Forgive Me

The Damned Anniversary

In the last days before her death, Becky Rim accomplished what she had been born to do: live.

-2/13/1920

I invite you to drift away from the tedious conflict and land within the enveloped intensity of the Rim household.

Becky and Robin Rim's residence was far from the coastal sidelines of Boston and instead plopped on the inner workings of the city. There, what I had found to be bustling and disorganized near the sea was calm compared to their city life. No skyscraper was a dull gray; everything was bright and roaring at passerbys. Even buried in the snow the streets were alive with the stomps of thousands upon thousands of citizens. In parallel lines, they scuttled like crabs or galloped like stallions, never at the same pace as those around them.

The complexes raiding the square gasped for breath-- suffocating from the lack of space. They squeezed as tight as they could, clashing shoulders with their neighbors, but continued even after losing mere inches of air. Urban Boston was an ocean and every piece of life was drowning.

Stuck between two twin buildings was a complex with dozens of floors and hundreds of people. No room was unique; every number possessed only a boxed kitchen, a combined laundry room and bathroom, and a cramped bedroom. All-in-all, stepping from the door to the end of the space would only have cost you six strides. Nothing about the musty building was attractive; yet, it was bargained for like no other composite around!

Becky sat on the edge of her floored mattress, staring at her palms with exhaustion painted over her petite face. There was nothing there, of course, but, as we can learn from our dear Lady Macbeth, there is much more to an empty hand than what it lacks. Fortunately, the distraught woman was not envisioning the blood of innocent victims decorating her skin but gazing at the ring on her left finger.

For ten years that ring had possessed her. For ten years she had been restrained by silver vows. Ten years ago that night, it so happened, when she and Robin had pledged each other their lives.

Young people should never be allowed their choice of marriage, she thought to herself, especially not at the age of seventeen. They do not realize exactly how long forever is.

The horrid marriage was only made infinitely worse knowing neither of the participants were terrible people. Robin had always been a man of little furor and Becky was never a threatening person. They accented each other: her kind nature snapped into perfect composition with his timidity. No one with a brain on them would have made them out to be troubled, perhaps only a wee unexcited by each other. That is unless you knew body language cues like the back of your hand.

It was even difficult for Becky to explain why she felt so unenthused by her marriage, or sometimes even furious with it. Robin had not changed with their marriage; he was still very much a shy, withering soul with peeking bursts of manic emotion. It was her who had changed. It had not been apparent leading up to their marriage but being around such a gray person had changed her for the worse. She found her temper dwindling, her happiness draining, and her enthusiasm waning. It was as if every word he vomited out of those pale lips sucked from her the only emotions she ever wished to feel, until she was left behind as a boring, gloomy puddle.

He could not shed the imploding sensation; he brought it everywhere with him. Living with the man amplified it so much she had to step outside every few hours to breath in air that wasn't corroded by his presence.

Taking with her the spirit she thought she had lost, Becky leaped from her seat and shoved on her boots. She would not wait any longer for the poison husband to arrive for their anniversary celebration! She would not take the tenth year of silent murmurs, decreasing bliss, and disappointing s*x! No, she had a better place to be the night of her tenth year! What better place to be than with the only person who made her happy: David.

Detective Holly arranged the colorless pictures on his scrambled desk and leaned back to analyze them. The case of the dead man outside of The Cherry Den had not yet come to a close, unsurprisingly. It was a common case of lacking information: there were not enough witnesses who could confirm any statements, generally because all of them had their focus on something entirely different.

The bullets-- he turned his head to the plastic bag containing them both-- were belonging to a Colt Pocket Hammerless. The model was old-- old enough to not be sold in most shops. But knowing how ancient it was did not help him. Perhaps the only thing he could do with that information was use it in the final suspect evaluation, which would not come until he found anything else of interest.

"Marcus," he muttered, turning from the photos to the rat-man sitting on the edge of his desk, "what do you see that is of any interest here?"

The obnoxious little man turned from his seat to stare into the crime's deadly glare. They scanned, but never stopped moving. He was desperate, it seemed-- desperate to prove himself worthy of the detective's sudden notice.

"A man," he blurted, "with a bullet through his bridge and another below his jaw."

David nodded, half-listening and half-staring into the unknown space of his ceiling cases. "A man who, if shot only once, would have suffered until he bled so much he drowned. But here we have a man who was shot twice. Why do you think that is?"

"Two shooters?"

"Bah! Two shooters with the same old pistol and trembling fingers? Unlikely."

"Why else would he be shot twice, sir?"

"I can think of a few reasons, each as likely as the last." He threw his hands in the air, startling Marcus from his stutter. "I cannot be deducing off such trivial information as this! I have no reliable witness statements! No fingerprint readings off the bullets! No motive!"

"Why do you torture yourself so, sir? This may be as unsolvable as the missing child."

The detective's eyes drifted to the ceiling clippings and drooped, met with the gloating eyes of a kidnapping he could never solve. "We're looking in all the wrong places," he finally uttered. "Trembling hands mean unexperienced killers. We should not be searching for gangs but individuals-- good, innocent people who tremble when they shoot."

Marcus sighed and leaned against the side wall, itching furiously at his blotted arms. "It has only been days, sir. Do not torture yourself wi-"

BANG

That broken door, with all the strength it could muster, was swung open. In the open doorway, hands on her bulging hips, stood Becky Rim wearing a confident grin. Marcus yelped upon her thrust and tumbled off the desk while David, eyes widening, exclaimed his surprise with a laugh.

"What sort of trouble have you reared to earn such an entrance!" he chuckled, rising from his seat to pat a shivering Marcus on the back.

"A special occasion!" she replied, stepping forward with so much gusto in her step David almost did not recognize her. "Tonight is a big night and it will not be wasted! Come! You, David! And you, Marcus! We are going to pull ourselves from this dull evening and spend it like it was always meant to be spent: together!"

Before either of them could object (though I doubt they wished to), Becky had dragged them from 48 Lewis Street and into the wide-awake inner city.

"You cannot think being on the force's leash is as bad as being a reporter!" Becky laughed, pointing an accusing but humorous finger toward David. "You are allowed to wander from your task! You have some influence on their decisions! Marcus and I are under the direct supervision of the boss! One step out of his box and we lose our job! Tell him, Marcus!"

The rat-man vigorously nodded, sitting on the opposite side of the table beside the detective. "You have your own office-- hell, your own building! We are crammed in cubicles, working away!"

"Oh, but you are even lying there," she giggled. "You strap on a camera while I sit and write!"

David, clearly enjoying the playful bickering between the two, put out his arms and cleared his throat. "I object," he stated flatly. "I both sit at my desk all day and have to work under an i***t!"

The sun had allowed the moon passageway to the stars and the night was in full bloom. The three sat at a dinner theatre in the center of town-- lights dimmed and mouths full of Orange Fool. The intermission allowed the friends to bicker as they pleased, much to the dismay of their neighboring classmen, and they simply could not get enough argument out. Heartbreak House was no longer a point of interest-- now, it was work that caught their attention.

"Bah," Becky groaned, taking her hands from the tablecloth and bringing them to her lemon-creamed lips. "I would much rather discuss the production than argue about work."

"Speaking of the production," David noted, "is it not a part of Shaw's premiere? It is not cheap! How did you manage to bring us here without destroying what is left of your savings?"

She shrugged. "Who said I managed that?"

Marcus's face, already as pale as it could go, drenched in a ghostly white. "Becky!"

"How much did you spend?!" David suddenly growled, instead flashing an angry scarlet. "How much did you give up for us to be here?!"

She paused for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. "Hundred twenty," she finally murmured.

The rat-reporter, who had snuck a sip of his fool halfway through the conversation, gagged on the edge of his glass and coughed up his shock all over his handkerchief. David's knuckles paled and gripped his evening plate until it cracked under his pressure. I need not modernize the cost for you to understand; I simply need to explain it was almost as much as the leading Broadway ticket pricing today.

"B-BECKY!" Marcus yelled, jumping just from the sound of his own voice amplifying to such immense volumes.

"What payoff is there to constantly saving for the future?" she scowled. "I don't want to spend my life worrying about what may come! I want to spend it knowing I didn't waste it!"

"You just spent an entire lifetime's worth of cash," David muttered to himself, not even paying attention to Becky. How could he! His fingers were rubbing the entrances to his brow and his heart was sliding down the center of his belly! He had just eaten from silver plates, drank from gold glasses! And all at the expense of her future comfort!

"This is not a matter of living in the moment!" the scrawny reporter reasoned, though still struggling to escape the deadly grip of a ghoul. "You just made a decision that will affect the rest of your life!"

"You just did what?" came a quiet, intimidating voice from behind the clothed table.

They turned to see the husk of a man with eyes of glass and a voice of plastic. His golden hair was combed back-- arranged with the utmost caution and care-- and his Bowler hung on the edge of his gloved wrist. A necktie, matching the stripes of his undershirt, drained from his neck to his stomach, looking just as pristine as the rest of him. Despite his average appearance, the second he stepped from the backdoor to the open room, Becky could feel all the frustration and joy being sucked from her soul and cast into a demon's mouth.

"Robin," she scowled, making no effort to hide her distaste.

"Where were you!" he cried, eyes straining with tears. "I came home and you had left! Without leaving any notice, mind you! I thought you had been carried off by some beast!"

"I left of my own accord."

"Why?!"

"Sitting alone in that tiny room, waiting for you to bring your disgust to me was not something I wanted to participate in another year longer."

His expression twisted, then, from dumbfounded and hurt to a more sinister growl. "My disgust!" he roared. "Strong words coming from a woman who is never pleased!"

"That is quite enough," David interrupted, sticking two solemn hands between the arguing couple. They scowled in response. "I don't want any shouting here; we are already being eyed by the usher."

"Good!" Robin sneered, throwing the detective's arm from his path and clutching Becky's wrist. She yelped and tugged away from his grip, only to be shoved out of her seat and toward the door. "We're going home to sort out our unnecessary financial crisis."

"Let go of me!" she sobbed. "I do not wish to spend another second in that apartment!"

"Robin, you cannot make her leave against her will," David pleaded, taking Becky's other arm in his gentle grip. Even with his soft touch, though, he still held a force against the opposing man. "You are being unreasonable."

"I'm being unreasonable! My wife just spent every last amount of money we had saved on a tedious event with her friends! And on our anniversary, no doubt! Tell me, am I really the unreasonable one?"

"Despite her decisions, is this not a moment to strengthen your relationship, not demolish it?"

He growled, showing his perfect whites curled around the outline of his enraged lips. His figure was stripped of any repentance; instead, they shrieked for the death of the detective and the submission of his wife.

"I see how you reel them in," Robin whispered between his teeth. "You charm them with your looks, then you make them feel as if they need to earn you. You plant ideas in their heads-- ideas that what they have is not good enough. They believe what you have is good enough. Do you not see, oh Detective Holly? You are the reason she is so unhappy!"