Beautiful Victim Read online

  I’d listen to him touch himself, coming into his own hand while he cried out “mom,” and then I would try to ignore the arguments coming from all the other rooms. Our room was always quiet. We were a good team—until we weren’t, of course.

  Kind of like Carrie and I, really.

  Eventually, Carrie really does fall asleep. I know she is because her erratic breathing steadies out and her face goes slack. And then I try to sleep too. Because I really am exhausted. It’s been a crazy and exciting day, and that will take it out of anyone. But I find I can’t sleep. Knowing that she’s there, so close that I could touch her—it keeps me awake. Because I’ve waited so long for this moment, and now it’s here.

  I open my eyes every once in a while to make sure that this isn’t just one big dream, and sure enough, every time I open my eyes, she’s still there. I take out her phone and I look through the pictures of her naked body, and I start to grow hard in my pants again so I turn it off and put it in my pocket.

  It’s no good, I decide, and I stand up and go to the kitchen. I go quietly, because I don’t want to wake her up. She deserves her sleep. I get that. I look through her cupboards again, because I’m really hungry now, and I give in and open the tomato soup, but when it’s cooked I can’t actually bring myself to eat it, so I tip it away. And then I wash the pan, and then I clean the rest of her pots and dishes, because her kitchen really is disgusting.

  You need to take better care of yourself, Carrie.

  And then I remember that I’m here now, so she doesn’t need to worry about that, because I can take care of her from now on. I smile and I take a deep breath, the smell of bleach reaching my nostrils and making me feel even better and more clear-headed. I’m tired but not sleepy now. And I honestly, truly, can’t wait until tomorrow when she wakes up because then we can start planning our life together.

  I can tell her all the ideas I have for us.

  All the plans.

  Plans that had all been make believe up until yesterday, but are now going to be our reality. A house, some kids, and our dog called Shep.

  I can show her my apartment. It’s in a shitty neighborhood but it’s much cleaner than this place. And I’ll tell her she’ll have to get a new phone and come and live with me because I don’t want Adam trying to contact her. And I wonder what she does for a living now?

  I wonder if she ever grew up and became the painter that she hoped to be.

  Is it wrong that I kinda hope so but I also hope not? It probably is, and that makes me bad. But I’d like to be there to help her achieve that dream. I’ve missed so much of her life, and I don’t want to miss any more.

  I won’t miss any more, I think with a smile. That’s it now, me and you kid, me and you against the world.

  Chapter twenty-one:

  I clean her dishes and I organize her cupboards. I even put a load of dirty laundry into the machine and turn it on. And I wonder if this is what it will always be like. If she will sleep in on Saturdays, and I will clean the house. She will have been up all night breastfeeding our baby, so I can’t blame her for needing the extra sleep. And I won’t be jealous of the attention she pays the baby, because she’s doing it for us.

  And then I will wake her with a coffee and a croissant. But not from the bakery near me, because the woman behind the counter is an asshole. I’ll find somewhere new, and somewhere better. In fact, we won’t even live near there anymore. We’ll live in a nice neighborhood. But not somewhere stuck-up like this place.

  I look around at the mismatched furniture and the badly decorated rooms and I shake my head, wondering how I will put it to her that she isn’t allowed to choose our décor. I don’t want to upset her, of course, but this is really bad. In fact, the more I look, the more I wonder if this place is really hers. She wanted to be an artist—a painter, to be more specific. Surely she should have better knowledge of color coordination and such.

  I shake my head because none of this makes any sense. And I don’t like it when things don’t make sense.

  I look in on Carrie and see that she’s still asleep. She’s barely moved all night, and the swelling on her face is even worse now. Between the swelling on her cheek and the swelling on her forehead, her right eye is being squished up so that it is almost closed. She should probably go to the emergency room, but then there would be questions and I don’t want her to be worried or frightened.

  So no, I’ll keep her here and I’ll look after her. I know basic first aid anyway. I learned that in one of the books I read when I was in the hospital. It was one of the courses I did. I failed the course, because I didn’t like the sight of blood, but I still remember what they said. I have a very good memory for what people say.

  I head upstairs and decide to take a shower. I feel dirty, my skin feels sticky—sweaty, almost—and I want to be at my best when Carrie wakes up. I strip out of my clothes and put a second load of washing in her machine, and I put in some more of her things. I use her soap powder, and I smell it and I feel at home with her dirty laundry and her smells, and then I turn the machine on.

  I watch for several seconds in silence as our clothes twist and mingle together.

  Her reds with my blues.

  My blacks with her whites.

  It’s beautiful and chaotic and glorious.

  We are one and we are not.

  It’s all just so fucking perfect.

  I make myself another black coffee and head upstairs. I’m naked walking around her house and it’s great because I don’t feel self-conscious at all. I have a good body, I know that. I exercise and I eat well. I am lean and muscled, but not too muscled. I have a tight waist and a flat stomach. My ass is hard and tight and I know that Carrie will appreciate my body when she sees it. Which makes it even more important that I clean now.

  If she wants to have sex when she wakes up, I at least want that to be perfect since my entrance back into her life wasn’t.

  I turn the water on, and I make it nice and hot like I like it. I climb in her tub and I pull the curtain around it, and then I stand under the water and feel my worries washing away, swirling down the drain along with my sweat. She has lots of things in her bathroom, so many creams and body washes, hair products and deodorants. It’s a little overwhelming, if I’m honest. I use her shampoo and her body wash. I use her sponge and her cloth, and when I turn the shower off, I use her towel to wrap around my body.

  My teeth feel dirty but I don’t have my toothbrush with me. I stare at hers for a long time. I don’t like the idea of using hers; I think of all the germs inside a person’s mouth, all of the bacteria that lives in there, and it makes me gag. But then I think about how close I’ll feel to her by using her toothbrush. And really, is it much different from kissing her? Not really.

  And so because I know she won’t mind because she doesn’t have the same afflictions and phobias as me, I use her toothbrush. And I feel so much better afterwards. I keep the towel around my waist and go into her bedroom, and I look through her clothes.

  I’m surprised by how many “sexy outfits” she has. She has sex toys too. It all makes me frown and feel a little bit sick. I think about Adam, and I wonder if he bought them all for her. If he used this pink vibrator on her. He’s a bastard, and she’s a filthy whore when she’s near him. I grab the trash can in the corner of the room and I pull out all the filthy underwear and the sex toys and I pile them all into the trash.

  She’s not his whore anymore.

  I feel better when I’ve cleaned away those items, and then I strip her bed and I pile the dirty sheets into the laundry basket but I can’t make it up again because she only seems to have one set of bedsheets. So I straighten the cover and the pillows up, and as soon as the machine finishes I’ll put in the bedding. And I can’t wait to see her face.

  Then I take another shower to wash myself again because I feel dirty after touching her dirty things.

  This house isn’t so bad after all, I think as I look around it. Once it’s clean
ed and organized. Once it’s redecorated and I move my things in, maybe it could actually be okay.

  I look out the bedroom window and take in the view. The window looks out over the back yard and no other houses overlook it; that’s how upmarket this area is. I can see patio furniture in the next yard, and I wonder, if we lived here, would we have barbecues with our neighbors. Would they laugh about all the years Carrie lived here and they never got to know her.

  They’ll probably say that they never made the effort because her boyfriend looked like a fancy asshole, but they like me because I’m more down to earth. I’m more handsome. More put together. And who needs money and a fancy suit when you’re a good guy like me.

  I’ll laugh the compliment off and Carrie will just smile. And later that night, as she’s riding me, grinding down on my dick like her life depends on it, she’ll tell me how lucky she is that I found her. And that I really am the best thing that ever happened to her. I’ll just kiss her and tell her I love her. And we were always meant to be.

  And she won’t think about Adam as she orgasms on top of me. Instead she’ll lean down and press her mouth to mine and she’ll say she’s sorry for leaving all those years ago. She was just messed up, and things got out of control.

  She’ll say that she’s never going to leave me ever again.

  Chapter twenty-two:

  I pull our clothes out of the washing machine and put them into the dryer. I throw in a scented dryer sheet, and I think it’s strange that she doesn’t clean anything, yet she has dryer sheets.

  I think it’s strange how she has lots of bathroom products, but her dishes are never done.

  I think it’s strange that she has so many sex toys and filthy whore underwear, but not a single picture on her wall of herself or her friends or even of Mr. Fancy Asshole Adam.

  Carrie is turning out to be one big mystery to me, and I wonder how much of her I really know. How much could one person change in twenty years? I like to think that I’m still the same person I was back then. Though older and smarter, of course. And definitely more handsome. But my heart is still the same.

  I still love her, and I still want to look after her. I made a promise, after all. And though some people would have turned their back on that promise, I haven’t.

  I’m a good guy.

  That’s what one of the male nurses used to say. ‘You’re a good guy, Ethan.’

  And I would smile, because yes, I really was a good guy. This was all a misunderstanding.

  I look back in on Carrie and I smile, because I know she’s awake now but she’s pretending not to be. She’s pretending to be asleep, and it’s cute. She used to do this years ago when she would fall asleep on my bed after we’d made love. She’d pretend to sleep because she didn’t want to go home. Because I made her feel safe. And it’s cute that she remembers that and is doing it again now.

  I make her feel safe, I realize. And I feel so good.

  I’m still wearing just a towel wrapped around my waist. I close the door behind me and when she thinks I’m not there she starts to fidget again. I creep right up to her without her knowing, and I’m dying to laugh, but I hold it in. I don’t know what she’s doing, but I decide to surprise her. So I wait in silence for several seconds, and when I can’t hold my laughter in anymore, I shout,

  “Boo!”

  She screams and starts to cry, and I rush to her side.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Carrie. I didn’t mean to scare you so much!” I brush her hair back from her face, and I wince because I see she has two black eyes and a big purple bruise along her cheekbone. The cut on her head is almost black.

  “Oh, baby,” I say, and I kiss the bruise carefully, realizing that I hadn’t scared her at all, but that she was in pain. “I’ll go get you some ice. Wait right here.”

  I stand and I go to the kitchen and I look in her freezer. The cold dances against my bare chest. And Jesus, Carrie! I think. The freezer is so full of ice that it’s all white. She’s clearly never thawed it out before, proving to me how lazy she has gotten over the years. She has almost no food in it either. Just some frozen burgers and a bottle of vodka. It reminds me of the vodka her mom used to drink. The vodka that then Carrie used to drink.

  I think of the time she turned up drunk on my doorstep.

  She called my name as she rang the bell.

  “Ethaaaaaaaan.” Ding ding ding ding ding…

  Me and Dad were doing a jigsaw of a train on the kitchen table. He loved trains. He said they were dangerous and wild, and he liked that about them. How they seemed so unassuming but really they were a deadly threat to everything and everyone that came near them. I couldn’t see that at first, but then he explained all about trains and how they worked, and I was floored because of course he was right. Trains seemed boring and unassuming but they were really dangerous.

  Carrie continued to ring the doorbell over and over and over. I asked Dad if I could go answer it, and he said no, because Mom didn’t want me hanging around her anymore. And he didn’t either. He said she was trouble. That their whole family was trouble. And we all needed to stay away from them.

  I didn’t want to make jigsaws with my dad then. It seemed so unfair. Carrie hadn’t done anything wrong. It was her dad that was the problem, not her. And now my dad was contributing to the problem. So, so unfair.

  And I told him that too.

  “Ethannnnn!” Ding ding ding ding ding…

  Dad got tired of her ringing the bell and he said he would deal with her. He stood up and stormed out of the kitchen. The doorbell stopped ringing, and when I looked around, Carrie was at the back door and she was letting herself in.

  “You can’t be here,” I said. And God how I hated to say that to her.

  She had one of her mom’s bottles of vodka in her hand, and she was swaying. And I warned her that my dad would be pissed if he saw her here. She laughed, and then she smiled, and I didn’t like her smile.

  “He’s here?” she asked. “Your dad.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Where’s your mom?”

  “At the store, I think.”

  She smiled just as my dad came back into the kitchen.

  “She’s gone—” he started to say, but then he saw her standing there in our kitchen. His beard twitched and he ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair.

  He walked toward her, and he looked angry. A type of angry I hadn’t ever seen on him before.

  “Get out, now!” he yelled in her face.

  I didn’t like him speaking to her like that, and I wanted to say something but I was so shocked. I always wanted to be like my dad when I grew up. He was polite and courteous. He used manners. But that man was nowhere to be seen right then.

  He grabbed her arm tightly. She pulled away from him, almost dropping the vodka as she fell against the countertop.

  “I said, get out!”

  “Make me,” Carrie dared with a laugh.

  I didn’t like drunk Carrie. She was cruel and hard. I didn’t like that she made my dad so angry either. I rarely saw my dad lose his temper. But most of all, I didn’t like that she wasn’t scared by my dad. She should have been, though, because he looked really scary right then, and though I wouldn’t ever tell her so, I was scared too.

  He turned to me with a face I didn’t know. “Go to your room, Ethan. Your mom didn’t want you having anything to do with Carrie. We don’t want you to get in trouble, do we?”

  I stood there, silent, confused, and unsure on what to do. My dad got impatient and he took my arm and led me away, and he said,

  “She’s a little tart, Ethan. You can do better than her.”

  I didn’t know what a tart was, and I had never heard my dad say anything like that before, but when I looked over his shoulder I saw the hurt on Carrie’s face. So I ran back to her and I threw my arms around her.

  “I miss you,” I said, my face nestled into her neck.

  “I miss you too,” she said.


  “Get out, Ethan,” my dad said. “Get out and go to your room, now!”

  And then I left the kitchen and I went upstairs like I was told, and I thought about how it sucked to be such a good boy sometimes.

  I heard them talking some more, but quieter this time. Just mumbles, really. And then I heard Carrie crying loudly. I wanted to go to her, but I didn’t want to upset Mom or Dad. So I stayed upstairs, listening to the noises from the kitchen and wondering why I was such a coward.

  Chapter twenty-three:

  “Here you go,” I say as I press the ice to her cheek. I wrapped the ice in the only dish towel I found in the kitchen.

  Carrie winces and I say I’m sorry because I honestly don’t want to hurt her, but the bruise is getting worse and I need to do something to help.

  “I can’t feel my arm,” she says, her voice still hoarse. “It hurts, Ethan. Can you help me?”

  “Of course,” I say. “That’s what I’m trying to do now.” And I smile.

  “I think I need to go to the hospital,” she says.

  I ignore her comment and continue to press the ice to her cheek.

  “Ethan, I need to go to the hospital. I think my arm’s broken.”

  “It’s not,” I say.

  “I really think it is.” Her eyes are pleading when I look at her. When our eyes connect. Her face is a mess. It makes me feel bad. I’m not bad, but I feel bad. “Please,” she says.

  “No, I’ll untie your arms. We probably just need to get the circulation moving,” I say, feeling annoyed that she’s pressing the issue.

  I can tell that her arm isn’t broken, so I know she’s just trying to trick me, though I don’t know why she’d want to do that. I don’t want to hurt her. I just want to keep her safe; she knows this. That’s all I ever wanted to do. Or at least she should know this.