Deanna Madden #1 The Girl in 6E (10 page)

THE HOUSE IS
clean and shiny. Annie notices the waxed wood floors, the shiny kitchen appliances, and the entire fridge full of food. For a girl without a mother, Dana has a home that seems just about perfect. Her father watches them from his place in the doorway. Annie shifts her backpack nervously, feeling out of place in the shiny home. They had ridden here in Dana’s father’s SUV, a shiny vehicle with power windows and leather seats that warmed when you pushed a button. He had gotten them ice cream, letting Annie pick her own flavor and add extra toppings, and hadn’t gotten mad when sprinkles had fallen on the seat.

“Annie, just leave your backpack on the table. Why don’t you girls swim in the pool?”

“The pool?” Annie’s eyes brighten. She hasn’t swum in a pool since last summer, when her mother had taken them to the YMCA on a Sunday afternoon.

The girl beside her groans. “The pool? I’d rather go upstairs and show her my toys.”

Her father frowns. “We have a pool out there that you never use. Go upstairs, find a suit for Annie, and then head out back. I’ll fix some lunch.”

The brunette pouts, huffing dramatically and grabbing Annie’s small hand. “Fine. Let’s go upstairs. I’ll show you my room while we change.”

“Change quickly,” the man warns, an edge in his tone. “I don’t want you girls up in that room all day.”

They change in a room filled with dolls, frills, and pink. Dana thrusts at Annie a bathing suit that is tags-still-on-it new. She pulls on the sparkly suit carefully, not wanting to stretch the fabric, and examines herself in the mirror. With the sunny room behind her, the hot-pink suit bright in its unwashed glory, she feels transformed, as if she is living a different life, in a different world not her own. She feels momentary guilt at the surge of want, envy, the desire for this life over her worn and faded one.

They swim in crystal-clear water, eat burgers and potato chips with ice-cold Cokes, and pose for pictures poolside. It is, as best Annie can ascertain, a perfect life.

She hopes she is invited back.

I STAND UNDER
the weak spray of the cheap shower and try to wash away my day. For at least the twentieth time, I contemplate moving out of this shithole. When I decided to sequester myself, I was unsure of my financial position. I had $649 in my checking account and no clear source of income. This apartment had been cheap, with no deposit required. Now, with a bank account balance comfortably in the seven-figure range, it is ridiculous that I live in a place with occasional hot water. But moving seems an insurmountable task. And I chalk it up to a penance of sorts. I killed, so I am punished.

My last cammer of the day, RalphMA35, had been the typical “young experience” client. I should be used to creeps, should be able to brush it off and move on. Maybe it’s because he had been the last of the night, but for some reason I can’t let the session go. I can’t forget the hoarseness of his voice, the need I heard through the speakers, or the hungry emphasis on the name he called me.
Annie.
It was my third chat with Ralph and the second time he used that name. It isn’t often that clients use a specific name. It isn’t often that I take the place of a specific person. When he uttered her name, spoke that sweet name in a tone that was anything but, it ripped my heart out—grabbed it, squeezed it, then yanked it out, leaving devastation in its wake.

I turn off the spray, grab the towel off the hook, and rub down my wet skin. I flip off the light and walk naked through the loft till I reach the edge of my mattress. I start to reach for the blanket to pull back the sheets and crawl in. But I stop. I stop and think—a foreign and complex push and pull of emotions battling inside of me. Then I kneel, a movement both familiar and foreign. Years of tradition pushing against years of neglect. I clasp my hands and lean on the coverlet, inhaling deeply, and try to figure out what the fuck I am doing. Then, I pray.

My prayer is short and focused. I pray for peace from my demons, that the urge to hurt others will leave my unworthy body. And I pray that if there
is
a little girl out there, a little Annie, I pray that God will keep her the fuck away from the man named Ralph.

I used to be religious, our family attending church on Sundays like clockwork. Mother was the leading force in that, my father anxious for the service to be over so that he could head back to football and weekend projects. If Mother did struggle, as I do with my demons, I often wonder if that is why she went to church. If it was in an attempt to purify her soul, to destroy the devil inside with a higher power.

I have tried everything else; Jesus is on my short list of ignored possibilities. I just can’t go that route. I spoke to a pastor while living at my grandparents’. He told me that my mother was in hell and that she would be there for all eternity for her sins. He didn’t understand that despite her actions toward my family, despite the fact that she took away everything good in my life, I love her. She is my mother, and one night of hell doesn’t take away the seventeen years of memories. Hearing his words, spoken with so much certainty…I didn’t go back to that church. It was hard enough to erase the image of my mother burning in hell
without
seeing his face again.

I understand that I shouldn’t base my opinions of God on one redheaded country pastor. But my mother’s blood runs through my soul. If God was how she kept straight, kept normal, all of those years, what caused her fall? What if I gain control of my life, fall in love, have a family, create the perfect life, and
then
stumble—the way she did? It is better how it is now—where I have no one to hurt, no babies to nurture into future psychopaths. When I look at that possibility, at the course her life took…I don’t want to be normal unless I know that I am at no risk to others. I can’t afford to stumble, to take away others’ happiness.

So I don’t turn to God. But I do believe in His existence. And I do believe that some people He can help. Maybe He can help Annie, maybe He can keep her safe from the monsters that roam our world.

He can’t help me. Not in the way that I need to be helped. I don’t want a salve or whatever form of support my mother received. I’ve seen one family destroyed. I don’t plan on repeating that trend.

“IT’S BEEN A
good day. Two good days, actually.” I speak into my cell while sitting cross-legged on my pink bed, my laptop open before me.

“Tell me about them.”

I hope he’s naked. I hope Dr. Derek is sitting at his desk, a big fat cock in his hand, and he is stroking it while talking to me. I spent twenty minutes two hours ago talking to an attorney who dispensed legal advice on the phone while watching me, his orgasm barely slowing the flow of intelligent prose. The image sticks with me, popping up when I hear Dr. Derek breathe, hear a soft sigh as he shifts in his seat. These are the kinds of thoughts I need to avoid, especially if I want to continue down the path of trying to right my axis and fix my brain. But it is hard to spend a whole day engaged in sexual activity and then pick up the phone, hear that smooth, sexy voice, and not image the cock attached to his body.

“Deanna?”

“Hmm?” I answer absentmindedly, posting a camming screenshot to Twitter.

“Tell me about your good days.”

“Oh.” I close the laptop screen and focus on his voice, pushing aside the image of thick meat surrounded by strong hands. “No urges, no Hannibal Lecter fantasies all day yesterday, last night, and so far today. And I was up late last night, till almost one.”

“What’d you eat for dinner?”

I roll my eyes. Derek has a ridiculous obsession with my dietary choices, as if the magical solution to my problem might lie in a Lean Cuisine Herb Roasted Chicken entrée.

“Pot roast. Jenny Craig.”

“Have you had that before?”

I snort. “About fifty times. Maybe more.” Derek once had me cut out all meat from my diet, with a hypothesis that my animal instincts were triggered by the protein from meat. When you reduce a diet company’s selection to strictly vegetarian items, you are left with about four choices, all of which suck ass. I made it through about six days before I told him I would personally leave this apartment and fly to California just to murder him. We then decided the vegetarian plan wasn’t helping matters. “So, anyway, I was thinking, to celebrate, I might order Chinese tonight.” I hold my breath, waiting on his response. The truth of the matter is, I’m ordering Chinese no damn matter what his response is. I’ve been thinking about it since seven a.m. this morning, beef and broccoli taking over and dominating my mind since then, my single-minded obsession probably helping to keep the crazy thoughts at bay. But I like to complete this little exercise in asking permission anyway. If he does approve, and the Chinese deliveryman ends up dying, then I can always point the bloodstained finger at him.
It is his fault. He thought I could handle honey chicken and shrimp fried rice.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Damn.
I huff into the phone. “Seriously? Didn’t you hear me? No urges in twenty-four hours. Plus, I don’t even open the door! They leave it in the hall.”

“I don’t care. The more people who approach your door, the more risk you put yourself in. They will knock. You might not be strong enough not to answer.”

I grind my teeth. “I’ll be strong enough.” If it was up to Derek, I wouldn’t even get Jeremy deliveries. He’d expect me to somehow live, without supplies or food, holed up in this shithole and starving to death. Never mind the basic necessities I need to survive. No, those weren’t important. What
was
important was that no one knock on my door. Knocking equals death. Can’t be too careful, Derek’s liability insurance might go up.

“Better to be safe than sorry.”

Wow. Those six words…they could describe my whole existence. I left that land mine alone, looking at my watch. “Time’s up, Doc.”

“Don’t order Chinese, Deanna. Stick to the food you have in the apartment.”

“Got it. Thanks for the wisdom.” I hang up before he gives me another pearl of knowledge, then scroll down my phone list and press the button for Hong Kong Chinese.

Forty-five minutes later, I don’t kill the little Chinese man who scurries to my door, knocks, looks around, and knocks again.

“Just leave it on the floor,” I call out irritably. They should know this. I’ve only been ordering from them once a month for at least two years. The place seems to have higher turnover than McDonald’s, a new face bringing the same plastic bag every time.

The guy finally leaves, squishing the bag against the door and looking at it for a long time before walking away.

That’s right, buddy. Keep walking. Walk away before I open up this door and kill you for taking so fucking long.
I wait, listening, not budging until I hear the elevator take him back downstairs. Then I open my door and lunge for the bag.

I wish that I liked pizza. If I did, then maybe I wouldn’t gorge myself on MSG-loaded fare. But I don’t. I can’t stand the doughy, grease-laden heart attack covered in nine layers of cheese. So Chinese is my only indulgence. I limit my ordering, recognizing the wisdom in Dr. Derek’s thinking, restricting myself to a once-a-month habit, and allow myself to order only if I have something to celebrate, like today.

I ordered the usual: an extra-large Dr Pepper, an order of beef and broccoli, an order of chicken with vegetables, a large egg drop soup, and five egg rolls. I put the soup, three egg rolls, and the chicken into the fridge. The rest, I sit down to savor. The Dr Pepper is watered down, the ice having melted during the delivery, all carbonation evaporated during transport; but it is soda, and I moan as I suck down the first flat, sugary sip. Then I move on, opening containers and allowing myself full, unadulterated pleasure, all in the name of MSG fun.

THE POLICE REPORTS
compare my childhood kitchen to a pig slaughterhouse. They say that blood was spattered from ceiling to floor and bodily fluids stained furniture, tile, and clothing. Forensics and the CSI staff figured out that my mother took my father’s life first—a shotgun her weapon of choice—then turned the gun on Summer and Trent, using knives after the gun for no purpose other than to further destroy their bodies. They say my mother was decisive—that there seemed to be no hesitation in her mayhem. The only thing she wasn’t strong about was taking her own life. They say those stab wounds were shallow, hesitant, and only one was deep enough to be fatal.
What if
seems to be the unspoken phrase throughout the reports. What if she hadn’t killed herself? What would she have done next? Would she have left the house? Harmed someone else?

I don’t need to wonder about what she would have done next. It is a waste of time and energy. I know the things I need to know. I know my murderous obsessions started the night her soul left earth. I have killed once. I only hope that I can keep myself from killing again.

Wait.

I hear that in my head. Yeah. I know. Wait. I only hope it is God telling me to wait and not my mother. Or Satan. Or both. I wonder if my mother was always crazy or if it came to her out of nowhere, the way it did to me years ago.

I have read a great deal about psychosis. Mostly from the Internet, which Derek discourages. Apparently, professional doctors frown on the awesomeness that is Wikipedia. But despite the questionable validity of the sites I visit, I read everything I can find. Maybe one day I’ll read something that helps to explain it, something that offers some justifiable reason for my insanity’s existence. I’d love to be able to look back and blame my murderous rage on a toxic batch of well water that only my mother and I drank. Or cancer: a tumor that pushes on part of my brain, Mother and I having similar weaknesses in our bodies that allowed the tumor to grow. Maybe it’s not a tumor and it’s just hereditary, like alcoholism or high blood pressure. Maybe Summer would have developed the same homicidal inclinations, only she didn’t live long enough for it to develop.

I don’t have shooting head pains or any other clinical symptom to enter into WebMD. Just the rush of bloodthirsty need sweeping through my body in one uncontrollable rage, driving my brain and thought processes into a tangled stew of insanity that can be calmed only by blood.

The desire typically comes at night, when there is nothing to distract me and the idle time plays hopscotch with my brain. When it comes, my mind takes over my body, causing my hands to shake and my mouth to water, hatred filling my body until I vibrate with desire, wanting, needing to expel it in a way that involves bloodshed. I calm it how Dr. Derek has taught me: closing my eyes and curling into a ball, my arms tight around my legs, the pressure of my grip giving me some sense of space. Then I picture myself, my limbs free and door unlocked, a knife in my hand, my gun in my bag, my legs making the journey outside, to freedom. I breathe, quick, fast, controlled snorts of breath, the outside air hot on my legs, my heart beating a thousand times a minute. And I ask myself, “What now?”

Then I let my mind run free, my fantasy acting out in vivid Technicolor all that lies dirty and rotten in my mind. I kill, I maim, I take life joyously, drunk on the action, my mind giddy as more and more victims fall dead beneath my hands. There is screaming the entire time—the screams of my victims, but also the scream of my soul, fighting back against my pleasure, for the deaths that I am taking so gleefully.

The goal is to avoid the hit of desire. But when I can’t, when it sneaks up and grabs hold of me? Then the only thing to do is indulge it. And I’d be lying if I said I don’t enjoy those times.