Page 38 of Erik

Leaving underwear and purse behind, she turns tail.

Rooted to the spot, I watch her waddle out of the room. Her sobs wrench my soul. I want to chase her, fold my arms around her, shield her form the evils of this world. But I'm the evil haunting her. Impotent again, like the boy I once was, I dig my nails into my left wrist. I could never save the people I love. It’s my fault they get hurt. Or die.

When warmth trickles down my hand, I cast my stare down. Blood oozes from a gash. I grab Christine’s blindfold from the floor, binding the wound. Collecting her underwear, I unfold from the chair, stick the lacy garments in her purse, and drag my feet upstairs.

Finding the front door wide open, I step outside, and call out, “Dex.”

When the chauffeur emerges from the garage, I point to the driveway. “Ms. Daee’s left on foot. Make sure she gets home safe.”

“Absolutely,” he replies, accepting the purse I give him, and getting behind the wheel of the car parked at the curb.

Fighting for air, I press a hand to my chest. A black void gapes where my heart used to be. I amble back into the house. In a daze, I end up in the music room. The sight of the piano unleashes the demons. I clutch the poker by the fireplace.

Growling, I lift it above my head, and holler, “I’m a fucking monster.” I thrash the keyboard with the metal rod. Aiming at the wooden body, I flog it as I yowl, “I don’t deserve her.” Splinters fly up and around as I hack the wooden panels. “My twisted soul scared her away.”

When I’ve smashed the piano into smithereens, I collapse against a wall. Sliding to the floor, pressing my hands against my ears, I whisper, “My sins poison everyone I love.”

15

Christine

Blurred vision makes negotiating my steps down the driveway much harder, but I wobble on. Taking in deep breaths, blowing out long sighs, I try to cool down the dread wringing my guts like an iron hand. I pant, clench a fist to my mouth, but nothing works. I halt when the bitter taste of bile swirls in my belly. Bending at the waist, I swivel, hurl the contents of my stomach on the grassy roadside, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Squeezing my knees, I ride out the shudders, dry heaving. My head throbs, my chest aches. All I want to do is curl up into a ball and die.

The beam from headlights inches out of the bend and illuminates my state of disarray. I raise a hand to my eyes to protect them from the glare. The Phantom rolls by, tinted windows make it impossible for me to peek inside. I rub my nape when my lungs lock at the prospect of facing Erik.

I can’t deal with him now.

The car pulls over a couple of feet away. My heart plummets into my stomach. I grip the base of my throat, sore from wailing like a banshee in Erik’s basement.

Dex steps out of the limousine, opens the back door, and advances to stand in front of me. With a brief nod, he offers an arm crooked at the elbow, and asks, “Ma’am, if I may?”

I stare at his fingers, inching up until his head. Salt-and-pepper hair matches the age lines around his eyes resulting in a trustworthy face. He was old enough to be my father. Not that older men never hurt me before. I shudder, from memories, not cold.

He tsk-tsks, “Come, child.” He drapes an arm around my shoulder, steadies my jiggling steps. “Let’s get you home safe.”

His earnest tone wins me over, and I collapse against his chest. He helps me climb on the back seat, and I breathe a sigh of relieve finding no one else.

Dex pours water into a tall glass, handing it to me.

My shaking hand spills the liquid on my thighs, and the carpeted floor. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s fine. Did you want something stronger?”

Did I ever?

I shake my head. Alcohol plus the mix of emotions bubbling in my head equals recipe for disaster.

I wrap both hands around the glass, gulping the content in one go. “Thank you. I feel much better now,” I assure him.

He scans my face for a couple of beats, knitting his eyebrows. He waits until I pour more water into the glass, without dropping much of it on my lap, to withdraw and straighten his back.

Getting behind the wheel, he starts the car, pulling away. He glances at me through the rearview mirror. “I can keep the partition down, if you prefer.”

I lift the corners of my lips in a vacant smile, “Appreciate it. I’m fine.” I point to the phone I’ve just grabbed from my purse. “I’ve got to make a call.”

He nods, rolls up the partition. As we cross the front gate, I scroll the list of contacts to my old therapist’s. With a finger hovering the call button, I stare at the tiny clock on the screen. Considering the time difference, it’s an indecent hour to call someone in Boston. Dr. Perlman would be the first to remind me, she’s given me this number for emergencies.

Butterflies taking off in my stomach, ice freezing my veins, I push the tiny icon to call the woman who’s saved my life more times than I care to admit.

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