Forgive Me

What I am Willing to Do

Back in January, I stated the docking of the boat was the beginning. Now I understand I was mistaken: tonight is the true beginning.

-2/4/1920

I felt sour knowing that, without hesitation, I had accepted the offer; knowing full well what I would have to do, I accepted it.

Now I wonder, relaying this to you, why I chose such drastic actions in order to prevent the starvation of my family. Was it really for the sake of my dear June and Lars? Was I so tainted by Abigail's words to agree without another thought? Was my heart so tired of constant rejection it could take no longer? Was the idea of losing the people I loved so vicious it brought pain worse than whatever I could cause? Or was it because something inside me stirred: the monster.

I believe every question was my reasoning, but the truth lay hidden in the depths of my consciousness and humanity. June never saw her mother as it was, for I was preoccupied with roaming around town with "hire me" on my lips. But when she did see me, it was as if nothing was duller. Abigail-- the big-haired lady with a large mouth and gentle inebriation-- was what caught her attention the most. I was no longer of any interest to my little girl; therefore, I must have seemed just as much a failure.

Let us take a moment, in this misty street and dampened heart, to delve inside my present thoughts as my past-self stumbled down the road.

Before I was ever pregnant-- before the terrors of the world war ended-- my story was dauntless. I was somebody June could confidently say was "lacking any breath but an urgent one, for every chapter began with suspense". As a young woman, my figure was bolder, striking any man who laid eyes on my garments with a sudden swelling in their lower desires. The hardworking personality was thrown from my shoulders in the night when, and only when, I could take from them their majesty.

The Earth was at war for four years and Italy, being the intrepid girl it was, wrenched free of the Central Power and joined the Allies. I was right in the thick of it, only just an inadequate adult, and spending my days defiling the good names of the Italians against the winning alliance. They had their right to believe it was a mistake, I was often brought attention to, but never was it tedious to irritate them; in fact, my daily pleasure was seeing their faces turn as red as dried beets.

Much trouble I found myself in, mind you. What once started as a process of vexation became an elimination game.

Oh, how much was I willing to sacrifice for the sake of adventure? For the sake of a good name on my shoulders?

I was about to find out.

My destination stood in front of me, glowering with a condemnatory lip and disparaging howl. I doubt it gave the many visitors to the hideous venue a judging stare, but I was the first to arrive not for pleasure but purpose. It was disgusted with the thoughts it read, not welcoming. I was a different case than others, and it was unready for the devastation my touch would leave on the business.

The Cherry Den always had been of exceptional popularity in Boston and it was easy to see why. Just the exterior was extravagant as it was with spear-head lights scattered around the massive cherry icon plastered to the building. Multiple doors led in but the windows were boarded, enticing you with poster promises of "sensual dancing", "private suites", and "the best prices in Boston". Rows upon rows of images of seductive women. Just staring at the building for too long was enough to almost draw me in for a quick look.

Heaving a sigh of unwilling confidence, I stepped into the smoking environment and scanned the crowd for an individual. It was difficult not to stare, however, when I caught sight of the midnight show in full swing upstage. Only two women stood but for good reason-- performing what was once called the striptease. They had already made their way down to undershirts, helping one another gently lift their tops off as their bulbous hips swayed to the dull music. It was more effective, I observed, when there was only a pair of females upstage, for it threw intimacy where s****l taste already resided. They gazed into each other's eyes, never taking a glance at their hooting surroundings, and caressed their throats with lingering fingers. The men in the audience, watching on the edges of their wooden booths, howled with pleasure.

Oh, how their tongues made me shiver! It was as if I had stepped into the clinch of a long-dead corpse, hoping to find inside the stillness a sense of security. But, even with the gray arms on my shoulders and their chin in my hair, I felt anything but sheltered. In any other case, what I could feel was the flicking of an unsupported jaw and pleased flies.

The crowd was thick and comprised of all sizes and shapes of men. One could not think straight in such poisoned air, nor could I when my eyes flickered from the people to the women on stage. But it brought my forceful anger upon me, and I continued my search. It was not long before the familiarity took me by shock.

There he was: the advisory male with an empty table.

It struck me how utterly insignificant his facial features rendered, especially to the ladies. How they basked in the light of the animal-- dropping their clothes and teasing the audience-- but never to this man. They targeted those with round bellies, those with striking eyes, those with abnormal clothing, those with some substance. But this man had none of it. Minimal facial hair gave way to his prominent Adam's Apple protruding from the creased opening of his corduroy sweater. The fleshy lips never closed, forever in a state of mid-breath. His legs shifted from side to side, unsure of their belonging, and his skin twitched underneath his clothing. He was uncomfortable, I reasoned, but not in the manner of lust but of genuine insecurity. He did not belong here.

We were similar, I suppose, in our undeniable urge but erratic failure to fit between the pieces of society.

Did he feel so alone as I?

I caught myself before going any farther. There was already a clot in my parietal, taking from my dry lips the sensation of morality; it could not bulge, lest my heart rebel. There could be no pity, no relation to this man. It would make my job easier.

Crossing the room, shoved and twisted in all directions, I made my way toward the mysterious man. The situation was similar to the dread one receives when tiptoeing behind a manticore. There was no sense of excitement or thrill that night, only the liquid of terror dripping down my throat. But before my feet could change their minds and turn me around, it was already an hour later before the man left.

How I managed to stay in The Cherry Den without vomiting my anxiety is unbeknownst to me. What kept my attention, instead of the eye-catchers, were those they did not wish you to see: the previous dancers sauntering off-stage to the other women, who gave each other either cold stares or smiles of encouragement; the intrepid music swaying with no clear rhythm or feel; or the slip of rings into pockets. Those were the actions I especially glowered at.

It finally came time for the man-- the uncomfortable, normal man-- to take from him the experience and waste it in the streets. He stood from his seat, dropping the jitters in his thighs and returning in a civilized matter. He gave not one glance to his surroundings as he stepped out, possibly for the memory to slip from his mind without another thought. But, in doing so, no thought was thrust upon what might be lurking behind him in the sun-sick skin and devilish grin.

What keeps me as your protagonist, you ask, when the events of the night enfold? What have I done to deserve any likability? I must remind you I never confessed to being likable, much less the protagonist of my story. No, I am the silent hunter, the red seductress, and the desperate mother.

He stepped into the February night air and stole a minute to rid himself of the building's smell. It was all over him: in his hair, fingers, breath. His internals would never, even with intense scrubbing, be free of it again. The peak of arousal still stood clear against him, but it was guilty. He did not wish to experience another moment of intimate exchange, nor stimulating peck. Consequence would rear its horned skull and it would cease to bless him with a holy life.

I took a deep breath.

Nameless, nameless. Those you leave nameless are those you forget.

I decided to be quick.

The man was turned around, and I took my chance. The pistol slipped from my undershirt, loaded with slivers of tamed fire, and sat in my palm like it was always meant to be there. It sent a shock of something painful but pleasurable down my body, stopping there in the tips of my fingers. Power, they whined. Please!

You do not simply grasp a weapon and remember how to use it without flaw, but to my aching fingertips, they cared not. What brought them excitement was the thought of crimson halos around a man's immovable head and the back of his brains staining the wall. How they yearned for it! How could I wrench the opportunity from such dire wishes?

It was swift, but I caught every millisecond of that bullet.

The force of the explosion from the barrel was familiar but shocking, creeping up my arm with shocks of recoiling worms. It flew through the air with wings of cloud matter, taking with it every splice of energy it needed to aim where my fingers had guided it. And there it landed: below the cheekbone. It took the outer skin in a circling ring around it, shredding and pressing past where it needed to be. The skull was avoided, barely, and it took a path upward. There was not enough force to propel it out the other side, but enough to instantly bring him to his back.

Adrenaline took me off my feet, carrying my weight toward the bleeding man. There was a rush of elation pumping from my pistol to my brain, imagining his heart panicking and his brain melting. What sort of thoughts was his damaged body trying to process? What tragedy had befallen him?

But, as I approached, I hesitated, for he was crying.

Tears of sticky remorse seeped down his cheeks, running over the gaping wound and into the bloodstream. His mouth was open, running fluctuating gasps of pain but never increasing to a yell. Every moment he attempted it, the gore in his system gurgled and dribbled out of his mouth. His eyes, full of pleads, met my own and begged.

I didn't want to look anymore.

The pistol's gleaming lips met his own and gave way once more, this time breaking from my stare the cries. For they could no longer exist; his face was split in four.