Page 92 of Ramsay

Earlier, I stopped at the table on my way to the kitchen, where my mom sat, and as I looked her over, I realized that she’s skin and bones, brittle and tiny with a vacant expression. She barely glanced my way, and my dad ignored me altogether.

Back in my room, I stared at the sandwich I made, no longer hungry, the bread and meat tasting like ashes and regret on my tongue.

Of course, seeing my parents so miserable brings me back around to Carmen, and the self-recrimination I always feel follows. Could I have prevented her brutal end?

Carmen was so beautiful. She had a pretty smile and was lively and bubbly, but now all that vivaciousness is superimposed by a faceless monster smothering her essence until she is no more.

I can’t help but wonder who this fucking creeper is that would treat another human being so awfully?

This brings me around to Mr. Yates, his conversation with his bitchy wife and the knowledge that he’s a risk I can’t afford to take. Why would his wife even mention the killer to him? Was it a warning? Is he more than just a piece of shit who preys on girls? Could he be the Lucky Charm killer? Unlike Ramsay, he's definitely old enough.

And how often does he go downtown and pick-up girls? Why do these girls get in the car with a killer anyway? Is he someone they know?

The killer must appear harmless because I know many of the girls are hesitant to get in a car if their instincts warn them against it, just as I know others need the food or money for drugs and do it anyway.

Did Carmen have a moment of doubt before she got in his car? Did she look back with regret? Did she think about us, me before her end?

And what of the two rabbit’s feet I’ve found? I might’ve assumed it was a coincidence with the first, but how can I possibly explain away the second?

Restless and freaked the fuck out, I decide to take matters into my own hands because what am I going to do, wait around for the next message and the next? Where does it end? Probably not in a good place for me.

Picking up my keys, I let myself out of the house and drive downtown before parking along the street where Carmen used to ‘hang’ out. When I emerge from my car, the brutal sound of a roaring engine booms over my head as a plane takes flight, the air whooshing heavily around me.

I wish, as I glance into the sky, that I was on that plane headed just about anywhere but here.

This area, reserved for the girls and their pimps, is close to the airport and surrounded by industrial businesses with nothing much in between. It's perfectly secluded, rundown, and ugly with nothing but concrete and garbage.

If you’re down here, it's only for one thing.

It’s been a year and a half, but these girls, they still know me, and as I approach Charla and an older girl, maybe in her early twenties, she eyes me up and down before saying, “Girl, what are you doing here? I heard you got out.”

Did I? Because it feels like the shit, I thought I left behind is still hanging around my neck like a noose.

“I guess I did. But…I don’t know, they found Carmen, you know,” I say, kicking the ground aimlessly and watching as the pebbles scatter across the cracked asphalt.

“I heard,” she says, her chocolate brown eyes liquid with concern. “That damn psycho, too.”

Nodding, I swallow past the lump in my throat and smile tremulously when I spy Abbie approaching. Abbie’s a little older, wiser, but clearly jaded from her time on the streets. Still, she was always protective of me, and I have only fond memories with her.

“Cherry, what are you doing here? And after all the mess with Car?” she asks, pushing her stringy blonde hair over her shoulder.

“Um, I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to be close to her,” I mumble.

“She ain’t here, girl, she’s here,” she says, thumping me on the chest with a stiff smile. It aches from the force of her fingers, but it’s apropos for how I feel on any given day, so I ignore it.

“Yeah, I guess. Do you, do you remember the last time you saw her?” I ask cautiously.

Charla cocks her head, her eyes narrowing. “Why?”

“Because look, I know it sounds crazy. But you know about the rabbit’s feet, right?”

When they both slowly nod, I continue, “Well, someone left me the same thing—twice. One was in my car.”

“That’s fucked up,” Abbie says, pulling her ratty coat close with a shiver.

Neither mention going to the police, because out here, the police aren’t always your friend. Although these girls have learned the hard way which to avoid and which are friendly enough, in this world it’s better to stay away from them altogether.

“Yeah, I guess I wanted to know, well, what anyone remembers. I’m scared. I don’t know what to think,” I plead, glancing between them.

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