The Clan

by Radia Chy

The Chicago Herald 14th November 2010

Case Of Missing Persons in Winchoster Now Suspected As Gang Activity

The Winchoster Case, which started with the disappearance of several prostitutes from the lower Winchoster area in Northbrook, has now resurfaced as a homicide case, according to the CSPD. Although the bodies of the eight women who had gone missing over the past three months have never been found, the disappearance of a new victim, Maria Sechee, 26, has given detective Tresmaine, new insight into the case. As quoted by Tresmaine:

“The last victim to disappear last week was seen in the company of three boys, about twenty years of age, according one of her companions. The witness in question had

not seen their faces, but commented they looked ‘young and tall, just like Maria liked ’em’. The CSPD police assume the boys, who may be part of a gang, had lured Maria under false pretenses, possibly as customers, killed her, then disposed of the body discreetly. Investigations to support this theory are ongoing.”

The police are encouraged by the fact one of the third victim, Lila Mason’s, friends had seen three similar young men on the night she went missing, saying they were ‘big and dark-haired.’ However, in both cases, the witness could not manage to see the men’s faces well enough to provide the police with an adequate description. The killer’s motives are still unclear. Although most of the past victims have been prostitutes, with the exception of Renee Houston, the police feel this profession-discrimination may be due to the easy abduction of prostitutes in Winchoster, where they usually occupy the streets at night, more so than any other area in Northbrook. As quoted by Sergeant Wilkins:

“These unfortunate women are easily intercepted under the pretext of paying customers. Also, their disappearance is reported late, at least three days after they have gone missing, to the police. This is an advantage to the killer, and suggests that the killer, or killers, as the case now stands, has no other intention other than simply to kill. We might be looking at a gang of serial killers on the loose here in Northbrook.”

This has raised great concern, especially to the habitants of Winchoster, who feel the streets are now unsafe to roam at night. Said by Willow Freiman, 43, living on 23rd Leighton Street, Winchoster:

“The streets of Winchoster were never especially safe to go out on at night, but the idea that there actually might be a gang of serial killers roaming around the place is extremely troublesome. Personally, I don’t think I’ll let anyone in the family out after seven.”

Anyone with any kind of information regarding the Winchoster Case is requested to contact the CSPD police department. Contact details are given below.

CSPD Police Department

Phone: 0837-46CSPD

Fax : 4652-9938CP

Office:

2nd Floor, Building #28

33rd Lexton Avenue,

Addison, Chicago

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

I stare at the bloody body lying on the ground in front of me, transfixed.

“Yo, Mitch, get a move on!”

I look over my shoulder at Hayden, who somehow looks more menacing by the dim glow of the lone street lamp. The light has hit his face in such an angle that the long scar on his left cheek, reaching all the way down to his lip, looks more gruesome than ever.

Then I look back at the girl. Her eyelids are still closed, the long eyelashes caressing her smooth, high cheekbones. Her dress has hitched up way above her thigh, not that it was much lower before, but there’s a deep gash on her pale leg now, the blood creating an interesting pattern of red over white. I swallow.

“Come on, man, we’re getting late. What’re you staring at her like that for?”

This voice is quieter than Hayden’s, and it belongs to Zane. I glance at him from the corner of my eye. One of his hands is shoved deep inside his jeans’ pockets, and he’s running the other through his dark hair impatiently.

“Yeah, man. You’re creepin’ me out. Do the fuckin’ ho and get it over with.”

Do the fuckin’ ho. Hayden had never been particularly delicate with his vocabulary. Some random passerby would have thought he wanted me to rape the girl and get it over with. I chuckle lightly. How…unethical. Not that we waste time worrying about our immortal souls. ’Cause, let’s face it, hell can’t be much worse than this place.

Like we even believed in hell.

“What you laughin’ for, fuckin’ weirdo?” Hayden asks, his tone now really irritated, not a good sign. When Hayden starts using profanities about every little thing that happens around him, you know he’s mad.

“Jesus, Mitch. Will you just do it for chrissake?” Zane asks.

See, we have no problem on calling the names of Christ and God even when we don’t believe in ’em. Just like most people. It strikes me as strange, sometimes. I’ve seen people calling for Jesus right before they’re about to die, and I think, you ain’t ever prayed before, shithead, so why start now? People could be so confusing. I never really got them, to tell you the truth. . .but all that bull about the Seven Deadly Sins? Yeah, if there ever were prizes for perfect personifications of the Seven, humans win that one. Lust, all the way to Greed.

Oh, did I tell you that even though none of us believe in the Bible we are curiously well-versed with it?

“Okay,” Hayden says now, reaching out to grab my shoulder and push me aside, “I’m gonna do it myself before the fuckin’ cops show up.”

I frown. “We can handle the cops,” I tell him.

Doesn’t he know that by now? Geez. If we couldn’t handle the freaking cops, our asses would be behind bars right now. Or dead.

“Yeah, but we don’t want this to get messier than it is, y’know?” Zane explains, like I’m a ten-year-old.

I watch Hayden get closer and closer to the girl, just about to reach out and grip her wrists when I shout, “No!”

They both look at me incredulously. “What?” Hayden asks irritably, “You gone and grown a soft spot for the dead whore?”

“Yeah,” Zane says, raising his eyebrows, “Or a fascination with necrophilia?”

“S’what I said,” Hayden says, looking at Zane. “You don’t have to go ’n fancy it up, faggot.”

Zane rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything. We both know better than to start with Hayden when he’s in one of his moods.

“It’s not a corpse,” I remind them quietly.

“Yet.”

I swallow again. Why does that make we want to throw up? Hayden killing this girl, I mean. Why can’t I stand the thought of him touching a single inch of that smooth, pale skin? I don’t know. God, I hope this sudden aversion isn’t permanent. Or it could make my life very difficult.

Any other day, I would’ve gone ahead and done it. Clean, deliberate, precise. But apparently, not today. Not her.

“I’ll finish this up,” I tell them, “You can go back and tell ’em it’s done.”

Zane looks at me doubtfully. “You sure?”

“No, he’s not,” Hayden says gruffly, about to lunge on the girl, but I reach out and grab his collar.

“What the fuck’sa matter with you?” Hayden spits, thrusting my hand away.

“What?” I say, my voice low but hard, “You don’t trust me?”

Hayden stares at me for a long time.

“Let’s go,” he mutters to Zane finally, and then strides out of the alley. Zane throws me one last, doubtful look, but follows him.

I look at the girl, who is still unconscious, trying to breathe normally. Just do it, I command myself, this is nothing.

I exhale slowly.

Her pale slender arms have little cuts all over them, ruining the perfect, unblemished skin. Her long hair, a rich, dark auburn, is splayed out around her face. A startlingly familiar face.

We don’t have anything, if we didn’t have trust. Hayden knows that. I know that, too.

But it didn’t stop me from breaking it. His trust, I mean.

I pick her up, heave her slender body over my shoulders, and carry her to my black Chevrolet ’87. With tinted windows, for convenience.

Then I drive home.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

I work without hesitating, smooth and neat, like always. There’s a major difference though, between now and always. This time, I’m working to heal. To mend.

Her skin feels ridiculously soft under my rough fingers. My breath catches in my throat as I run my fingers over her flawless skin. It’s crazy. I wonder how the hell this semi-dead whore is making me feel this way, like my self-control is slipping…

I absent-mindedly graze my fingers over her pale cheeks, down her throat…down her collarbone…

Her eyelids flutter. I jerk my hand away.

It’s okay. She’s still not awake. I breathe out slowly. She looks almost normal, there on my table, the light from the spotlight above playing with her soft features. I frown. Who is this girl? She didn’t look like a plain whore. Her skirt was short enough, her heels were high enough, and her lipstick was the right shade of crimson…but the scars were missing. The scars all the other ones had…of desperation, misery, pain, just crying out to be killed, but no, this girl…this girl was a deer thrust into a savage pack of tigers, all intent on tearing her apart…including my friends.

An hour passes…then two.

I wait quietly, patiently.

At quarter past nine, her eyes open. A perfect, beautiful green.

Green. How did I know her eyes would be green?

She looks at me with those startlingly striking eyes, wide with fear and shock, a scream at the tip of her throat. I clamp a mouth over her mouth hurriedly. Well, I wouldn’t want the neighbors, whoever they were, to get suspicious now, would I?

Her breath comes in short gasps against my rough hand, her eyes wide and absolutely terrified. The rest of her body is tied to my table, though she struggles to move her hands and legs, a struggle that is pointless.

“I’ll remove my hand,” I hiss at her, careful to keep my face away from the light, “If you don’t scream, okay?”

She nods.

I move my hand.

She screams. A piercing sound that echoes off the walls around my almost-bare room.

I look at her, waiting for her to stop. When she doesn’t, I walk over and switch the t.v on, turning up the volume to drown her out, so the neighbors’ inquisitive attention isn’t piqued. I had covered the screen with a blanket first, so that the light doesn’t give me away. My captive finally stops screaming. I turn the t.v off.

“Who the fuck are you?” she spits, surprising me. I hadn’t expected her to be quite so…feisty. If that’s even the right word. “Where the fuck am I?”

I clear my throat. “See, I don’t usually do this.”

“Do what?” she says, a little quieter, but with a voice every bit as hostile.

“This. Any of this,” I say. She still can’t see my face, because I’m leaning against the wall opposite to her, in semi-darkness, and the thin curtains do not let in adequate moonlight to see clearly enough. She’s the only thing in the room that is facing the harsh glare of the spotlight directly above her, low enough as to not to allow her to see the rest of the room. Or me. She has turned her face away from it, towards my voice. I feel a little regret at her obvious…discomfort, being tied up like that, but it’s kind of a necessity, if I don’t want to be attacked. I never could hit women. Kill, that’s one thing, but fight? Not my style.

“Let.Me.Go,” she says, her voice now very quiet, but still filled with rage, as she struggled against the tight ropes, “Let me out of here you fucking pervert!”

I shake my head, making a little tut-tuting sound.

“You know,” I tell her quietly, “That kind of behaviour’s gonna get you killed real quick.”

Her eyes widen with horror.

“Oh, no, wait,” I say, laughing lightly, “I didn’t mean it quite like that. Suppose you really were stuck in here with a homicidal sociopath and not me. I don’t think that mouth of yours’d be doin’ you any favors.”

She exhales slowly, making me think that maybe she takes one of those lame-ass yoga classes that teach you that kind of stuff. Breathing techniques and all that crap.

But there’s no cure for fear. Real fear.

“What do you want from me?” she asks, now staring directly at the light above her head with her eyes half-closed. Her voice has gone completely quiet and is drained of all emotion. I feel another twinge of that strange sense of guilt. I swallow.

“I want to…talk,” I say, the words sounding stupid even to my own ears.

Her face and voice is still impassive.

“Talk,” she repeats tonelessly.

“Yeah,” I say, nodding my head even though she can’t see me, “See, I have this strange feeling that I can’t get out of my head…that I know you from someplace.”

She closes her eyes, and I wonder if she’s praying. When she opens them again, her voice has a strange kind of amusement. “So you thought instead of maybe taking me out for a drink you’d knock me unconscious and tie me up in your shitty apartment?”

I don’t take that comment personally. I know from the cheques I hand over to the drunk landlord every month that my apartment deserves a description slightly more pleasing than, as the lady so delicately put it, shitty.

“Did I skip the part about how I saved you from the two homicidal sociopaths I was talking about earlier?” I ask dryly, “Sorry.”

It’s not a very flattering depiction of my friends, but hey, I’ve learnt not to mess with the truth.

“What are you…” she says, “what the hell are you talking about?”

“I was talking about how I saved you,” I say through gritted teeth, “from two men who would’ve quite happily killed you, and then dumped your body in a dumpster at the back of some alley where you would’ve been rotting for two whole days before somebody found your bloody corpse and reported it to the fucking police.”

She blinks very fast, and her face twists.

Oops. I suppose I was being a bit too candid. But to hell with it. She deserved to know the truth. Or at least some twisted version of it anyway.

Instead of thanking me, like I perhaps too sanguinely and stupidly hoped, she says, in a voice renewed of its anger, “Then why am I tied up like your fucking bitch?”

Oh, that. Right.

“You’re not my bitch,” I say, laughing, “At least I hope not.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she says sharply.

“It means, you answer my questions. You cooperate. Or you’re going to be here a very long time,” I say smoothly, now walking over to one of my couches and making myself comfortable.

The girl is brave, I’ll give her that. Not once has she cried through this whole thing. Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps she really did want to die, like the other ones.

Her face follows my voice, though she can’t see anything but shadows. This alone should have terrified her to the point of hysterics. But her voice was composed when she said, “If you think I’m gonna cooperate with you, you fucking sadist, you’re-”

“Correct?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. What bold statements. I admire the girl’s courage.

She snorts. “Hardly. Let me get one thing straight, asshole. I’m not gonna beg you for mercy. I’m not gonna plead and whimper and offer to fuck you in return for my life. You kill me, and get it over with, you sick bastard. I’m not having you mess with my head before you do it.”

Geez. Now I’m really intrigued. Who was this girl, anyway?

Don’t rush, I tell myself, you’ll find out soon enough, no matter what she says. Fear has a way of getting what it wants.

I smile, and lean towards the table. Her face is twisted away, and all I can see is a bit of her smooth, pale cheek, and that dark red hair. I inhale sharply.

“I’m not going to kill you,” I say quietly, “I saved you, remember?”

To my surprise, words that should’ve comforted her, for the first time, brings tears to her emerald eyes.

She laughs bitterly, as if compensating for the small slip in her display of emotion.

“Nothing can save me,” she says, almost in a whisper.

Don’t I know it.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

A small girl with thick, dark red hair shrieks and runs barefoot across the grassy field, and the young boy chases her. The girl laughs as the boy trips over a log, immediately dirtying his previously-spotless white shirt.

“Can’t catch me!” she yells, and then squeals as the boy pushes himself up and continues the chase.

Their footsteps are muted by the soft grass, the vast field stretching on as far as the children’s eyes can see, the skies overhead a perfect blue and the summer breeze ideal for their little game of tag.

The boy stops suddenly, nervously looking over his shoulder. The mansion is no longer in view.

“Ady!” he calls to the girl, the slightest hint of panic in his voice, “we’re not supposed to go that far out, remember?”

The girl turns, grinning. She was a pretty vision, there in the sunlight, with her bright green eyes and long mane of red curls that fell past her waist.

“Come on, Mitchie,” she says impatiently, pursing her lips in a grown-up way, the expression looking odd on her young face. “there’s nothing out here!”

“Maybe,” the boy says hesitantly, “but they…they told us to stay close to the house.”

The girl now plants her hands on her hips. “You’re just worried you can’t catch me!” She sticks her tongue out at him and flees once again, but she seems to have taken the boy’s words seriously, because instead of going further away from the mansion, she runs in a half-circle, past the boy, towards the house.

She slows down a little when she notices that the boy’s not following her, her wild grin faltering as she comes to a stop. She looks back at the boy, who’s staring at the horizon, away from her, away from the mansion, as if…almost as if he wished he could disobey his own warning and go out there. To the Other Side. The other side, outside the safe, yet so confined little cage the others had created for them, for people like them.

The girl walks up to the boy, the breeze pushing her hair off her face.

“What’s wrong, Mitchie? Did you see something?”

The boy frowns, slightly. “No…” he murmurs, “you were right. There’s nothing here.”

The girl looks impatient again. “Ofcourse not. When was there ever something? I don’t know why we can’t…” She shakes her head, trailing off. They weren’t supposed to know.

“Mitchell! Adrienne!”

The girls jumps a little, startled by the sudden voice piercing through the still, quiet summer air.

“Coming!” she yells back, and starts running once more. “Mitch, come on!”

The boy tears his eyes away from the blank field stretching on endlessly, to the Other Side. He joins the girl as they both disappear inside the mansion.

I open my eyes. Oh, shit. I was right. I knew the girl.

Knew her? Apparently, I lived with the little harlot. Great. Just fucking perfect. That’s all I need right now, to be emotionally tied to the chick Hayden was out to kill.

But then…I didn’t know her, did I? The dream…the dream, the memory, that was another life. A life I didn’t remember, a life I didn’t care for.

Until now.

No. No. Damn it, Mitch, head in the game. The game is your life.

Sounds of stirring from the next room.

So she’s awake. I close my eyes, not quite ready for another round of interrogate-the-whore. Such a waste of time. Such a completely dissatisfying, unsettling waste of time. I was done with the whore.

Adrienne.

Adrienne…so familiar…so strangely, scarily familiar. So I had known her from my Other Life. So what? That was nothing. I had lost that boy like one loses an insignificant possession. Doesn’t really matter. It’s gone. Move on with your life.

I had no obligations to the girl. None at all. So I had known her. Apparently, played tag with her. So what? That was nothing. I was done with this. I’d simply give her a shot and let her go-

Let her go?

Now why would I think that? I never let anyone go. Not someone I was ordered to kill, anyway. No, this whore had to die…and in my hands. I push her name from my mind…she was yet another nameless, even faceless prostitute. Who would ’cause quite a bit of messy trouble if she was let free anyway.

I got out of bed with the decision made up in my head.

Sorry, Red. Please forgive me. We had a wonderful conversation. But you gotta go. You understand, right?

Sounds of struggling from the next room.

Oh, come on now, Red. You didn’t think I’d be that careless, did you?

Shaking my head, I ignore a strangled cry from the living room and go to wash my face instead. As the cool water hits my face, I couldn’t help but admit I was slightly curious about the mansion. Had I lived there with the girl, then? Where there others? I dismissed the thought of family- that was one thing always beyond the tips of my fingers, even in my distant, forgotten past. Not that I ever stretched any finger towards it, but you know. A guy’s got to be curious about where he’s from. I am glad to say that the thought was put to rest in a distant corner of my subconscious when I walked into the living-room. Red’s eyes were covered with a black, silk blindfold, because the dear Sun would have extended her lovely golden rays through my thin curtains and let the little whore see everything I’d been trying to hide last night. Hence, the blindfold, courtesy of moi while she had fallen into troubled sleep.

No matter, Red, you’ll get all the sleep you want soon.

I smiled a little wryly, disapproving of my own style this time. Tying up a hooker in my living-room with a blindfold. Real classy, Mitch.

The girl seemed to be thinking along the same lines.

“This how you get your kicks, freak?” she asks in a low, scratchy voice. “tying up women in chez psycho?”

Again, no offence taken. That mouth of yours’ll be put to rest soon.

I don’t say that, though. I rummage through the drawers in my living-room cabinet, searching for the right tool.

“Women, did you say?” I ask her distractedly. “I believe the technical term is prostitute.”

“Fuck you,” she spits.

“No, thank you,” I tell her, “I think you’ve had enough of that.”

I can’t read her eyes, obviously, but I didn’t think she appreciated my comment because she screamed. Really loud.

“Jesus,” I say, walking over to the table, turning on my stereo on the way. The apartment fills with the sound of Sid Vicious screaming, the voice a worthy opponent of Red’s. “Do you want me to stuff something down your throat?”

She shuts up. Sid continues in the background. Normally, I wouldn’t mind, but I have to admit, 8 o’clock really is too early for the Sex Pistols. I turn the music off.

Red’s breathing in and out like some sort of enraged bull, every breath issued from behind gritted teeth. I raise my eyebrows.

“And the truth strikes a nerve,” I say, amused. “What, you don’t approve of your own line of business?”

“I am not a whore.”

Quiet. Angry. Determined.

“Whatever you say.” I shrug, even though she can’t see.

“I am not a whore.”

“I got it the first time, thanks.”

“I am not a whore!” she screams.

“Jesus, alright.” I shake my head. Red’s got some major denial going on.

Confused, I decide it’s best not to say anything and just get on with my work.

It’s weird. Last night, I was ready to do anything to protect the whore. Hell, I even had a problem with calling her a whore.

That’s gone now, replaced with savage anger at my own moment of weakness. I should’ve let Hayden kill her. Now he’s gonna think I’m losing it. He’s gonna think I’m…vulnerable.

This thought angers me even more. I slam the drawer shut, more forcefully than I intended, making it shake. Red’s face turns instinctively towards the sound, then away again.

Poor Red. I had just located my tool.

I approach the table slowly. Last night’s round of interrogation reaped no results , except that I probably broke a record of having every swear word in the book hurled at me. I had never been so angry at myself. What the hell had I played around with her for? To get answers? To what exactly? Why had I brought her back here?

I get it now. It was the piece of the Other Life clinging to me desperately, begging me to let it lead, for me to follow…to wander into the unknown depths of a place I had no intention of ever going to again…to a closed chapter of a book, the words scripted, unchangeable…

No.

I’m stronger than that. I can’t deny I’m still curious about the girl, about how we knew each other…we had certainly seemed close. I had seemed human.

But I’m not anymore, am I? I can’t go wallowing in those waters again- it’s dangerous, the others had warned me. Sooner or later I was bound to be in pain.

No, better to end this now, when I had the chance. I had to remove every trace of the girl, wipe her from my mind completely…it’s the only way I can get back to my life, defeat the Other Life completely.

It is time.

My face is directly above the girl now, the tool in my hand- a simple, small surgical scalpel. A small incision in a major artery- I prefer the femoral for women- and it’ll be over quickly. I know that she knows I’m close, I can see the change in her face, the determind expurgation of every emotion in her features. I’m close enough to see the slightest tremble of her jaw…just below her collarbone a curiously shaped birthmark- or is it?- the shape of a-

Lily. The boy traces it lightly with his finger, propped up by one elbow on the grass while the girl, about seventeen or eighteen, lies on her back staring at the sky.

”What is it?” he asks suddenly, aware that the girl looks deep in troublesome thought, frowning slightly.

“I heard them,” she says quietly, “I wasn’t supposed to- but…I just did and-“

She closes her eyes, a few tears leaking out and rolling down her face.

”Ade,” the boy says, startled, “what’d you hear?”

“You’re leaving,” she whispers, “they’re gonna make you go somewhere -I didn’t catch the name- but this is it, Mitch. You’re going.”

“What?” the boy says, frowning, “what d’you mean they’re gonna make me leave? No one’s making me do anything. Not if Ihave a say in it.”

“That’s exactly it,” she says miserably, “you don’t have a say in it. Mitch, when have we ever had a choice in anything? We’re like…like trained pets or something…”

“Don’t say that,” the boy says firmly, “Ade, I’m not going anywhere without you…you know that, right?”

She smiles through her tears. “Yeah, but do they?”

The boy smiles dryly. “Ade, c’mon. Even they know nothing can separate the two of us.” The girl blushes. “It’s true,” he says, “I mean, what, they think I’m gonna up and leave this place? Not that I’d be freaking over the moon to get away from here…but not without you behind. No fucking way, Ade. I’m not leaving you here alone.”

The girl throws herself at him, wrapping her arms around his waist and burying her face against his chest. “Mitch,” she murmurs, “if they do…make you go…promise never to….never to forget me, okay?”

The boy gazes down at the girl incredulously. “Are you fucking kidding me, Ade?” he asks, slightly angry now. “Forget you? They’d have to kill me to get me to do that.”

He doesn’t know whether the sound she makes against his chest is a laugh or a sob. “Oh, Mitch,” she whispers, “There are far easier ways…”

“Adrienne…”

The word is out of my lips before I can stop it.

The girl’s mouth twists in disgust. “Did a little research, did you?”

“Your name…is…Adrienne?”

It was a last, desperate piece of hope left. Please say no, please say no, please say no…

The expression on the lower part of her face was as good as an answer.

“Oh, god.”

My tool- my beautiful tool of redemption- drops from my hand as I cover my face with my hands and get out of the room as quickly as I can, as far away from her as I can, because I can’t do it, I can’t be with her without having an urge to throw up, do something to myself, scratch out my eyes, run the scalpel through my own-

Control, Mitch. Get a grip on yourself.

Kill the girl…

The voice in my head is weak. I am weak. I can’t do it. I can’t kill her.

“Fuck you,” I whisper to no one in particular. “Fuck you fuck you fuck you-”

A scream from the next room.

“Do it,” she shrieks, her head twisting wildly, as if that’ll get rid of the blindfold, “do it, psycho! Kill me!”

I clear my throat, quite embarrassed.

“Um,” I say, racking my brains for something to say, coming up with nothing.

I have nothing to say to you, hear that, bitch? I should kill you right now. But I can’t.

“Ah,” I say, like a positive idiot, “Tell me, where are you from?”

Her mouth twists in an horrible smile. “If you think,” she says slowly, each word stretched out, clear…angry, “that you’re getting one fucking word out of my lips, asshole, you’re-”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, “let’s skip the part where I discover new capacities of that foul mouth of yours, ’kay? Just answer my questions, and if I’m satisfied, I’ll let you go. You have my word.”

“Your word?” she sneers, “your word, my lord? Oh, let me serve thy every command, fucking weirdo.”

“Okay,” I say, now getting angry, “okay. I’ve had enough. I could’ve have killed you-”

“Why didn’t you?”

“-ten times over now, but I didn’t. Because I kn- because I want answers.”

I had made up my mind sub-consciously. I couldn’t kill the girl, and I wanted to know why. And for that, the bitch would have to talk. I was told not to go seeking answers from my past, warned a hundred times of the dangers…and how it would weaken me, but…

I’m already weak. And I can’t stand that. And to strengthen myself…get rid of this-this ridiculous new moral unwillingness to kill I had developed, I had to get answers.

“I don’t have answers,” she says quietly. For the first time, there’s no disgust in her voice, no anger, no loathing. “Please. Let me go. You need help- please- I can get it for you…just…just….let me go.”

Something happens to me then. Something wells up in me, strong, repugnant…disgust at my own self- and I run to the bathroom, puking my guts out in the toilet. Jesus. What was wrong with me? I sit there for a while on the cool bathroom tile, my head in my arms, eyes closed.

I breathe in, then out.

I had no idea what to do, or why the girl’s change in demeanor had evoked such strong nausea. I just felt…repulsed…at myself.

Was I going insane?

Maybe. I always knew it’d happen one day.

When I go back to the living room, the girl is quite still, like she too was lost in thought.

“Alright,” I say, “passing over your offer-”

“Why?” she demands. “Please- you need help. Therapy. Let me go, and I won’t say anything, I swear. Hell, I wouldn’t know what to say. I don’t know what you look like- or where you live-”

“I know,” I say quietly, “I made sure of that.”

She looks slightly relieved. “So you’ll free me?”

“Not yet,” I say, going over to sit in one of the low couches. “Not quite yet, Ade.”

She draws in a sharp breath. “What’d you call me?”

“Nothing,” I say hastily, wanting to kick myself so hard it causes internal bleeding.

“You did…you called me Ade…”

“No, I didn’t, whore,” I spit.

Her lip trembles slightly, but she forgoes the earlier screaming denial. I could tell from the way her shoulders are slackened and the body is flat and her soft feautures revived that she had given up. No more screaming and cursing and struggling…she was tired, and she wanted out. So she had decided the best way was to cooperate.

Smart decision, Red.

“What do you want to know?” she asks, in a flat little voice.

“Where are you from?”

Her lips tremble again. “I live in #64, Wylie Road, Winchoster.”

Hmm. Not satisfying at all.

“No, I mean, where are you from? Where did you live when you were…you know, a kid?”

She lets out a wry laugh. “Out of all the questions…you had to pick that one?”

“Answer the question.”

She looks slightly scared. “I…I used to live in Detroit…when I was twelve…my family moved-”

“You’re lying.”

The drainage of all color from her face was as good as a confession. “I don’t know-I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

“Then let me get this straight,” I say quietly, “you are trying to sell shit to the wrong person. I’d rather you tell me the truth ‘cause I’m asking you politely, and not ’cause I sliced open you cheek, okay?”

She looks terrified now. “I am…telling the truth…please- we lived in-”

“Spare me the crap, okay, Red?” I say, mildly bored now. “Now, I’m asking you again, where are you from?”

“Lapeer, Detroit! Please!” A hint of desperation in her voice now. “My-my father was a mailman…and my mother-”

“Stop,” I say coldly. “Where are you from?”

“Lapeer, Detroit- we moved when I-”

“Where are you from?”

“I don’t know!” she shrieks, tears openly streaming down her face now. “I…don’t…fucking…know….”

Finally. The truth.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” I ask quietly.

She breathes in, trying to calm herself. “I-I…I can’t explain it-”

“Try!”

“I can’t. I have…no memory…of my life…”

Like me. She knows nothing of the Other Life.

“What’s the last thing you remember of your other- of your past?”

The thin eyebrows over the blindfold come together thoughtfully. “I…nothing. I found myself on the corner of a dark street one day- behind Locrest, the bar- with absolutely no memory of who I was…”

“Then how’d you know your name was Adrienne?”

“A note.”

“A note?”

“Yes- there was a piece of paper in my jacket-“

I inhale sharply. “What was written on the paper?”

“Nothing much. Just, Adrienne- you are safe for now. I hope one day, you will find your way back…and me.”

She lets out a strange laugh. “It didn’t mean anything to me, because I never knew who had written it…but I always felt…safe…when I read it…like I had escaped something that wasn’t ever coming back…only that’s not really true, is it? ’Cause here I am!” She laughs again, this time a little wildly.

I needed to see that note. Needed to see it and touch it and convince myself that I had not sent it.

“So you never found out? Who had given you the note?”

“No. I didn’t understand what it was talking about. I was just…lost. But sometimes…I feel like I know…” she trails off.

“What?” I ask sharply.

“Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

Her lips press together for a second, and then figuring she had nothing to lose, she says- “I don’t know. This might sound crazy, but sometimes…I see this guy in my mind…his face is never clear…but it’s like a memory struggling to be remembered, you know? Like he’s trying to be remembered…but then that might just be my subconscious trying it’s best to convince me I’m not alone by making up some guy-”

“The guy- what’s he look like? Do you know anything else about him?”

“No, like I said- his face is never clear. But he’s…dark-haired, I think. Yeah, dark-haired and…and tall…that’s it basically. He crops up a lot in my-”

She blushes, and bites her lip. Dreams. She meant to say dreams. Like mine…except hers are very vague. She doesn’t remember anything.

But I do. Why? Who are we? Who the hell are we?