Beg Me Angel Page 15

  I saw the video after several demanding rants to the detective. And as much as I wanted to see it, it was hard to rationalize.

  Pax had gone into town, he had stopped in a store, I couldn't deny that it was him. It was the same face I had spent nights eating dinner with, the same hands that I had let touch me with an open invitation.

  But the time stamp, that was what crushed me. It was three days after he found me, a single day before I woke up.

  My flier was taped to the counter, directly next to the register. And as he paid for his things, he stared down at my face, he saw me right there in front of him. . .

  And he did nothing.

  He didn't flinch, he didn't ask the cashier about the photo, he didn't say a damn word about having me.

  But I was with him, I had already been with him for days.

  The video sent shivers down my spine. To see him not react to my face, to watch him not care that people were looking for me. . .

  It hurt, it cut me deep. I felt like I had been punched in the gut as the wind was thrown from my lungs and my eyes stung with the tears I didn't have left to shed.

  He knew who I was even before I told him my name. He knew and acted like he didn't.

  I thought he had told me he was going to help me, but that video made me rethink his words and promises.

  Then this letter showed up, taped to my door with the single word 'Angel' written boldly across the center. Now, now I didn't know what the hell to think.

  I was torn between hate and lust, anger and sadness, and this devious form of desire that wanted to work its way into my muscles.

  Even through the words on the paper, I could feel him and his pain. It had bled into the ink, turning the harsh black into crimson.

  Deep down, I didn't want to believe that it was possible, that he had been the one to harm me so badly. But those few seconds on the film, that mere blip on the screen, it made me question everything I thought I knew.

  I'm not ready for this.

  What the hell do I believe?

  Should I believe his written confession of guilt and selfishness or should I believe the undeniable image of him on the video and the detective's call to charge him with the crime?

  Dad, I need you now more than ever.

  What the hell do I do?

  I wanted to hate him for not telling me the truth, I wanted to scream at him for keeping me in his home when he knew my family was looking for me.

  But I couldn't force that kind of hate when my heart beat for him, when my muscles tingled at the thought of his hands and shivers scaled my spine when I remembered they way he looked at me.

  My fingers worked over his, tracing the long strokes and curve of vowels. I followed his path, word for word, feeling what he wrote and not just reading it.

  “Morning, Honey.” My mother's bare feet softly tapped the floor as she came around the corner. “How did you sleep, any better than the past few nights?”

  My first night home was rough, I spent most of it twisting and turning. I could see in her eyes when I told her the next morning that she thought it was from bad dreams, from hidden memories eating me alive while I slept.

  That wasn't why.

  It was everything else. The street was too noisy, the lamps on the sidewalk were too bright. Every car made my ears perk up, each flash of headlights washed over my lids keeping me awake.

  I missed the quiet of the cabin, and the clear sparkling sky lit by bright stars and the glowing moon. I missed the crackle of the fire in the distance and the way it felt when Pax wrapped me up in his big strong arms, holding me tight and keeping me safe.

  I had thought about him every minute of every day since I was torn from him. His face would light up behind my lids when I shut my eyes. I could still feel his hands on my body, his warm breath on the shell of my ear.

  It wasn't going away, it never shut off, it never stopped.

  I'm losing my damn mind. I'm craving my captor over my freedom.

  What is wrong with me?

  Snatching the letter, I stuffed it into my jeans. “Better, I slept better.” I lied, not wanting to worry her anymore than she already was about me. Twisting against the island in the kitchen, I leaned back, crushing the paper in my back pocket.

  “Oh, Lord, I forgot these were here. I don't need them anymore, that's a blessing.” Grabbing the stack of fliers, she dumped them into the recycling bin. “I should have done that days ago, you don't need to see them.”

  “It's fine, they don't bother me.” Crossing my arms, I smiled. “Honestly, anything that might shock my memory is welcomed.”

  Her eyes smiled as her lips raised up. “It'll come back, I'm sure of it. But for now, how do pancakes sound?”

  “Delicious.”

  “Excellent, you want me to make regular big ones or do want those small sand-dollar ones you used to love when you were little?”

  Tilting my head, I let my eyes search the ceiling. “Um, sand-dollar.”

  Giggling, she grinned as she started to pull all the ingredients from the cupboard. “How did I know you would say that?” Rocking her head, she smugly let the corner of her lip lift to her ear.

  “Because you know me.”

  Watching my mom pour the bag of flour into the bowl, she went to the fridge and grabbed a couple of eggs, letting the fridge door close on its own. It felt weird to see that, to get hit with cold air from inside, to see how easy it was for her to just have what she needed right at her fingertips.

  I missed the simplicity of Pax's world. The way it felt to watch him work up a sweat while cutting logs, the feelings that would bubble up in my chest when he would go out and come back with fresh garden vegetables he foraged from the world around us.

  I felt more vulnerable now, more at the mercy of others and what they wanted from me. The phone had been ringing off the hook from reporters wanting to know what happened, the sounds of the television gave me a headache.

  Detective Deacon wanted me to come in and tell him more of my story, more of what happened after I woke up. And I just kept putting it off, telling him I wasn't ready yet.

  Those memories were mine and mine alone. Pax had been my safety, my savior, my only.

  Stop it.

  If he did do this, then that safety was a mask.

  It wasn't real.

  But the feelings I had for him were real, they were as real as me telling this story, as real as reaching your hand out in the rain and feeling the sharp sting of heavy raindrops.

  It hurt to even think that maybe the only feelings I had felt in years, the only hint of lust and throb of love might have been nothing more than a single man playing for an audience of one.

  The whisk sparked against the inside of the metal bowl my mother was holding, each swirl of her hand forced a sharp ping into my ears. “Have you thought about the therapy the doctors want you to do?”

  Therapy. . . Talk to a doctor about what? I didn't feel the need to pour my secrets out to someone I didn't know. I still had no idea what happened, so as far as I knew, there was nothing to mend yet.

  Doctor Calleri, the woman who checked me over at the hospital, tried to make it seem like without therapy I'd never be the same. She was right, I would never be the same, but it wasn't from the memories I couldn't drudge up.

  I felt different because I missed the man I gave my virginity to, I missed the man who had cared for me, who had showed me that you can get so much more from the world around you if you listened to it, read it, worked for it.

  I wasn't ready to have some shrink tell me that I had Stockholm syndrome or that my feelings were wrong. What I felt wasn't forced or scared into my bones, it was real.

  Everyone around me kept expecting me to break down and fill their heads with stories of torture from inside the cabin. But it was nothing like that, and I didn't think anyone would understand.

  When the world was pointing its finger at the man I came to trust and feel for, when they're calling him a monster from sick
rumors some asshole made up; How do I tell them they're wrong?

  Their minds were made up, nothing I could say would change that.

  Twisting the tip of my toe into the ceramic tiles, I followed the grout lines. “Not really, I'm not sure if I'm ready to go. What do I even say? I can't remember anything, so how could they help me work through it?”

  Her hand stopped rotating as she peered over her shoulder. “Honey, sometimes it's just good to talk.”

  “I know.”

  “If you know, then why haven't you told me anything about this man?”

  My heart froze inside my chest as my fingers tingled and the letter burned a hole in my pocket. Should I show her what he sent me? Should I let her read his words to me?

  I didn't want to, I was afraid of what she'd say, of how she might interpret his thoughts. And I wasn't sure I wanted to know the judgment she cast on him. Especially if I still wasn't sure what was real and what was fake.

  “What is there to say?”

  Flipping her eyes up, she let her head roll side to side. “Oh, I don't know. Maybe you can tell me what he was like or what you guys did while you were there.”

  “Mom.” My tone fell flat, coming out low and stern.

  “What?” Shrugging her shoulders, her face lowered back to the bowl. “I'm curious, Vera. You can't fault me for wanting to know. Besides, I can see it in your eyes, Sweetie.”

  Snapping my back straight, I stood up. “See what?”

  “The way your eyes light up when he gets mentioned, the way they burn when his name gets dragged through the dirt by the police, like he's not a man but something closer to an animal.” Her hand moved faster, shrinking from large circles into small whirls. “I was married to your father for twenty years, you think I can't see it?”

  All my nerves surged, the electricity flowing like lightening in a summer thunderstorm. “What do you want me to say, Mom?” I wasn't ready to admit she was right, she was seeing right through me as if my brain was transparent and all my thoughts swirled above my head in giant white bubbles.

  Pursing her lips, she kept whipping the batter. “Tell me—did he hurt you?”

  “Well if the detective's right—”

  Cutting me off, she said, “No, it's not about what the detective thinks, I want to know what you think. After you woke up, did he ever hurt you?”

  Lowering my head, I eyed the floor. “No.”

  “Do you think he's the one who did this?”

  Letting out a heavy breath, I dragged my hands through my hair, pulling it tight against my scalp. “No—I don't know—I don't want to think he did. Maybe that's my problem, maybe that's why it's taking me so long to remember, because I don't want to admit it to myself.”

  Turning on her heels, my mom wiped her hands against her waist, drawing long white streaks of flour across the tops of her thighs. “What do you feel, Vera? Don't think about it and just say it. Do you think he did this to you and Sara?”

  “No.” Forcing my head up, I stared into my mom's eyes. “I don't think he did, and until I can remember, I'm left questioning what I feel.”

  “Sometimes it's all you need to know the truth. Feelings can speak more than any one man's word. I can tell you that if I could go back and change anything, I'd allow myself those feelings, Vera, because you can't get time back, you only lose it.” Grabbing a copper pan off the hanging rack in the center of the ceiling, she flicked on the stove. “Why don't you go grab the plates, set one up for your brother too, he's always starving when he gets up.”

  I stood still for a moment, contemplating where she was going with all of this. My mother never really seemed to be the understanding type, we always used to butt heads.

  But she seemed different, like she was battling her own set of demons. My parents' marriage was rocky at the end, it wasn't picture perfect.

  I always thought that the weight of my Dad's illness sat heavy on her shoulders, that it was too much for her to deal with. She had to take care of it all when he became to too sick to even help himself.

  My mother had to tend to us, her job, the house, and to my father. It was a lot for anyone one person to deal with. They used to argue while he was bed ridden, fighting over things that I didn't think were worth it.

  I was angry at her for taking out so much of her frustration on him. I didn't think he needed it, not when he could barely lift his head and hold down a bowl of broth. I thought she was selfish, focusing only on monetary things; money, bills, pressures at work.

  But thinking about it now, maybe it wasn't that she was selfish. Maybe it was her way of diffusing the pain, of stepping outside her body so she didn't have to feel it and be able to deal with everything at once.

  She had shut down, closing herself off to everyone, even my father. I hated her for a long time for doing that. When he needed her shoulder, she wasn't there, when he needed her ear, she had it blocked.

  Maybe her regret far surpassed mine and her outlook on life had changed, her emotions cleansed. Maybe she was realizing that feelings are what make us human. She had every right to feel the way she did back then, but she never let herself feel happy or loved or even lost.

  If she could see something in my eyes, if she could read what I was feeling from just a look. . .

  Maybe she was trying to help me understand and accept that what I was feeling wasn't wrong, but right. I had every right to feel connected to him because he had done something I could never truly pay back.

  And maybe it was possible that my mom felt the same gratitude. I had been alive, I had been found, I was safe. If he did or didn't do this, either way, I was home now, I was here with her.

  We only had one set of memories to go on, and for me, I had serious doubts that they were accurate. I knew Sara wasn't trying to lie, but I had this gut feeling that she just wasn't right, that her brain latched onto his face for some unknown reason.

  Pax's letter told me he was selfish, he came right out and said he had kept me there for himself. But in a way, I felt like I belonged there. This world had changed, it didn't hold the same nostalgia I expected it to.

  I had come back from the dead to a place where my face was the star of a flier, where my story was one of sadness and happiness all balled up into a massive clump of shit.

  The news was pointing the finger at Pax, the police were pointing the finger at Pax, but my heart. . . It was pointing someplace else.

  Pulling the plates from the cupboard, I closed the door and started towards the table. My feet made soft taps on the tile while my heart beat loud inside my chest, drowning out the world around me.

  A heavy hand gripped my shoulder, nails digging into my skin deep. And then it happened, it all happened so fast, a flash that was captured in one blink.

  “Vera? I said good morning, didn't you hear me?” My brother Chris stood behind me, shaking my shoulder in his hand. “Hello? Earth to Vera.”

  My eyes shot open wide, head slowly turning to his. His lips scrunched up as he cocked a brow, peeling his hand off my shoulder and letting it drop to his side. “Are you alright?”

  My tongue danced across the roof of my mouth, trying to moisten the dryness. I felt my heart racing inside my chest, the weight of the air seemed to thicken like I was breathing water.

  The room became fuzzy, blurring everything behind my brother's face. Opening my mouth, I forced out the words as I swallowed, my voice raspy and dry.

  “I remember. I remember it all.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Vera

  Forgotten Memories

  “Whoo!” Sara leaned her head towards the window, screaming at the top of her lungs. “Here, take a hit.” Holding her hand out to me, a thin trail of sweet smoke floated across my face.

  Shaking my head no, I waved off her joint. “I'm all set, thanks.”

  “Alrighty, more for me.” Placing the tightly rolled paper to her lips, she inhaled a thick breath. Blowing out a heavy plume of white smoke, she turned up the volume on the radi
o.

  “Oh my God! You remember this one?” Her voice rose higher as she sang along with the music. “That thong, thong, thong, thong, thong. Cause she had dumps in the truck, truck, truck—C'mon, Vera, you know the words, sing it!”

  Giggling, I bounced my shoulders as I smirked. The music grew louder as Sara put Sisqo on full blast, the bass vibrating her entire rust-covered, piece of shit Festiva. “Thighs like what, what, what. Baby move your butt, butt, butt!” My voice echoed through the car as we both started laughing uncontrollably.

  “I knew it, I knew you remembered that shit.” Sara pointed at me with a huge grin on her face, our laughs slowly dying as the song came to an end.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, watching the highway lines blur together in one giant strip.

  Shrugging her shoulder, she took another drag off her funny cigarette. “I don't know, nowhere really. I guess you could call it a high ride, well—I can call it a high ride, you're just here for the ride part.”

  “Doesn't matter to me, as long as I'm out of the house, I don't care where we go.”

  “Good, because we ain't going home any time soon.” Pulling off Route Thirty-Seven, Sara popped on her high-beams and took a right.

  We followed the road for what seemed like hours, the smooth pavement changed to rugged, pothole-riddled dirt, the houses thinned as more and more trees crawled in between them.

  The two of us sang and danced, enjoying the night. It felt great, it felt like a weight off my shoulders to be out of the house and not have my face plastered inside textbooks.

  “What was that?” Sara asked, turning down the radio and pushing her face towards the dashboard. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Leaning forward, I tried to listen closely for whatever sound she was picking up, but nothing was standing out to me. “I'm not hearing anything.”

  A loud clunk rang out, the front of the car jerked hard, jumping and bouncing as the engine made a noise that sounded like it was choking to death.

  “There! That!” Turning to look at me, her eyes were huge as her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly. “I don't know—”

  Cutting herself off short, Sara sat up straight as the engine gave one last spurt and a final clunk, before going quiet and coasting on momentum alone.