Abuse: The Complete Trilogy (27 page)

“What is
love? Baby don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me, no more.”

— Dee Dee
Halligan

~~~

Grant
Wilkinson

“It’s gonna be
OK, Grant,” Renata says to me. “Everything’s going to work out fine.”

I try to respond
with a smile of agreement, but I fail miserably. I can hardly think straight.
She’s been discussing ground rules, truth and lies. The woman has no idea
what’s been going on, thank the Lord.

I don’t intend
to tell her. I need to take this short spell on the plane to try to figure out
what I’m going to do.

Yesterday, for a
short time, I was transformed. For once, I felt like
me
and accepted
myself, imperfections and all. I never experienced that before—not that I can
remember anyway.

I had a glimpse
of what I’ve been missing all my life.

I stare out the
window at white clouds below and try to recall the joy I felt during that brief
time. I had never soared so high, felt so free or full of hope. Without that
glimpse of heaven, the decisions I need to make would be so much easier.

Renata sees me
as a man—not a monster.

I think what I
experienced with her was love.

But what is
love?

Damned if I’ve
ever been able to figure that out. I love finishing a project and knowing I’ve
done a good job. I love making the perfect shot and the satisfaction of hitting
a difficult target. I love my garden and the sense of peace and rightness in
the world I get from watering it, feeding it, weeding it and watching it
flourish and grow.

I loved my
father.

When I was a
child, I thought he loved me—but what he felt for me wasn’t love.

When you've been
hurt by someone you trust completely, you never forget. Being the victim of
betrayal at that level causes a shameful pain that forever brands your heart.
It changes who you are as a person.

Monster! Pervert!

He was my father and I don’t know how to feel. He’s gone and I’m glad. I
loved him, but I also hated him.

After everything
I’ve done, how could anyone stand me? I don’t even like myself.
Yet,
yesterday, Renata said she loved me.
The memory of her words causes a
burning ache deep in my chest.

“Sir, would you
like a beverage?” a different stewardess asks as she passes by, snapping me out
of my thoughts.

My mouth waters.
I bite my tongue to stop myself from an automatic reply,
I’ll have a double
bourbon, neat.

As much as I
crave the relief alcohol provides, I know I must never take another drink. If I
start, I won’t have the strength to stop.

“Coffee, black,
no sugar please,” I reply without turning toward her, keeping the scarred side
of my face averted. I can feel Renata’s gaze, hard upon me.

Renata.
Beautiful, kind, intelligent… and also damaged, like me.

Renata wants me
to talk to her about my problems, but I can’t—not about this. I won’t allow her
to get involved in my father’s murder investigation. I have to figure this out
on my own.

I’m glad he’s
dead, but the timing for this news about the bastard being exhumed is seriously
fucked up.

Why couldn’t
this have happened a year from now? Or twenty? Or better yet, never?

Renata and I.
Two people, both alike in our traumatic backgrounds. She knows who I am and
what I’ve done, but she isn’t disgusted. I saw no hint of pity, embarrassment
or blame.

Talk about
intense mutual attraction! We both experienced lust, but my high wasn’t only
sexual. For all its rapturous momentary pleasure, sex is nothing compared to
what I learned about myself while with Renata.

She
saw
me.

She
knows
me.

And she
likes
me
anyway.

I’m a good
person—I’m certain of that now. There’s still a flicker of pleasure, from that
newfound, absolute truth. I’m not perfect. I have many flaws, yet now I feel
separate from the darkness inside of me.

Yesterday, there
was so much love in my heart, but now it’s a distant memory. Where did it go?
Yet, I still feel something inexplicable and profound for Renata.

Is it love?

I imagine trying
to explain this to my brother, Alex—not that we’ve ever had an honest or open
conversation about anything important.

For some reason,
that stupid song comes to mind,
“What is Love?”
and the lyrics,
‘We
are together, I need you forever.’

Why am I so
drawn to her? Is it lust? Chemistry? Some other passion? Whatever it is, it’s a
powerful, all-inclusive force. There’s an emptiness inside me only she can
fill. Even after this news about my dad,
especially
after this terrible
news, I
need
Renata in my life
forever
—sex or no sex.

Is that love?

I can almost
hear Alex’s snappy, dismissive rejoinder to this thought. He’d give me shit for
sure.

“What is love?”
Alex would announce in his most entertaining and teasing voice. “What, like the
song? True, he did sing,
‘I want no other, no other lover,’
but he also
sang, “
Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, uh, uh whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa,
whoa, uh, uh,”
so maybe you shouldn’t draw too many conclusions from his
lyrics, Grant.”

Alex would have
the whole room busting their guts with laughter.

Alex.

My younger
brother. The man who jokes about everything, is never serious, and uses cocaine
to help him forget. I know all about self-medication. I abused alcohol in order
to escape my own demons.

I should’ve
protected Alex from my father, but I didn’t. I was twelve and Alex was ten.
Those two years made all the difference. The false illusion of “love” my father
instilled with his
games
had started to fall away. I’d known better, but
I’d yet to surface from drowning in an ocean of denial.

I should have
stopped him. Regrets like this make me remember how much I hate myself.

I lift my cup of
fresh coffee to my lips. It’s boiling hot, so I should sip it.

I don’t.

I swallow a
large gulp of scalding coffee, burning my throat in the process. I enjoy the
painful pleasure of intentionally hurting myself. I’ve despised who I am for so
long. Yet yesterday, I felt love.

I was on a high,
right until I received a phone message from my mother letting me know the
sheriff had been tipped off by a “reliable informant” that my father had been
murdered. I’d immediately called my mother back, to find out what else she
knew. I had to endure her hysteria before I discovered she didn’t know any more
than that.

My mother
doesn’t like anything to disturb her “perfect” life.

I know just how
she feels.

My life was just
beginning to move in the right direction. But Dad’s death wasn’t accidental.
The police now suspect he was murdered.

While the
airplane hums, I recall that night at the country club, years ago.

I’d been on
leave from the Army, before I was wounded and branded with facial scars.
Usually, I prefer being alone, but that night I sought company. Wartime
firefights and casualties had been too close in my thoughts. I had needed a
distraction.

My brother
hadn’t met his now wife, Sky, back then. Alex and I found ourselves alone in a
private place. I’d been drinking, but wasn’t drunk. Alex, however, had been
smashed.

I’m not one for
social chit-chat—I never seem to have anything to say. My brother was the
talker, but he only teased or made jokes.

Two brothers,
both isolated in our own way. Only two years apart in age, yet separated by a
monstrous gulf—a black abyss of ugly secrets. We never confided in each other.
Why would we? We had both been there.

My thoughts
return to the conversation we’d had at the time. I use the term “conversation”
loosely. Alex had been speaking to me, but honestly, I hadn’t been listening.
His voice had been reduced to a mere buzzing in the background.

I suddenly tuned
in when I heard Alex slurring,
“… everyone loves him, but WE know he’s a
real bastard.” It’s the word ‘bastard’ that catches my attention.

“What?” I
say.

“I hate him
so much. I dream of killing him,” Alex snarls, his voice a low growl.

“Killing
who?” I frown, coming out of my mental fog. Alex is never angry—but there’s
something ugly and vicious in his tone. Am I imagining it?

“I know
exactly how to do it and get away with it,” he slurs.

“Get away
with what?”

Ice clinks as
Alex takes another long drink of his Crown Royal on the rocks, but he doesn’t
answer my question. “There’s a drug called scopolamine, I saw it on CSI. You
can get it anywhere.”

“What are you
talking about, Alex?” I ask, and stare hard at his face. Yet, my brother
doesn’t seem to hear me. Is he angry? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him
pissed-off at anyone before.

I figure my
brother is at least three times the legal limit. Dazed, Alex’s face looks
haggard, his jaw slack and his eyes are at half-mast. The idiot’s talking
horseshit. Who knows where his thoughts are?

Alex
unexpectedly starts giggling over nothing.

Oh, yeah,
that settles it. He’s dancing to the beat of his own tune all right. It’s a
good thing he got a ride here—he’d kill himself trying to drive home.

“Scopolamine
is used for motion sickness,” he mumbles. “So you don’t chuck your guts up when
you’re on a boat or a plane. It makes people suggestible.” He snickers. “I’ve
got a few things I’d like to suggest to him.”

I blink,
stare and blink again. Is this the start of some silly joke?

“Murderers
usually try to kill without witnesses,” Alex adds. “I think the more witnesses
the merrier!” He snickers suddenly. “I’ll simply tell him to go to the edge and
then I’ll push him off.”

Inhaling a
sharp, surprised breath, I ask, “What are you talking about?”

He peers up
at me with eyes that suddenly understand he’s said too much. It almost seems as
if he's surprised to see me.

“What?” Alex
asks.

“I said, what
are you talking about?”

“Nothing,”
Alex replies. He lies back in his chair and shuts his eyes. After that, I
couldn’t get him to talk to me at all. Sound asleep, he began to snore.

I open my eyes
and take another sip of coffee. It’s still pretty hot, but the burning
discomfort in my throat is soothing. There’s a sickness inside me—sometimes
pain provides inexplicable pleasure.

I’d completely
forgotten the conversation with Alex, right until I found out my father’s body
was being exhumed to be tested for drugs.

Did Alex kill
our father?

I never even
thought about it when the bastard fell off of that balcony. Dad was forever
throwing things at the squirrels when he was outside on that veranda—everyone
knew that. Sometimes he’d feed them. Sometimes he’d nail them with rocks when
they got closer. He’d always laughed at the squirrels, especially when he hit them.

If scopolamine
is found in Dad’s body, I’ll know who killed him.

The police don’t
have evidence on Alex, or do they? I lick my dry lips, focusing on this
concern. What if he’s already been arrested?

I’ve let my
little brother down before. I can’t forgive myself for making no attempt to
prevent his abuse. If he murdered our father, it's because of what I let
happen. How can I let him go to jail?

In my heart, I
know I can’t.

My body tenses
as everything I am resists the thought of a trial, of a media circus and of the
possibility of being locked up. If it looks as though they might convict Alex,
should I tell the police
I
was the one who
planned and executed
the crime?

The memory of
Renata’s soft voice drags me out of my reverie.
“It’s gonna be OK, Grant.
Everything’s going to work out fine.”

I turn to look
at her, attempting to remain impassive in order to hide my despair. I'm
wrestling with savage indecision. Should I? Shouldn't I? Uncertainty is a dull
blade, hacking ragged edges into my soul.

I know what I
should
do—but do I have the courage to do it?

It’s not a
matter of bravery, or a desire to sacrifice myself as if I’m some sort of
martyr. It’s about making things right.

I don’t want to
go to jail.

Especially not
now, when my life is coming together. Just once, I’d like to be able to hold a
woman without feeling sickened afterwards. Maybe even cuddle and sleep with
Renata without freaking out. How much further can I improve before I’d have to
turn myself in?

Murderers are
executed in Texas.

If I tell them
about my father’s abuse, perhaps I’d get a reduced sentence. Maybe nothing will
happen, anyway. This might all be a tempest in a teapot. But if it isn’t, what
will I do?

I care about my
little brother. He has a wife. More importantly, his son needs his father. Alex
is a good dad—a
great
dad. I’ve seen them together. Alex will be the
kind of father we always longed for our own father to be.

I failed Alex in
the past, but I won’t fail him again. If I have to, I’ll take the fall. Prison
won’t be so bad. And just like that, my worries are over. I’ve made my
decision.

I
will
sacrifice
myself for Alex.

My body relaxes,
all pressure disappears. Clarity empties my mind of all my problems. Right or
wrong,
making
a decision wasn’t the problem.

It’s
indecision
that totally messes with a person’s head.