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How on brand of him to have a little black book. It’s easy to see with just a quick glance that we already have many of these names on the list we’ve been compiling. I toss it in Noah’s direction and am surprised, as well as a little turned on, when he catches it in his hand and gives me a droll look. I grin as I move on to Romano’s wallet.
Throwing down several IDs we’ve already discovered, I roll my eyes. Credit cards, boring. Not very much cash. I pocket it anyways. As I pull it out, I notice some other cards in a slip. Taking them all out, I toss the insurance cards out of the way. How ironic. A coupon? Really?
I freeze.
Black edges over my vision as my fingers tighten over the remaining stack in my fingers. Hallucinating. I have to be hallucinating. I don’t remember falling asleep, but there’s no other explanation than being stuck in the middle of a new nightmare.
The smell of smoke rises up in my nose until it’s the only thing I can breathe. My lungs tighten as I fight to take a full breath, but my vision blurs. My mind already knows how futile this fight is. Flames lick up my exposed skin and I can feel the blood soaking my clothes. Smell the coppery tang in the air that mixes with ash and something that turns my stomach.
Vodka.
I drop my free hand to the desk, tightening my fist around it. Trying to ground myself back into reality. Shaking my head to clear the haze of my past, I let my eyes wander over the desk once more. A clear crystal glass sits in front of where Romano was sitting. Half full. A clear liquid inside.
All of my focus is on that insidious liquid. It can’t be. I don’t want to believe it, but I have to check. Raising the glass to my nose, I take a small whiff. My stomach churns, the contents of the breakfast Noah forced me to eat about to make a reappearance.
I don’t black out. I’m starkly aware of every moment that happens as I scream a sound so full of hurt and rage and agony, it doesn’t even sound human. Glass shatters, raining shards of crystal over the floor as the glass that was just in my hand hits the wall on the opposite side of the room.
Everyone freezes, no one even breathes. Their eyes on me, confusion and worry warring in their heavy gazes as they track me. I’m aware of every step I take towards Romano. The knife I pull from my holster and stick in his gut, twisting it as he squeals. I’m aware of all of it. But I’m in control for exactly none of it.
Instinct, a primal need for revenge has taken over me. Something inside of me finally breaks as I’m forced to face the worst night of my life in full color. Preserved in pristine detail in a handful of polaroid pictures clutched in my hands.
A mad woman, a psychopath, a loose canon, a serial killer. I’ve been called all that and more, but never have I felt that need inside me more than this moment.
My face is level with Romano’s, his eyes so full of pain I almost want to snap my own picture to take as a keepsake. Keep it in my wallet and carry it with me everywhere for the next decade to memorialize the very worst moments of his life. To capture the pain I was able to bring him that couldn’t possibly compare to the pain he once brought me.
Always there.
He has been right there in front of us for so many years. I never saw it. Still can’t remember it. Can’t remember him.
I show him the stack of photos clutched in my hands. There’s three or four of them. I know there must have been more at one point, but seeing the very first one was enough to kill the last bit of sanity I had left.
“Let’s go down memory lane together,” I whisper, my voice rough and unrecognizable even to myself. I show him the first photo that caught my eye, that stopped me in my tracks. The familiar cheer uniform, ripped and bloodied. The tangled mane of blonde hair, streaked with the same blood, fisted by none other than the sick man in front of me. The side of my face is visible, pressed against my father’s desk, one eye squeezed shut and my mouth open in a scream I can almost hear. Can feel in my bones. The pain that nearly speared me in half rises to the forefront of my mind as I dig the blade in his gut deeper.
He coughs, blood dribbling from his mouth. The opposite of how he looks in the photo. Standing behind me, one hand on my back, pressing me down to keep me in place, the other in my hair. A look of bliss on his face. Bliss. A stark contrast to the agony of my own young face.
I throw the photo to the ground, an inhuman laugh slipping past my suddenly parched lips. The next one shows what I already knew to be true. A close up that proves that Romano was the one to sodomize me. To tear me open in a whole new way. To cause damage that took nearly a decade to finally even begin to recover from. A pain far worse than even my virginity that Donahue stole only minutes prior.
The last photo is of just me. Beaten, bloodied, broken on the floor. Eyes closed, looking almost lifeless. I almost laugh. Maybe I do laugh.
“What made it so special you had to keep tokens in your wallet all these years?” I spit out the words, my blade digging through his flesh as I jerk the knife up.
He tries to answer, or at least I think he does. But all that comes out is more blood.
Blood. Blood. Blood.
Everything is coated in blood. All the time.
“Who else was with you that night?” I force the question out through my panting breath. I can barely breathe. The phantom pain rips through me, leaving barely any room to think. “Donahue? Who else?”
Recognition lights in his eyes as they lock on mine. The only part of me that hasn’t changed in all these years.
“Who else was with you the night you raped me?”
His mouth opens once more, but all that comes out is useless sputters. His eyes slowly close and I scream, pulling my knife free from him and stumbling back. My feet slide and strong hands catch me, steadying me back on my feet. I blink as I stare down at the knife in my hand, dripping into a large pool of blood that surrounds Romano’s now lifeless body. I blink again, not comprehending how he could already be dead. Where did all the blood come from?
How can it already be over?
I didn’t get my fucking answers.
