Page 6 of Haven't Killed in Years
Connor Nettles had giganticpupils—it was jarring. I sat down across from him, a thick layer of glass between us. He reached out a tattooed arm and picked up the phone and I followed his example.
“Hi there,” he said. “I’m glad you made it.” He had loose tough-guy shoulders, and when he spoke, his head kind of shimmied back and forth.
“Yeah, me too.” I reclined in my seat, trying to see people in my periphery—trying to find my father’s visitor.
“Looking for something?” he asked.
“No, sorry. This is new for me. I’ve never visited a prison—” I stopped myself.
He smiled. “It’s okay, you can say it. I’m a prisoner. I’m not a bad guy though.”
I nodded like I cared whether he was Satan or Santa.
“Damn, you’re beautiful,” he said.
“Thanks,” I mumbled as a new visitor entered the room and commanded my attention.
I watched him walk to his seat. He looked about my age with a healthy margin of error. He had messy brown hair, darker than mine, and he wore a crisp plaid shirt, untucked, with fitted gray jeans even though he was a little thick. He was a young man, there alone, holding a notebook—the only visitor thus far who showed any promise, but thanks to an angry woman holding a baby and a crying elderly lady between us, there was no way I was going to be able to eavesdrop.
“You don’t have a boyfriend?” Connor reminded me he was still there.
I turned back, making contact with his big black eye holes. “No.”
“I don’t believe it. Maybe my luck isn’t so bad after all.”
“Look, I’m really sorry,” I said. “You seem like a sweet guy, but I don’t think I can do this.”
Connor leaned back, unlucky after all. “Really? That’s it?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry.” I hung up the phone and offered a sideways aw-shucks smile. That was that.I’ll never forget you, Connor.
I stood from my chair and everything slowed. The rapid-fire accusations from the woman next to me muted; the elderly lady’s tears stuck in place against her cheeks. I watched the guy with the messy dark hair glance down as he listened intently through the phone. He turned his head a fraction and I caught his bright blue eyes and regular-sized pupils. Were those eyes sending me body parts? He didn’t notice me as I approached, and once I could see what held his attention, I lost interest in him as well.
Behind a rat’s nest of a beard was the leathery face of my father. I balled my hands into fists and clenched my teeth, resisting the urge to drift toward him. I managed to face forward, toward the exit, butI caught him grinning. I caught him touching his ear. I caught him inhaling and exhaling once before I was past them and I couldn’t see him anymore. Then I could only feel him.
- - - - -
I burst out intothe parking lot. It was like my heart was being stabbed. Not figuratively—literally it felt like I was getting internal acupuncture. I hadn’t seen the man in almost twenty years. He was old. I was old. Was he orchestrating this because I never visited him? I wouldn’t blame him. Why didn’t I ever visit him? I mean, I know—he was a serial killer. He did insane things like cut symbols into my side, along my rib cage, which were supposed to protect me from demons. Sometimes he wouldn’t let my mother or me eat for days. Often he killed in front of me. But there were other things—deep experiences that bonded us.
I focused on the barbed wire looping itself along the top of the tall fence that surrounded me. I traced it with my eyes, counting each barb until I reached one hundred. I felt better. A person like me didn’t become a functioning member of society without a few tried-and-true coping mechanisms.
I sat down on a cold metal bench and waited.
My vitals returned to normal, and forty-five minutes later the visitor came out. “Hey,” I said, standing to intercept him.
He stutter-stepped, not expecting an interaction. “Hi?”
He was sizing me up. Did he recognize me? Did he look like a man just busted? Not really. He looked confused, and the longer I waited to say anything, the closer it resembled concern.
“Can I help you with something?” he asked.
“Sorry.” I shook out my awkwardness. “I saw you in there. Was that Abel Haggerty you were visiting?”
“Yeah…”
“You know him?” I asked.
“Maybe. Why?”
