Torture to Her Soul
Page 43
It's something I grew up remembering. People see me how I want them to. But as important as it is, making a good first impression, it's the last impression that matters most, I think. They might not remember what they first thought about you. Feelings evolve. People change their minds. But they'll never forget the last moments. They're eternal.
Last words.
They say when Al Capone was on his deathbed, he begged the ghost of Jimmy Clark to leave him in peace. Capone was a troubled man, haunted by the past, tortured by the memory of a man he ordered slaughtered in a garage years before.
I wonder if that'll be me.
I wonder if it'll all catch up to me someday.
Will my carefully controlled world be ripped apart because something finally broke me at the end?
I hope I'll be more like Frank Gusenberg, as he lay in a hospital bed, fourteen bullets pumped into him from Capone's men.
"Who shot you?" the officer asked.
"Nobody shot me," the man said before taking his last breath.
I think about it a lot.
I choose my words carefully.
Don't say it unless you mean it.
You never know when it might be the last thing you ever say.
The old meatpacking plant is abandoned, deep in a rundown neighborhood in Queens. Slaughterhouse Number Five, Ray jokingly calls the place. It's seen more death than a soldier in war. Although the outside of the structure is still sound, the bricks all in tact, the inside is demolished.
Back to work I go.
A man hangs from a meat hook on a rafter by chains around his wrists, dangling so low to the ground that his shoes scrape the concrete. He's battered and bloodied, a fucked up, snot-sobbing mess. I don't know his name. I don't even know what he did to end up in this place. But he's here, and when you end up in his position, there's only one way out of it.
In a body bag.
"Any last words?" I ask.
The man blinks slowly as if drugged, but I know there's nothing in his system. No, his body is just shutting down on him. Who knows how long he's been here. I got a call from Ray this morning, asking me to end the suffering.
So there's this guy...
He stares at me like he's seeing an angel of death, and I guess in a way that's what I am.
I'll take his life as payment for his sins.
With a gloved hand, I reach into my coat and pull out the cheap .22 caliber pistol, already loaded, definitely not registered in my name. The great state of New York will tell you I don't own any weapons.
I point it at him, giving him time to come up with something to say.
His silence is deafening.
"Last chance," I tell him. "Make it profound."
He spits on the ground, a mixture of blood and saliva, before muttering, "Fuck you."
Admirable last words, although a bit cliché. Not the first time someone's said them to me in this place. I aim the gun and pull the trigger, the gunshot echoing loud as the bullet rips through his skull, ending him right away. His feet drag the cruddy ground as his body sways from the impact.
I drop the gun and walk out, discarding it there. It can't be traced back to me. Nobody will ever know I was even here.
I've said it before.
I'll say it again.
I'm not a good man.
I never will be.
I drive around for a while afterward to purge the adrenaline before making my way back to Brooklyn. It's still early, so I'm surprised to find Karissa moving around already, showered and dressed.
She's in the kitchen, wearing a pair of cutoff jeans shorts and one of my white undershirts overtop of a bright pink bikini top, the strings tied around the back of her neck. Her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, her skin free of makeup as she stands beside the refrigerator and shoves some bottles of water into a little foam cooler.
"Going somewhere?" I ask.
She swings toward me, smiling widely.
The sight of her smile makes my chest ache.
She's in an awfully good mood this morning for some reason, but whatever it is, I'll take it. Whatever makes her happy, I'm on board.
"Well, yeah… it's the fourth."
"The fourth?"
"Yeah, you know… the Fourth of July. Let freedom ring and all that jazz."
Ah. I didn't notice, but I usually never do. Holidays are just more days to me. A title and a national declaration don't give them meaning. She looks excited about it, though. "Huh."
Her expression falls at my reaction. "That's okay, isn't it? I mean, you've been feeling better, so I didn't think you'd need me, especially since you were gone this morning, and Melody called, so I thought…"
She's rambling.
Nervous.
"It's fine," I say, although I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it, personally, her slipping into a large crowd somewhere in the city, possibly disappearing forever. More than once these past few weeks she's mentioned feeling like someone's watching her. It's only a matter of time before her observer decides to make a move. "Just… be careful out there."
She eyes me warily for a moment. "I will."
"Good, because you tend to find trouble when you're off on your own."
I'm only half-joking, but she smiles, amused. "What can I say? It's a talent."
I nod, my eyes lingering on her for just a moment, before I turn away, letting her finish what she's doing.
"Naz?" she calls out. "You don't want to go along, do you?"
Last words.
They say when Al Capone was on his deathbed, he begged the ghost of Jimmy Clark to leave him in peace. Capone was a troubled man, haunted by the past, tortured by the memory of a man he ordered slaughtered in a garage years before.
I wonder if that'll be me.
I wonder if it'll all catch up to me someday.
Will my carefully controlled world be ripped apart because something finally broke me at the end?
I hope I'll be more like Frank Gusenberg, as he lay in a hospital bed, fourteen bullets pumped into him from Capone's men.
"Who shot you?" the officer asked.
"Nobody shot me," the man said before taking his last breath.
I think about it a lot.
I choose my words carefully.
Don't say it unless you mean it.
You never know when it might be the last thing you ever say.
The old meatpacking plant is abandoned, deep in a rundown neighborhood in Queens. Slaughterhouse Number Five, Ray jokingly calls the place. It's seen more death than a soldier in war. Although the outside of the structure is still sound, the bricks all in tact, the inside is demolished.
Back to work I go.
A man hangs from a meat hook on a rafter by chains around his wrists, dangling so low to the ground that his shoes scrape the concrete. He's battered and bloodied, a fucked up, snot-sobbing mess. I don't know his name. I don't even know what he did to end up in this place. But he's here, and when you end up in his position, there's only one way out of it.
In a body bag.
"Any last words?" I ask.
The man blinks slowly as if drugged, but I know there's nothing in his system. No, his body is just shutting down on him. Who knows how long he's been here. I got a call from Ray this morning, asking me to end the suffering.
So there's this guy...
He stares at me like he's seeing an angel of death, and I guess in a way that's what I am.
I'll take his life as payment for his sins.
With a gloved hand, I reach into my coat and pull out the cheap .22 caliber pistol, already loaded, definitely not registered in my name. The great state of New York will tell you I don't own any weapons.
I point it at him, giving him time to come up with something to say.
His silence is deafening.
"Last chance," I tell him. "Make it profound."
He spits on the ground, a mixture of blood and saliva, before muttering, "Fuck you."
Admirable last words, although a bit cliché. Not the first time someone's said them to me in this place. I aim the gun and pull the trigger, the gunshot echoing loud as the bullet rips through his skull, ending him right away. His feet drag the cruddy ground as his body sways from the impact.
I drop the gun and walk out, discarding it there. It can't be traced back to me. Nobody will ever know I was even here.
I've said it before.
I'll say it again.
I'm not a good man.
I never will be.
I drive around for a while afterward to purge the adrenaline before making my way back to Brooklyn. It's still early, so I'm surprised to find Karissa moving around already, showered and dressed.
She's in the kitchen, wearing a pair of cutoff jeans shorts and one of my white undershirts overtop of a bright pink bikini top, the strings tied around the back of her neck. Her hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, her skin free of makeup as she stands beside the refrigerator and shoves some bottles of water into a little foam cooler.
"Going somewhere?" I ask.
She swings toward me, smiling widely.
The sight of her smile makes my chest ache.
She's in an awfully good mood this morning for some reason, but whatever it is, I'll take it. Whatever makes her happy, I'm on board.
"Well, yeah… it's the fourth."
"The fourth?"
"Yeah, you know… the Fourth of July. Let freedom ring and all that jazz."
Ah. I didn't notice, but I usually never do. Holidays are just more days to me. A title and a national declaration don't give them meaning. She looks excited about it, though. "Huh."
Her expression falls at my reaction. "That's okay, isn't it? I mean, you've been feeling better, so I didn't think you'd need me, especially since you were gone this morning, and Melody called, so I thought…"
She's rambling.
Nervous.
"It's fine," I say, although I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it, personally, her slipping into a large crowd somewhere in the city, possibly disappearing forever. More than once these past few weeks she's mentioned feeling like someone's watching her. It's only a matter of time before her observer decides to make a move. "Just… be careful out there."
She eyes me warily for a moment. "I will."
"Good, because you tend to find trouble when you're off on your own."
I'm only half-joking, but she smiles, amused. "What can I say? It's a talent."
I nod, my eyes lingering on her for just a moment, before I turn away, letting her finish what she's doing.
"Naz?" she calls out. "You don't want to go along, do you?"
