice in the back of my mind. (The birth of Leli).

"I just want to know about my mother," I repeat.

He smirks. "She was smart. And pretty. And I loved her. But she was high maintenance. And she tried to take you from me. So I had to drop her."

"You're a monster," I manage o keep my voice unwavering only by some miracle because I'm on the verge of bursting into angry tears and brutalizing this man who is supposed to be my father.

"Yes I am," he replies. The smug expression on his face is like that of a jester. And a r****t. Murderer too if we're using all the appropriate epithets. "It's not something you can change sweetheart. That's who I am. It's who you'll grow up to be."

"No!" I cry. "I'm not like you."

His scraping laugh returns. "I'm definitely seeing the similar character traits in you. Your mother was a feisty one too." His gaze burns through me. At this stage, the voice in my head is screaming bloody hell and begging me to leave. But I haven't gotten what I came for. Dwayne licks his lips wolfishly. "Sexy. Just like her."

My eyes widen, my entire body freezing up as if a light touch could shatter me.

Dwayne snickers. His licentious look pours pure acid on my veins and I feel nothing but freezing panic. The last of my poise shatters and I want to scream. To run away and never look back. I feel like I'm rotting up.

That's the last of the warnings.

"I really hoped you'd better," Tears build up in my throat. I turn away from him and begin walking towards the door. I turn to look at him one last time, he blows me an air kiss, I shudder in disgust. "You're a mad man."

"Half of me exists in you. That means you're mad too."

I ignore him, gripping the doorknob tightly. I push the door open halfway.

Dwayne sits up straight. He can see the outside from where he's sitting. See the freedom he is never going to achieve because he truly is a homicidal maniac.

"Alicia," he reveals after a long period of time which I spent wondering why I ever thought it would be a good idea to visit my father in prison. "Your mother's name was Alicia."

I snap back to the present. Glaring at the short message on the blue paper, I retrieve a lighter and light a flame to a corner of the paper. I don't stop till it's nothing but ash. Angrily, I kick the box, knocking over its contents onto the living room floor. Staring at the mess clams me down a bit. I go into the kitchen for a bowl of homemade chilli and grab a bag of tortilla chips from one of the cabinets in my kitchen. Food in hand, I crawl onto my bed and grab my laptop.

Now is the perfect time to catch up on the last season of Breaking Bad.

That sounds like a good idea.

I know.

Double update! Woo-hoo!