He killed her parents and her brother 6 years ago, and now he's out of prison with her in his sights. Slaughter isn't on his mind. Instead, it's secrets, and there's a lot she doesn't know. Story Blog for Through the Dirt (c) 2018 All rights reserved. Collaboration by Dawn Crow and N.R. PLEASE BE ADVISED: This story will contain material that may be distressing to some readers. Contents will contain graphic descriptions (and images) of violence, murder, abusive relationships, assault, torture, suicide, sexual situations, and sexual assault. NSFW chapters will be tagged.
My eyes finally open, the sound of constant banging at the door correlated perfectly with the gunshots in my dreams. For a moment, subconscious and reality had merged in to one. Suddenly realizing that the echoing noises were part of the real world, I shot up from the couch and became instantly aware of my surroundings. I had fallen asleep to the memories of war, and at my chest, a black hunting rifle to match it. I stood to my feet, cautiously approaching the door as the thuds continued to knock, though became duller, and duller.
Bang... Bang... Bang... bang.
Looking through the peephole, I was met with the back of a speckled-grey suit. This was no cop. Nor no parole officer. I set the rifle up-right to rest on the wall behind the door. I grabbed for the doorknob and opened the door quickly, swiftly hiding the guy behind it.
The man was on his way out, just several feet down the stone walkway before he turned around. "Eh, look who's not dead yet." FUCKING Graham Rivera. A stud. A real womanizer and ladies man.
"Fuckkk." I slurred as he walked towards me. Twisting my body slightly, I had to make a double-take as I began to smile. "6 years and not one fuckin' visit, ya prick."
Graham launched his hand to grip my shoulder, squeezing it firmly as I welcomed him in to the house. Laughing, he shrugged. "Rules man. Too many rules."
I closed the door behind him, "Yeah, yeah." Dismissing him, I lead him to the kitchen. "Sit, at least. Stay."
Graham, my lawyer in the Beaverton Murders, pulled a stool out and unbuttoned his blazer. "You know I can't." He said, bluntly, while directly contradicting his words by sitting.
Pulling out a bottle of whiskey from the upper cabinet and two glasses, I slid them over the island separating the two of us. Pouring two drinks on the rocks, I handed one to him. He took it graciously, a sneaky grin creeping his lips. He was here for something. He always was.
"Spit it out." I teased him, "I know you better than anyone, Gray." I smiled, "I know that smile. To what do I have the pleasure of your most untimely visit." Raising my glass, he followed suit - air-cheering before the both of us took a sip.
Graham cleared his throat. "I can't get anything past you, eh'?" His chocolate brown eyes squinted as he looked up at me. I leaned over the table, anticipating whatever news he was here to deliver. "Alright." He nodded slightly, his eyes falling to the glass between his fingers. "They wanna know."
I stood from my leaning position, taking another sip - this time a gulp. They. It was always bad when it was They. "Mhm." I murmured through my drink and answered, "They already know."
"No." Rivera was firm with his word. "They wanna know how long you're gonna keep up this charade. This escapade. How much more effort they have to place into sweeping away the tracks you leave after every takeaway."
"Fuck you." A low rumble came from the back of my throat. Sighing, Gray opened his mouth to speak, but I knew exactly what was about to come out of his mouth. "Don't." I interrupted him, but he went to speak again. "Don't fuckin' say it."
"Chopski asked about you."
A surge of rage suddenly swept through my coarse veins. Chopski. It was a trigger. "God DAMMIT, Gray!" I shouted, slamming the glass down on the counter top. The glass shattered between the with the force of the strike, crushing the cup between the palm of my hand and the granite. Blood oozed from my palm, but I felt nothing. I stood tense, trying to reel in my emotion as my left eyelid twitched.
Graham sat there, stone-cold. This was his job, there was no room for remorse, regret, compassion. He waited a moment, allowing a few seconds of silence to settle the intensity. "Listen, Davis." Davis. "You know better than anyone that Chops would be dead if you wanted him in a grave." Standing from the stool, he reclipped the single-button that held his stylish blazer together.
I remained silent, slowly raising my head as Gray spoke with sincerity.
"He's not buried, he's not at the bottom of the ocean, and there's no bullet in his head." Gray continued.
"I don't do bullets."
He scoffed right in my face, "You got'a sniper-head behind your front door, Davee." Nothing goes past Gray. I had taught him well. Too well. "You're a DELTA. You do bullets. Just not in this new game." With his hands firmly placed on the backrest of the stool, he sighed. The sound of genuine concern. "I miss you, man." Lowering his head, he tried to keep his feelings in check, unable to jeopardize their network. "Chops the most.”
Nicola
January 21st -- Sunday afternoon
I sat stunned. Staring at my laptop screen. The windows were split. On the left, I had my email open -- one message coming from the campus crimewatch system. On the right was the local news website. I played the clip again.
“Shocking news this morning...brutally murdered at the campus stadium...crucified...eyes and lips were painted red, with blood…”
Painted with blood.
“Jesus,” I murmured. Not even flinching at the poorly timed exclamation. Playing the clip again -- voraciously scrolling through the feeds on my screen, toggling away from the email. It was almost funny how terribly inappropriate the email was.
A brief description of what happened, and then the same copy-pasted bullshit they put in all of the advisory emails. Yeah. Poor Kyle Turner probably wouldn’t have been slaughtered and trussed up like a Christmas decoration if he told the person to STAY AWAY in a loud voice.
Objectively, the odds were astronomical. It wasn’t just me being narcissistic. I didn’t give a shit about football (nearly a crime at the U of O) -- but I was a Duck technically speaking. It was too close to home for something this gruesome to happen anywhere near me without the probability lifting some eyebrows. But something in my wasn’t that surprised. Dark things had followed me my entire life. Death followed me. So because of this sadly accepted fact, I flicked through Facebook conversations, eyes drifting curiously over the comments, with nothing more potent than macabre fascination. It was unnerving, of course. To say the least. The campus was completely terrified, social media lit up with their terror -- brighter than the North Star. That time I did flinch, scolding myself under my breath. Bad taste. Terrible taste. Idiot.
Google searches for more information. Oregon State detectives had been deployed to investigate the scene. All football activities suspended until further notice. Now that was a big deal. A huge fucking deal. Kyle Turner was punched in the search bar and I paused. Perking a brow. Old articles -- several years old. The kid had been accused of rape years ago as a teenager during college football recruiting. He had been in the spotlight. A real hotshot. The Ducks were a big deal in the world of college football. It had come as a shock when the Portland native was accused. His rise to football stardom and the rape scandal had driven the media utterly mad. My nose wrinkled slightly. The media. Tch. Either way, that explained the carving on his body. Rapist. Sinner.
The little hairs on the back of my neck shivered. I rubbed it away idly and dove a little deeper. Okay. A lot deeper. It was time to see if the internet had gotten a hold of some photos. Are you sure that’s a good idea. The little voice sounded like Michael and I rolled my eyes.
Sure enough -- a little digging into some shady websites and I found it. I knew where to find these things. It wasn’t hard if you tried. Where the photos came from precisely I wasn’t sure. One of the people who discovered him? Although they’d have to be pretty sick to be snapping pictures in the face of seeing their friend -- said the girl looking at the pictures in the first place. Leaked crime scene photos? Unlikely given that the whole thing only happened this morning. Who knew but I was glad they were there. Not glad -- just appreciative of their helpful nature. Helpful in killing my curiosity. They were gruesome. Beyond gruesome. I was surprised to see the genital mutilation. The big-mouthed news anchor in the looping clip failed to mention that particular detail.
The face painted with blood like some kind of morbid clown. Strange. I rubbed the back of my neck again. Why that, of all things? It was kind of beautiful in a twisted way. Heavenly. It was something I could paint. Something I would paint. I could see the lines of pain still etched in his frozen face. It would take a while. But I was sure I could capture it if I tried. I didn’t realize how long I had been staring at the photo of the late Kyle Turner’s face until the trill of my phone broke me out of the thoughtful trance. I scrambled, glancing down at the screen.
Adam. Fuck. Right. This time I swiped to answer.
“Hey.”
“Oh! She finally answers, consider me blessed. What the hell, Nik?”
I shrugged. Then realized he couldn’t see that and sighed. “I’m sorry. I thought I talked to you -- about it and stuff.”
“Barely. It has been like a week and a half. I was worried I did something wrong.”
I tried not to snort. “Well. Sorry. It’s fine now.”
“Right. Well. Do you want to come down to Core and see what I have been working on? I miss you.”
I looked at the photo again before closing the window. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll be there in a few.”
I bundled myself up in a jacket, scarf, and boots and tromped outside to head to the Core-- a sections of classrooms in Northsite dedicated to the art department. When I felt stuck in my apartment, I often ventured there and set up shop to work. With a brisk pace, I walked down to Core. The snow had stopped early that morning. It was getting warm enough for the ground to get slushy.
The space was empty. Most of the streets seemed empty too. So much different from the firestorm online. Right now, I liked it out here better. Too easy to get lost in the screen. Too easy to slip through time sometimes. My boots squeaked -- the damn slush -- as I ghosted to the studios to the darkroom where Adam undoubtedly was lurking. Sure enough he was leaning over one of the tables, working with some formula for his photos.
“Hey,” I murmured. He started slightly and stood, turning with a look before he stepped over and smiled slightly.
“Well, she lives. Jesus, I thought I would forget what you looked like,” he said. Easy -- a thick voice, each word pronounced clean and sharp. He stooped down, pulling me against him. A quick kiss, then he pulled me along to the developing tank -- above which a few shots hung.
“Shot these just before the snow came.”
Adam was good. Good enough to have gotten into graduate school and become a graduate assistant for the beginning photography course anyway. I took it during my first year. He told me all the time he “appreciated” me the moment he saw me.
“I like that one,” I breathed. Genuine in my compliment. There was something about stags that drew me for some reason.
“Yes. I spotted him when I was on the tracks. It is good I suppose. Are you hungry? We should get something to eat. Catch up.”
I looked a moment at the photo of the stag again before nodding and following him out of the darkroom. We wandered down the halls. He didn’t take my hand. I knew he was sulking. My patience grinded slightly. The halls were lined with paintings -- but this was an old exhibition, due to turnover soon with new submissions. We passed a large one and I glanced up.
Oh fuck. That’s right. I had forgotten one of my paintings made it into the gallery. It was well over a year old. I loved it when I finished it. I wasn’t so sure now. I paused a few steps, looking it over. A woman in red, stretched out, blinded and silenced by red. Crucifixion I had called it. I wished I could remember exactly what I felt when I finished it.
Painted red, with blood.
Crucified.
My joints locked.
Crucifixion.
“Oh my god.”
Turner. His face. The blood on his eyes and mouth. No wonder I felt compelled to paint it. Because I already had. I stared. A cold sweat prickled my skin beneath my coat as I stood gaping, trying to make sense of it all.
Adam glanced over his shoulder. “Nik?”
I couldn’t. Because it didn’t make any sense. At all. Whatsoever. A coincidence? Could it be? Turner’s bloodsoaked body -- flesh white against the drying blood over his skin. The pose. The face. Stiff as a board, I glanced over my shoulder. Habit bringing my nails to bite in my palms. Jaw tense. I swallowed hard. Fear. Too close.
Death followed me. Follows me.
A thought that turned my guts to water cropped up in my head. Him. How. There was no way. He wouldn’t come here. He has no idea that I’m here. Stop. Breathe. You’re being paranoi-- NO.
Dark eyes smiling. Stinging stink of hot blood. Glass biting in the bottoms of my feet. White skin. Red cuts.
“Nikki!” Adam barked. He reached out to grab my shoulder and I nearly jumped clean out of my skin.
“S-sorry,” I stuttered, pulling away -- recoiling. “Sorry. Adam. I have to go.” And with that I turned from him and all but ran from the building, leaving him standing there looking very perturbed.
Miles
“Oh my god.”With my back up against the wall, I kept my hands hidden within the confines of my jacket pocket. I was at the edge of a corner, out of sight and out of mind. Well, not to dear Nicola. I listened as your breaths shortened, your words became choked up, and you became unresponsive. I kept still. Quiet. I had wondered how fast you were pick up. You were smart. Smarter than I gave you credit for. So much so that I found myself appreciating just how quickly you put two-and-two together.
I couldn't help but simper.
I could hear the boy scoff as you ran off. Nikki, he would call you. Nikki.
My head leaned to the side, my eyes shifting to peak around the corner. He was visibly frustrated, shrugging his limp shoulders and as he spun around - confused. He scoffed again, this time without company; thinking he was alone in this hall. "She's a basketcase. Freakin' nuts." He would murmur under his breath.
My fingers curled into a furious, clapsed fist. Biting the inside of my lip, I clenched my balled-fist so tight, my knuckles began to whiten.
Adam grabbed his stuff off the floor and began his way towards me. Right as the boy would turn the my superior form would spring out. Slamming my shoulder into him, the weight of my figure literally body-checked him across the hall. The kid hit the ground hard - the strike sending his bag, books, papers, and photographs fluttering about. They lay spread across the floor, as did he, in complete disarray. Moaning, the juvenile prick was disoriented - possibly concussed. Holding his head in his hand, he tried to lift his chin and with one eye opened - searched for the source of the assault. Nothing. No one.
Body aching, he attempted to pick up the pieces of his scattered belongings, he shuffled his papers and photographs into a single, disordered pile. But something caught his olive-green eye. Atop the pile, a sheet - a printed notice. The Crime Advisory.
STAY AWAY.
Encircled dozens of times in black pen. Adam shot his head up, frantically throwing himself around to look around him... Confused eyes would find himself alone. Abandoned in a silent, empty hallway.
It didn't matter that I was just shy of turning 44 years old. The University of Oregon campus was nearly 300 acres of property housing nearly 23,000 students from around the world. Sure, the majority were teens and young adults, but there was no shortage of older individuals seeking education. More so, I didn't have to be a student. I could be a teacher, a maintenance worker, the IT guy, even a fuckin' janitor. For all anyone knew, I belonged here. And the way I walked through those grand, window-framed doors - people knew. I had a purpose.
Showing no signs of hesitation, fear, or confusion, I waltzed my way throughout the campus. For nearly an hour, I roamed the campus freely and without even batting an eyelash to any other person. I was mostly ignored by those who did notice me. But for most, it was like I didn't even exist - just like the rest of them. I was just another body in a mass of humans.
But I was here for a reason, and that was to fulfill a job and keep a promise; an agreement that got me freedom in 6. Kyle Turner. Kyle fucking Turner. "Fuckin' football prick raped my niece and got off scot-free," as Correctional Lieutenant Dave Ward would say. The very first words of his that changed the course of my history at Oregon State Pen. And I had read the reports, the articles, the media frenzy - all in prison. I knew what he had done, and he was guilty. But a fully-paid scholarship and a hell of a lot of "hush-money" got him nothing. Not even a smack on the wrist. He walked. Went free. And Ward's niece? Well, things didn't go so great for her. Fearing him, she refused her admittance into UofO, afraid she would see him again.
So the fucker had to die. And now it was finally time.
Approaching the glass doors of the Performance Center, I made a fatal mistake. Reaching my hand out to pull on the handle, the door stayed shut. It creaked as I tried to open it - but it was locked.
"Uh, hello?" A large football player called to me in his confusion, his mouth agape and his eyes squinted as he made his approach. He was as heavy as he was tall; his long, afro-style hair alone adding inches to his height. "This building is for authorized personnel only..." He said to me, pulling a plastic card from behind him and slipping it through the swipe-pad beside the door. The pad flashed green and the door clicked. Unlocked. This place was advanced, way more security than I could have ever imagined. University of Oregon had changed in the last 6 years.
Turning to him, I gave a toothy grin and begin to chuckle. "Boy do I feel old, huh." He looked at me, cautiously as he stood before the door. But I didn't let him disappear into the building before I extracted needed information. "I'm actually lookin' for someone - maybe you can help me..." I iterated, "One of your football mates, Kyle Turner."
The player gave me a saucy eye glare. "What about him?"
Pausing, I conjured the biggest load of shit I could muster up in 0.2 seconds. "My niece, you know-" I started to chuckle, so much so that it interrupted my speech. "Ah man, this is embarrasing on her part, but she's... she's a HUGE fan of his. And I mean HUGE. She has posters of him all over her room, you know?"
"Uh-huh..." Little interest from him. Only suspicion. But I didn't let him get another word in.
"I mean she's just nuts for college football. Strange for a girl, no? I guess the world is changin' and I'm far behind. Heh, heh, heh." I chuckled again, trying to fluster the boy with too much information for him to process. "But ANYWAYS -" I continued, "Her birthday's comin' up and I was hopin' to get maybe a... you know... surprise appearance from him?" There was a look of confusion on the poor boy's face. "WITH COMPENSATION, of course." Another smile.
"Uhhhhhhhmm, righttttt." He replied. "Let me..." He struggled to respond. Possibly the weirdest request he'd ever received, surely. "Let me go see if he's here. I'll be right back."
"Sure thing, but ah-!" I held my hand up, a signal for him to stop as he reached for the handle. "Allow me," Taking the door by the giant O shape in its handle, I pulled the steel frame open to allow for the jock to head in. In respect to him, I closed it behind him, locking me out of the building once more.
I stood there waiting. Waiting patiently. With my hands stuffed in my pockets, I casually swayed my body and whistled a chirpy hymn. To my surprise, it took only minutes for the door to open again. And out came Kyle fuckin' Turner in the flesh. And he wasn't a teenager anymore. No... He was a man, now.
"Uh, hi-?" Kyle would greet me, without so much as a formal introduction. Fuckin' millennials.
It took me a moment to sink in his appearance. Tall, 6'1, still shorter than me. A big guy, no doubt. But size didn't matter when it came to murder. Only intent, motive, and calculation. "Yes! Kyle Turner." Pulling my hand from my coat pocket, I extended it to him. "My name is Angelo Rossi. It's great to meet you!" Turner took my hand, shaking it as firmly as I was squeezing. But as he had taken my hand in his, I had also raised my other free hand to firmly grip his bicep. A sort of gesture of greeting, but it secretly to scope his muscular size.
"Yeah, thanks." The fucker would respond. Yeah, thanks? Really? Really.
Releasing his hand, I returned my superior 6 foot 3 stance to it's upright position and gave a fake, cheery smile. "My niece, she's a crazy fan." Pulling for my wallet, I slipped out a photograph of a teenage girl. "Her name is Nakoma. She's... half native half Italian, like me. Heh." Kyle took the photo in his hand, his eyebrows raising at the beautiful young lady he saw in the picture. Perfect, interest. "A looker, I know. Causes me more problems, ya know?" I chuckled, taking the photo back. "So listen, I came here hopin' I could hire you. For a job, of sorts."
Kyle crossed his arms before him and looked at me curiously. "Oh yeah?"
"Yeah, man. I'm organizing Nakoma's 16th birthday and I really want to make it special. She has posters of ya' all around her room and I thought, pffftttt, what better to surprise her with her favorite football player? Every teenage girl's dream, right?" I laughed again, thinking the idea is silly, but might actually work. "Nothin' major. There's be about 30 of her girlfriends there hangin' around the pool-" Realizing it was January, I instantly corrected myself. "Indoor pool, at her father's place. Big place, you know?" Kyle's head was nodding - Still interested. "Figured you can drop by for an hour or so, or even less if you're in a crunch. Sign some autographs, take some pictures. Grab a bite to eat, whatever you want. There'll be plenty of food, cuz, well, Italians, am I right?" Laughing again, Kyle's interest seemed to only be piquing the more bizarre and outlandish the story got.
"Sounds fun." He smiled, bringing his fingers to his lips as he pondered the thought of 30 hot teenage girls in their bikinis. "But uh-" He started to sway. "I don't know-"
"I'll pay you $5,0000. Cash." I confessed. His eyes widened. "$2,500 for showing up. $1,500 for autographs and another $1,000 if you take some selfies. You know' - the girls thing. Selfies, heh." I paused, my eyes growing darker as they remained hidden behind Aviator shades. "What do ya' say? We got a deal?" Swiftly changing tunes, "You know what, don't sweat the decision now. There's a lot of politics in sports, I'm old. I know it." I waved my hand in typical Italian fashion. "You gotta' business card or somethin'?"
"Uh, nah but I can give you my number-" Perfect. A rich white kid, hot-shot jock, AND a moron. This was too easy. Handing him the photo, he retrieved a pen from his pocket and jotted down his digits.
"Wow, thanks man. I appreciate you considering this." I waved the photograph of "Nakoma" and slipped it back into my wallet. "I'll give you a call something this week. Talk it over with your coach or manager or whoever you kids report to, heh." I put my hand out for him to shake again, "And nice meeting you again."
— — —
I found myself roaming the halls of University of Oregon on my attempt to exit the campus. My curious mind sent me further and further into the campus maze - a prestigious multitude of buildings and intricate floor plans; each with its own purpose, meaning, and unique design. Deep in UofO, I stumbled upon the Department of Fine Arts. The halls were brimming from floor-to-ceiling with murals and artwork. Slowing my pace, I stopped to appreciate the work. I had always had an affinity to for paintings.
My eye had always found itself drawn to the color red. Red.
My dark irises wandered the walls, finally pulling towards a large, 5 foot canvas. It soared above me - dazzling in its ocean of red. The painting was of a woman, presumably dripping in blood. A sort of, Queen of the Damned. Intrigued, my eyes shifted to the small plaque stuck to the wall by the corner of the artwork. Nicola Strom. My stomach sunk as my heart skipped a beat.
"Crucifixion." The words rolled off of my lips. My head retracted slowly as my eyes closed. "Mmmm."
— — —
January 20th, 2018 - Five days after release.
Eugene, Oregon had been unusually warm for January. For the most part, it was sunny and rainy on-and-off, with an average high temperature of 45 degrees F. Too warm for snow. At least, not enough sub-zero temperatures to keep it for more than a couple days, anyways. Luckily for this lovely Saturday evening, the rain had stopped early morning and the skies were greeted by a brightening sun.
Kyle parked his Trail-Rated Jeep cruiser in front of the colonial-century home, red-bricked mansion. He ducked his head, looking over the place with his pale eyes as he took in the sheer size of the place. Although Eugene was home to old money - big money - it was also commonly inhabited by the middle class. Whoever owned this place... wasn't a white-collar, middle class citizen.
Exiting his truck, he approached the front door, which was lavishly decorated with a Sweet-Sixteen balloon bundle. A clear indication he was at the right house. As he rang the doorbell, it only took a few seconds before he was greeted by a familiar face. "Mr. Turner." I said, standing tall with my hand cemented firmly on the back of the door. It was the first time he was seeing my hazel-speckled brown eyes.
It was also the last.
"Cute." I blurted, subliminally mocking his uniformed self as my eyes gazed over his full-football get-up. Shredded sleeves to show his pectoral muscles. How sleazy. Helmet and all. How sweet. "Come join the fun." I smirked, guiding him through the front door. "But maybe take off the helmet." Chuckling, Turner cracked a smile as he took a step into the house - which was, unsuspectingly, filled with the sound of laughing girls.
"Too much, huh?" Kyle joked, unclasping the helmet and slipping his head free. His back was to me as I closed the door. "I thought mayb-" The moment he turned to face me, my hand - hidden behind the door the entire time - swung straight for his head. A thin medical syringe pierced into the side of his neck - administered by my right hand - Gloved. Protected.
Injecting the cocktail of muscle relaxants, Kyle quickly deteriorated in a matter of seconds. His initial reaction to grab for my hand, but by the time he could react - it was already too late. He was losing almost all of his muscle ability. One. Two. Three. He hit the ground, unable to move, unable to moan, unable to call for help. With his body curled in the middle of the hallway, his eyes remained open - panicked. Looking down at his 6'1, 200 pound physique - which had been reduced to nothing in just seconds - I shook my head. Pathetic.
His eyes followed my every move. He was conscious. Awake. Aware. I stepped over him and walked past him like he didn't even exist. Stepping into my living room, I smiled at the sound of giggling teenage girls filled the open-concept space. Walking over to the stereo system, I grabbed the remote and clicked - Off. Silence. Girls? What girls. There were no girls.
Returning to his paralyzed figure, I crouched down to brood over him. I tilted my head to the side and grabbed his face between my gloved thumb and fingers. Squeezing his limp cheeks between them as I leaned his head to look at me. "Oh, Kyle." I made clicking noises with the back of my tongue. "Remember her?" Pulling a photograph from my back pocket - Sarah Ward. "Yeahhhhh." I flicked the photo in his face, nearly submitting to my urge to spit on him. "You're gonna die tonight." There was a dark, unforgiving grimace that crept my cheeks. "And it's gonna fuckin' hurt."
Two, single-drop tears fell from the corners of his eyes.
Hours had passed. Daylight turned to dark as night loomed over the city. Darkness was here. And it didn't come from the sky, nor the sun.
Using Kyle's keys, I exited the mansion on the quiet, quaint street. E 22nd Avenue - a large strip of homes graciously spread apart; separated by the comfort of many, decades-old trees. I pulled the vehicle into the long driveway, reversing it rear-forward all the way to the side of the house. Two garage doors welcomed the Jeep, closing behind the front of it. It remained utterly hidden, safe within the confines of the home's garage.
It would remain there until 3:45 in the morning, and a storm was brewing.
The sound of the garage door sliding gurgled as it swayed open. Keeping the lights of the Jeep off, I placed it into drive and pulled it out of my driveway. The garage door closed behind me automatically, dismissing any evidence it had ever harbored a crime scene. My heart remained regular - beating as it would driving any other vehicle, on any other day, under any other circumstances.
Humming, I drove the few blocks between the mansion and the University Campus. The Jeep came to the vehicle entrance of the Oregon Autzen Football Stadium. Like everything within the Performance Center, it required a swipe card to be unlocked and accessed. Holding out Kyle Tuner's card, I flicked it between the pad and waited. Flashing green, the gates to the field slid open. Although forbidden to bring any vehicles directly on to the terrain, it was 3:50 in the morning, on a Saturday. Too late for any players to be hangin' around during off-season, and too early for any maintenance workers or cleaners to begin their services. It was pitch-black, and between the sticky snow and the blowing winds - visibility was poor.
Reversing the trail-rated wrangler, I slowly backed it up on to the field, parking the trunk of the vehicle directly in front of the brightly-yellow painted goal-post. Exiting the vehicle, I was dressed from head-to-toe in Kyle's football uniform, with the addition of a black long-sleeved T-shirt underneath. No tattoos were visible. Virtually nothing about me was recognizable. For all intensive purposes, I could very well be Kyle Turner.
Unlatching the trunk, it swooshed open. There lay the true Kyle Turner. The flesh and blood. And there was a lot of blood.
Taking the thick, twisted rope in my hand, I ran it from the back of the truck to the goalpost. Tossing it over the post's T-center, I caught it back in my hand and ran it back to the truck. The end of the rope was supported by a curled grappling hook. Kneeling behind the trunk, I fastened the hook to the hitch on the Jeep and found my way back to the driver's seat. Pushing the gears into drive, I slowly began to inch the vehicle forward until the rope strained - pulling viciously with the weight. Metal to the floor, I forced the truck into overdrive, suddenly gunning it forward and sending the object in the trunk to veer out of the vehicle. Decelerating the tracks, I watched in my review mirror as the item - two strong planks of crossed wood - reeled up against the T in the yellow goalpost. As it mounted to perfect height, I slammed the Jeep in park, and swiftly - excitedly- hopped out of the truck.
It started slow at first, my heavy, rumbling laughter. But it evolved, soon developing into a magnified, thrill-infused maniacal cackle. Victory.
— — —
January 21st, 2018 - The Discovery.
The lights to the stadium flickered on - lighting the dark early-morning. The sun would not rise for another hour. And for a group of football jocks mucking their way to football practice, it would be a morning they would never forget.
Wailing. Loud, incessant, uncontrollable wailing. The sound of screaming echoed throughout the stadium; hair-raising in its velocity, and intensity. The scene brought a grown, 21-year old man to his knees. Vomit projected from his chapped lips as he puked vehemently on the immaculate, freshly-snowed grass - staining it flaxen. It brought a wave of nausea to the entire team. Some cried, some collapsed, some gagged, heaved, hurled. But most... most stood in shock.
Hailed before them was the body of Christ - a crucifixion of their most valued team member. There lay the body of Kyle Turner, naked and colorless, with only the stain of bleeding red that covered his postmortem flesh.
His genitals were mutilated. His penis split in three different directions. He had been completely castrated; his balls were absent entirely from his groin. An indescribable amount of blood has been loss at its expense, leaving a blood-pour of red human serous to cascade down his legs. Cause of death? Blood loss. Slow, agonizing, harrowing blood loss.
The cross hung from the center of the goalpost, the snow beneath his purple-faded feet red with blood. His hands were staked on either side; his ankles crossed and tied. His neck - the same color as his bruised toes - was mounted by barbed wire. His head bore the same fate - crowned like that of Christ with blood trickling from his scalp.
RAPIST - Carved with a knife in to his forehead.
SINNER - The words dripped from his abdomen in crusting blood, beginning to harden... but still moist. Fresh.
— — —
"Shocking news this morning on KVAL-13." Smitha George - Live News Reporter, would announce on national television. "A tragedy has occurred at University of Oregon. Senior Football Quarterback Kyle Turner, Star of the Oregon Ducks, was found brutally murdered at the campus stadium." She would go on, standing unshaken in the parking lot of the Performance Center. "Police have ruled the case a homicide after teammates found Tuner's mutilated body crucified on the goal-post of the end field." Spilling too much information for her own good - reporters classically interfered with investigations; often jeopardizing their efforts. "His hands and feet were reportedly pinned to a wooden cross, and his head wrapped in barb wire. Teammates report that the words "Rapist" and "Sinner" were carved on his body..."
"... And that his eyes and lips were painted red, with blood."
"Turner's vehicle, a Black 2017 Jeep Wrangler - was found abandoned at the scene. Police are looking for any information that may aid their efforts in solving this terrible case." She paused, staring into the camera as her words fed into the lives of millions of Oregon residents. "I'm Smitha George, reporting LIVE for KVAL-13 News."
The clip ended.
I jolted. Bloodshot eyes flying open.
Bangbangbangbang. Tense. So tense everything hurt. Bangbangbang.
“Nikki! Nikki why the fuck don’t you ever answer your phone?” Michael -- he was whining. But I heard his concern. A heavy hand wandered through my tangled sheets. Pillows as disheveled as I was. I squinted at the bright screen after hitting unlock. It was 3PM. I had 13 missed calls and about as many text messages. Gran, Adam, Michael. A lot from Michael. He was pounding on the door again.
Shark started yodeling in the hall -- probably hoping that whoever was on the other side of that door would feed him since I hadn’t in a few days.
“Nik!” More pounding. “Nikki! Fuck’ssake, you promised to be there,” he snarled. Whining annoyance turning to frustration. “Nikki open the door.”
Go away. Just let me sleep. I rolled over in bed and pulled the covers over my head. He kept pounding away. This wasn’t the first time this happened. He came along a few times to check up when I went dark. Hadn’t tried anything in years. But there was no better day to break that habit than today.
“Nicola Strom open the goddamned door or I’m calling the cops for a welfare check,” he roared.
Jesus. He was going to spook my stoner neighbors. With a groan, I rolled out of bed, tripping over a knot of dirty clothes that were gathered on the floor.
“Open the door,” more knocking. Violent knocking. I pulled the door open and he almost knocked me on the forehead with a curled fist. I blinked.
“Oh. Thank god,” he said -- he looked genuinely relieved, giving me a glance. A white t-shirt that was several sizes too large covered a pair of black spandex shorts. My hair was greasy and messy -- a cloud of near white sticking out at odd angles. He glanced around the place. Dark, blinds closed, tubes of paint were open and scattered, dried and ruined. Brushes settled in bowls of stale water with films of acrylic paint. Clothes, papers, bags, books, all scattered over every surface. Shark was weaving frantically around his legs -- yowling about his neglectful mom. I shuffled over and dumped some food in his bowl before shuffling back to my bedroom.
Mike frowned and watched me as I cocooned in my blankets. The edge of the bed depressed as he sat beside me. “You missed a quiz. Eggener was kind of pissed,” he said. Gentler now.
“I emailed him,” I muttered. “I’ll get a note or something.”
“You take your meds today?”
“No.”
Michael sighed.
This was day three of my wallowing. Three. Luckily it started on a weekend -- I had only missed one day of classes. Too bad I didn’t care. I had good reason to slip though. January 15th. Miles Jones’s release date. The email was still saved on my phone. The date saved on my calendar. I had been doing so well -- even after I got that call in November. I charged on. Two more semesters, then freedom. I could get out of Oregon. But the closer the date drew, the worse I felt. The darker everything seemed. The clearer his eyes were in my head. Glinting -- black pools. A curling mouth. He was out now. Wandering around somewhere. Free. And my mom, my dad, and my brother were all still dead.
Sighing again, Michael stood up and jerked the blankets onto the floor. I growled. “All right. Get up. Get in the shower. Then we’re getting you some food, nicotine, and wine. Good?” My phone lit up and he squinted slightly at the caller ID. “And maybe after the wine we’ll call Adam back,” he added.
“Michael, I just… Can you just go? Please. I just --”
“Nope. Get up. I’m not leaving you alone today.” A glance down to the pale scar that snaked up the inside of my forearm from my wrist to half way up my forearm. Naked without ink unlike the other one. The scars were old now. Six years. Six years ago, right after the verdict in Jones’s case, I went back to Gran’s house, found the razors I hadn’t used since middle school, and slit both of my wrists. I did a good job. Deep, up the tracks, not across. It almost worked. But the ambulance had been fast, and Gran had been smart in tying off my arms with towels instead of just putting pressure on them. That was the last time I took a razor to my skin. Despite the crushing depression that sometimes came, the nightmares and mood swings, the memories that were never too far away from my immediate thoughts, I hadn’t tried it again. Doctor Green had been good. Cedar Hills had been helpful. And I learned that I was too stubborn to let him kill me too.
But right now, I just needed to be sad. I needed to be alone. Mike was determined to fuck that up. He nudged me out of bed and narrowed his eyes before I finally stood up and sighed. Standing, he grinned. “I’ll clean up a bit and see what’s going on around campus.”
“I’m not going to a party.”
“Yeah okay.” He patted the top of my head and then stopped. Hand recoiling -- guilt strong on his features. Wordlessly, I walked to the bathroom, glancing down at the framed photo on my desk with a flinch. Robert used to do that. Pat the top of my head. Maybe it was something tall people just did instinctively. But the memory hurt. I missed Robert. I missed all three of them, but it hurt the most to think about Robert.
I made the shower hotter than it needed to be. The sting helped dampen those vivid flashes.
Showered, I came out, flushed pink from the heat of the water, and found Mike screwing the caps on my open paint tubes. He made a lot of progress. He also frowned when he saw I changed into the same clothes I had been wearing before.
“How long have you been wearing that shirt?”
“Dunno.”
He glared until I slunk off and changed into a tank top and some baggy pants. Satisfied at last, he sat at my breakfast bar and scrolled through his phone. “Campus is dead tonight.”
“It’s Monday, you trash,” I mumbled, dumping a half finished, abandoned canvas on the ground and crawling onto the couch and bundling myself up in a blanket. I tipped over, staring at the TV.
“All right. In-night then. You got any wine?”
“Nope.”
Mike sighed. He did that a lot around me sometimes. Especially when I was like this. But he was trying. I had to give him some credit I guess.
A half an hour later, we sat together in the quiet courtyard of my complex, Greenwood Apartments. Smoking. Pizza steaming on the picnic table. Wine in bags on the bench beside us. No snow. Just a bitter icy cold. I didn’t mind it. We smoked in silence for a little while.
“You okay?”
“...No.” I wasn’t. But Mike did help a little bit. I felt significantly better than I had a few hours ago. But now I was exhausted. I still wanted him to leave. He was stubborn though. When we wandered back into my apartment, I glanced down at my phone. Two more calls from Adam. And a text message from a number I didn’t recognize. I opened the message and immediately wished I didn’t.
“Oh fuck me.”
Mike leaned over my shoulder and peered down at the message.
Is that fucking Mikayla again?”
“Yep,” I muttered, tossing my phone on the beanbag across from me, glaring -- trying to pretend I wasn’t as angry as I was.
Mikayla Franza. Psycho bitch from hell. As if I didn’t have enough hellish things in my life. Mikayla lived in Portland -- I had never met her before in my life. Have never seen her. Never spoke to her. Willingly anyway. Mikayla was a wannabe reporter who ran a Tumblr blog and was prominent in the TC community. True Crime. A weird fucking niche community on the poisonous site that was obsessed with criminals. Jeffery Dahmer? Have some erotic fanfiction about him. Dylan Roof? Blocks of text explaining how he was actually right. Fanart of the Columbine fucks -- usually paired together romantically. 'Hybristophilia' was a favorite among the post tags. A weird community from an objective standpoint. Unfortunately for me, I was implicated in a very not objective way. Mikayla was completely and utterly obsessed with the Beaverton Murders, with me, with my family, and with Jones. Especially Jones. If that wasn’t shitty enough, she was thoroughly convinced that I was responsible for the deaths of my families and that Miles was completely innocent -- a fall guy for a “sociopathic narcissist.” I saw red the first time I stumbled across the blog.
What was even worse was that the bitch idolized him. “FREE DADDY JONES.” That was the fucking subtitle of her idiotic page. Somehow she got my number again. This had happened before. I blocked her every time -- changed it a few times after that. I had a trove of friend requests from her profiles. Eighteen to be exact. I tried again and again to file for some kind of harassment charge. But she was never explicitly threatening. She didn’t like me -- she said that much in her shitty blog, but she never threatened me. If anything she was dying to talk to me. An interview. With Nicola Strom?! She’d probably have a heart attack and die.
She was a rat, picking at my scabs -- making it hard for them to heal. But sometimes I picked the scabs too. Sometimes… I couldn’t fucking help it.
Mike was setting up something to watch and I retrieved my phone and thumbed to Mikayla’s page. Savemilesjones. There was a new post from the last time I checked this wretched pile of dog shit. A text update.
I thought my eyes were going to roll clean out of my skull. Mike put on one of his favorite shows -- Bojack Horseman again. I clicked my tongue and snatched the remote from him. With a flick of my thumb, I pulled up the guide and found exactly what I was looking for. Dateline. Mike gave me a look.
“You sure that’s uh… good to watch right now?”
A passive shrug. It was… weird. It wasn’t healthy. Doctor Green would have never approved -- but Doctor Green was far away and I hadn’t had an appointment in years. But there was something kind of soothing about it. Watching the horror stories of other families. Maybe, I thought with an internal cringe, I wasn't too far away from the freaks in the TCC.
Most of the time the crimes on Dateline were easy to figure out. Husband killed the wife and took the insurance money. Almost always a man killing a woman. I wondered how that would be graphed, proportionally. Every episode plotted out by gender of the offender and the victim. Women were always the fucking victims.
I had my own Dateline episode. I never made it past the introduction. I was thrown back in that living room so fast my head spun. Mike told me that somehow Mikayla wriggled her way on the show. That was an accomplishment. We watched for a few hours -- Mike having given up his questioning and unease when the wine hit. Red wine darkening my lips and making the room hazy.
“Falling asleep, Mike,” I muttered. He blinked and looked up before yawning widely himself. Thank god. I didn’t think I could stand being around another human being for another minute. I locked the door behind him -- he was confident I was just going to pass out after he left.
I didn’t. The scab itched. I had to pick. I couldn’t help it. Compulsion. I curled in my mess of a bed, pulled up the web browser on my phone. Miles Jones OR went in the search engine. A few brief mentions of his release in the Salem paper. He came up in the OSP inmate registry. Mikayla’s fucking blog. Not a lot of new articles. I tapped the ‘images’ tab and paused. Dark eyes looking back at me from the mug shot. Same face from that night. Different from the visit. He didn’t have those lines. Or the beard. Or the silver. But those eyes. Mine narrowed slightly. I wondered. I wondered what he looked like now. Three years after that visit in Oregon Pen. I hated myself for wondering. Picking at the scab. Picking, picking, picking. Literally. My nails bit into my palm -- knuckles white around my cell phone.
I hated him. I looked until I felt ill. Then I let sleep come. Tomorrow would be better. Tomorrow I’d slap a bandaid on it and move on with my life.
Maybe one day I’d stop slipping my fingers under that bandaid and picking.
Your echoing voice; the way you screamed for more - it stayed with me. The sound of your wails continued to whisper in the back of my mind, day in and day out. Day in, and day out.
Day in...
Oregon State Penitentiary - January 15, 2018. Day out.
The sound of a vibrating sound bell echoed throughout the front penitentiary, the sound of freedom - only steps before me. As the doors opened, I was escorted to the reception area of the prison - a side room with two archway scanners, a line of Correctional Officers as well as the Superintendent, and one who had become a great ally - Correctional Lieutenant Dave Ward. The guards lead me to search area, where they instructed me to spread my legs and arms and proceeded to ensure I was not smuggling anything out of the prison. Although the pat-down was lazy at best, it was more of a formality than it was an expectation of actually finding anything. Anyone dumb enough to try and smuggle something out on their way out to freedom was truly a moron in every sense of the word. Risking your freedom before you even tasted it.
The crank of the cuffs released them from my wrists, and my ankles. I was already clothed - the same leather jacket and grey t-shirt with jeans that I was originally arrested in. Although I had shed most of the fat, the bulk from my muscles filled out the jacket all the same. A female guard placed a small black duffel bag on the table before me, opening up to show my my belongings. "Your old clothes." Mostly socks, underwear, a wife-beater tee. "Watch." She moved it to the side. "Wallet..." She flipped the leather band open, showing me all of the State IDs, bank cards, and other random crap I kept in there. "Cigarettes, lighter..." They were over 6 years old, now.
"Keys?" I asked.
"Keys." She demonstrated to me, holding them out for me to take. As I took them from her fingers, she looked down to my file in the opposite hand. "Alright Mr. Jones... Your license and registration has been paid and re-assigned per your request..." She flipped the page over. "... And your stored vehicle has been delivered." Closing the file, she lifted her chin to nod to the exit. "It's parked out front."
Pulling something from the bag, I gave a smug, almost charming smile. "Sunglasses." Slipping them over my ears, the Bausch & Lomb Aviators were still pristine. As I smiled, I locked eyes with Correctional Lieutenant Ward, who awaited for me at the doorway. "Heh."
Zipping the bag up, I tossed it over my shoulder and turned to face the exit. Standing at the door was Mr. Dave Ward in the flesh, his stance tall and erect. As I stepped through the doorway and passed him, he gave me a focused, subliminal nod. I blinked - so subtly - only one searching for such an eye twitch would be able to catch it.
The glass double-doors closed behind me. The fresh, crisp January air hit me like a wave. I had smelt the outside before. But it smelled so much fresher beyond fenced walls. I was free. Free.
And nothing made me feel more free than her.
A 2010 Harley-Davidson VRSCDX Night Rod. She awaited me.
She roared as she ran. Fast into the horizon of i-5 S, the Interstate 5 of Oregon. Direction: SOUTH.
Parking on E 13th Avenue, I leaned forward on my Harley as exhaled. Bringing my hand to my mouth, I used the stance to ponder my next course of action. My eyes stayed focus on the site in the short distance. The big yellow "O" daunting in its contrast against this warm January evening. University of Oregon.
Sitting up, I reached for the ducktail of the motorcycle, unclipping the latch and releasing the small storage compartment. I retrieved the pack of cigarettes from the hutch and slipped the Marlboro lid open. Hidden within the aluminum lining was a small, perfectly folded strip of paper. Sliding it out of the box, I opened it.
Crumpling the piece of paper between the rough edges of my index and thumb, I tossed the paper in to my mouth, chewing the paper and discarding it within the acidic confines of my stomach. No paper. No proof. And what better way to destroy evidence than with your own body?
And with that, I plucked a cigarette from the encasing and slithered it between my lips. Pulling a lighter from the same pack, I flicked the Zippo skull up and drove my thumb across the ignite. The flame burned the tip of the fag as I inhale several breaths to light it. Taking a deep inhale of tobacco, the first of few over the past six years, I nearly rolled my eyes to the back of my head. Dipping my head back as I restored the lighter to the pack and shuffled the pack into my coat pocket, I let it all rush to my head. "Fuck."
Leaning completely back on my Night Rod, I crossed my legs over her headlight to fully enjoy the moment. Taking another puff, I sat there - eyes dead-locked on the front entrance doors of the acclaimed University of O. Waiting, I watched as students circulated in and out of the various campus buildings. Puff in, puff out. Student in, student out.
Blowing the smoke from my lips, my eyes narrowed as a young woman exited the building. Her short, blonde wavy hair shifted as the wind blew. Her fair skin haunting as she strode with a backpack and books at hand. Springing from my seat, I whipped my leg over the bike and stood. Taking several slow steps forward, the girl stopped - looking to my direction and squinting. My heart sunk. She raised her arm swiftly, a burst of energy sending her hand waving like a maniac.
100 yards. I thought. But she came running. Running faster to me than I could possibly run away. My heart raced inside of my chest, confusion sending me into an unusual daze. Backing up, I nearly knocked the bike right off of its stand. Catching myself on the seat, it hit me. With every step forward she took, it became more and more apparent.
"JEFFREY!!!" She shouted, suddenly running in to the arms of a out-of-towner millennial degenerate. She threw herself in his arms and he, surprisingly, caught her. She kissed him, finally raising her head. Clarity.
She was no Nicola.
Three Years Later
November 18th, 2018 - High Priestess Piercing and Tattoo, Eugene OR
“Scars are really hard to ink over,” a burly dude named Josh told me, leaning down to examine my left forearm. The long purple scar had finally stared to turn white after five years. It’s twin was hidden under my sleeve. I didn’t have the money to get that worked on also.
“Can you do it, or not?” I muttered, tilting my head to watch Michael wander around the tattoo parlor. He was flirting with the desk girl. I kind of figured that was the only reason why he agreed to come along with me. I knew for a fact he didn’t have any money since I bought all of his drinks last night. Moochy friends -- but he was the best friend I had.
“Of course. But this isn’t going to be some Ink Master shit. And you’ll have to come in for a few touch ups. We’ll knock off the charges though. Given the uh…”
“Circumstances. Right.”
Awkward silence. He turned to prepare his needles. Even the “edgy” people sometimes shied from the conversation. Then again, there weren’t a lot of people wandering around with scars like mine who were still breathing. I didn’t really blame him.
I didn’t even grit my teeth when the needle started. Buzzing through the stencil. It was… therapeutic. A kind of socially sanctified self harm, I guessed. Two hours and some two hundred dollars later and I was nursing the new tattoo as Mike guided us back to my complex in his shitty Crown Vic.
“Did you get her number?” I asked.
“No. Next time, maybe though. When are you getting the other one done? I'll get it next time.”
“Whenever I have the money dude. I don’t make more than minimum remember?”
“What about your like…”
I shot him a glare. Narrow and vicious. Could freeze the sun itself.
“Right, nevermind.” He pulled into “his” parking spot. It was really my neighbor’s who didn’t have a car. He was over so often that it was basically his. Before I vaulted out of the car, he stopped me. “Hey. I’m glad you finally did it. You’ve been talking about it since I met you, dude. And it looks great. I’m glad. Really.”
I glanced down at the wrappings and smiled softly. I was glad I did it too. Really glad actually. More than I wanted to admit. New beginnings came every day. I flinched at the disgustingly optimistic thought that flashed through my head and lurched out of the car to make the trek up to my door. The rare mid November snow sounded rubbery under my boots. The steps were covered in the stuff. No use sitting. I leaned against the brick, lighting a menthol. It was a good day. It had been a good few months, actually. A few months into my last year of university. Things were looking… okay. Up at least. Even after Gran’s scare in April. The new ink ached faintly under the bandages. I took comfort in it.
I couldn’t tell if it was vapor or smoke that curled out from between my lips. I liked that. The aesthetic of it. A brow quirked slightly. My cell phone was buzzing in my pocket. I usually didn’t answer phone calls. Voicemails let me decide whether or not I wanted to talk to the person. No voicemail -- must not be too determined to talk. Voicemail -- well their level of need depended on what I decided based on the message. But I recognized the number even though it wasn’t saved in my phone. I swiped to answer.
“Hello?”
“Is this Nicola Strom?”
“Yes this is she.”
“Miss Strom, I’m calling from the Oregon State Penitentiary. According to our records you have filed for a notice of prisoner’s release in regards to one Miles Jones.”
My throat closed.
“Yeah,” I croaked.
“I’m calling to inform you that Mr. Jones is due to be released in the next one to three months. You can expect an email from the state for the exact date.”
“...”
The person on the other end of the line cleared their throat awkwardly.
“Additionally, your records indicate a file for an immediate restraining order upon release. Is this correct?”
Snap out of it.
“Yeah. Of course it’s fucking correct,” I snapped. Knuckles white around my cell phone.
A pause. “Okay ma’am. I will verify that in our recor--”
“Wait a fucking minute,” I cut in. I stuck out my hand to brace myself against the brick. The world was spinning all of the sudden. “It’s… it’s only been six years. He had eight. He had eight years. More than that. Eight years and one-hundred and twenty-eight days. How the fuck is he getting out in one to three months?”
“Mr. Jones has been recommended for early release and parole due to good behavior,” the voice on the other end of the line was crisp -- frozen. A person just doing their job. “Expect an email with an exact release date within the next three weeks. Have a good evening, ma’am.”
I stayed silent until the line went dead. My fingers stung from the cold and I stared down at my boot prints in the shallow snow. Six years. It had only been six years. I sank down until I was sitting against the wall in the snow. I thought I had plenty of time to graduate and then get the fuck out of this state before he got out. My cigarette had burned down past the butt and singed my fingertips. I dropped it with a hiss. Blurry. Everything was blurry. Staggering up to my feet, I stumbled into my apartment. Shark -- a long haired tabby cat wove around my legs with a yowl. I sat down in the middle of my entry way and gathered the cat in my arms before crying for the first time in three years.
The phone dropped.
It clanked hard on it’s cradle and left a deathly silence in my ear. Silence echoing after his words. I know. He knew. And that FUCKING SMILE. I stood up suddenly. So suddenly that the chair I sat on shot out and clattered on its back,
I couldn’t help it. I struck out, slapping the glass hard. Then I punched it. My knuckles split. The barrier muted my snarl, but I screamed. I didn’t even realize it. “Fuck you,” I had screamed. “GET BACK HERE!” Some other choice words that were thrown uselessly at the window as he walked away. Escorted by the officers. By the time I realized he was getting blurry from the tears gathering along my lower lids, the officer who brought me in was now at my side, reaching for my arm to escort me out as well. There was nothing but sympathy in her eyes. She saw something -- and whatever she fucking saw she saw a victim. I was disgusted.
I had expected to cry. When I heard the words. His aching admission. I expected I’d feel them -- the tears-- but I planned to fight them. Then the two fat tears rolled down my cheeks and dripped off my chin. I told myself I wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me cry when I left this place, but by the time I burst out the door I couldn’t contain my sobs. A smile. A fucking smile. That’s what I got. Risking it all to come here and I saw pleasure. Glee? Maybe there was glee. Whatever I saw on the other side of that glass broke something deep inside me.
For a very long time I moved through life clinging to the thought that maybe, just maybe, people had some kind of shred of decency. I played out that scene in the visitation room inside my head for years. Again and again. A different scenario every time. Some of them fulfilling. Some of them painful. None of them as painful as this meeting had been. I hadn't received a denial -- but a complete and utter dismissal. By the time I broke from the entrance and climbed in my Jeep I was choking on my sobs. They came violently, wracking me, throttling me, blinding me. I gripped the steering wheel and screamed in the privacy of my own car until I was sure that my vocal cords had torn.
I cried for a long time. And when I had nothing left, I lifted my head and looked into the rearview mirror. If it were at all possible, I looked worse. Eyes puffy, the tip of my nose was bright red. Yes, something had shattered deep inside me. Any hope I had for other people -- any faith in them and their capabilities in being good (as tiny as that hope had become for, well, years) was gone. Smashed under the weight of that subtle flash of teeth and crinkling eyes. Doctor Green had warned me about my idealization of this meeting. She warned me.
I wiped the leaky eyeliner from my face, only succeeding in smearing it more so. Then I threw the Jeep into reverse and pulled away from the prison. As I pulled away from Oregon State Pen, I looked in the rear view mirror and watched the gates roll closed. The ghosts of the people he murdered, my family, crowded in the car with me, but I knew I had to go. Move on and try to find another way to heal. Keep driving until even they left me and find something new. Maybe something better.
I left him behind — behind those bars.
Miles
Oregon State Penitentiary - Shortly after The Visit.
For three years I spent my nights void of any intimacy. Void of any female companionship. Although my ability to form bonds with human beings, especially with those of the female variety, was thought to be nonexistent - there was still a need deep within me that urged my body to copulate. As easy as it was physically to stay celebrate in prison, it certainly was not easy, mentally. With no visitors, no friends or family, no girlfriends or intimates, there were only two options - someone's rear end, or my hand. Despite hormonal urges dictating human instinct and biological need - there was very little I was attracted to. Until you.
Our visit breathed new life into me. An obsession ignited; a fire burning with new passion, new intent.
I had been promised 6. But now I needed 5, 4, even 3 - whatever it took. I needed to see you. Sooner. I needed to speak with you again. I needed... you.
Then she walked in to my life. Angie. A woman with power. Someone with the influence I needed. The perfect woman for my conjugal-visiting, prison-lovin' fucking dreams. The perfect outlet. The perfect out.
Angie wanted me.
I made her want me.
Angie craved me.
I made her crave me.
Angie loved me.
I made her love me.
But this wasn't love.
This wasn't passion.
It was lust.
It was manipulation.
It was deceit.
Betrayal.
I had planned it all out in my head. Again and again. Planned it carefully. Every word. I very nearly wrote it all down the night before when I tossed my tangled sheets from my bed again. But I didn’t. That felt ridiculous. Like if I wrote it all down it’d be a curse.
What a stupid fucking waste of time. The first words out of my mouth were botched. Tripped over -- a nervous kid in front of a classroom, struggling to give a presentation they spent the whole night trying to prepare. It wasn’t fair -- and it wasn’t my fault. I expected it. To be jarred when I saw him again. It had been three years. A lot happened in those three years. I planned for it, the inevitable paralysis. But his appearance was still surprising. He looked so different. But those eyes were the same. I never felt smaller. I was shrinking into nothingness beneath that hooded, easy stare. That said a lot because I was already, well, small. Five feet and two inches, finally back to the relatively healthy weight of one-hundred and fourteen pounds.
The assault came hard and it came fast -- striking me as he stared, and stared. Pinned by those near-black eyes, locked with my own. Cold. Empty. Unwavering. A predator. There was no analogy. Those were the eyes of a beast all his own. They were the same from that night. The exact same. Memories of The Night washed over me, battering me as I sat there caught like a rabbit in a trap. The memories were so vivid. Too vivid. I smelled hot blood. Could feel the broken glass under my feet, shredding through my socks. The visitation room faded. We were back in my living room. He was smiling. Not a smirk. A full, tooth-baring grin. Those eyes piercing, all the same. All of the color seeped away from my face the longer he stared. I clutched the phone for dear life to keep from falling apart. Beneath the table, I dug my nails into the scarred flesh of my palm. The bite of pain was grounding. It brought me back, away from The Night. The smell, the sensations, they both faded, but the unshakable terror and the glimmer of his dark eyes remained -- threatening to coax it all back to my mind’s eye.
I spoke. Stumbled. And immediately knew this was a terrible fucking idea. He dipped his head. I didn’t miss the flash of a smile. The chuckle that made his shoulders shiver just slightly. All the color that faded from my face upon his entrance flushed clean back in my cheeks, turning them pink and darkening the freckles that were splashed over my face. An angry flush. I parted my lips to speak, but his voice crackled through the phone. Deep, grating. A painfully familiar voice. There was something violating about hearing my name on his tongue. The way he tasted it, drew it out gently. That rumble of a voice cracked in a firm order and the sheer surprise of such rendered me silent and obedient. Lips left slightly parted with words that died on my tongue. I pressed my lips together. I came to listen. So, I guess I would.
I always knew you’d come back to me. The phone nearly slipped from my hand. The one resting beneath the table darted up to catch it and press it back to my ear. The movement caused the the sleeves of my sweater to inch up my wrists just slightly. Clear eyes wide. I could feel every emotion raging plain as the freckles on my face. There was shock. A harsh numbing sensation settled in my chest. The next wave brought fear. Images were scrambling over each other. The smell was tickling my nostrils. I stuffed it all back and looked down at the table in front of me just for a brief reprieve from that penetrating stare. What the fuck. What the fuck. This wasn’t how it was suppose to go. He was supposed to be sorry.But he was smiling -- the damn near same smile he flashed when he was escorted past me out of the courtroom when the trial concluded. I hoped that maybe prison would give him time to think about what he did. About how he ruined me. Took everything away from me just because he could. I wanted him to be sorry. I wanted him to beg my forgiveness just so I could tell him no. Instead I got a smirk and a ‘welcome back.’
The rage was so strong it startled me. I lifted my eyes from the table. They were sub-zero and narrowed to slits. Dad always said that when I was angry I had a glare that could freeze the sun itself. I hoped that was true. The little memory delivered a bittersweet pang of comfort. It helped center me more effectively than the pain. Speaking of, I glanced down again at my balled fist. I broke skin. Blood was seeping under my fingernails. I forced myself to relax my grip. I hoped this man could feel my rage seeping through the glass that separated us.
I finally found my words. “That’s why I came, Mr. Jones. I came to listen,” I hoped the ice in my voice froze the phone stuck to the side of his head. “I came to hear you apologize. And if I didn’t get that then I came to hear your confession.” Yes, this was better. Much better. I was gaining traction. I wasn’t shrunken and tiny under that gaze now. I sat up a little straighter and met it head on -- glaring vicious at that wicked face. A challenge in every sense of the word. “There’s no judge, no jury, or lawyers. It’s just you and me. And I need to hear you say it. I need to hear you admit what you did.”
Where the courage came from I had no idea. There were years of mental progress at stake in this meeting. That’s why Gran nearly begged me not to go -- at least not alone. That’s why she nearly threatened Doctor Green with a lawsuit for suggesting the idea. Progress, I thought, suddenly spiteful to the idea. Progress towards where? You wake up every night with nightmares that feel more like memories. I didn’t have much to lose in coming here.
At least, I didn’t think so at the time.
Miles
Curling my lips into my mouth, I pressed on them with my teeth before swiftly releasing them. Apology? You wanted an apology, from me. No, worse. You didn't want an apology. What you really wanted was a confession. Confession. Oh, I'll give you a confession, my dear sweet child. My chin had lowered as I titled my head down to look at the arms that hid beneath the table across. I could see even the slightest movement through your clothing. You hands may be hidden, but I didn't need to see them to know your hands were clenching. You were tense. And that boiling rage – the way your skin scrawled...
Aroused. There was something hidden beneath the table across from you, too. Though it wasn't my arms, nor my hands, as they lay visibly handcuffed before you. It was something far more secret, concealed between layers of penitentiary uniform. A growing erection, one I couldn't contain; nor willingly deny. As blood rushed to my appendage, a sudden surge of adrenaline – sexual adrenaline – filled my veins.
I fell silent. Something changed i the air. Changed in that moment. It only took a second, but the tide shifted somewhere between apology and confession. But it didn't become apparent until you spoke the only words that I couldn't repel. Oh, how I couldn't resist.
"I need to hear you say it."
I need to hear you.
I need you.
"I know."
Lifting my eyes to look at you, there was a tenderness in the way my irises searched for yours. My eyes were soft, but there was an inexplicable darkness. An evil.
"I know you do." I would repeat immediately. A wicked grin pulled at each corner of my mouth as the phone left my ear. Even if you were to protest, to yell, shout, call for me. It was too late. I wouldn't let you. The phone left my fingers, falling to its latch. CLICK.
The sound of silence.
Standing to my feet, I watched as the expression on your pale-pretty face grew in intensity. My eyes did not part from your; locking you in a deep, glaring stare. Fixated on the fire that burned in your light eyes, I couldn't stop my lips from smiling.
As I stood, my handcuffed hands fell before my groin. Despite my bitter arousal, the many loose fabrics of my prison trousers coupled with the placement of my hands covered all possibility of exposure. The guards took my stance as a signal to end the visit and came to escort me out. It was as much of my privilege as it was yours. The cold reality of this situation. It didn't matter that I was incarcerated; that I was guilty. I still had control. All of it.
Writers, if you are 22+ (out of college) and blog about your writing/books please like this post or reboot to boost.
Please don’t take offense if you’re younger. I think it’s wonderful that everyone, regardless of age, is sharing their writing here. I just want to see if I can find people closer to my age. Thanks!
"Hey, man-" Another inmate would try to flag my attention, but to no avail. "Hey, Shotgun!" He would call again, this time using the nickname everyone knew me by.
"Fifty-six. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-ni-" Interrupted by Scuttle, my cell-mate, I slowed my pace; lowering my chin from the pull-up bar in the courtyard's outside gym. Hanging from the post above me, my thick biceps bulged as they held my heavy weight. I looked to him with squinted eyes, the blazing sun shinning directly in my face.
"Ward's callin' ya." Scuttle tapped me out, swiftly pointing to the gate over 100 feet away. Shrugging his lithe shoulders, the 5 foot 6 African-American teenager was only 19 years old, and lucky (for his tiny sake) that he had been assigned to me as a prison mate.
Grunting, I tossed my large figure to the ground, casually walking through the yard to the gate's door. There was confusion, though I didn't show it. Without even a shirt to cover my tattoos, the only pieces of clothing that weren't entirely drenched in sweat were my State Pen uniform trousers. As I came to face Officer Ward, he stuffed a random clean shirt into my chest and commanded, "Put this on, now." Without hesitation, I pulled the grey tunic over my head and slipped my arms into it. "You have a visitor." He would add.
Visitor? What visitor? I hadn't had a visitor here in the entire 3 years of my incarceration.
Cuffing my wrists and ankles, Lieutenant Ward lead me and two other lesser prison guards towards the designated visiting area of the penitentiary. Stationing one guard inside the room and another out, he motioned for me to enter the room. As the doors opened and I took a curious step inside, my pupils contracted as my eyes fell on upon you. You.
Miss Nicola Strom. The very last person I would have ever imagined would be behind that spectral glass.
There was a stark difference between me now, and me from the
trial
. I had shed nearly 40 founds of fat, but converted most of it to muscle. These three short years in prison had aged me, it seemed. My once brown disheveled hair had began to grey; streaks of silver forming throughout my slicked strands. My stubbled, coarse beard had aged and grown to a similar fate. My forehead sported creased wrinkles and the bags under my eyes made me look tired, and restless. Yet, despite all of this, somehow... I looked
better
.
Taking a seat in the cold, plastic chair, my eyes fell to the 80's-style phone that awaited. Swallowing firmly, I placed my cuffed hands together before me and returned my deep brown eyes to roam the pale of your face. I took a moment to stare at you, not even a flinch to pick up the phone, nor a shred of hesitation as I stared into your dull, colorless eyes. I sat for a seconds in silence, mocking the very phone that you were itching to reach for. What seemed like mere seconds felt like hours as I stared at you - taking in all the details of your freckled, beautiful face.
Finally, my hand reached for the phone, though my eyes never left yours. Bringing it to my ear, I stayed expressionless as I waited to hear your sweet voice. “Hel-- Hello Mr. Jones." You would say, choking on your own greeting as fast as you offered it. Instantly, a chuckle began to brew on my weathered face. I broke my locked gaze on you to dip my head down in attempt to reign in my inappropriate laughter. Resurfacing my head back up immediately, I broke my silence. "Nicola." My rooted voice was croaky, but firm. "Don't speak. Just... listen." I shook my head lightly as the gaze of my dark orbs intensified.
Taking a deep inhale, I abandoned the phone from my ear and proceeded to tap it on my lips as to ponder the potential of my words. Bringing the phone back to my ear, I sighed. "Oh Nicola." My tongue passed ever so briefly on my bottom lip as a wicked grimace stretched over my face. "I always knew you'd come back to me."
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you, sweetie?” Gran asked, holding me out at arms length after her fourth hug. I used to love her hugs.
“Yeah. I’m sure. It’s on the way. We talked about this... I need to do this by myself.”
My Jeep Cherokee was packed to the roof with all of my stuff. It was supposed to be one of the highest points in my life. Off to college. Mom should have been there, hugging me just as much as Gran. Crying -- because of the miracle that I even graduated high school, and because her youngest was leaving the nest. They should have been here. There were a lot of “should have”s in my life. Too many.
I picked up my last bag, slinging it over my shoulder and Gran bustled out after me to the car. Fretting. Always fretting. “Everything is taken care of? They know you’re coming?”
“Yeah. Helen set everything up. It’s fine, Gran.” I slammed the back of the car extra hard -- it stuck sometimes, and turned to her. Those imploring eyes. Clinging. I grit my teeth through another hug. She was getting teary eyed. I had to get out. “I’ll call when I’m in Eugene, okay? Tell Gramps I said bye.”
“Okay,” she was spluttering now. Another hug, so tight I thought she’d crack a rib. I couldn’t blame her. I was all she had left besides Gramps. And now I was leaving. “Drive safe. Call as soon as you can!”
It was a half an hour before I could breathe again when I was finally on the road. No music -- only the chirp of the GPS voice. Quiet, pleasant, always voiced by what I guessed was a white woman. Weird. Oregon State Penitentiary was at the other end of the little blue path that came up on the screen, in Salem. Only an hour outside of Eugene, the home of the Ducks -- the University of Oregon. Gram kept telling me it was really okay to go somewhere elsewhere, somewhere out of state, a place where maybe I could escape the demons. But I couldn’t do it. Robert had been accepted to the UofO right before it happened. I had to stay. I had to do it for him.
And I had to do this for me. Doctor Green said maybe it would give me closure. It would let me move on and start this “bright new chapter in my life.” Her words. I wanted to vomit when she said them. But maybe she was right. Closure. Would it help the nightmares? Would it help anything? Forgiveness, Doctor Green had said, wouldn’t be for him. It would be for me. Because all that hate and anger I carried in my heart would only weigh me down for the rest of my life. I didn’t want to vomit when she started rambling on about forgiveness. I wanted to punch her in the throat and then ask her if she’d fucking forgive me for that.
I wouldn’t forgive him. I didn’t care if the hate would drag me down all the way through the core of the earth. I wouldn’t forgive him, but I would hear him out.
At least I planned to. When I pulled into the parking lot an hour later, I felt sick. “Fuck,” I muttered out loud to all the shit in my car. I should have taken a Xanax before I left. I couldn’t do it. Just keep driving. Forget it. But I came all this way -- if I didn’t do it now then it was quite possible that I would never be able to move on. Now or never, don’t be a pussy. Go. I checked my pockets one more time and pulled the little hoops out of my ears just in case they weren’t allowed, and then I stepped down from the Jeep and up to the entrance of the prison. My heart was going to burst clean out of my chest.
The lobby -- if it was called that, I didn’t know -- was filled with people. There was a woman screaming at a bored looking man behind a pane of glass. I sank down in a waiting chair and choked back the panic attack that was simmering away in my gut. Should have taken that fucking Xanax. When the woman was tossed out of the lobby, I stepped up, nails digging in the side of my arm.
“Who you here to see, ma’am?” the man grunted, pulling out a big book and glancing up over a pair of thick rimmed glasses. “Need yo’ ID too.”
“Right,” I muttered, fishing in my pocket for my wallet. “I’m uhm, here to see Miles. Jones. Miles Jones. The, uh, DA. Helen Smithers… she talked to you guys I guess. I’m probably not on his visitor list.”
It had been a long process. Usually, visitors who were not on the inmate’s list weren’t allowed to, well, visit. But given the circumstances, the reason why I hadn’t been at the sentencing hearing, why I needed to see Miles Jones in the first place, well the DA pulled some strings and spoke to the prison on my behalf. So here I was. But apparently the irregularity confused… I glanced down at his name tag -- CO Williams. He asked me to take a seat and came back a few minutes later with an older white man in a black shirt instead of blue.
“Miss Strom?”
“Yeah, hi. That’s me.”
He held up my ID, glancing down at the picture, then me, and back again. No one looked good in their ID pictures, but somehow I managed to look better in the photo than I did now. I didn’t sleep the night before. I looked tired -- dull. I noticed that when I saw my reflection in the front door. The black turtle neck I wore made me look sickly pale. Short blonde hair mussed and pulled back in a half bun. Whatever. Who was I trying to impress?
“All right,” the other man grunted, passing my ID back. “Take a step through the metal detector. We’ll getta lady CO to pat you down, then she’ll take you back to the visitation room.”
I went numb through the pat down and froze when the woman officer started to lead me down a hall lit in ugly fluorescent lights. Can’t do it. Going to pass out. Can’t. Too late. She opened the door to the room lined with seats, a dirty plexiglass partition, and corded phones. She looked sorry for me, patting my shoulder to usher me in. I tried not to flinch.
“You can leave any time you know,” she said, trying to be kindly I guessed.
Tense to keep from shaking, I stepped down to the designated booth and sat down. Fight or flight. There was so much adrenaline pumping through my veins I felt fucking dizzy. The world spun when he stepped into the other room and up to the window. It was several seconds before I finally picked up the phone.
“Hel--” my throat closed, choking off my words. I coughed, cleared my throat, tried again. “Hello Mr. Jones.”
"On the degree of ORS 163.115 of Murder in the first degree - We The Jury - find the defendant... NOT guilty."
NOT guilty.
Not guilty.
Not.
Guilty
.
Miles
Oregon State Penitentiary - Months Later
"Fuckin' football prick raped my niece and got off scot-free, I would kill him if I could." A pale-skinned Correctional Lieutenant - Officer Dave Ward - muttered under his breath to a fellow comrade - a partner, at the other end of the hallway. But if these hollow halls were good for one thing - aside from keeping inmates in their cells; it was at passing sound. The dome-shaped ceilings were specifically engineered so that sound traveled from one end of the hall to the other. Even a whisper could be heard from over feet away.
All inmates of this sector were out in the courtyard. All but one. Me.
"I'll kill him." My deep, rugged voice - although low in its hum - echoed throughout the corridor.
Lieutenant Ward turned his head, his eyes searching for the source of the voice. "What did you say...?" Having been unaware that one inmate remained despite abandoned cells, he stepped forward with the utmost caution. The sound of his slow footsteps clapping against the cold, concrete floors would be, to most, haunting. But their eerie reverberation meant nothing to me. They were like an invitation.
"I said..." Slipping my arms from between the cell's bars, I let them dangle freely to show that I was unarmed. "I'll murder the football prick that raped your niece." The officer came to face me, keeping his guarded distance as his hand lay ready to swipe for his gun. I asked, "That is what you want, isn't it?"
The Lieutenant's brows furrowed as his blue eyes looked intensely into my dark, empty orbs. There was undeniable tension - the kind you could cut with a knife. A moment of complete silence went by without the guard so much as blinking. "Watch your mouth." He would finally mutter before walking away, though his voice would be monotone - void of any emotion.
[ --- ]
New inmates didn't stand a chance. Kill or be killed? No. Not here. In this corrupt hell-hole; it was rape or be raped. Prison didn't shelter you from the outside, it just trapped the evils of the outside world into four impenetrable, concrete walls and locked you inside of it. In Oregon State Penitentiary, you weren't just a prisoner. Some were a king pin, a don, a pimp, or for many... a bitch.
But this wasn't my first rodeo. Certainly not my first time behind bars. Just the longest sentence. Coming through these doors, I had no fear. But the pride - the invulnerability of a newbie... it wasn't a threat here. It was a challenge.
At 6 foot 3 and 238 pounds - overweight and hefty - I was a force to be reckoned with to the average human being. But to Correctional Officers and the 2000+ inmates and Oregon State Pen, I was no longer an anomaly, nor was I an exceptionally intimidating individual. I was a prisoner. Like everyone else. And I intimidated nobody. Nobody that mattered. But I challenged the only person people feared, the Prison Wolf - a man they called El fucking Loupe.
It had only been a week since I had walked through those barred prison doors, but to El Loupe, it was the perfect moment to strike. I was weak, dehydrated, and I had pissed off the wrong inmates on my way in. For the Prison Wolf - a Hulk-shaped Camarada massing 260 pounds of sheer muscle - he reaped power from assault (even though he pledged that before prison, his dick had never even touched an asshole). It was an ambush - but despite him and his dogs' attempt to ravage me, they failed, only succeeding in tearing my pants and garnering the attention of two prison guards.
But the damage had been done. It didn't matter that his flesh never saw my own. By the next morning, El Loupe and his pack of mangy mutts had already convinced their posse that the deed had been done. Whether or not the events were true, or pure fabrications - my reputation had been permanently tarnished. It was official. I was a punk; a bitch.
[ --- ]
The cell doors were open, it was spare-hour where inmates were free roam the hallway and hop cells. Most chose to sit around and converse among each other. I, however, chose to be stay back, and alone, with nothing but a book; Stephen King's: Different Seasons. The book featured a collection of novellas: The Body, Apt Pupil, The Breathing Method, and Rita Hayworth and Shawshank Redemption.
Correctional Lieutenant Dave Ward returned to my cell. With his back to my room and his hand on his gun, he did nothing but turn his head to the slightest degree, as if to mimic a guard standing post. "You'll need a hell of a lot of books for 8 years, Jones." He paused, his eyes searching to ensure his comrades were not in ear shot. "But Shawshank, hmm." He mumbled, "Andy got life... Imagine he was reduced to 6... for good behavior."
Lowering the book from my face, I turned my dark, stone eyes to gaze at the back of the very same prison guard I had offered to kill for. "Six years, huh?" I nodded slightly, pacing the my thumbs over the crimped corners of the pages. "Andy would need more. He would need... Hm, pages... from a book."
The officer's eyebrow raised slightly, his eyes narrowing as he tried to decipher what I was asking for. "... which book?"
"Little Red Riding Hood... and the Big Bad WOLF."
Taking a step forward, Lieutenant Ward gave a swift nod and left without another word.
[ --- ]
El Loupe was a wolf in this establishment, one that hunted always in a pack. But he never ate in a pack. In fact, he only wished to eat alone. "I eat alone!" He shouted, a clear call of attention to everyone around us as I took a bold seat at the cafeteria table. Sitting across from him, I had neither food in front of me, nor a weapon.
"And Mireya?" There was a gurgle in my voice as my tongue flicked every syllable of that unusual and uncommon female name. "Does she eat alone, too?"
El Loupe's crumpled face quickly loosened. His eyes became wider as the reality of the situation sunk in. Mireya was unknown to the inmates of Oregon State Pen. To prisoners, her name was simply Mimi. And the word Mireya never left fat, his lying lips. Suddenly the wolf lunged, grabbing my uniformed collar with both hands to shake me furiously. "NO!!!" The sound of anguish.
I replied quickly, and with ferocity. "You are all day, all night, and I am out in 6. Tonight you will Dutch Act so that when I get out... I don't drive to 10436 Ramona Street to crucify your precious Mireya."
Barely capable of breathing, El Loupe's grip on my collar weakened as his knees buckled. He sunk slowly back in his seat, his eyes wide as his bottom lip quivered. It only took 1 name, 1 threat, and 1 fatal request to bring this Wolf down to his pathetic, hairy knees. Did he think he could make a bitch out of me? I wasn't the little bitch anymore. Now... it was him. And this Little Red Riding Hood just became The Big Bad Wolf.
This is just a little disclaimer page for Through the Dirt -- a collaboration (basically RP) between myself (N.R.) and my writing partner Dawn Crow. Essentially how I plan for this to work is to post new chapters whenever I feel like it, but if we end up building a following then I will try and establish some kind of schedule. For now it’s just to get it out there.
Now, I know that I have already added some disclaimers in the About Me, but I would like to further reiterate that the contents of this story will be diving into some pretty brutal themes. Themes that I’m aware are problematic. But this is FICTION. That is important to keep in mind. Despite the use of face claims, this story is in no way meant to depict real events or real people (living or dead).
I’ll probably add some other stuff to this post, but for now here are some links:
Through the Dirt Story Aesthetic Blog -- Basically stuff N.R. finds and reblogs from around Tumblr that is Through the Dirt-esque. Some of the contents will be directly linked to some chapters.
N.R.’s Personal Blog -- For questions, maybe some updates, and all the random shit N.R. reblogs.
N.R.’s Through the Dirt Spotify Playlist -- Haven’t been updating this, but many songs you’ll find here will be linked throughout the story
blakekathryn
discoholicmusic
2087
janainaart
