Grievous

  GRIEVOUS

  J.M. Darhower

  Contents

  Grievous

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by J.M. Darhower

  Copyright © 2017 by J.M. Darhower

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Scarlet Scars contains themes that are dark in nature. Some scenes may be difficult to read. Readers who are triggered by violent or sexual content should proceed with caution.

  WARNING

  To Jar Jar Binks.

  I’m sorry everyone in the universe seems to hate you.

  griev·ous

  /ˈɡrēvəs/

  adjective

  adjective: grievous

  1. (of something bad) very severe or serious.

  synonyms: grave, dreadful, terrible, crushing

  “a grievous wound”

  Chapter One

  “I have something for you.”

  Those words rang out from the open doorway of the bedroom... and not for the first time, either. I have something for you. The little girl slowly turned in the chair at the desk, turning away from the window with snow falling outside, away from the blank paper and pile of mixed up, broken crayons.

  The Tin Man stood there, dressed in a dark suit, his hand hidden behind his back.

  “Is it Buster?” she asked, trying to ignore the swelling in her chest that really hoped it was. It had been another week without him. Another week without her mother. Too many weeks.

  The Tin Man’s face twisted, like her question made him angry. Not Buster.

  The little girl frowned, turning back to the frosty window. “No, thank you.”

  “But it is Christmas today,” he said, “so you get a present.”

  Her brow furrowed. It wasn’t Christmas. Not anymore. They’d missed Christmas. Santa hadn’t come. “It’s the new year now.”

  “True, but it is still Christmas.”

  She just shook her head, staring at a bare red crayon on the desk, all of the paper peeled off and scattered around in front of her. Red crayon wax was caked under her fingernails from picking at it that morning.

  The Tin Man made no sense.

  How could it be Christmas still?

  “Use your words, kitten.”

  Use your words. He always said that, like she wasn’t allowed to have any thoughts that just belonged to her. She had to make them into words and give them to him. He was always taking everything.

  “I don’t have no words,” she said. “I just wanna go away.”

  “You want to go away?” he asked, his footsteps coming through the room as he approached. “Or would you like me to go away?”

  He stopped behind her, his shadow covering the desk like a storm cloud had moved in and blocked all the sunshine. He touched her shoulder and little girl froze, whispering, “I want you to go.”

  His hand darted over as soon as she said that, gripping her jaw so hard she cried out. It felt like a metal claw. He yanked her face up, forcing her head back, banging it against the chair as he made her look at him. His expression was hard, his eyes as cold as ice as they glared down at her. His rough touch left finger-shaped marks on the pale skin she’d gotten from her mother.

  Tears stung the little girl’s eyes, her throat burning.

  “You think I will not hurt you because you are small?” His hand moved to her chubby cheeks, squeezing them hard, making her purse her lips. “You think I will not hurt you because you look so much like the woman who has my heart?”

  “She has your heart?” the little girl tried to ask as tears fell down her cheeks, the words sounding like a muffled sob, but he understood.

  “She has all of me. I love that suka more than she could ever understand. I love her to death, kitten. The moment I saw her, I knew she would be mine. I gave her everything, and all she had to do was love me back.”

  He closed his eyes, like those words hurt him, as his hand shifted again, pressing against her throat until she couldn’t breathe. She tried, sucking in air, but it felt like her lungs were broken, like they had a hole in them so everything leaked out until she was choking.

  Choking.

  The little girl struggled, grabbing his hand with her own. His eyes opened when she touched him, something flickering in them, like flames roared inside of him.

  He let go right away.

  The little girl inhaled sharply, touching her neck as her whole body shook. Why did he do that?

  From behind his back, the Tin Man pulled out a stuffed cat. Small, and calico, with a red bow around its neck. He tossed it on the desk in front of her, on top of her broken crayons.

  “Merry Christmas, kitten,” he said as he turned away. “I love you.”

  Chapter Two

  “You know, when you mentioned breakfast, I kind of thought you were going to go home and make pancakes again.”

  Lorenzo laughs, standing on the street corner in the Chelsea neighborhood, just down from a little hole-in-the-wall Mexican place that stays open twenty-four hours. He clutches a styrofoam container, at eight o’clock in the morning, eating the most gigantic burrito I’ve ever seen in my life.

  Four bucks, cash only.

  He made me order one, too.

  Or rather, I said I wasn’t hungry and he said, ‘fuck that, I’m getting you one and you’re going to eat it,’ like the gentleman he is. I’m grateful for it, even though I pitched a fit.

  Turns out, it’s delicious.

  “Can’t believe you’ve never eaten there,” he says. “I thought it was a requirement to be a New Yorker.”

  “I’m not your typical New Yorker,” I point out. “I never really got the experience. Too busy slinging pussy, I guess.”

  A woman walks by as I say that, clutching her chest and casting me a look, like she might catch something by walking near me. Yeah, like some fucking human decency, maybe. I scowl at her, chomping on my burrito, waiting for the light to change so we can cross the street.

  The old battered teddy bear is tucked beneath my arm. I probably look ridiculous, I know, like I escaped from some hospital’s mental ward. People cast looks at me like they’re genuinely concerned about my sanity, which is funny, considering I feel more at peace in this moment than I’ve felt in a while. “You ever worry you might really be crazy?”

  “Worry? No. I’m pretty sure.”

  “You’re pretty sure you’re crazy?”

  “Yes.”

  I laugh, looking at him, seeing he’s watching me curiously. The light changes and people go around us, but he doesn’t move. Not right away.

  “There’s nothing wrong with being crazy,” he says. “It’s all just a matter of perception. Hell, I think my brother’s crazy, working some bullshit job with his beauty queen girlfriend studying whatever she’s studying, spending tens of thousands for a little piece of paper that’ll declare her competent enough to get her own bullsh
it job where she’ll make not even a fraction of what I make, when I didn’t even finish high school. But the world thinks that’s normal, and really, that’s all normalcy is—it’s whatever fucking brand of crazy has the majority.”

  He goes on so long, staring at me, that the light changes again and people gather around us.

  I stay quiet, waiting until it’s safe to walk.

  “Besides,” Lorenzo says, turning to cross the street, “crazy gets shit done, Scarlet.”

  We stroll along, finishing our burritos, neither of us saying much of anything after that. He’s right, I guess. Maybe we’re all crazy. Maybe the trick in life is just to find someone whose crazy plays well with your own.

  After we discard our trash, Lorenzo heads for the subway. It’s packed with commuters at this hour, so there aren’t any seats left, even standing room scarce. Lorenzo grabs a pole, pulling me in front of him without a word. It’s cozy. Warm. His arm drapes around me as I rest my head against his chest.

  He’s so warm I almost fall asleep standing there.

  It takes forty-five minutes to make it to his house. As soon as we walk inside, we come face-to-face with Leo and Melody, who are dressed for the day and heading out. Leo works in some fancy ass restaurant, one that requires he wear a tuxedo, whereas Melody is carrying her backpack full of books for class. It’s all so picture-perfect.

  Normal.

  Leo eyes us. “Long night? You both look like hell this morning.”

  “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Lorenzo asks right away. “Somewhere that doesn’t include talking to me?”

  Leo laughs at that, slapping Lorenzo’s shoulder. “But I always have time for my big brother.”

  “Go to work,” Lorenzo says. “You get fired, you’re fucked, because I’m not paying for Firecracker’s wining and dining, so all romance will be off.”

  “Oohhh,” Melody says, making a face as she grabs Leo’s arm. “You know what no romance means...”

  “No pussy?” I guess.

  Now Leo makes a face.

  “Good,” Lorenzo says. “Maybe then they’ll keep their clothes on and stop playing Slip ‘n Slide on my damn couch all of the time.”

  “Speaking of the couch,” Leo chimes in, “you were just kidding, right? You didn’t really steal the new couch from some strip club.”

  As soon as he says that, I glance into the living room, seeing a familiar black leather couch with gold accents. Oh god, did he seriously...?

  “Do you think I’d really do that?” Lorenzo asks.

  “I’m hoping not,” Leo grumbles.

  “Go to work,” Lorenzo tells him again before turning to Melody. “And you, go wherever it is you go when you’re not in my house, breathing up all of my oxygen.”

  They grumble goodbyes and head out, while Lorenzo stands there, staring at the door, making sure they’re gone before turning to me.

  He looks like he has something to say, but I beat him to talking.

  “You stole a couch,” I say, “from a strip club.”

  “So?”

  “So do you know what happens on those couches?”

  “Probably the same ooey-gooey shit my brother does on it, but it doesn’t matter. I disinfected it.”

  “You disinfected it.”

  “Yeah, got a can of Lysol and sprayed the fuck out of the thing.”

  I scrub my hands over my face. “I, uh... I’m too tired to think of a response to that.”

  “Then come on,” he says, stepping past me. “Let’s go to bed.”

  I don’t argue with that. Bed sounds like a beautiful place to be, so I follow him upstairs. As soon as we reach his room, I kick off my shoes and yank off my hoodie, falling into the bed with a sigh, still clutching the damn bear.

  Lorenzo strips down to nothing, as usual, before climbing in beside me.

  Thirty seconds, if even that. My eyes drift closed, exhaustion taking over. Lorenzo’s already snoring. Sleep hits me hard.

  Out like a light.

  I don’t know how much time passes before I’m jolted back awake, but my body is sore and the room is dim, growing darker, so I sense it’s late. I slept all damn day. Groggy, rubbing my eyes, I pull myself up to a sit as something falls into my lap.

  Buster.

  It hits me again then, as I pick up the bear. The pressure in my chest makes me feel like I’m suffocating. My fingers explore the bear’s beat-up face, caressing the filthy fur and shoving stuffing back into the holes.

  I wondered if I’d ever see the thing again. I wondered where it ended up and hoped—no, counted on—it being with Sasha. She doesn’t have me, I’m not there to protect her, but I thought she’d at least have her best friend Buster.

  She doesn’t, though.

  She’s all alone.

  So am I.

  In the literal sense, on my part.

  Lorenzo’s not here.

  I reach over, running my palm along the cold sheets. He’s been gone so long that the bed’s no longer warm.

  Sighing, I get up, trudging over to the closet to pull out my duffel bag that’s tucked in the back, along the bottom. I shift through it, grabbing the small black cell phone, plugging it into the charger using the wall socket as I sit down on the floor.

  After a few minutes, as I hold onto the bear, the phone powers up, coming to life again. There are only a few numbers programmed into it, and I hit the button to call the top one, bringing it to my ear.

  It rings a few times, as I inwardly panic, a voice in my head screaming for me to hang up right the fuck now, but the devil on my shoulder isn’t having that. The line picks up, a voice calmly greeting me, the Russian accent still thick despite him living in America for years. “I have been waiting for you to call.”

  He knows it’s me. I’m not sure how. I keep my number blocked for this reason, but yet somehow, he always knows.

  I don’t say anything.

  I can’t find the words.

  My voice doesn’t want to work.

  I used to have a lot to say, but my pleas always fell upon deaf ears, so I rarely say anything anymore. I just sit, and I listen, hoping one of these times he’ll say something of value, that he’ll slip up and I’ll hear her in the background.

  It has never happened.

  These calls used to be as frequent as the visits to the precinct, but trying to rationalize with Kassian is a lost cause. It’s like trying to civilize a caveman. No matter what I say, it’s never enough to get him to act human for just a moment and let me talk to my daughter.

  He’s never even acknowledged to me that he has her.

  The sound of his voice makes my insides ache, but I shove the feelings down and absorb every syllable he’s willing to offer, like maybe this is all a riddle that I can eventually solve.

  “Did you enjoy your present? I know Christmas was months ago, but it is better late than never, no?” There’s a lightness to his tone, like he’s amused by all of this. “I am assuming your scarred plaything gave it to you, since you are calling... unless you are simply missing me today.”

  I stretch my legs out along the floor, Buster lying in my lap, as I rest my head back against the wall.

  I still say nothing.

  “It is a shame about the condition of the bear,” he says. “I had to teach a lesson on obedience. I am sure you remember those. We had so many of them, you and I, but you... you never did learn. No matter how many times I showed you, you still thought you could have things your way. But I, of course, had to get creative this time, since I could not teach her things the way I taught you.”

  He laughs, like it’s the funniest thing in the world, while I grow dizzy, the room starting to spin.

  I have to close my eyes.

  “I miss your lessons,” he says, sounding almost wistful. “Striping you bare, fucking you raw, letting them all watch. Do you remember? The way they would fall all over themselves to see you, hoping I was in a generous mood and would let them have a taste. Do you miss that? Yo
u can admit it. I will not tell anyone. I will not tell them how much of a good girl you used to be, how you would cry so quietly, so not to disturb them when they took turns—”

  “Stop.” My voice cracks as that word forces itself from my lips, tears stinging my eyes. “Just... stop.”

  “Aw, pussycat, are you crying now?”

  I bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

  “It is okay,” he continues. “Come back home, and I will make it all better. Promises. And maybe, if you are a good girl, once you finally learn your lesson, I will tell you what happened to your kitten.”

  It would be a lie to say I don’t consider his offer.

  Because for a second, a moment of weakness, I think ‘okay’. I think ‘I can do it’. Nothing Kassian could put me through would ever be worse than living in this void, existing in the unknown, without my little girl. I think maybe if I go to him, maybe if I give in, I can find her, get her back, and maybe that way I can protect her. But reality is that I couldn’t even protect myself from this man, and if I surrender now, nobody will ever save either of us.

  And it’s stupid, I know, because his ‘maybe’ means nothing. His promises are bullshit. He’d teach me my lesson, sure. He’d find a way to break me.

  He’d do it, and then he’d kill me.

  “No more to say?” he asks.

  I don’t respond.

  “Then goodbye for now, pretty girl. I am sure we will see each other again soon. I love you.”

  The line goes dead.

  I sit here for a minute, those words stabbing at me, before I snatch the charger out of the wall and throw it all in the duffel bag, shoving it back in the closet.

  Carrying Buster, I march downstairs, finding Leo and Melody in the living room on the couch.

  Not having sex, thankfully—looks like he’s helping her with homework—but ugh, that couch.

  If they only knew...

  “You guys are back already?” I ask. “What time is it?”

  “After nine o’clock,” Leo says with a laugh. “Did you just wake up?”