Page 62 of Iris' Lying Eyes

I wouldn’t blame him. I still do.

Closing the book, I sit down at the table and rest my head in my hands. I have to do this, but I hate this place so fucking much.

I sifted through the past on the ride over and came to only one conclusion: I’d rather die than admit to B what I did. It haunts me every waking moment of my day and into my nightmares.

I know intellectually that I didn’t pull the trigger, but I also didn’t fight him when he did. Not only that, but part of me was relieved. I no longer had to choose, and Sam would live another day.

I’ve waited my entire fucking life to make John pay, but the fucker has nine lives.

Still, if I don’t do something now, I risk her, my baby girl. I have to end this. But how?

Deep down, where I refuse to admit it, I fear I’ll fold when he demands it of me. It’s happened countless times before.

But if someone else pulls the trigger, I’m free. They’re free.

My plan hasn’t gotten me far, and as much as I’d like to avoid it, I can’t if I want to up their game.

John needs to sweat. He needs to fear. And when he goes straight to hell, he needs to know it was me who sent him there.

After all, I’m damned too.

I was damned when my mother fucked a McCafferty. Damned when she chose John as her husband. Damned when I folded into the slave he wanted me to be.

If I’m damned, then so be it. As long as John no longer walks this earth, I can live with the heat.

∞∞∞

John has many secrets. Too bad the one I’m searching for is in the form of desiccated bones long since forgotten in a field of dead corn.

My pulse begins a painful throbbing in my neck as I approach, and I clench my jaw to keep the mournful ache from escaping.

Maybe I survived that day, which is in question from a spiritual standpoint, but I definitely left a piece of my soul behind in that hole.

She died because of me. I ran away. I tried to be free, and I carry the anguish in her eyes wherever I go. It’s the least of my penance.

Unfortunately, it was so long ago that I don’t know exactly where she’s buried, but I do remember the tree beyond that I stared at for hours when I couldn’t bear to look into her lifeless eyes a second longer.

The majestic boughs towered over us in our prison, providing a beacon from the death in which I laid.

The field, long since untended, looms before me, and I pause at the edge, staring through the wilting and sad stalks.

Although everything has changed, I still look over my shoulder, expecting to see John. But he’s not here. It’s just me this time.

With a shaky breath, I stumble around and between the dead corn until my mouth begs for moisture and my skin burns.

The sun rises in the sky, and I stop, looking around. Unfortunately, it’s just fucking dead corn for miles. I’m basically searching for a needle in a haystack.

Wiping my brow, I spin in a circle. Maybe this is a message. Turn back before I do something that can’t be undone.

But no. Fucking no. I will see this through. I’m stronger than the hold that dick thinks he has over me.

Still, I need a direction because I’m getting nowhere. Standing on my tiptoes, I search for the tree, and when I see it in the distance, I start forward once more.

Another hour passes while I wander fruitlessly, and I’m on the verge of snapping when finally, I find a mound in the dirt.

But when I look around, I don’t see my tree, not from here, not the way it looked from that fucking hole.

Rubbing the soil with my toe, I contemplate what horror lies beneath, and for the sake of my sanity, I back away, but not before clearing a hole in the corn that will make it easier to find the next time.