Book of short stories

Samantha Kingsbury

My name is Samantha Kingsbury, at least, that's what they told me and anyone who asked.

It's been 4 years since I ate my last olive, and to this day I don't think I'll ever be able to again. 600 is the number of miles I was moved away, twelve is the number of inches I cut from my hair, thirty-six is the number of months since Jean was violently taken from me, and three. Three is the number of seconds since I thought about him last. In the 4 years he's been gone not a minute has gone by that I haven't thought about him, feared him, wondering when he'll find me, when he'll come back.

I missed him despite everyone he stole from me, everything he stripped me of, I still struggled to block him out. He took my innocence, my normality, my values, and my family, yet I found myself longing for him. I longed for his own depraved version of love and I'm terrified I'll never stop. Sometimes I wonder if he even loved me, and sometimes I'm certain he did. I write small paragraphs in books I'll never reopen. I re read his letters and feel where his fingers touched the ink, and his tongue licked close the envelope, even when I go to sleep at night and I'm walking in the darkness I feel his presence from the shadows. I see the outline of his broad shoulders in the corner of my room and smell his cologne on my sheets. When I'm cooking and reach for the knife, I see his eyes in the reflection of the blade, twinkle with darkness and the evil they had seen. He made my life a living hell, but I loved him like an addict loves heroine, and he was my drug of choice.

I first met Jeanie when I was 8. When I was 8 my dad partially moved to the Caymans to expand his empire, and my mom hired Jean as an around the clock maid. Later that same year law-enforcement came snooping around our property and one day my dad kissed my mother goodbye and didn't come back. The burden of me, the house, the loneliness, and the drug-use eventually got the best of my mother and a year later she pushed her luck too far, she overdosed in our second-floor bathtub. From the age of 9 Jean was all I had. Jean cared for me like a mother, she kissed me goodnight, cooked for me, and taught me how to love. There wasn't a soul as pure as hers.

Even her I couldn't save. He crossed every ocean, every limit he had to, to get what he wanted. Jean, sacred ground he crossed and violated. Nothing was hallowed to him. He simply didn't care. He cared for his own selfish needs, and everyone else were props to his show. Poor Jean suffered for my poor life choices. He looked into her eyes as he tore her apart limb from limb, before he, the merciful man he was granted her death. I never got to burry her for when he was done, the only thing left of her was a memory. He slaughtered her to take away the only thing keeping me human, by setting her free from the world her he cut the cord to my sanity. He took her from me to be my anchor to the earth and I let him. After that something in me changed. A switched flipped. Drowned in the psychosis of his affection I didn't protest, I didn't help, I didn't save her. Jean was my last desperate attempt at a humanity, and with her gone I fell freely in to a void, ready to be molded again, remade in his image.

I met him when I was 17. When I was 17 Jean was falling asleep in front of the TV when I opened a window, jumped out, and went to a party. He was older, tattooed, and he offered me experiences and a hit of something unfamiliar that I immediately knew I wanted. I accepted whatever he offered and didn't realize that what he offered was corruption and possession. For a long time, we consumed each other and during that time I let him commit some of the worst acts known to man.

It makes me sick to my whole body thinking about our ruse, our weekend at that shady hotel. Thinking about him, made me sick to my stomach and my head feel faint. To me he was someone that gently ran their hands through my hair, that kissed me passionately in the rain and hugged me in their sleep. He could make you feel so loved that no other affection could come close. But to the rest of the world, he was a brute, a criminal, a murderer, someone that should be hidden away, and deep down I knew they were right. In that hotel room we were high on adrenaline and love. I'm not going to deny knowing what was happening, because I knew, and I chose to stay. We had in total 67 martinis sent to the room that weekend, and I ate every single olive. He was running in and out between rooms, back and forth switching drugs, switching tools. The instruments on the counter told me what they were doing in the other room, the knife, the ropes, and the plastic coming out from under the door. I prefer not to think about it. I sipped martinis and laughed at cartoons while someone in the other room silently suffered the worst pain imaginable. Each time the door opened he came in more bloody, rugged, and less human than before. He picked up a different tool, kissed me with true love before closing the door to sin in peace. If my senses weren't muted, I would have heard the screams, I would have felt the pain and the desperation. I would have heard the cry for help, and them begging for their lives, but I didn't. At last, he stroked my cheek lovingly while bringing out their heinous acts in solid plastic, throwing them out like trash, dismembered, never to be found again.

Eventually the world caught up to him, and I was caught in the middle. He was locked away and somewhere in the deepest parts of the world behind barbed wires was a man. A man who answered to nothing and no one, a man without compassion or empathy. Hidden away was a man who would corrupt you if you let him. Behind bricks, a man was cast at the end of a hall smiling to the darkness. In a cell a man was ruling with an iron fist, each finger gifted with a different string. At the end of a hall was a man behind bars, enriched with every key in the universe.

I took the stand, and he was locked away never again to see the light of day. I knew it was just a matter of time before he made his escape, before he again was holding the world in the palm of his hand, and I was right. February 3rd of this year, all eyes would again be on him, February 3rd the world would again know his name. February 3rd of this year his enemies would watch the news and panic, and he'd again inspire fear.

Late February 2nd I walked down the street. It was cold and the frost glued shut every window and door in the city. The midnight workers had gotten on the road and following the clock into a new day the street was trafficked. Something about how the clouds gathered was different that night. On that day, February 2nd I knew something in the world was changed. The air penetrated my closed coat, and a chill settled in my spine. That night my feet didn't know which direction to point in, or where to walk. February second of this year I left my apartment, locked the door, and didn't realize I wouldn't be coming back.

Snow started falling from the sky, as I decided to walk towards the park. The air threatened every pedestrian that night with its freezing breath. Approaching a road crossing with a yellow light I caught a glimpse of the moon shining through a brief opening in the clouds and basked in the feeling of freedom. As the light turned red a feeling of being watched compelled me to look up, and there on the other side of the crossing were a pair of piercing eyes in a black coat singling me out.  As the air threatened to freeze me, the sound of cars faded, and I met the glare of the unfamiliar man. His eyes pierced me, and I immediately recognized the damnation. The light from passing cars shone upon a scar, and the drawing of a name I recognized. Above a bushy eyebrow cut in half with scar tissue was my name, my real name, tattooed in beautiful cursive letters in the face of an unknown man, and as the air whispered me warnings his facial structure gained softness and familiarity. As the snow calmly laid the ground white, it came back to me. All the drugs, the love, the rage, the abuse, the ownership, and the running. Every sensation, every slice of life that I'd ever known came rushing back and 4 years of trying to break free vanished out the window.

The wind howled through the trees as car by car raced by and he stretched out his hand to me. After all this time all he had to do to reclaim me was show up and look at me, and from the distance of 45 meters his hand grabbed mine. After 4 years apart he still looked at me the same. There wasn't a single angry frown in his face. He wasn't mad I'd taken the stand because we both knew that for every day since I've drowned in guilt, therapy, and my own conflicted mind.

He held open his arms to me as the crossing turned green and with no hesitation, I walked in a straight line back to everything I had been trying to escape for the past 4 years. As the light turned green my feet listened to the song of the siren. I crossed the street to rejoin what my soul couldn't let go, knowing this time we would disappear for good.

My name was Samantha Kingsbury, and for 4 years that's all I knew.

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