Page 9 of Buried Beneath Sin

Yet for some reason, I smile.

Maybe it’s twisted to enjoy these little notes from someone who clearly has a penchant for trespassing, especially when they aren’t exactly friendly or sweet. Maybe the people of Chasm are right to be wary of me. To lump me in with my mother and thepieces of shit she marries. Because the thought of someone out there, watching me and gifting me with flowers dyed my favorite color, doesn’t scare me.

It excites me.

6

BEATRIX

ONE WEEK LATER

With every blow of Patrick’s fists, I sink further and further into the dark recesses of my own mind. It’s safe here. If I slip far enough away, I can pretend the explosive anger raining down on me isn’t happening. That I might survive it. Or that maybe… maybe I won't, and that would be ok too.

I’m so tired of this. Everyday there’s a new ache, a new pain so bone deep that I can’t fathom how it could get worse.

But it does. Italwaysdoes.

It’s my fault. I allow the pain to continue. Every day I wake up, determined to start anew. To find a way to rescue a woman who doesn’t want to be saved. Who doesn’t love the daughter that’s been holding out for her. I don’t know why I bother. My mom is long past the stages of addiction where she hates herself for how far she’s fallen. She’s content with her life, and I hate that for her. What’s worse? I hate myself for holding on to something that isn’t there. I’ve allowed this misery to continue. All I have to do is walk out that door and run as far and as fast as I can into the horizon. I don’t have money, but I have a degreeand experience. Surely there’s a funeral home that would scoop me up.

Iknowthis. Still… I’m clinging to the past. Without Mom, I have nothing and no one. With a strange upbringing and years of dealing with the men who’ve lived under this roof—I know I’m awkward. Because of that awkwardness, making friends is nearly impossible. There’s no other family to lean on either. I have no aunts, uncles, or cousins to run to for help or guidance. Starting fresh somewhere new? The thought is more terrifying than I care to admit.

And I love Mom. As horrible as she’s been these past few years, I’ve been holding onto that in case she remembers that she loves me too. There were moments in her life where she was so full of life and ached for success. I remember that woman. That incredible human being made fleeting appearances in my life between relapses. She used to have a vibrant laugh. It used to fill the house. The joy and love that rang in it have long since faded away. When she laughs now, it’s like the cackle of a witch.

“What did I tell you about involving yourself in any part of my life other than Bright Starr?” Patrick snarls between kicks and punches.

I curl up on the tile floor into a tighter ball. I’m pretty sure a rib is cracked judging by the difficulty I’m having breathing and the pain that blossoms from that spot every time I try.

“How stupid are you, Beatrix, hmm? You went to the police to report me for assault and drug dealing?” He laughs as his fist strikes my side. He shakes out his hand and steps back. “Robert Copeland is my drinking buddy. He tells me everything. And guess who told me who walked into the station today to report me? You’re fucking lucky he didn’t file that shit.”

He straightens with a sniff of disdain. The sounds of shuffling footsteps capture his attention. He looks away from me toward the threshold of the kitchen.

“I need my medicine, baby,” Mom says. “You got it for me?”

“Go upstairs, I’ll be right there,” Patrick orders, expecting her to obey at once.

Curled up into a ball on my side behind the kitchen island, I’m sure she can’t see me. But it wouldn’t matter if she could. It’s not like I could ask for help. The last time I did that she ignored me, knowing she was about to get high if she didn’t step between us. Mom was going to be no help to me now.

“Alright, hurry up though,” she says.

There’s another shuffling of footsteps as she leaves the room. Patrick listens until they’ve faded before he looks down at me.

“You’re fucking pathetic. You know that, right?” Patrick snarls. “Do something like this again and you’ll end up in that graveyard behind the house. You’re more work than it’s worth having you around.”

He spits on me then. The loogie lands on my cheek. I don’t cringe or wince. I’m so deep in my mind and wallowing in my self-hatred for what I put myself through that I don’t care what he is doing to me right now.

Patrick Hunt stomps away, leaving me curled up on the kitchen floor to lick my wounds. I don’t do it right away. It’s hard emerging from the recesses of my mind. It’s safer there. Quieter, less painful than this world is.

As time passes and I get used to the pain in my torso, I roll onto my back. My soft groan is eaten up by the silence of the house. Thankfully, the cool tile eases the pain sprinkled down my body. The house is quiet. Mom must’ve gotten her drugs. I’m sure that means that Patrick got to fuck her before he got high, and now they’re both wasting away in their bed. I want to waste away. I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to be alone, in pain, or scared anymore. All I’ve wanted was Mom back and for her to love me. For the one person in this world who could do that to give me it.

But I won’t get it. Each day that becomes clearer.

My eyes, trained on the decorative square tiles on the ceiling, drift to the left. They land on the knobs of the gas stove. One is missing, leaving only three left. There’s nothing special about them, yet I can’t stop staring at them.

I also can’t stop the idea that begins to form.

What if none of us suffered anymore? I could get rid of Patrick—the asshole doesn’t deserve to breathe anymore. I also know that if I did this, Mom could find peace and I wouldn’t have to work so damn hard to be loved. We just… didn’t need to be here anymore. I could steal away into nothing forever. It would be easy, and I could happily share the kiss of death with Mom. We would be there for each other on the other side, as dark and as cold as it might be. My heart doesn’t shudder in fear at the thought. I can practically taste the sweetness of freedom now.

I stare at the knobs as the plan grows crystal clear before my eyes.

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