The Girl in 6E

“You got one for her?”

“Yep; a small package not even worth mentioning. Why don’t you let Mark take it, or I’ll put it on your run for tomorrow.”

“No. I’ve told you before—I’ll handle it.”

The man’s voice lowered. “You know how much trouble we could all get in if corporate knew you were running these packages off the clock?”

“I know, I know. I owe you.”

“You’ve been owing me for three years. Enjoy your day off and deliver the thing tomorrow. I’ll blame the delay on Atlanta if anyone asks.”

Jeremy shook his head. “No. It’s close to the first of the month—she’ll want that package. I’ll be by there around eleven to pick it up.”

The man laughed. “Whatever, Jeremy. I’ll see you then.”

Jeremy rode the elevator up, looking at the soft package in his hand. He shook it, hearing the familiar rattle of pills. This was an old game, one he had tired of early on. It was a game that, despite his irritation, she seemed to find necessary.

When he exited the elevator, the redheaded kid was already there, sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall. His eyes lit at Jeremy’s arrival, and he shot to his feet, fidgeting nervously. “Hey man.” He held his hand out for the package in Jeremy’s hand.

Jeremy shook his head, and knocked on the door, meeting the kid’s irritated face with a calm stare.

“Come on, man—she always says yes.”

Her voice was at the door. “It’s okay. Give it to him.”

Jeremy held out the package, and the kid snatched it, ripping open the package and walking away, muttering to himself excitedly. Jeremy looked to the dead peephole, wanting to say something, anything, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. He scrawled her signature and walked away. Nothing was normal with this chick.

He stepped off the elevator and strode out to his truck, the sun warm on his face. He checked his watch and grinned as he pulled out. With that errand done, the day was officially his, and he pulled out his cell phone as he merged into traffic.

An hour later, he jogged onto the field, fresh-cut grass underfoot, the afternoon sun warm on his chest. Bending over, he tightened his cleats, then stood and flashed the athletic group before him a grin. “Sorry guys, got here as soon as I could.”

“No problem—you can just cover beers when we win,” one man said, tossing a soccer ball his way. “Let’s go kick some ass.”

The game, against a difficult opponent, stretched late, the field lights flickering on and illuminating the play as it stretched out—a tie game that neither side would back away from. And finally, it happened, a perfect shot by Jeremy toward a small window of opportunity. The ball finally stopped, its forward momentum captured and restrained. And the game was over, won by the proper victor.

CHAPTER 23

I stand under the weak spray of the cheap shower and try to wash away my day. For at least the twentieth time, I contemplate moving out of this shithole. When I decided to sequester myself, I was unsure of my financial position. I had $649.00 in my checking account and no clear source of income. This apartment had been cheap with no deposit required. Now, with a bank account balance comfortably in the seven-figure range, it is ridiculous that I live in a place with occasional hot water. But moving seems an insurmountable task. And I chalk it up to a penance of sorts. I killed, so I am punished.

My last cammer of the day, RalphMA35, had been the typical ‘young experience’ client. I should be used to it, brush it off, and move on. Maybe it’s because he had been the last of the night, but for some reason, I can’t let the session go. I can’t forget the hoarseness of his voice, the need I heard through the speakers, or the hungry emphasis on the name he called me. Annie. It had been my third chat with Ralph, and the second time he used that name. It isn’t often that clients use a specific name. It isn’t often that I take the place of a specific person. When he uttered her name, spoke that sweet name in a tone that was anything but—it ripped my heart out—grabbed it, squeezed it, then yanked it out, leaving devastation in its wake.

I turn off the spray, grab the towel off the hook and rub down my wet skin. I flip off the light and walk naked through the loft ‘til I reach the edge of my mattress. I start to reach for the blanket to pull back the sheets and crawl in. But I stop. I stop and think—a foreign and complex push and pull of emotions battling inside of me. Then I kneel: a movement both familiar and foreign. Years of tradition pushing against years of neglect. I clasp my hands and lean on the coverlet, inhaling deeply and try to figure out what the f**k I am doing. Then, I pray.

My prayer is short and focused. I pray for peace from my demons, that the urge to hurt others will leave my unworthy body. And I pray that, if there is a little girl out there, a little Annie, I pray that God will keep her the f**k away from the man named Ralph.

The police reports compare my childhood kitchen to a pig slaughterhouse. They say that blood was spattered from ceiling to floor and bodily fluids stained furniture, tile, and clothing. Forensics and CSI figured out that she took my father’s life first—a shotgun her weapon of choice—then turned the gun on Summer and Trent, using knives after the gun, to further destroy their bodies. They say my mother was decisive—that there seemed to be no hesitation in her mayhem. The only thing she wasn’t strong about was taking her own life. They say those stab wounds were shallow, hesitant, and only one was deep enough to be fatal. What if seems to be the unspoken phrase, throughout the reports. What if she hadn’t killed herself? What would she have done next? Would she have left the house? Harmed someone else?