Page 16 of Monster
Vincent
Six months ago
Leo doeswhat he said he would, and a couple days after getting discharged from the hospital, my phone rings. I talk to Mike for only a couple minutes, basically only to give him a rundown of what I need from him. I give him a description of Essa, her name, birthday, all of that and tell him I need to find her. Of course, once I tell him to check his account balance, his tone changes considerably and he promises me he will get me whatever information he can as soon as possible.
As if he has a fucking choice.
That was five fucking days ago. He has texted me every day, telling me he’s still searching and every day I don’t fucking respond. I don’t give a shit he still doesn’t have anything, but I guess I can appreciate the fact he’s letting me know he’s working on it. I’m honestly not surprised he hasn’t found her. I knew my baby doll was smart. She knew she had to disappear—but it won’t last forever, especially with no money and me hot on her trail.
Thinking about her makes me itch to have my hands wrapped around that delicate little throat of hers. I’m going stir-crazy in this fucking house. Not having anything to do or anyone to kill is driving me up the wall. Leo has come every day to keep me company, but all it does is make me feel more alone. More fucking pathetic.
I yank open the refrigerator door rather aggressively and pull out the orange juice. I slam the door shut and yank open the cupboard to grab a glass before slamming it down too. The glass shatters across the marble counter and some of the broken glass falls to the floor from the force.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I roll my eyes and huff out a breath of frustration. I stare down at the glass covering the floor before bringing my eyes back up to the counter.
Fuck this shit.
I spin on my heels and leave the kitchen, not bothering to clean up the fucking mess. I just don’t give a shit at this point. I’ll have one of my housekeepers clean it later.
I don’t even realize where I’m walking until I come to the door leading to my game room. My knuckles are white from the force of my grip on the door handle. She is everywhere in this house. No matter where I go, I smell her. I feel her. I fuckingmissher. And I can’t fucking stand it.
I pull my arm back and throw my fist against the heavy wooden door. I hear a crunch as my fist makes contact with the wood, but it doesn’t budge. My knuckles split from the force of my punch and rivulets of blood trail down the back of my hand. I grit my teeth as I inspect my hand and sure enough, two broken fucking knuckles.
My life just keeps getting better and fucking better.
My right shoulder aches and now my left hand does too. I forgo the game room—the memories too fucking much—and shuffle aimlessly into the living room. I plop my ass on the couch and pull out my phone to open google. I type inEssa Monroe, Oregon. But of course, like the last twenty times I did this, the same thing comes up—absolutely fucking nothing.
She’s gone and it’s killing me.
I feel so much fucking rage towards her because of what she did to me, but more than that, I fucking miss her crazy ass.
If I’m being honest, I can accept she shot me. I can accept she left. Because Iunderstand.As much as I wish I didn’t, I do, but I hate missing her. Missing her means I’m vulnerable. Missing her means I have a fucking heart. Missing her means there’s another person in this world who can break my heart. Which is exactly what she fucking did. She shattered my heart into a million, irreplaceable pieces and the only way I can ever be fixed is by her. She’s the only one with the power.
I have become powerless—no longer in control.
And for someone whoneedsthe power and control in every situation, I’m losing it, and therefore, myself.
I peer back down at my phone, breathing through the pain which threatens to consume me. I haven’t taken a single pain pill since I woke up and boy am I fucking feeling it. They kept trying to force them down my throat, but I refused. I don’t need them, and I won’t take them.
I drop my phone at my side after I click the lock button. The strap to my sling is digging into my shoulder so I carefully pull my arm out of it and once it’s out from around my head, I blindly toss it somewhere to the left of me. While I’m at it, I pull my black T-shirt over my head and fight for a minute getting my injured shoulder out of the stretchy material.
I heave out a breath when I finally get it off me and lean back against the couch again. The soft material of the couch feels nice against my overheated skin as I glance down at the tattoos covering my torso and arms. My gaze lands on the poppies on my right forearm. It reminds me of my poppy field—the one I took Essa to see not too long ago. It’s my fuckingplaceand for some stupid reason, I wanted to share it with her. The moment we stepped through the tree line; the view instantly became ten times more beautiful. Her presence alone made the place so much more than it ever was.
A sudden urgency comes over me and I sit up to pull my shirt back over my head. Once I have it and my sling back on, I grab my phone and jump up, making my way to the front door. I shove my feet in my black boots and slam the door behind me. With my phone in my hand, I pull up the number for the person I want to talk to and hit call. It rings three times before the person on the other end picks up.
“Hey, it’s Jaxon at Vice Tattoo. What can I do for you?”
“Hey man, it’s Vincent. Can you meet me sometime today? I need some work done.”
“Uh, yeah man, sure. No problem. Any specific time?”
“No.” I state as I make my way to the tree line. “Whenever you’re available is fine for me, just let me know.”
“Sounds good. I’ve got someone coming in…” he pauses for a minute before coming back on the line. “In about ten minutes but after that I’m free. So, give me two hours and I’ll head to you. Are we meeting at the pub?”
“No, my place. Get a pen and paper.” I hear rustling in the background before he tells me to go ahead. I spew off my address and tell him I’ll see him in a bit. I hang up right as I make it into the tree line. I stop right in front of my favorite tree. I run my busted up left hand over the stained bark and hiss at the pain in my knuckles.
I imagine tying Essa to this tree once I get her back and the thought is enough to bring a smile to my face as I drag myself away and into the woods.
