One
Link
I’d like to believe I would have let Aaron drink only enough of the sleeping pill cocktail to knock him out. I’d like to believe I’m better than to patiently watch him kill himself.
But I’m not.
I knew I wouldn’t allow him to live when I crushed the first pill. I knew it as I watched the cloudy powder slowly dissolve into the amber liquid. And I knew it as I poured him the first shot.
Even choosing to serve the laced Jack Daniel’s in a shot glass was premeditated. Shots are quick. I knew a guy like Aaron, one who is no stranger to alcohol, could throw back several before the effects would catch up. By then, I knew it would be too late for him.
I knew.
And yet, I sat here, in this very chair, and I watched him chug drink after drink until his puffy, bruised eyelids began to flutter. I encouraged another drink as his words of apology began to slur beyond comprehension. I poured him another as he slumped in the chair, his chin tucked to his chest. And yet another as he leaned heavily on the table, unable to pry his eyelids apart.
I sat here, and I watched the life slowly seep out of him. He went peacefully, falling into a deep sleep. His skin paled, the bruises standing out, dark and evident, on his flesh. And then he took on an almost waxy appearance, as if he weren’t real.
I can pretend that’s the reason I continued to allow it to go on. Because it wasn’t real to me. Because he was no longer real to me.
But Aaron has always been very real to me. He took someone real from me and caused me real pain. And he deserved real punishment.
Eventually his breaths became sluggish and shallow, spaced too far apart, until they finally just ceased.
That was several minutes ago, but I haven’t moved from this chair. I haven’t allowed my eyes to leave his sallow face. I didn’t think it would be this hard. I didn’t think it would sit this heavy on my shoulders or ache this badly in my chest.
I should feel some sense of relief.
One down.
I should be satisfied.
Three to go.
Not this. Not this anger. This weight. This…lack of deliverance.
Where is my redemption?
Where is it?
I tear my gaze away from Aaron’s lifeless body and stare down at my hands, lying flat on the table. I turn them over, my eyes trailing each crease. I flip them back and forth. Searching. They’re just hands. Callused. Bruised. Knuckles large. Nails short.
They’re just hands.
Solid. Steady.
Hands powerful enough to take a man’s life. Capable.
My teeth are locked so tightly my jaw hurts. I can feel the muscles there throb in time with my pulse. I yank the wallet from my back pocket and pry it open. I need to see her. I need to look at her face. I need to remember.
The picture is crinkled, creased to the point of flimsiness. I’ve folded and unfolded it more times than I can count. My fingertips move over her face in soft strokes.
These hands were once kind. Gentle. They caressed this very face with tenderness. Held her hair when she was sick. Memorized every inch of her body when she was healthy. Learned what she liked, what she craved more of. They embraced her. They loved her.
She is why. I can’t forget that. I do this for her.
Aaron didn’t live like the man he died as. He was cruel. A rapist. A murderer. He needed to die. He deserved it.
I did the right thing.
He went peacefully.
Livie went screaming and crying. Defiled and defeated.
This was better than he deserved.
I did the right thing.
I push the chair back. The scrape of the wooden legs against the concrete floor echoes loudly, breaking the silence and reminding me how long I’ve sat in this basement with a corpse.
Everything I need is lined up across the workbench along the back wall. I wonder if Aaron noticed it while he drank down the whiskey. I wonder if he knew what was ultimately in store for him.
I drag the large trunk over. He’ll be leaving my house the same way he came. I pause, the large, vinyl tarp in my hands forgotten.
No. He’s not leaving the same way he came. He was alive then.
I close my eyes for just a moment as I realize that isn’t true either. He was a dead man when I followed him into his apartment. He was a dead man the moment he hurt Olivia.
Two
Rocky
I notice moisture on the glass of the double doors as I open them. The familiar scent of sweat and vinyl fills my senses as soon as I walk in. The air is humid. Warm and sticky. Though I don’t immediately see anyone, I know somebody’s working the punching bag hard. I can hear it. That recognizable whack of leather.
The hits are quick. Firm. Precise.
I round the corner, heading to the office. My feet stop abruptly, rooting me to the floor. Link’s naked back is to me. Toned and solid. The muscles twist and ripple with each coiled strike he lands on the bag. Sweat glistens on his skin. And though it’s a beautiful sight, none of that is responsible for my acute attention.