Torture to Her Soul

  "You want to know who shot me?" I ask, cutting him off. They both look at me, wide-eyed and hopeful, as Jameson clutches his notebook tightly. "Here, let me spell it for you, to make it easier. I want to make sure it doesn't get lost in translation."

  Jameson waves his pen toward me. "I'm ready."

  "It's, uh… F-U-C-K. Last name Y-O-U. You got that? Or do you need me to spell it again?"

  Before the last word even leaves my lips, Jameson closes his notebook and stands up, shoving it back into his pocket. He knows it's pointless. He's getting not a damn thing from me. He motions toward the door, and Andrews heads that way as Jameson lingers, eyeing me peculiarly like he has something more to say.

  Whatever it is, it's a waste of breath, breath he ought to save, because who knows when he might run out of those. He seems to think better of it after a moment and shakes his head, turning away.

  Karissa's head is down, her eyes on the floor as she presses her back against the wall right inside the room, moving out of their way. Andrews walks right by her with little more than a scowl on his face, but Jameson pauses and smiles warmly. "Nice to see you again, Miss Reed."

  "You, too."

  Her voice is low, barely a whispers that cracks around those meager words. Jameson leaves, the uniformed officers trailing behind him, leaving the two of us alone.

  I can't believe she's actually here.

  It's dead silent, except for the noises out in the hallway. Karissa stands there for a moment before her eyes shift that way, like she's thinking of jetting out the door already. My stomach coils at the thought of her leaving, but I force the feeling back as I clear my throat, knowing she won't be the one to break this silence.

  "You're here."

  She doesn't respond right away, her eyes drifting along the scuffed linoleum floor again, before her gaze finally shifts my way. "Why wouldn't I be?"

  Because you hate me.

  Because I killed your father.

  Because your mother's next, and based on that look in your eyes, I think you know it.

  "Because you weren't here when I woke up this morning."

  "Oh." She pushes away from the wall to trudge through the room, plopping down on the black chair that remained vacant all night long without her. She kicks off her flip flops and pulls her filthy feet up, tucking them beneath her as she settles in. "Well, we're not related, and they only let family stay overnight, so…"

  "So they wouldn't let you back here."

  "Yes."

  Anger stirs inside of me. It's one thing for her not to come; it's another thing for them to turn her away. I can't fault her, as much as it stings, but I most certainly will hold it against them. "Did you tell them who you are to me?"

  "No." Her voice is even smaller now. "You were out of it, so it wouldn't have mattered. I just stayed down in the waiting room until they told me you were awake."

  "You stayed there all night?"

  She nods slightly, tinkering with her hands, picking at her nails. My gaze shifts to them, the skin pink and scrubbed raw. I wonder how many times to washed her hands to rid them of my blood. Her engagement ring is visibly absent, a fact that doesn't surprise me. She never even put it back on.

  Maybe it's an act of rebellion.

  A way to assert some control in an out-of-control situation.

  Or maybe she wants nothing to do with ever marrying me.

  I don't ask her about it, though, and she's never brought it up. She sits there silently, attention focused on her lap, before she lets out a sigh. "I thought you were going to die."

  I can't tell how she feels from her hollow voice, so I ask a question I dread. "Are you disappointed I didn't?"

  It's like zero to sixty in a second flat, her head turning, narrowed eyes meeting mine. Tears swim in the corners, threatening to spill over as she glares at me with so much hostility, if I weren't so goddamn injured, I might move away from it. The woman tells me I'm a monster, but there's a little beast in her that she unleashes from time to time.

  I probably shouldn't love it as much as I do.

  "I should be," she says, her voice shaking as she fights to keep those tears from falling. "I should want you dead. God knows you probably deserve it. I should hate you… I do hate you. Some days I wake up and wish you'd disappear, so I'd never have to look at your face again… but then I thought you might. I thought you might actually die. I though you were dying." She pauses, a tear breaking free. She wipes it away with her fingertips as she looks away from me, laughing bitterly under her breath. "I thought I might never see your face again, might never hear your lying voice again, and that hurt more than I expected it to."

  I watch her as she brushes away another tear… and another… before I respond. "I've never lied to you."

  "You keep saying that," she says, her voice an octave higher than just a moment ago, stronger, like maybe admitting she might not like to see me dead lifted a weight off her chest. "And the sad part is, I think you actually believe it."

  "I do," I say. "I've never lied to you."

  "Well maybe that's true in whatever universe you live in, but here in the real world there's such a thing as lying by omission, and it hurts just as bad. You deceived me. You played me. Toyed with me. The whole time we were together I wondered 'why me?' And now I know why. You were manipulating me! So maybe you didn't lie to my face, but you certainly weren't being honest. You weren't being real. You can't smile and act like you love me one second then destroy my world the very next. You can't do that and expect me to still trust you, Naz."

  You can't smile and act like you love me one second then destroy my world the very next. Those words hit me like a punch to the chest. Somebody did that to me once, and I certainly never forgave him for it.

  "I never tried to be somebody I wasn't," I respond. "Maybe I didn't show you all my cards up front, but I never misled you about what game we were playing."

  "It's not supposed to be a game!"

  "That's where you're wrong," I say. "The world is a game, Karissa. There are winners and losers in life, and I did everything in my power—and I'll always do everything in my power—to make sure I never lose. Maybe I have to cheat sometimes, and I don't always play fair, but I can't. Not if I want to survive it. You can hate me for that, but it won't stop me from protecting you. It won't stop me from making sure you win, too."

  "And what if you can't?" She finally meets my eyes again. She's putting it all out in front of me, her heart on her sleeve, airing her grievances instead of bottling them in. "What if we both can't win?"

  "I've already told you what happens then."

  "What?"

  "I give you the plank, Karissa."

  It takes a moment for her to understand. The Plank of Carneades. If only one of us could survive, who would it be? Some people believe murder is justified when it's vital to save yourself. And while I'm not one to frown upon stealing another life, there are certain people I could never bring myself to take from this world.

  Certain people like her.

  Just her.

  Because a world without her in it, I'm not sure is a world worth living in anyway. I've lived a life of darkness already, years where the sun didn't shine on me, and now that I've seen daylight again, I don't think I could ever turn my back to it.

  She stares at me, not bothering to brush away a stray tear when it breaks free. It falls from her chin into her lap as she shakes her head, like she can't believe what I'm telling her.

  She doesn't respond, doesn't press the issue, as she shifts around in the chair and lays her head against the arm of it, using the hard surface as a makeshift pillow. Silence smothers the room for a few minutes, neither of us speaking or even moving. My eyes are glued to Karissa as hers slowly drift closed.

  Hours pass, each tick of the clock agonizing. I'm stiff and tired, annoyed and in pain, wanting to be anywhere but in this goddamn bed.

  People leave me alone, stepping into the doorway and glancing in, but moving on without address
ing me. It's late afternoon when Karissa reawakens, stretching and yawning, clearly uncomfortable sleeping in that chair.

  She should be at home.

  We should both be at home.

  "You don't happen to know where the clothes I came here in are, do you?"

  Karissa's attention shifts my way. "They were ruined."

  "And you didn't bring me any extra?"

  "No," she says. "Why?"

  "Because I'd like to get the hell out of this place."

  "You want to leave? Already?"

  "I shouldn't have even come here."

  "You were hurt," she says incredulously, sitting up straighter. "Like, seriously hurt. This is exactly where you need to be."

  "There's nothing they can do for me," I say. "I'm not going to eat their food or take their drugs, not going to sleep in this bed with people I don't know lurking around. The only thing that can help me at this point is rest, and I'm not going to get that here."

  "But—"

  "Look, I'll walk out of here like this if it comes down to it," I say, motioning toward myself, "but I'd rather not have to."

  She looks at me with disbelief. "Like that?"

  "Yes."

  "Wearing that gown?"

  "Yes."

  Her expression cracks with a small smile, one she quickly wards off, but she isn't fast enough. I caught it, and that smile is all I need to lessen some of the pressure in my chest.

  Shaking her head, she stretches her legs out in front of her before standing up. "Let me see what I can do."

  She strolls out, leaving me in the room by myself. Once alone again, I grit my teeth and force myself to a sit, shifting my body so my legs hang off the side of the bed. I lightly grasp the bandage on my side, breathing deeply, steadily, to try to ward off the pain.

  I expect her to be gone for a while, and I have to piss like a son of a bitch, so I force myself up, gripping ahold of the bed as I steady myself on my feet.

  My vision blurs and my body burns as I shuffle across the room toward the small, adjoining bathroom, shutting myself inside.

  I struggle to relieve myself, one hand gripping the sink, the other only vaguely aiming as I piss all over the toilet seat. I wash my hands before shuffling back away, startled by the sound of the voice as soon as I step into the room.

  "Whoa," Karissa says, standing just inside the doorway. "You're up."

  "You're back."

  "I am," she says, stepping around me. Her face flushes, that smile touching her lips again. "Here, found these."

  She hands me a ball of dark blue clothing—a pair of medical scrubs. "You get these from a doctor?"

  "Got them from someone," she says. "Found them in the staff locker room on the first floor."

  "You stole them?"

  "Borrowed them."

  Shaking my head, I eye them peculiarly. They're clean and look damn near a perfect fit. Making my way over to the bed, I grip on to the frame to steady myself as I pull off the gown, letting it drop to the floor.

  Karissa gasps, shielding her face. "You're going to do that right here?"

  I let out a small chuckle, the laughter only fueling the pain more. "Yeah, well, it's nothing you haven't seen before."

  "Maybe so, but the whole world can see it right now."

  "I'm not ashamed," I say, sitting on the edge of the bed to try to put on the pants, but it's damn near impossible. I can't bend over to pull them up my fucking legs. My eyes water from agony as I struggle in silence for a moment before Karissa grabs a hold of them, wordlessly helping to put them on.

  I take over once they're within my reach, covering up, and grab her arm when she tries to move away. Her face is bright red, bashful, and she avoids looking me in the eyes when I pull her my way.

  "Don't be embarrassed," I say. "I'm certainly not. Besides, I seem to remember you taking your clothes off last night."

  "You were bleeding. I had to use something."

  "You keep telling yourself that," I say, letting go of her. "I always knew there was a little bit of an exhibitionist in you."

  She rolls her eyes, but she doesn't deny it.

  The shirt is much easier to pull on than the pants. After I'm dressed, I survey myself, satisfied I'm no longer indecent. "Thanks for swiping the clothes for me."

  "I borrowed them," she stresses again.

  "Whatever you want to call it, jailbird," I say, glancing at her and raising an eyebrow. "You ready to get out of here?"

  She doesn't answer right away, as if contemplating my question, but eventually offers a shrug as if to say, 'what the hell, let's go.' I follow her out of the room and into the busy hallway. I'm moving as slow as a tortoise, each step painful but I force myself to keep going, my bare feet slapping against the filthy fucking floor.

  "How'd we get here, anyway?" I ask as we head toward the elevators.

  "Ambulance."

  "Do you have any money on you?"

  "Uh, no, I don't think so."

  I sigh as we pause in front of the elevator. "We're going to need to find a way home."

  As soon as I say it, I glance up, my footsteps faltering when I see Ray standing at the nurse's station. Just as I spot him, the nurse on duty points my direction. Ray turns, eyeing me right away.

  Karissa stalls beside me, stepping closer to my side as he approaches. I put my arm around her, instinctively, protectively, but more so to lean on her.

  I'm unsteady on my feet.

  Ray momentarily ignores her presence when he stops in front of us, focused fully on me. His eyes study me, picking me apart, like he's looking for weaknesses. "Leaving already, Vitale?"

  "Yes," I say. "What are you doing here?"

  "Just came to check in on you," he says. "You sped away last night, wasn't sure what happened, but I heard you'd been shot."

  "Just a flesh wound," I say. "I've had worse."

  "That you have," he says, nodding. "Well, come on, let me give you a ride home."

  I start to argue, but I don't have a leg to stand on. What can I say? We have no other way to get anywhere. I stagger onto the elevator as Karissa stays at my side, the three of us heading to an awaiting limo, the driver still waiting behind the wheel.

  It's strained, the whole way to Brooklyn, as I sit in the back of the extravagant vehicle beside Karissa, right across from Ray. Nobody speaks. Nobody knows what to say. My mind is a jumble of thoughts, my body in agony, my chest heavy from the implications.

  When we pull up in front of my house, Ray clears his throat. "Can I have a moment of your time, Vitale?"

  Hesitating, I relax back in the seat, motioning for Karissa to go ahead inside. She leaves, closing the door behind her, and we sit in silence for a moment. I stare out the window, my eyes drifting to my car in the driveway, the side of it ravished by bullet holes.

  Ray looks apprehensive, his eyes shifting from me to my car in the driveway. "Who did this?"

  A lie is on the tip of my tongue. I try to swallow it back, but it springs free. "I don't know."

  I've never lied to Ray before.

  "You don't know?"

  "No," I say. "They blindsided me, stole my wallet and my keys, then panicked and shot me."

  "And you don't know who it was?"

  "No," I say. "I don't."

  His eyes meet mine again, guarded, as he seems to consider all of it. He doesn't believe me, I see it in his eyes, but he, too, knows I've never lied to him. He doesn't want to think things have changed between us. I don't want to think it, either, but I feel it.

  I feel the shift before he even addresses it.

  "You're getting soft, Vitale. You let someone shoot you. You let them rob you and get away with it."

  "Just because they got away last night doesn't mean they'll get away with it," I say. "I always get my revenge."

  "Revenge," Ray echoes, letting out a dry laugh. "I'm starting to think we have different definitions of that. I thought revenge meant payback, justice, an eye for an eye… a family for a family… n
ot taking the easy way out."

  Easy. I shake my head. "That's where we differ, Ray. You seem to think what I did was easy for me, that letting go of a plan I spent almost two decades plotting was easy, but you're wrong, because there was nothing easy about it. I still feel like I failed, like I didn't get any justice for Maria."

  "You didn't," he says, matter-of-fact, those words piercing me like a knife to the chest. "You pissed on my daughter's memory by letting Carmela live."

  "Yeah, well, that's only temporary."

  After last night, there's no way around it.

  I can't let Carmela continue to walk the streets after what she just did. I tried to give her a pass, a chance to flee for Karissa's sake, but it's too late now.

  She made a grave mistake.

  "And their kid?" Ray asks, turning to look at me. I don't look his way, but from the corner of my eye I can see his serious expression. "Karissa?"

  "What about her?"

  "You're just going to let her live," he says. "You let her go on breathing, living in that house that should've been my daughter's, sleeping in your bed, sleeping with you, giving her the life my daughter should've had, the life my daughter could've had, would've had, and you're going to fucking give it to her? Her?"

  Every word from his lips stabs at me, eating away at my insides like festering poison, tearing me apart one syllable at a time. He's not saying anything I haven't thought myself more than once, the sense of betrayal already existing inside of me, but the accusatory tone in which he spews it only stirs it up more.

  I feel like I'm going to pass out.

  "The daughter of my daughter's murderer," he mutters. "That's who you chose, who you let replace her."

  "Nobody will ever replace her," I say, having to force the words out through the swell of emotion in my chest. "I'm not trying to replace anyone, but I can't help how I feel about Karissa."

  "Guess we disagree there, too," Ray says. "You could've helped it. You could've avoiding all of this by slitting that bitch's throat like you were supposed to. Isn't that what you said, Vitale? Make her choke on the filthy blood that created her."

  I damn near flinch when he says it, the anger in his voice an echo of mine the first time I said those exact words. It was only months ago, weeks that somehow turned me into someone I don't know. I get Ray's confusion. How can he understand what I'm still coming to terms with? For damn near twenty years I dreamed of bleeding every single one of them dry, and now that it's within my reach, I hesitate.