Forgotten Bride 03-Becoming Benjamin, page 13
part #3 of Forgotten Bride Series
“Are you for real? He tried raping and killing me. What does Cynthia and your God have to say about that?”
“They would condone neither. And nor would I.”
“Exactly; he deserves everything he gets. Besides, me and Cynthia are over. Those bridges have been well and truly burned,” I added, carefully wrapping a plaster around the base of the blade.
“They certainly will be if you go through with this.”
“I tell you what, if I do end up slitting his throat, I’ll confess and apologise, and then all will be forgiven, correct? That’s the whole deal with God, isn’t it?” I rhetorically asked as I concealed the blade in my pocket and left the cell.
I twitchingly walked down the balcony and greeted the other inmates with a casual nod as I strolled past their cells just to keep up appearances, but without taking my eye off the sheeted cell for a single moment. When I reached it, I stopped outside and heard the animalistic rutting inside commence, which left me wondering when the most opportune moment to enter would be. Fortuitously and much to my surprise, the heavy breathing subsided after less than a minute, and Jay embarrassedly stumbled out, looking me dead in the eyes before scuttling off down the block on his way back to his cell. After a moment’s hesitance, I anxiously peered inside to see Bison leaning over the sink and splashing cold water onto his face whilst glaring back at me with a crazed look in his eyes plastered in the reflection of the mirror.
“You’re a few minutes too late, Miller,” he grunted.
“Hilarious,” I dryly remarked.
Bison stood up and made his way to the middle of the cell, cracking his neck threateningly to one side before blowing me a kiss and beckoning me inside with his right middle finger. I looked him up and down, wondering if the tiny blade I had concealed in my pocket would even pierce his rhino-like skin as I remained stationary. I was doing my best not to appear intimidated by him, but in reality, I was quaking in my boots.
“Don’t be shy,” he said.
“I’m good here, thanks,” I uttered.
Before I knew it, he lunged forward and gripped the front of my jumpsuit with his massive gorilla hand before throwing me into the corner of his cell, then quickly replaced the sheet on the bars and turned around while I was still picking myself up in a daze. Without a word, he grabbed me by the throat and squeezed with both hands, pinning me against the wall hard, glowering into my eyes with hatred. I fumbled around in my pocket until I felt the sharp blade between my fingertips, and without wasting time, I lifted it to his neck through both his arms. When he felt it break his skin and a single bead of blood trickled down it, he cautiously loosened his grip on me and dropped his arms by his side. I followed him backwards as he recoiled towards the bunks, with the blade still pressed against his throat. I began to laugh manically after seeing the fear grow in his eyes, which only made him shit his pants even more.
“What the fuck do you want from me?” he mumbled.
“You think you can try to fuck me and get away with it?” I roared with certifiable laughter.
“I was just following orders. They—”
“Someone specifically wanted you to rape me? No, you just wanted to, you sick fuck,” I scored.
“I got carried away,” he mustered.
“Funny, I also have a tendency to do that, and right now, I’m thinking of slitting your throat like the pig you are, then hanging you out on the balcony to bleed out. Tell me, is that too much? Am I overreacting?”
Bison’s brow furrowed, like basic human reasoning was somehow painful for him. Before he arrived at an answer, I pressed the blade further into his neck and slapped him with my free hand across his sweating face. He had clearly never dealt with anyone like me before, and he began to whimper, avoiding eye contact at all costs and barely breathing.
“Now, I know this is difficult, but I need you to think. I want to know who the fuck gave you that envelope with my name on it,” I threatened.
“I told you already. It just got shoved through my bean chute,” he quaked.
I shook my head and tutted my tongue melodically.
“You know who sent it. There must have been a note with it or something,” I argued before gripping and squeezing his throat with my free hand.
“It was just a phone number,” he croaked.
“Where is it?” I shouted.
“Underneath the mattress,” he squealed.
“Give it to me, now,” I furiously instructed as I tightened my hold.
After awkwardly lifting his mattress with one hand, Bison produced a scrap of paper and begrudgingly handed it over to me. I glanced at it and then released my grip on his throat, which left him coughing violently in a heap on the bottom bunk.
“F-fucking psychopath…” he spluttered.
“So I’ve been told,” I dismissed. “Have you tried calling this number?” I asked.
“Yeah, I did, just to let them know that I’d sent you a message. Some British chick answered.”
“British?”
He nodded.
“Are you sure?” I said, grabbing him by the throat.
“I’m sure!” he yelped.
I released him again, leaving him a breathless mess as I paced around the cell, pensively staring at the crumpled-up scrap of paper in my hand.
“Did she mention a name? Olivia, perhaps?” I frantically asked.
“I don’t know…”
“For once in your miserable life, actually use your brain, will you?” I yelled.
“We barely spoke, I swear. When I phoned, she just said hello. Then, I told her I’d sent the message, and shortly afterwards, she hung up on me. That’s all, I swear.”
“Pfft, here,” I said as I flicked the blade at him like a discarded cigarette and peeled the sheet off the bars for me to leave.
“You’re fucking kidding me? Is that it? It’s tiny,” he cynically remarked.
“Funny, I overheard Jay saying that a few minutes ago,” I quipped.
Before my joke had sunk into Bison’s thick skull, I rushed out of the cell and jogged down the steps, looking over my shoulder to see if he had the nerve to follow me. I got to the bank of phones, dialled the number I had been given, and impatiently waited for the call to connect. After a few moments, I heard the line click and then delicate breathing down the phone.
“Is it done?” I heard a female voice ask.
“Yes,” I grunted in my best Bison impression.
“The Railroad will be pleased.”
“The Railroad?” I repeated.
I heard a dry chuckle on the other end of the line.
“Don’t call this number again, Alex,” she said before hanging up.
It was inconclusive, but it could have easily been Olivia’s voice I had just heard. I raised my eyebrows and dryly chuckled because, at face value, the thought of her putting a hit out on me in prison was ludicrous, but it was a possibility, and sometimes the most obvious culprit is the correct one. Maybe I had rubbed off on her more than she cared to admit.
“Well played,” I uttered to myself.
19
THE BALL
ALEX – 2000
It was a year to the day. I was sitting in my new, sparsely furnished bedroom, staring at one of the only photos that I had of Mom, a tiny passport-sized photo that was only a few years away from being so faded that I wouldn’t be able to recognise it anymore. I gave it a little peck and tearfully smiled before putting it safely back into the drawer of my bedside table, along with the Saint Christopher necklace that failed to protect her the night that she lost her life.
“I miss you, Mom,” I whispered to the heavens.
The barn fire briefly made national news, and you could barely watch a television channel without seeing the charred remains of our farm in their bulletins. Once Dad and I left, the fire must have ravaged the entire barn and house because there was barely a stick of furniture left standing after the huge blaze. He always said it was unlucky that it had even made the news and that it only did because nothing newsworthy happened that day. He said that all we needed was a bus crash or a missing puppy, and then everyone would quickly forget all about the Jacksons and the lingering questions surrounding the ill-fated blaze. In many ways, he was right because the investigation ended up being incredibly short-lived, and after a few months of no sightings and with no surviving family members to pester the police for answers, the investigation was closed. Dad had the newspaper clipping squirrelled away somewhere, the article that announced the fire was nothing but a tragic accident, and shortly after that piece hit the newsstands, people stopped looking for us. Dad quietly changed our name at a California courthouse, Jackson became a thing of the past, and from then on, we were the Millers; it was as if our previous iterations had never existed.
All of a sudden, I heard raucous laughter coming from downstairs, and I rushed over to the landing to spy on who Dad was conversing with. As I peered through the spindles, I was confronted with the unmistakable image of one of Ernie’s expensive suits, and I crouched down so as not to alert either of them of my presence. Ernie gave me the creeps, and rightly so because I was aware that he was one of Dad’s closest business associates. I knew very little else about him because Dad kept his cards close to his chest regarding their unnerving enterprise, but he would often visit the house to have a little morning powwow before I headed off to school, and from what I could gather, they were equal partners in what appeared to be a child exploitation ring.
“I take it the package is still in an adequate condition to be sold?” Ernie asked.
“Now, now. We’ve been in business for a long time. Tell me, have you ever known me to trade in faulty goods?” Dad asked.
“I’m just checking,” Ernie sighed. “This is for a very important client.”
“Don’t teach grandma how to suck eggs, Ernie. I know this business better than you do.”
“When can he expect delivery, then? He isn’t known for his patience, and neither am I.”
“There have been some teething problems. He had some fight in him, this one—a real feisty fucker.”
“Have the issues been resolved?”
“To my satisfaction, yes. I could engage in more corrective action, but that will delay transport.”
“No. I wouldn’t bother. This particular client likes them that way,” Ernie said with a dry chuckle.
“Perfect. I can move him in a few weeks. He’s currently stashed away at the cabin.”
“Cabin? Gregory, this is your station. You promised The Railroad that you’d have a secure location sorted out by now. It was part of the deal of you moving to Hammerdale in the first place.”
“Tell them to keep their wigs on; I’m working on it. Besides, I don’t know what’s so important about this pissant town, anyway.”
“We’ve already discussed it at length. Its proximity to the Mexican border means it’s a vital part of the network.”
“Still. I despise it here,” Dad grumbled.
“I put my own neck on the line when I recommended you for this position, especially after what happened in Iowa, or are you forgetting that?”
“Listen, if you’re so concerned, you can take a look at the progress I’ve made on the bunker right now. I’ve got time.”
“I’d rather not. I don’t think I can stomach seeing how the sausage is made.”
“Fine,” Dad conceded. “But there’ll come a time when you have to get your hands dirty, though.”
“Undoubtedly,” Ernie mused, mindlessly glancing up the stairs, so I ducked out of the way before he spotted me.
After deciding it wasn’t worth the merciless beating if I was caught eavesdropping, I made my way back into my room and quietly closed the door behind me, hearing nothing but their muffled voice as soon as it was shut. According to my father, we happened upon Hammerdale by chance when, in reality, moving there was actually a part of the plan. After months of living in flea-ridden motels and sleeping in the truck, I was as desperate for my own space as he was, so I put up no resistance. Dad announced that we would be staying there for a while, choosing the East side of town to settle down and buying a four-bedroom house with cash, and for a while, it seemed like he had truly put the past behind him. From the outside, we had it all—the picket fence, a spacious garden, and a happy family. It was only when Ernie started showing up that I realised what the truth was.
Dad wasn’t winding down or putting anything behind him.
He was just getting started.
None of our neighbours had a clue as to who we really were and simply thought we were just a friendly carpenter and his only son looking to start a new life as they had once done in small-town America, all far too polite to pry into my Dad’s personal life and ask why he was a single parent, to begin with. He spent his days fitting doors and building decks, and it made me sick witnessing the hordes of people in the street say hello to him or seeing him carry the trays of cupcakes through the front door that his elderly customers had baked for him as a thank-you. No one could see past the public image he had carefully constructed, and by all accounts, he seemed like the perfect father and a new pillar of the community.
However, his evenings were an altogether different story.
The constant swish and bang of a pickaxe filled our house every night as Dad painstakingly dug out the concrete foundation with his bare hands underneath the den. He would silently and discreetly dispose of the rubble, one bag at a time, and after six months of relentless digging, he was almost finally ready to start the actual construction. There was not a single hour that went by without me thinking about sneaking down there, coshing him over the head with a rock or a hammer and leaving him there in the pit to rot. The only two things stopping me were crippling fear and the thought that my mother would somehow be disappointed in me if I went through with my plan. I knew that deep down, she wanted better things for me, and if she discovered that I was following in my father’s murderous footsteps, she would turn in her grave.
From the get-go, I knew exactly what he was building, but I didn’t dare speak out about it because I was growing into a man then, and at fifteen years of age, I wouldn’t have gotten a slap around the head like before or even a broken rib; instead, he would have dealt with my insubordination with finality. He ruled our household with an iron fist, and needless to say, I avoided him as much as I possibly could, so we simply coexisted in the same space while both of our mouldering resentments kept festering beneath the surface.
I checked the time and saw that I was going to be late, so with a heavy sigh, I clambered out of bed to check my appearance in the mirror before Dad dropped me off at school. I had mistakenly put on a T-shirt that morning, but after running my hand over the fresh razor-blade scars on my wrists, I quickly threw on a hoodie. I had held the belief that it was either him or me stuck in my head since the night of the fire, but I was too cowardly to end his life, so I started harbouring thoughts about taking my own instead. However, true to his perception of me, I was too gutless to finish the job, and all I was left with was faint, jagged lines running up and down my forearms like a five-bar gate, grimly displaying how many failed attempts I had racked up.
“You’re going to be late for school again,” I heard Dad shouting from the kitchen.
I reluctantly jogged down the stairs, grabbed my backpack from the floor, shot past him without even making eye contact, and then went out through the front door. I reached Dad’s car before he did and repeatedly tried the door handle until he unlocked the doors with his key fob. Once opened, I jumped in before he did and turned my entire body towards the window, clearly in a huff, as he started the engine.
“You’re going to fuck this up, just like you usually fuck everything else up,” he sternly commented.
“Drive, then,” I mumbled.
He pulled out of the driveway, and I could see him disdainfully shaking his head in my peripheral vision. I turned to him slightly, and he moistened his lips before opening his mouth.
“You’re an ungrateful little shit, you know that?” he grumbled under his breath.
“Dad, you were the one who was intent on sending me to school in Palo Alto to begin with. If you let me transfer to Hammerdale High, which is only a stone’s throw from home, you wouldn’t have to worry about me being late anymore,” I argumentatively explained.
“We’ve spoken about this. You can’t be mixing with the local kids because you are stupid enough to arouse suspicion, and if you did, we’d be found out within a week.”
“I’m not stupid,” I mumbled.
“Besides, your mother would—”
“Dad,” I interrupted, “do not mention her name.”
“Your mother,” he started determinedly, “would want you to get the best education possible. So that’s what I’m doing.”
“And would she want you associating with that piece of shit, Ernie?”
“You forget that name, boy. You have no idea how much danger you place yourself in by saying it.”
I held my tongue, gritting my teeth together so hard that I thought they might crack under the strain. The darkness I felt the night of the fire simmered away, subconsciously begging me to be let free. I thought about grabbing the wheel, swerving the vehicle into a ditch, or just strangling him until he stopped moving. Nevertheless, I remained silent, turning on the radio and cranking up the volume to drown out my intrusive thoughts as we drove towards school.
As soon as we arrived, I jumped out of the car as if my life depended on it because Dad peeled away before my feet landed on the sidewalk. I noticed that most of the boys in my classes were on the grass to the left of me, tossing a pigskin around, boorishly shouting and slamming into one another like barbarians. To the right, there was a gaggle of schoolgirls, scathingly whispering behind their hands while pointing at me. I ignored them all as I strolled towards the old school building, looking for a bit of space where I could be in peace for a few minutes before the bell rang. I perched on a bench and took out my battered copy of ‘Beyond Good and Evil’ by Nietzsche, turning it to the page where I had left off the day before.
