Page 9 of Dreadful
“And you know what? I might’ve forgiven you if you’d let me escape. But you were the first one to make sure I could never be free. The one thing that’s kept you from being higher on my list is that you weren’t the one who brought me here. You only reaped the ‘benefit.’ Well, you reap what you sow, motherfucker.”
“I-I’m sorry,” he rasps and reaches for the shears. I let him slither them out a fraction. It gives him the same hope I had. One brief moment where he thinks he’ll survive this and return to life as he knew it.
When there’s an inch of blade still embedded in his chest, I tsk and wrap my hands around his. Hopelessness fills his dull eyes as I sink the shears back in, and he realizes he never had a chance.
“Please…help me.”
I shake my head. “You watched. Now so will I.”
He tries to scream, but only a cowardly whimper leaks from his mouth.
Before today, I was afraid that murder would be too much for me to handle. That I’d chicken out after the gardener and be unable to complete the rest of my list.
But his dying breaths are an overture. The beginning of a musical with a lovely, exhilarating symphony full of promise. I’d listen all day if I could.
Once the light in his eyes finally blinks out, I stumble off of him and onto the ground. Blood soaks his crotch, and the dirt around him glistens with crimson. I watch his chest to see if it rises and falls with a breath. It doesn’t.
He’s dead.
The sounds of the city filter back into my ears. Everyone is waking up and getting ready for their day, not knowing the gardener next door took his last breath moments ago. Beacon Hill is quiet compared to the rest of Boston, but a car alarm jolts me to life. Everything comeswhooshinginto the forefront of my mind, and I swallow.
He’s dead, and it’s time for me to fucking go.
I leave the weapon and gather my things. It barely takes a minute to erase any trace of me from the garden.
Years ago, I couldn’t escape the Vincellis to save my life, thanks in part to the gardener. Now, dressed as his assistant, I walk right out of their front gate undetected.
My mind is quiet for the first time in weeks, but I’m a glutton for punishment. I take the long way back to the bakery, and as I travel down the opposite end of Fleet Street, my relief evaporates like the dew on the shears I left behind. Rage replaces it, and I mentally tick off names to make myself feel better.
Butler.Maids.Gardener.Driver. Capo. Priest. Judge.Godmother.Godfather…
And then there’s the one I added last. When I have him within striking distance, karma will greet him, too, and my revenge will finally be complete.
Butler.Maids.Gardener.Driver. Capo. Priest. Judge.Godmother.Godfather…
…the boy.
Scene 2
BURNT CARAMEL
Talia
My fingers still shake as I bear down on the sketchbook I’ve propped up on my knees. Shading the design would be easier if I wasn’t also tackling a purple-iced sugar cookie with my other hand. Then again, my priorities have never been very logical.
I stretch my fingers and peek out from behind my worn, black hoodie to check if Sweet Tallie’s has any customers. The hoodie is double my size and was part of a grunge phrase I grew out of. After this morning, though, I had to go back to my comfort zone. The extra fabric is soft, and I crave the sense of protection its bulkiness gives me. The warmth is also welcome today as a cold late-fall rain began drizzling right after I left the Vincellis.
As long as I curl up with my feet on the seat, the tall, oversized chair has just enough room to fit my entire body. For years, I’ve been pulling my hoodie over my knees and using my thighs as a table to draw on. The position got harder to pull off once I hit my growth spurt, but I’m nothing if not determined.
Perched in my corner, I can monitor everything inside the shop. The register and glass display are centered in the back of the room, so I’m able to get around either side of the counter and attend to seated customers if necessary. All I see now, though, are the shop’s empty pastel chairs and cream tables. The only movement is the gentle rain splattering the tinted window. I’m alone.
Grazie a Dio.
That’s not usually the case around this time. Pick-ups bring in the most money. Customers line up outside the door before they go to work, making sure they’re here to get one of my grandfathers’prizedcannoli al pistacchio. I baked tulip-shaped sugar cookies just in case we ran out. It’s been slow today, though, and we still have a few cannoli left.
Mynonnineed all the help they can get, thanks to the Vincellis. While I hate it for my grandfathers that business isn’t booming at the moment, I’m thankful that I get some time to unwind. I need a breather before my appointment, and then going to work at the Revere Theater tonight.
Happy with the silence, I settle back in my chair. The huddled position and the bakery’s familiar aroma normally relax me enough to fixate on my sketches, but I’m still full of energy. A clear sprinkle drops from my trembling sugar cookie onto the page, and I glare at it. Not even the flower-shaped dessert can calm me down.
