My phone buzzes with a message, but it’s not one from either of them and I’m far too interested in this development.
Their argument is unfortunate. Not because I wish them pleasantness, or because either of the two are making a better case than the other. It’s unfortunate simply because the raised voices and harsh tones are so very reminiscent of a lovers’ quarrel.
Memories swirl and I lean back against the roof tiles. With the moon setting just beneath the tree line, it’s dark enough that no shadows can survive. They’ll never see me, but I can see them just fine.
And with the monitor in my hand, I can hear them just as clearly.
The tears that streak down Delilah’s face remind me of the first time I went to the hospital that carries so much weight on my conscience this morning.
It was that little girl, with the same tears, who changed my decision. She was there and I didn’t expect it. Had the events been different, and her father been the only one brought in with the unconscious woman losing her breath, I’d have told them all. I would have relied on what a former version of me was told to do, before this new one was conceived.
I could have spent hours mourning over every vision and letting it all spill out, but I kept it all in, swallowed it down and watched her being held in the arms of a monster. And she clung to him. Her head was tucked so carefully under his chin while the woman was whisked away on a gurney.
I remember standing there, thinking this very thought: this is where people are born. The stark white walls and the yells of nurses blurred with the wide eyes of a little girl who was scared. I wonder if she would remember. I doubt she does. I remember it all, though.
The thing about that unit is that most of the people I surrounded myself with were born there. I wasn’t. I was so far gone from my hometown because I ran north when I should have run south. I know that now, but back then I didn’t. I wasn’t born in my hometown either, though.
I was birthed in that barn.
With the stench of pigs, and old dirt that felt like clay. The child who ran away, somehow escaping certain death, thought that structure would be a place to heal. But that’s all he was, a child who should have died. A child who deserved to die for what he’d done.
So I let him. I let that boy suffer, I forced him to watch and accept what he allowed to happen. I didn’t tell anyone what had really occurred and I knew that woman would die.
But the monster was comforting his little girl. How I could I, of all people, take someone’s parent away?
The biggest difference between my birth and so many others, is that they came into this world innocent, being held dearly, if screaming wildly. Well … most of them. The lucky ones.
I became the person I am when I was seeking shelter in that barn from monsters and watching a man who I knew nothing about commit unspeakable acts of horror that haunted every night of that sanctuary.
I suppose it doesn’t matter where or how you’re born, though … much less so than where and how you die.
“I’m leaving, Cody.” Delilah’s voice is raised and it wavers at the end of her statement. The pain she’s feeling is etched into his name. Let her go. She doesn’t need a damn soul comforting her. Least of all his.
“How can you protect me better than anyone else if there’s nothing you know that I don’t?” the lawyer in her whips at him and a slow grin crawls into place on my face. She knows he knows, and she can’t let it go. That knowledge brings me more peace than it should as I breathe in the crisp fall air.
“Please,” he says, pleading with her and his tone is genuinely desperate. I catch the small details of her expression shift. The thin creases around her downturned lips and the way her gaze softens.
Holding my breath, I watch him touch her as if she belongs to him. As if he can hold her and comfort her and make everything all right.
That’s not the way it works. He can’t make it better. What’s worse is that he knows he can’t.
She’s a strong woman, but not strong enough. That’s obvious from the way she says his name, like it’s the only word she knows.
We all know better. As he leans in and kisses her, her arms wrapping around his shoulders, all I can think is that we all know better.
My phone buzzes again and his messages can’t wait any longer. I could stay here and listen to her sweet moans all night ... but then he’d be the one kissing her.
Personal conflicts aside, I’ll have to leave this ending to be a surprise.
If people knew the story of how I grew up, they would feel so badly for me. Most of them would. If, however, I started that tale with the barn … a sarcastic huff leaves me as I picture women securing their arms around their children and slowly backing away.
The metal stairs to the fire escape creak and groan as I climb down until my boots hit the pavement.
The streetlights shine down on me and that’s just fine. With the jacket that’s tight across my shoulders sporting an electric company logo and the nondescript black bag in my hand, I’m merely out on the job. Fixing a broken cable box or whatever the hell will do the trick to get bystanders feeling comfortable.
I went from being a boy abducted from his shitty hometown with crime rates that rivaled the most dangerous cities, to becoming an onlooker in a sleepy suburb, hiding in an abandoned barn while I observed the most heinous of crimes. I spent my days watching a man who defended both the innocent and guilty for a living, a man everyone seemed to look up to.
It wasn’t often he came to the barn with his victims. But my birth was a long one and I learned who I was, what I wanted, and more importantly, how and why I should kill.
I was the lucky one who escaped one hell, only to be birthed into another.
Delilah
It’s far too quiet in this apartment now that I’m alone. It’s late and the residents above me, the Whitmores, must have gone to bed early or left for vacation. I haven’t heard a thing through the floorboards. It would offer me peace any other time to know the obnoxious pacing and thuds of heavy footsteps are silenced for whatever reason, but not tonight.
I can’t help but to focus on the fact that last time I showered here, Marcus brought roses to my kitchen. He broke in and not a soul knew while I was in this very bathroom. I check my bedroom the moment I step out of the shower, wrapped in nothing but a towel, although I hold on to my gun with a tight grip. The lightweight Beretta hasn’t left my side since I’ve come home.
I take careful steps into every room and I truly wish there were some sign of someone else, even if it’s only Mrs. and Mr. Whitmore arguing over the television channel and what to watch next.
No one’s here. Not a sound can be heard except for my own nervous heartbeat. My apartment is empty, the security system up and running. A click on the keypad to my laptop, open on my kitchen counter, would show any movement at all surrounding the apartment. Of course I see various people coming and going, mostly neighbors and their friends flowing through the locked front door as they’re buzzed in.
With the pads of my feet still damp, I vacate the empty kitchen. The perfectly cleaned island counter, lacking anything at all on it, stays in my mind.
Back in the bedroom, I recheck all the windows. It’s the back bedroom window that I’m certain Marcus came in through before. I don’t have any proof but it would only make sense. It backs up to brush, so it’d be difficult, but it’s quiet along that street with hardly anyone there to witness a break-in.