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His howls are music to my soul.
One arm is still free, so he swings out, trying to grab me, but I step back, laughing. “Take the knife out,” I dare him. “That’s the only way yer comin’ off that wall.”
When he attempts to do so, I seize his free hand and bend it backward until bone snaps. It flops lifelessly as his wrist is broken.
“Shh, shh,” I hush him, slamming my palm over his mouth as I level him with an amused stare. “I just wanna talk with ya.”
His cries are muffled beneath my hand.
Yanking back the cuff of his sleeve, I glare at his tattoo. “What does this mean?”
His eyes dart to his tattoo, and I suddenly realize the symbolism behind this is even bigger than I thought.
Removing my hand carefully, warning him not to scream, I wait for him to answer my question. Instead, he spits in my face. “Fuck ya, Kelly.”
Tonguing my cheek, I lift my face to the ceiling and exhale. “Is that right?” I ask, unsure why he believes that question was optional.
Maybe he needs further encouragement.
Opening my bag, I reach for my face paints and brass knuckles. I don’t need a mirror because each stroke, I know by heart, thanks to him and the two other cunts who robbed me of my life. Placing the brass knuckles into my pocket, I unscrew the lid on the white paint and circle my fingers in the container.
Once they’re coated, I slather my face with no real method to my madness and paint my face white. Aidan stares, horrified, as I open the black paint container and draw a sinister grin from cheek to cheek. I use my middle finger to slash downward across my mouth, before blowing him a kiss with it.
My blue eyes are shadowed in black as I angrily rub circles around them. I repeat the same action down my nose.
My face is now painted to how it was when I saw him as a wee chile.
“Yer not the full shilling. Yer a molly, is it? No wonder, yer a Kelly, after all.”
I don’t bother addressing his slander, nor do I correct him that I actually don’t know who I am.
“Yer tattoo, I want to know what it means.”
“Why? Ye want one of yer own?”
With a smirk, I tug back my sleeve. “I already have one.”
Aidan’s confusion is clear when he sees our matching tattoos. “How’d ya know?”
It’s time to reclaim what he stole from me.
“When I was five years old, I saw ya. I saw whatcha did to my ma—Cara Kelly. Remember her?”
“Naw, I don’t. No Kelly is worth remembering.”
Regardless of his denial, I continue with my story because even if he wasn’t there, he has answers I want.
Shaking my head, I begin to whistle the song that was playing on the radio when he raped my mum. When I take a breath, I see it—recognition. He remembers. Hewasthe fucker who was there that night.
Reaching for the black paint, I dip my finger into the container and draw a single line down my forehead. I’ve waited for this moment for what feels like an eternity.
As I stand in front of Aidan, he doesn’t cower when I tilt my head, examining him closely. This is my bogeyman, the fella who took something which can never be replaced—my soul.
He tries to fight me as I dig into his pockets until I find what I’m looking for—his wallet and phone.
The leather is soft as I open the wallet, immediately finding what I’m looking for. “These yer kids?” I ask, running a black painted finger over their photograph.
Two boys and one girl. The wee dote is wearing a T-shirt with the words Four Leaf on the front of it.
