“I know.”
He holds me for a few moments. I can hear his heart thumping angrily against his chest, because I have just asked a man who lives for blood and retribution to forgive—to let go. Without a word, he stands and makes his way toward the bedroom door.
“Only for you, Ava…” He opens the door, closing it quietly behind him and here I lie, alone with my thoughts. I try to daydream, I try to read, I try to do anything but think about Max, and I fail miserably. Finally, I decide to take a bath and I stumble into the bathroom, turning the taps and watching the water pour from the faucet.
I sit on the steps of the marble tub. Sweeping my hand through the warm water, I listen to the echo of the deep basin filling. This bathroom is bigger than most people’s living rooms. It’s open and luxurious—something I once took for granted. Music plays over the speakers in the ceiling. I stare at my reflection in the mirrors surrounding the bath. My gaze drifts up to the crystal chandelier centered above the massive soaking tub, and I laugh. Such extravagant things, suchunnecessarythings. And all bought with blood money.
One hundred and sixty-eight hours. Seven days. That’s how long I have been home. How long I’ve been “safe.”
I turn the taps and slip my robe off before stepping into the scalding water. Hissing at the slow burn, I lower myself beneath the water. It feels good to hurt because I’ve grown so numb without him. I lean back against the slope of the tub and stare ahead of me at the reflection in the ceiling to floor mirror. I should know that girl right there, but I don’t, and the truth is, I never have. Just like everyone else in this family, I’ve spent my life as a chameleon.
Anyone who has looked at me must have thought I was happy; how could they not have? I was a cheerleader. Popular. Pretty. I smiled, but I did those things—I wasthatperson because it was who I was expected to be, and when you are a mess on the inside, you just want to look put together on the outside. You smile and no one asks you what’s wrong, but when you cry—oh, when you cry people won’t leave you alone.
That girl staring back at me right now, she’s not smiling because she can’t. She’s tired. She is destroyed on the inside.Thatgirl, that is who I have been all along and it hurts to finally see her. It makes me feel ashamed and stupid and lost. What was so wrong with me? Why, out of all the people in this world, did those things happen to me—no, it doesn’t matter that they happened to me, why do those things happen to any-fucking-body? And why, fucking why do we let those things destroy us? Why do we hide our scars? I’ll tell you why: because scars are ugly, that’s what we are taught. Oh, pretend to be happy, pretend to be perfect, because no one wants a mess. But scars are the story of our lives. The good, the bad—that is what shapes us, for better or worse and the thing Max taught me is that if we were only more open, we would find those people who truly love us and we wouldn’t be so bothered by the ones who can’t understand that true beauty is found within the imperfections. For if we were all perfect, there would be no beauty at all.
I sink lower beneath the water until the surface is teasing the bottom of my nose. When I close my eyes, I see him. His smile. Those intensely dark eyes that knew me before I even knew myself. My chest tightens and that darkness closes in on me. It weaves its way through my mind like a spider, tangling my senses within silken threads of grief. And I cry. I sob. My heart breaks over and over because he left me. He saved me only to kill me by abandoning me. He made himself a ghost, and being in love with a ghost is a pitiful place to find your heart.
And some things, well, now I do believe that some things are worse than death.
The water ripples, the light from the chandelier reflects off the surface, tempting me.What would it do to mother if she found me drowned in this tub?I shake that thought from my mind and force myself up in the tub because I don’t trust myself. But moments later, I find myself sinking lower and lower, closer and closer to the water. I want this. Ilongfor this because loving him is a prison, and I believe my freedom shall only be found within the cold grips of death.
I let my body slip below the water and I lie at the bottom of the tub, eyes open, peering up at the distorted view of the surface. Iamin control of this. Icancontrol my life after all, and in that, I find peace. All I have to do is pull in a breath.
One. Deep. Breath.
I wonder what it will feel like…and then, I just let go. My hands grab onto the slick edge of the tub, because my mind wants me to fight, to survive. But the heart is a much stronger beast and I use those hands to hold myself under.
I wonder if there is a heaven or a hell and I think about whether I’ll go to hell, fearing I’ve already been there. I suck in another mouthful of water. It burns and stings. My chest feels like it is on fire, my heart quivering with each fast beat. My vision wavers. Weakness envelops me, and the next thing I know…I’m falling into the darkness that has been calling me all along.
And within that darkness there will be peace. Peace and nothingness and…
33
Max
The tape sticksto the rubber gloves and I fight to pull it free. I’m sealing the envelope with the tape because like hell am I leaving any fucking DNA. I printed off the letter inside from a Kinko’s on the outskirts of Lafayette. I outlined everything, telling them what the sheets of papers crammed inside mean. Letting them know all those girls were taken and sold, that all the men who have them are criminals for buying another human being. I paid some kid outside of the bus station fifty bucks to handwrite the address to the police department on the envelope. My pulse races as I roll the window to the truck down. I pull into the New Orleans post office parking lot, stopping beside the mailbox—gloves still on—and I slip the envelope into the mailbox then drive off.
I travel for a few hours with no direction, finally stopping at some small café in Biloxi.
“More coffee, sir?”
I glance up from the empty cup at the young waitress. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, her eyes made up with too much eyeshadow. She smiles as she holds the steaming pot of coffee up. I slide the mug across the table and nod.
She doesn’t leave once she’s filled it so I glance up at her again.
“Like your tattoos. They’re hot.” She flips the end of her ponytail flirtatiously to the side and smiles.
“Thanks.” My attention shifts back to the mug, and she finally walks away.
What the fuck am I going to do with my life now? I have no one. I may have covered my
tracks, but still, I am paranoid. All of those women know what I look like, but part of me believes they still love me, still feel some deep sense of loyalty and will protect me. But really, what does it matter?
I close my eyes and all I can see is Ava. This is fucking grief and I don’t understand it. Two months with her—that’s it, and she has bled into my being like a terminal illness. The sounds around me all fade together: the rattling of dishes being cleared from tables, the dull conversation, the crying baby.There’s a darkness inside of me…I can hear her saying that. Literally,hearher saying those words as though I’m listening to a record of it. The mind is a mysterious and fucked-up creature. And I wonder how you are to ever let go of things when they can occupy your mind without you wanting them to. Her face, her scent, the feel of her skin beneath my palms—I want those memories to go the fuck away before they drive me insane.
The waitress stops by again to check on me, and I find myself staring at her, thinking her hair is the same color as Ava’s and wondering how easily she would break, contemplating how hard it would be to strip her bare. And I realize how fucked up I really am.
34
