Page 15 of Judas
Naaaaah.
Old officer habits die hard—observe and do NOT report.
Chapter five
Babalon
Today
Ihaven’t seen Warren since that day. Good riddance, slimy fucker. Being a journalist is bottom of the barrel work in my opinion. Right up there with scammers and mailorder brides. Feeding on gossip and the pain of innocent people, making money off misery. Luckily, access to social media such as YouTube was restricted while I was in Bluitt. If it didn’t serve as a point of rehabilitation or education, then it wasn’t allowed.
Now that I’m out? Free game.
To say curiosity killed the cat is an understatement. The longer I drove, sans music because the new shit people are jamming to is absolutely terrible. Instead, I choose to listen to the road noise versus any of the new age pop that initially poured out ofthe speakers like the curdling sound of dying cats. The further I drive, the more I want to see what bullshit Warren has been spinning online for years.
Needing a bit of shut eye, I pulled over into a truck stop about an hour or so ago. The route Ra keeps plugging into the car's GPS is long and arduous to keep it simple. Makes it kinda hard to remain interested in the experience of driving, especially since it’s been so long since I’ve sat behind the wheel. Obviously I should be napping, but this fancy looking phone looms in my hand as I eyeball the smooth, shiny, screen. Curiosity nags at the back of my head—a festering wound that has an ongoing blood supply and continues to grow.
Remembering how to operate the damn thing, courtesy of Ez, I slide my finger across the screen and watch it come to life. Technology is fascinating. Prior to my lockup, most phones flipped, with the fruit phone just starting to debut. It takes me a few moments but I eventually find YouTube. That’s where Warren likes to post his shit at.
“Warren’s Faust,” I say, right after I press the little microphone button. Watching as letters fill the search bar, the phone miraculously starts searching for his content. My eyes widen, brows nearly knocking my entire forest of hair right off my scalp, when I see just how many videos this fuck has posted.
One right after the other pops up, and in each one I see coverage of my case, from my mugshots when I was first taken in, to my photo at the prison when I got my ID. Pictures of me in my jumper, walking to and from transport vehicles, doctor’s appointments, some from outside of the prison fences—everything. There are even a few pictures of Kace: his mugshots, details of his accident, and the outside of Darkwater around the time my trial began. Of course there isn’t anything new, why would there be, but it’s still a little strange how there’s not quite enough coverage of the man that makes Warren sofucking envious. One would think that would be his primary target, ripping his disappearance to smithereens but nope, I’m the focus.
There are even some videos that have interviews—well, attempted ones, that is—with Nurse Cindy and other guards. The episode where Zurita’s ugly mug looks at the camera as he walks up to the entry point then shoves Warren away makes me grin like the damn Cheshire cat. My face almost splitting in two from the force of my unintended glee.
Thanks for that, Z. You have no idea how bad I’ve wanted to do the same.
I scroll for what feels like ages, seeing my entire life crammed into a hundred-plus videos. Most of them are just of Warren sitting in what appears to be an office of sorts, but there are others with guests. All discussing and having opinions over shit they know nothing about. Not a single interview with a lawyer or legal representation, law enforcement, judge, nothing. Just the limited research novices can find on the internet that encourages further speculation.
What hurts the most though?
Seeing the few images of Kace prior to his incarceration. Nights out with friends or family, a couple of public outings, events. Fuck me, he was so damn attractive. I mean, he was handsome as hell in orange, too, but seeing him younger and outside of prison is making my insides simultaneously hurt and melt.
I suddenly find one of him in a backwards ball cap, cut-off T-shirt with those arms of his on full display, a pair of layered shorts with the bottom pair snug on his toned legs, and holding a rugby ball—I… I need this photo. Ez said I can screenshot, how the fuck do I do that again?
A bit of me—no, a large chunk of me—hates that I never knew this side of him. The man he was before being thrown into thecesspit that is Darkwater. He looks carefree in these images; like the world is at his fingertips, and every moment of his perfect life is planned out to every meticulous second. All he had to do was walk the tight rope and he could have had any and everything he ever dreamed of.
But, he ended up with me and a daughter he will never know. A grave marker for us to visit.
Dropping the phone like it’s on fire, the clunky thing hits my lap before tumbling to the floor. I look up at the roof of the car, willing myself to breathe through the panic attack that’s attempting to swallow me from the floor up. Squeezing the small cavity my lungs hide in. This happens every time: longing for him only for the trauma to resurface. I was trying to find him, when they got to me first. There are times where I can feel the ghosts of their hands grabbing hold of me. Almost like the memory is so strong that the sensation of their bodies colliding with mine has ingrained itself into the very cells of my being.
While the idea of cells regenerating after seven years should be hopeful, I’ve come to learn since the incident, that’s not the case. Cells regenerate at various rates, and the ones my rapists have cemented themselves into seem to be lifelong survivors. If I could rip them from my very existence and leave them in a pool of molten flesh and hair, I would.
Wonderful.
Half of me wants to let the panic take full effect and render me useless for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours, but the other half has different plans. The kind that cannot be ignored or put on hold, too dire to take a break from.
Reaching between the seat and the door, I press the small button that enables my seat to recline back. Allowing me the space to stretch out, crack my joints, and sleep if need be. Who the fuck am I kidding? I can’t sleep now. Not when my mindis reeling all over again, contemplating every small ache I feel inside of me without Kace.
To some, I sound so ignorant, needing him as bad as I do. But what they don’t understand is what existed between us in the end wasn’t necessarily short lived. We had—well, I had—worked with him for years leading up to that. There was familiarity, attraction, and what is that phrase? Absence makes the heart grow fonder? The forced distance made the inevitable collision consuming and obsessive. You just can’t deny what existed between us. Trust me, I tried to do so, from the way he reacted to me it seemed to be the same story for him too. We were two galaxies on a course bound for something so explosive it would create and destroy life.
I have held on to him since he disappeared, clutching desperately to the hope that a miracle happened. If he was still alive, someone would have said something by now. But they haven’t, and I stopped asking. I know I need to let him go. Let him rest and stop pulling his memory up, keeping the idea of him alive instead of allowing him peace.
Kace deserves to be remembered as the man in the photos in Warren’s videos. Not the man I knew him as.
My heavy, aching eyes flick down from the ceiling of the car to the windshield and watch the stars sparkle their millions of light years away. With a soft huff, I can’t help reminiscing over how Kace’s arms felt wrapped around me, the rough texture of his fingertips as they brushed over my softer skin, the warmth of his breath flooding the side of my neck, and the feeling of him against me.
Fucking stop it, Nadia.
