Torture to Her Soul
Page 106
"You should keep the ring," I say. "You should've been buried with it. I wasn't thinking back then… they took it off of you, and you were already in the ground when I remembered it. Someone will probably come along and steal it before the day is out, but that's nothing new. They steal everything. It's yours, though, not mine, so I'm giving it back to you, but this time with no vows."
I take a step back, once again eyeing the flowers. They feel wrong somehow. Maybe it's because they're pink.
Peach flowers were her favorite, I think.
"Goodbye, Maria," I say. "Part of me will always love you, but it's time for me to go now and finally try to deal with this grief."
I give the gravesite one more look before walking away. I trudge through the damp grass to where my car is parked along the curb and start the drive home.
It's been one week.
One week since Karissa left.
In seven days, she could be anywhere, deep in the south or way out west, somewhere that's not here.
Somewhere far away.
It's been a long week.
I can't sleep.
I'm numb physically, emotionally spent. I have nothing left to give. Paranoia consumes me. Every gust of wind is a warning; every rustling leaf is a threat. I'm tired, so tired. I just want it to end.
I park in the driveway when I make it home, climbing out and closing the door. I slowly make my way to the house, pulling out my house keys and unlocking the front door. Carefully, I push it open, freezing with my hand on the knob when I hear a noise in the distance, animated voices coming from the den.
The television.
It's on.
I haven't turned it on all week.
I don't watch it.
It doesn't interest me.
Nothing here interests me.
My skin crawls, sickness brewing in the pit of my stomach as I let go of the doorknob. Slowly, I take a step back. I'm so fixated on the goddamn television that I hardly hear the rustling behind me, the faint sound of someone shuffling through the grass.
It's close when I hear it, too close.
Too fucking close.
I'm unarmed.
I'm too late.
Turning around, the first thing I see is the muzzle of a gun, pointed right at my face from just a few feet away. Ray holds it, gripping tightly to the weapon, his finger on the trigger.
I stare him in the eyes.
He looks unfazed.
Anger.
All I see is anger.
I recognize it, because for a long time that was all I felt, too. It's the look I saw every time I encountered my reflection in the mirror.
"You've been in my house," I say. "Looking for me, I suppose."
He shakes his head. "I didn't go in there. Didn't have to. Your car was gone. Knew you'd be back eventually."
He's lying, I think.
He has to be.
Somebody's been in there.
It wasn't me.
"I'm surprised you're here," I say calmly, trying to buy myself a moment to think. "I thought it would be Kelvin, maybe one of the others. Getting your hands dirty isn't really your thing."
"Yeah, well, a man does a job himself when he's got a personal claim to it."
"So it's personal."
"You know it is."
His hand is steady. It doesn't shake.
He's going to shoot me.
I know it.
And he's not going to miss his target.
This isn't an idle threat or meant to send some message. He's a man on a mission and his mission is murder. The end always comes at the hand of a friend. I should expect no less than the man who was like a father to me.
"Go on," I say, my voice steady. I feel no fear. I probably should. Maybe it's the monster in me that isn't afraid of death. Living terrifies me more. Living is fucking hard. I've already died once. "Do it if you're going to do it. Put a bullet in my head. Make your daughter proud."
His anger flares. "She was too good for you."
"She was," I agree, "but she loved me, nonetheless."
Ray's finger presses against the trigger, close to squeezing it, as I continue to stare him in the eyes. There's something wrong with me, I think. I should be pleading for my life. I should be praying I live. My heart should race. I should break a sweat. Something. Anything.
But I feel nothing.
Again, there's nothing.
Nothing until I hear my name.
It's hesitant, spoken behind me in the house, a faint whisper in that familiar voice I never thought I'd hear again. Naz. It's just my imagination, I tell myself. I didn't really hear it.
Except I did.
I heard it, and I hear it again. Naz.
This time Ray hears it, too.
It's real.
His gaze shifts past me, into the open doorway, his anger giving way to surprise. I turn quickly, catching a pair of soft brown eyes, hesitant but devoid of fear. She can see me but she can't see him. She thinks I'm alone. She thinks I'm just standing here.
She isn't afraid of me.
Not anymore.
Karissa.
She isn't sure what to think of my silence as she takes a step toward me and speaks yet again. "Ignazio?"
My heart skips a beat before hammering hard in my chest, my thoughts suddenly racing. There's the feeling. There's the fear. There's the adrenaline. It washes through me all at once until I'm drowning in it, but it's not for me. No, not in the least. It's for her.
No.
No.
Fuck, no.
I take a step back, once again eyeing the flowers. They feel wrong somehow. Maybe it's because they're pink.
Peach flowers were her favorite, I think.
"Goodbye, Maria," I say. "Part of me will always love you, but it's time for me to go now and finally try to deal with this grief."
I give the gravesite one more look before walking away. I trudge through the damp grass to where my car is parked along the curb and start the drive home.
It's been one week.
One week since Karissa left.
In seven days, she could be anywhere, deep in the south or way out west, somewhere that's not here.
Somewhere far away.
It's been a long week.
I can't sleep.
I'm numb physically, emotionally spent. I have nothing left to give. Paranoia consumes me. Every gust of wind is a warning; every rustling leaf is a threat. I'm tired, so tired. I just want it to end.
I park in the driveway when I make it home, climbing out and closing the door. I slowly make my way to the house, pulling out my house keys and unlocking the front door. Carefully, I push it open, freezing with my hand on the knob when I hear a noise in the distance, animated voices coming from the den.
The television.
It's on.
I haven't turned it on all week.
I don't watch it.
It doesn't interest me.
Nothing here interests me.
My skin crawls, sickness brewing in the pit of my stomach as I let go of the doorknob. Slowly, I take a step back. I'm so fixated on the goddamn television that I hardly hear the rustling behind me, the faint sound of someone shuffling through the grass.
It's close when I hear it, too close.
Too fucking close.
I'm unarmed.
I'm too late.
Turning around, the first thing I see is the muzzle of a gun, pointed right at my face from just a few feet away. Ray holds it, gripping tightly to the weapon, his finger on the trigger.
I stare him in the eyes.
He looks unfazed.
Anger.
All I see is anger.
I recognize it, because for a long time that was all I felt, too. It's the look I saw every time I encountered my reflection in the mirror.
"You've been in my house," I say. "Looking for me, I suppose."
He shakes his head. "I didn't go in there. Didn't have to. Your car was gone. Knew you'd be back eventually."
He's lying, I think.
He has to be.
Somebody's been in there.
It wasn't me.
"I'm surprised you're here," I say calmly, trying to buy myself a moment to think. "I thought it would be Kelvin, maybe one of the others. Getting your hands dirty isn't really your thing."
"Yeah, well, a man does a job himself when he's got a personal claim to it."
"So it's personal."
"You know it is."
His hand is steady. It doesn't shake.
He's going to shoot me.
I know it.
And he's not going to miss his target.
This isn't an idle threat or meant to send some message. He's a man on a mission and his mission is murder. The end always comes at the hand of a friend. I should expect no less than the man who was like a father to me.
"Go on," I say, my voice steady. I feel no fear. I probably should. Maybe it's the monster in me that isn't afraid of death. Living terrifies me more. Living is fucking hard. I've already died once. "Do it if you're going to do it. Put a bullet in my head. Make your daughter proud."
His anger flares. "She was too good for you."
"She was," I agree, "but she loved me, nonetheless."
Ray's finger presses against the trigger, close to squeezing it, as I continue to stare him in the eyes. There's something wrong with me, I think. I should be pleading for my life. I should be praying I live. My heart should race. I should break a sweat. Something. Anything.
But I feel nothing.
Again, there's nothing.
Nothing until I hear my name.
It's hesitant, spoken behind me in the house, a faint whisper in that familiar voice I never thought I'd hear again. Naz. It's just my imagination, I tell myself. I didn't really hear it.
Except I did.
I heard it, and I hear it again. Naz.
This time Ray hears it, too.
It's real.
His gaze shifts past me, into the open doorway, his anger giving way to surprise. I turn quickly, catching a pair of soft brown eyes, hesitant but devoid of fear. She can see me but she can't see him. She thinks I'm alone. She thinks I'm just standing here.
She isn't afraid of me.
Not anymore.
Karissa.
She isn't sure what to think of my silence as she takes a step toward me and speaks yet again. "Ignazio?"
My heart skips a beat before hammering hard in my chest, my thoughts suddenly racing. There's the feeling. There's the fear. There's the adrenaline. It washes through me all at once until I'm drowning in it, but it's not for me. No, not in the least. It's for her.
No.
No.
Fuck, no.
