Page 5

S even Years Old

“You’re a worthless piece of shit.” Daddy yanks on Mommy’s arm, jerking her from the floor.

He does that a lot. Almost every night. Pushes her down and then picks her back up again. He doesn’t like to see her hurt, even though he’s the one who’s hurting her. He’s always so mad, yelling about everything and nothing. It’s confusing, and all Mommy does is tell me not to worry. But I always worry. When I’m at the table doing schoolwork. When I’m in the garden planting new flowers. When I first wake up and when I close my eyes to fall asleep.

I hear her cry in my dreams.

Hear her beg.

I don’t think this is how it’s supposed to be, but I’m not sure. This could be how all mommies and daddies are. Maybe I should listen to her and stop worrying. I’m not the one with the bruises. I’m not the one with the cuts. The pain. The tears that don’t stop even when she’s wiped her face raw.

I shouldn’t worry. But I can’t help it. Somewhere deep in my belly, something pokes me. It tells me this isn’t right and I need to help. That I need to stop this.

A sharp pop rings in my ears as he slaps her hard across the face and she falls onto the couch.

I flinch, sinking into the corner of my room, wishing with all my might that I could close the door with my mind. But even if I could, it wouldn’t matter. I would still hear him. Hear her.

“You know, I take that back. At least my shit can tell me if I’m constipated, contracted salmonella, or if I’ve got colon cancer, for fuck’s sake, but you, God, you’re a damn imbecile. How many times have I told you…”

His voice fades as he drags her into the kitchen, and I plug my ears. I want to follow and help her, but I can’t. He hits her harder when I try to help. Says it’s her fault that I’m not already asleep.

I can’t sleep when he screams. He’s always screaming. She’s always crying.

Even though my heart is pounding so hard the bones covering it hurt, and my legs are shaking so bad I can barely stand, I do. I force them to take me to the bed so I can lie down. If I pull the covers over my head, maybe I can imagine I’m someplace else. Somewhere far away.

Just me and mommy, on the top of a mountain, with the sun high and the fluffiest clouds floating over us ? —

A scream rings out with a low thump. I squeeze my eyes shut and hide under the blankets finding the clouds again.

Fluffy clouds that we can make shapes out of. I’ll try to spot a lion or a bear, maybe a piece of fruit or a peanut. Maybe this time Mommy could find one too.

Another scream that rips my heart in two seeps beneath the covers.

Then we’ll have a picnic. We can have s’mores and some cake, or strawberries with a little whipped cream.

She’d put a dab on my nose and we’d laugh and laugh, and I wouldn’t complain once about the thick lotion she has to put on me to protect me from the su ? —

This time, when the sharp slap comes, there’s a heavy thunk, and the screams stop. The air grows quiet for a whole ten breaths before I hear something big dragging on the floor in front of my door.

My skin tingles and that spot deep in my tummy tells me something isn’t right.

No. Something is very, very wrong.

Fear fizzles in my head, but the need to see my mommy makes it to where I don’t notice it.

I need to go to her. See if everything is okay. If she is okay.

Heart shaking in my chest, I push from the bed and slip out into the hall.

My toes touch something warm. Something wet.

I look down and find speckles of something dark red that looks like a melted snow cone.

Mommy bought me a cherry one before. This summer. We went to the park and there was a man selling them. He had a big smile. Such a big smile, it didn’t look natural.

Pacing feet grab my attention.

Mommy.

I decide to clean the snow cone mess later before Daddy sees and continue down the hall. When I get to the end, I realize the door is open. Light spills into the dark hall, the yellow color glowing on the floor like quicksand.

Still, I tiptoe forward.

It takes twelve more shaky breaths before I reach the door.

My father is kneeling down over Mommy who is lying on the floor. She’s hidden behind the bed, so I can only see her feet. They’re painted in red. The same thick syrup as a snow cone.

The wood creaks under the weight of my foot and I freeze.

My father turns, glancing over his shoulder. His smile is as big and odd as the man’s from the snow cone stand. “Hey there, sweetheart. Wanna give daddy a hand in the garden?”

* * *

It’s not a secret I have an aversion to people. Have since I was young and realized the majority of them were horrid, oftentimes selfish, evil, and vile. And when I grew up, it only became more apparent that those traits grew tenfold among adults, and my tolerance of them became almost nonexistent.

After taking over my family’s floral business due to the death—or perhaps murder is a more appropriate word—of both my parents, I renovated the vacant loft above it with the help of my temporary guardian, and now live there. I seldom leave for anything, and when I do, it’s physically painful.

Besides a handful of people that I tolerate, I don’t like anyone. Even the few men and women I’ve slept with are nothing more than a temporary pleasure. They never truly appeal to me, scarcely entertain me, and most certainly don’t interest me.

Yet this woman sitting no less than an arm’s length away has done exactly that.

Piqued my interest. Even if only just slightly.

I’m not quite sure if it’s her clumsy boldness or her unexpected intuition, but I find myself easily indulging in this woman’s company.

I try to reason with myself that it’s merely because it’s easier to kill a person from up close than afar, but I know better. Being seen with her is most certainly dangerous, especially because she’ll be found dead in less than a month. And yet, I’ve accepted her invitation to stay.

A strange twist in my throat causes me to clear it as I watch her finger trace over the rim of her shot glass. “Care to dance?”

I lift a brow. “What about me implies I’m the dancing type?”

Dancing requires passion and strong emotions, something I’m incapable of but traits this woman is so clearly overflowing with.

The agent grins, and I hate that it makes her face brighten further. “Oh, I don’t think you’ve danced a day in your life, but perhaps it’s because you haven’t found the right partner, Red.”

My other eyebrow joins the first, wrinkling the skin on my forehead. “Red?”

She frowns, her thoughts her own for a moment before she shrugs. “Cliche, but it felt natural.”

This makes me huff out a bit of laughter. The vibration is strange against my vocal cords. “I see. Well, unfortunately, I don’t think even someone as influential as yourself could get me on that sticky floor.”

My eyes shoot to the small surface, my insides turning from the slosh of grime splattered over the worn wood. Who knows the last time anyone took a mop to it. A clean one, at least.

“A germaphobe.” I turn back to a smug-looking Jessica. Her eyes shimmer as if she’s discovered a national secret. “I wouldn’t have guessed that, considering there’s dirt on your boots.”

Only marginally surprised by her observations, I lift my hands. “As well as in my nail beds. Nature is full of life, not germs. And what’s on that floor would likely give a person the plague if they were to lick it.”

The agent nods slowly, her eyes giving way to her mind. She’s trying to catalog me, figure out the dozens of pieces I’m composed of, and lock them into place. Perhaps if she were successful, she would realize how dangerous I am, and how she should stay away from me. Too bad my pieces are far too jagged and broken to ever be whole again.

“So I was on the money with the hiking.”

My lips draw down in the corner. “It seems so. Though I haven’t done it since I was a child. I’m not sure I’d have the stamina now.”

“What else do you like to do?” The woman across from me does the strangest thing and pulls herself up so she can cross her legs under her. “What are your hobbies?”

My eyes rake over both her odd posture and her. She looks so at ease, so comfortable. It’s as though we are the oldest of friends and are on the couch catching up after a long week with a well-deserved glass of wine.

I roll my shoulders slightly, but it does nothing to stave off the strange discomfort settling over me. “I enjoy gardening and the occasional bird sighting.”

She perks up. “Oh cool. What’s your favorite bird?”

“Turkey vulture,” I say without hesitation. I’ve always admired its role in the ecosystem. Without them, carcasses would begin to pile and diseases would spread. I view it as I do my place in Noxus. Without me, there would be far more scum running rampant.

Jessica grimaces. “Oh. Well, which kind do you think is the prettiest?”

“Ruby-throated hummingbird.”

“What about your favorite plant?” She continues without missing a beat.

I shake my head. “An impossibility to decide.”

“I bet it’s not. There has to be one you really like.”

My mind flits over the near-thousands of plant varieties I’ve encountered in my life. There have been many that I’ve adored, and even more that I’ve loved. From the poisonous to the exotic, the expensive to the affordable. There have been plants that forced me to rise to the challenge of growing them, and those that challenged me with how to contain their vast growth. There are too many to name, but in the end, I surprise myself with my response.

“I love the peony because it was my mother’s favorite. I have a distaste for blue passion because it was my father’s.”

“But what about your favorite?” Her voice softens as she leans closer and for a moment, I forget where we are. Forget that there are a couple dozen people around us, and can no longer hear the low thrum of the music playing overhead. There are simply the two of us, enraptured in a conversation about plants.

Perhaps that’s why I tell her, “Epipremnum aureum. Devil’s ivy .”

“Why?”

My eyes flicker between hers, clashing with her vibrant blues. Her inquisition is both peculiar and oddly welcoming. I assume that’s why I answer her. “They are nearly impossible to kill, adapt to both water and soil growing mediums, and even without adequate growing conditions, they continue to survive. Thrive, actually.”

The agent is quiet for a long stretch of time as she studies me, a sadness enveloping her features the more seconds tick by. For a moment, it’s as if she can push past my carefully crafted mask and truly see me, not the monstrous side but the tormented, and it causes an unsettling tremor to rack through me.

I’m not one for pity. I’ve never felt it for another person, and most certainly don’t want anyone to feel it for me. So I quickly redirect the conversation. “What about you, Agent Frances? What are your hobbies?”

She swallows, blinking twice as she comes back to herself. After clearing her throat, a smile curls the ends of her lips. “Shopping, baking, puzzles—like the ones where you have to find Waldo, or the differences between pictures—and relaxing on the couch. Big fan of that. Oh, and my acrobatic classes. I really love those.”

“A federal agent who enjoys acrobatics.”

She beams, her smile annoyingly perfect. “Aerial silk is my favorite.”

An unwelcome image of the woman across from me, naked, restrained, and suspended in the air, flashes through my mind.

Luckily, before I can reflect on that thought, a walking interruption catches my attention over her shoulder.

“Are you going to stay over here all night, or are you gonna shoot some pool with me? Berk is talking shit about how he’s gonna beat us again.” The woman who entered with Jessica appears next to the table, reminding us both that we’re in the middle of a bar.

Jessica’s eyes flit from her friend to me. There’s a question in them and I stand before she has a chance to ask it. Though, as I should have assumed, it doesn’t stop her. “Would you like to play? Or perhaps observe my magical skills with a pole?”

I have to clear my throat from chuckling at her wagging eyebrows and shake my head. “Thank you, Agent, but I should get going.”

I do my best to ignore both the tightness of my skin and Jessica’s wide, puppy-dog pout by looking at her friend who leans against the back of Jessica’s chair, her eyes narrowed slightly as they sweep over me.

The agent moves out of her chair as I turn to depart. “Well, wait. Can’t you just hang out with us for a little longer?”

I give her a faux apologetic smile. I’ve done more than enough of my intended recon on this woman for tonight and have already decided I won’t need thirty days to lure her to her death. “There’s some work I should attend to. It was lovely meeting you, though. I appreciated the company after being stood up.”

With one last glance, I stride from the table to the door but stop short at the sound of a chair scraping against the floor and the agent rushing to stop me before I can exit.

“But I don’t even know your name,” she whines. “Your real name.”

I smirk, gripping the door handle. There are a million and one reasons I should lie, give her an alias to lessen my chances of being a discoverable suspect in the weeks to come. Yet oddly enough, I can’t bring myself to tell her anything but the truth. “My name is .”

“.” Her tongue rolls around my name with such finesse that a small shiver skims through me. “It’s beautiful.”

An involuntary smile tugs at my lips as I open the door. “As are you. Goodnight, Agent.”

Before she can respond, I slip out onto the street, letting the heavy door slam closed behind me.

The night air washes over my face, cooling my cheeks from a heat I wasn’t aware was there. Only after a few deep breaths am I able to fully leave the bar and disappear into the alley across the street to my parked car.

When I’m inside, my eyes linger on the bar a moment longer, the memory of the agent’s smile playing over my mind.

This job should be easy. At least, that’s what the logical side of my mind tells me. But that spot deep in my gut pinches, telling me it won’t go as smoothly as I hope.

Guess we’ll see.