The Contradiction of Solitude (17 page)

Emma.

Elizabeth.

Rosie.

And the countless others that were stars forever. Lost but not gone. Always in my mind.

That’s where they stayed.

But I knew the twenty in the papers weren’t the only stars. There were more. In the silent hours of the early morning I’d let my mind wander to those other girls. And I was desperate to know them. To hear them. To tell their stories for my father.

Even as I hated him and who he was, I loved and missed him in equal measure. The contradiction was too much sometimes. I was being torn in two.

I fought against them every single day. Sometimes I wanted to surrender. To give into the dark promise that he offered.

My father’s blood ran deep. Too deep. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to break away. And sometimes I didn’t want to.

Most of the time I accepted my inevitable fate. To fall into the obsession.

Because the blood…

It’s what I wanted.

It’s what I craved.

From the time I was a child I knew that I was different.

And my father nurtured it. He celebrated it.

It became the link that bound us together.

The blood.

I began to shake. My fingers twisting and gripping at the fabric of my shirt. Ripping and pulling.

I let myself remember. No matter the cost. No matter the pain.

The day when I realized exactly whose blood ran in my veins.

The day it all began to make sense.

“Your father isn’t coming home.” I stared at my mother as though she were speaking another language. She looked awful. Her brown hair, much lighter than mine, was stringy and unwashed. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen.

Matty made a noise and started crying. I wanted to tell him to shut up. I hated it when he cried.

“Where is he?” I asked, feeling a door slam shut. The end. That is what this was.

“He’s gone.” And that was it. She wouldn’t explain. I stopped asking questions.

And then my friend, Tasha, told me the truth. Not in a nice way. But in words tinged with ridicule and accusation.

“Your dad’s the one that killed all those girls.”

The Nautical Killer.

Everyone knew. But my mother would never talk about it. It was as though my father were just gone. On a fishing trip that was a little longer than usual. And perhaps, at the time, it was for the best. To pretend that he was off doing something he loved.

But no one else would let me forget about the man I called father.

“Are you a psycho too?”

“Is that why you never cry?”

“Is that why you’re so freaking weird?”

Was it?

Was I?

I was horrified by my father’s crimes but also oddly relieved to know the truth.

Was I just like my daddy?

Did the sick compulsions lie dormant inside me?

Some days I felt them there. Ready and waiting.

Rotting.

I fought against them all the time.

Other days I didn’t fight them at all.

My phone rang and I picked it up, knowing it was him.

“Layna. How are you?”

I didn’t say anything. Tonight of all nights the words just couldn’t be spoken.

“I feel it too. Today especially. I got my letter. Did you get yours?”

“Yes,” I whispered to my brother.

“Did you read it?”

“No.”

Silence again. Solitude. I loathed it. I loved it.

Contradiction.

“I didn’t either.” My brother’s voice was older but still familiar. I hadn’t seen him in six years.

Six years.

I didn’t know what he looked like anymore.

I only knew his voice.

I couldn’t let myself have any more than that.

“I lit it on fire,” my brother said and I could hear his soft chuckle. I didn’t laugh Perhaps he was stronger than I was. Being able to laugh in the face of all this ugliness.

“I kept it.”

I kept it.

I couldn’t throw it away. What did that make me?

“It doesn’t mean anything, Lay.”

“Yes it does,” I argued softly. The fight was gone. He knew it. I knew it.

“Throw it away.”

“I can’t.”

My brother said nothing else. We sat on the phone, a hush between us. I watched the flickering flame wondering if my life wouldn’t be easier if I just…

“I’ve met someone,” I said quietly.

“Me too,” my brother admitted. I didn’t know anything about Matt’s life. I never asked. He never volunteered any information.

We didn’t have that kind of relationship.

Ours was that of two people using one another to hold onto their last shreds of humanity.

“Will you tell her?” I asked him, though I knew what he’d say. His answer was mine.

“No.”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier—?”

“You’re not him,” my brother broke in.

I smiled. He was a fool.

Such a naïve, sweet fool.

“Liar.”

I
watched her. Always watched her. I was bewitched. Entranced.

I was going under.

I had kissed her once.

Held her hand twice.

That was it.

And I was ready.

For everything.

For
anything.

She was my lack of reason. My painful heart. She was my inevitable demise.

Because of her, I would lose my soul.

“Where have you been, Elian?” Margie looked upset. I knew why. I hadn’t spoken to her about things between us. I had meant to.

But I had been swept away.

I was out of control, fixated. Focused.

On other things.

“I’ve been around, Marg,” I said tiredly, swiping at the fret board on my workbench. Wood shavings scattered on the floor with each vigorous brush.

“I tried to call you.”

Tate looked up from across the room and smirked. I knew how much he enjoyed being right.

I should never have shat where I ate.

I was an idiot.

I dropped the sandpaper and picked up my pack of cigarettes. I inclined my head towards the rear entrance of the studio. “Come on, let’s go have a smoke.”

Margie brightened a bit. “Okay, let me go grab my lighter.” She hurried back to the front of the shop.

Tate started to get to his feet but I gave him a look. “You can have yours later,” I told him.

“Oh. Gonna let her down all gentle like, huh? Is this about that chick?” Tate whispered.

“Shut up,” I warned just as Margie returned.

We walked outside and I immediately lit up. The smoke billowed out in front of me. It had started to rain. Margie huddled underneath the awning but I stepped out into the downpour, not caring in the slightest that I was soaked in only seconds.

“You’ll get sick, Elian,” Margie scolded.

I ignored her. “We need to talk, Marg. About what happened two weeks ago.”

Had it only been two weeks?

Margie sucked on her cigarette and blew it out in an angry breath. “Don’t you dare tell me it was a mistake.”

“I wouldn’t, Margie. But it’s over. That part of our relationship anyway. I hope we can still be friends.”

I had always been adept at doing this. Ending things.

No hurt feelings.

Soft. Gentle. Tender.

People liked me. I counted on it.

But I was fumbling this. I was going to make it worse.

Because I had changed.

Two weeks.

That was it.

And Elian Beyer was finished.

“Friends? Are you kidding? You fucked like you meant it, Elian!” Margie spat out and I knew this was going to get nasty. There was no easy cutting of loose strings. Not this time. Or ever again.

I was all wrapped up in loose strings, dangling, ready to strangle me.

Just don’t see her.

“We had fun, Margie. It was great…” I trailed off, not knowing what else to say. I had built my life on saying the right thing. On being able to tell people what they wanted to hear.