The Contradiction of Solitude (25 page)

R
uined.

Destroyed.

I was the monster.

Me.

Sharp teeth and sharper claws.

Forked tongue and serpent’s tail.

His devil.

His lie.

I had chased him away.

I knew the time was coming but I fought against it. I fought against the pull of the blood.

“I should come out to see you,” Matt suggested later that night. He sounded scared. Worried.

He should be.

Right?

He had called, as though instinctually knowing that I needed him to. He was there. My humanity.

“No,” I said, ragged and harsh.

No.

“I can hear it, Lay, you’re not doing well.”

Not doing well. That was an understatement. Elian had fled. Ran. Six hours ago, and I was finished.

Plans ruined.

Maybe I was fine with that.

“I’m okay, Matt. Don’t come here. Ever,” I said, a clear warning. He was my voice on the phone. Not a presence in my reality. There not here. That was important.

I scribbled words on the dry erase board. Silly words. Honest words.

The truth is the ugly side no one wants to see.

Matt didn’t say anything for a long time. “Why haven’t you ever tried to see me? Not once in all these years. I haven’t seen you since the day they took me away.”

I knew the time would come when he’d ask. I could hear the betrayal. The sting of it was sharp.

It was sweet and full of assurances.

“It was better that way.” I didn’t want to talk about that. Not about my failings or his feelings. Not about our life
before.

What was the point?

So we could cry and be assuaged from the chains of guilt?

We had to avoid the past. We had to deal with our present. Plan for our future.

My memories weren’t for sharing. Not with Matt.

“I was twelve, Lay. I had lost everything. I hated you.”

“I know.”

“I still hate you.”

“I know.”

“I hate him more.”

“I hate him too.”

“But you love him, right?” Matt sounded small. A lot like the little boy he had once been. The little boy who was never been given the entirety of his father’s attention or affection.

Not like me.

Lucky, lucky, Daddy’s girl.

“Yes, I love him.” I sounded defensive. I hadn’t meant to be.

Defensive. Offensive. Bitter. Proud.

“I don’t. I just hate him.”

“Then hate him.” He didn’t need my permission to feel how he did.

“Why don’t you? How can you not? After everything he did?” Matt sounded confused. Bewildered. His emotions a tangled mess mirroring mine. The same but so different.

“I don’t know. I just can’t.” I tried to speak louder but couldn’t.

The truth was easier in whispers.

“He always loved you best. If he was able to love anything, it was you.” Matt spoke as though it were a curse. It was. My curse. My beautiful cursed blessing.

I didn’t say anything. There was no need. No one would ever understand the relationship I had with my wonderful, horrible father.

The Nautical Killer.

“You feel it, don’t you? The parts of him that live inside us?” Matt asked hatefully.

“Not inside you, Matt. Never.”

“Yes, inside me too.”

“No, Matt. Not you. That kind of darkness will never belong to you.”

“If it’s not inside me, it’s not inside you either. You’re not him. You never will be. I don’t care how much he loved you. I don’t care that we are here because of him. Nature versus nurture, right? And Mom wasn’t a monster.” He was trying to convince himself. Was he succeeding?

“Mom
was
a monster,” I countered.

The worst kind of monster.

Matt didn’t argue. How could he possibly defend the woman that had killed herself and abandoned her children? Taken the coward’s way out? She was able to sleep while we tossed and turned.

She had left us to bear the brunt of this alone because of her inability to see the ugly truth in the man she married.

She was just as evil, just as wicked, as the killer that had shared her bed.

I hated them both.

But only one still owned pieces of my inconceivable love.

“Do you ever think about going to see him?” Matt asked, and that was one answer I could answer easily and without hesitation.

“No. Never.”

It had been three days since Elian had left my house. After he had told me the things I already knew.

About his sister.

About Amelia.

She is where it all began for him.

She was the reason for his mask.

She would be the reason for breaking it.

I needed to talk to him. He was avoiding me. I wasn’t entirely sure where he was. I had a moment of fear that he had left. Without saying a word.

I had seen the look in his eyes when I told him the truth about who I was. The truth I hadn’t planned on him ever finding out.

I was stupid.

Leaving the folder in the drawer like that. But Elian wasn’t something I had been able to plan.

He slid into my life and made himself comfortable. He had turned things on their head and I was trying to find my footing.

Topsy turvy, dizzy and sick. I couldn’t see ahead but the behind me was clear.

I’m so sorry, baby, baby girl. My Layna. Pick up the pieces and carry them home.

Words like ice picks. They hurt. They burned.

Make it right, Layna. Make it better.

What could I do?

I went by the custom shop thinking I could at least find him there.

I walked in, and Margie looked up from her perch behind the counter.

Margie, Margie, Margie, your hate will get you nowhere.

“Get out,” she snarled. As if her words could make me fear her. As if her threat carried any sort of weight.

“I’m looking for Elian.” I walked towards the back of the shop where the door to the studio was.

“He’s not here,” Margie said. So much venom. So much animosity.

I frowned.

“He’s not?”

“Like you didn’t already know. He blows off everything for you. His friends. His job. You’re a fucking soul sucker, you know that?”

A soul sucker.

Maybe…

“Where is he?” I asked, not bothering to respond to Margie’s character assessment.

“Why don’t you tell me? George would like to know. Elian never called in. He never goes MIA like this. What did you do to him?” she accused. Spite and ire.

What did I do to him?

What did he do to me?

I looked around at the guitars on the wall, easily picking out those made by Elian’s careful hand.

“Okay. Thank you,” I said, ever polite.

“Fuck off,” Margie responded.

He was avoiding me. He was avoiding everything. I hadn’t expected any of this.

I needed to find him.

To talk to him.

I drove out to Half Moon Quarry. The sky was overcast and looked like rain. I could smell the incoming weather, the moisture clinging to my skin.

The quarry was silent. No birds or animals in sight. The water was calm, unmoving. Not a ripple on the surface to indicate anything lived in those cool, deceptive depths.

I climbed the stairs and knocked on the door.

Not a sound came from within.

I could see Elian’s car parked in its usual spot. I turned and looked back toward the beach, scanning. Scanning.

I knocked again. He could be asleep.

Without waiting, I pushed the door open and went inside.

Cluttered and dusty, Elian had been neglecting his housekeeping duties.

“Elian!” I called out.

Silence.

Solitude.

I felt cold inside.

I moved from room to room and couldn’t find him. Climbing the creaking steps I peered into the darkened bedroom and found the bed, unmade. It was hard to tell whether he had slept in it recently. The tubs holding his clothes were overturned. Shirts and pants in haphazard piles.

“Elian,” I murmured knowing he wouldn’t hear me.

I walked into the bathroom, noting a brown bottle upended in the sink, stray pills sticking to the enamel. I picked it up and saw Elian’s name.

Risperdal.

I stared hard.

I had no idea.

How could I not have known?

How had this important piece of information slipped by me?

I dropped the empty bottle back in the sink. It made a loud clatter, and I closed the door as I left the bathroom.

Leaving the house, I looked again along the bank of the quarry.

He was here.

Somewhere.

There…

Sitting on the edge of the water, his head bowed low.

Alone.

Alone.

I walked towards him. Unsure. So unsure.

Elian was suddenly unpredictable.

“Elian,” I said, just loud enough for him to hear me.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t lift his head. The cigarette smoked lazily between his fingers.

The silent, silent waters calm and steady.

The slight breeze ruffling leaves already fallen to their deaths on the ground.

I sat down beside him, pebbles biting through fabric. Embedding into skin.

“I can’t look at you,” Elian said, his voice rough and bleeding.

“Then don’t.”

“I don’t want to hear your voice.”

“Then I won’t speak.”

Elian covered his face with his hands, a low keening sound muffled by his palms.

“I hate you.”

Sharp, hurtful words. Mutilated. Wrecked.

What could I say?