Page 60 of Redemption
I put down the pen and flick through the pages, quicker past the darker times. I flip back and forth, dreading to catch a glimpse of even one wrong word.
Why do I even do this? Why can’t I put it to rest?
But I know why. I live in limbo. Still. The protective shell I once carried inside me is corrupt and I have built an artificial one, surrounding me and my daughter on the outside, with our move, and our anonymity. I haven’t moved on, I’ve just put the lid on, and I know, Iknow, it’s unfinished. The pain hasn’t gone away, and I don’t know what it’ll take, what I’ll have to do. I just know I have to keep us safe, and that’s all I do, all I can focus on, or I’ll shatter.
I wish it wasn’t true. None of this. I still see the man I first met, the warmth, that tiny flutter in my belly, and it’s so confusing. It hurts so much.
The writing doesn’t look like my own from those first days, there are misspelled words, and jumbled sentences, and it was ink and I just couldn’t go back and correct it. Instead I turned the page and kept pouring hurt all over innocent white paper. Then there are so many pages with blurry letters, the paper crumpled from dried tears and hasty words.
And it goes on and on and on.
Then there suddenly aren’t. The writing looks like mine again, I write of hope, of a blessing, of a need larger than my misery.
Cecilia.
She looks so much like her father. Beautiful, unearthly beautiful. But it doesn’t hurt, she isn’thimand she won’t inherit any of his malice because I will pour my love over her, and keep her safe and happy. I won’t let him touch her, not mentally, not physically. I’ll never let him see the beauty his violence created. He doesn’t deserve it. He can live his pathetic existence. I don’t care. I stroke the book in my hands as I close it and then let it fall to the floor beside me. Not much is happening. I haven’t got anything to write really. I consider it a good thing. I close my eyes and allow my head to fall back against the cushion.
I am so tired.
A piercing yell startles me. Rubbing my eyes, I glance at the clock by the fireplace as I rise from the warmth of the chair to look in on my baby. I didn’t know time had flown by that quickly. Through the window a moonbeam hits a poor plant I once had the ambition to care for. Now it needs not only caring, but resuscitation. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
Cecilia is content with me tucking her in and I fall onto my own bed next to hers, exhausted, on edge, my own ghosts haunting me like every night. I can’t help it. I still feel his rough hands on my bared skin. I still see him before me as clearly as if he’s standing in the room.
He still hurts.
Christian
His body shakes and twists as I shove the knife deeper into his chest. His arms flail and he reeks of sweat and fear. His cheap shirt is stained and crumpled. I’ve gotten blood on my sleeve and it infuriates me that this fat, ugly, low-life dares to soilmewith his filthy blood. If he hadn’t struggled so much this would’ve been over with by now. Looking at him, at his life, this place, I can’t understand what makes him want to live at all.
Well, for fuck’s sake, die already!
A pale face and frightened eyes fixate on mine as he tries to get up off the floor and away from the rage that has fallen upon him for unknown reasons, to both him and me. His hands keep slipping in his own pool of blood and urine, all of his chins wobble, and the noises that emanate from deep down in his throat are pathetic. I don’t know what he did wrong, or whom he upset, and I don’t give a shit. He’s too old to be in the business, whatever his business was, but not too old to try to save himself.
I kick him in the chest, and he falls over on his back, his eyes rolling, showing more bloodshot white than iris. Crouching next to him, I cock my head and study my handiwork. He’s a goner no matter what, but I never leave work half-done.Almost never.I sneer and grab his head in a steel grip. He makes a terrified gurgling sound and coughs blood just before I twist his neck, the crack loud and final.
His body twitches one more time before relaxing at last, his battle lost. I hold him for a moment longer, reveling in my superiority, my heart rate soon down to its normal beat.
It’s over.
As I let go, his head falls to the side, his eyes unseeing, his pupils dilated. He wouldn’t have had to fight, it was just a waste of energy, the end result is always the same anyways.
Someone’s demise. Blood on my hands.
Literally.
I know what they call me behind my back.The Ripper.I know what I’ve become. What I didn’t use to be.
A living nightmare.
I know they fear me. Even the very people who ask for my services, and pay me well to do their dirty work.
And I don’t fear fucking shit. When you’ve already lost it all, there’s nothing that can hurt you.
Before I stand, I yank the knife out of his chest. The sound of metal grinding against his chest bone reminds me vaguely of chalk on a blackboard. I wipe the blade on his psychedelically blue, pink, and red shirt until it’s clean, leaving the piece of cloth even more eclectically tainted than before.
In the hallway I glance in the mirror once, checking for visible stains. There are none. I snap off the gloves and pocket them, correct my shirt and sheath the blade. Without wasting another thought on the heap of flesh in the other room I listen out the corridor for a moment. Shoving my fingers through my hair, I then push down the door handle with my elbow and exit apartment 494 in an anonymous complex in yet another dull city.
Done deal.