What She Left

chapter three

twelve fifty seven p.m., october eighth, two thousand and sixteen

Bailey thinks of Drew often.

She never truly knew him; she remembers him vaguely, a slightly scruffy face looking over her as a child. She remembers his smile, but his frown more.

Bailey remembers the day her mother looked afraid, the day her older brother, James, arrived at her mother's call, the day James tucked a gun in his belt before leaving in his old, beaten-up car.

She remembers her mother pacing and crying, then cursing Drew and James and her father for not being there and helping her and even sixteen-year-old Marianne for not caring enough, only caring about her other life, the life outside of the family.

Bailey remembers that old screen door slamming as James returned, his face lined and tired and empty. And she remembers the toy that dropped from her hand in surprise as her mother screamed, sinking back on the couch and raising a trembling hand to her mouth.

And James tried to leave, several hours later, his car keys jingling in his hand as he reached for the door, but Bailey's small hands wrapped around his leg and begged him to stay. "Please," five-year-old Bailey said, her voice distressed and confused because her mother was breaking and she didn't know why.

She remembers the look on James' face when he realized she needed him to stay, even just for a little while, and he did, letting Bailey curl up on his lap and fall asleep there. And hours later, when Bailey woke to the sound of her mother screaming at her father as he just returned, she asked him, "Where's Drew?"

"Gone," said another voice from across the room, scornful. Marianne. "Gone and killed himself, hasn't he? Dumbass."

"He didn't kill himself, Annie," James said. James was the only one who could ever call her that.

"But he basically did, didn't he?" Marianne spat.

"Where's Drew?" Bailey asked again, confused by the bitter tones of her two older siblings.

James looked down at his baby sister with more sympathy then Drew or Marianne ever had. "He's dead, Bailey."

Bailey heard a choking sound as Marianne fled the room, and thought of Drew, never coming home again.

A tear fell on her arm from James' cheek, and she buried her head in his chest and wondered why she felt nothing.

Twelve years later, Bailey sits in that same spot, alone, and wonders why she never felt anything, never felt the need to cry, to grieve,to lament the fact that her brother was gone. She wonders why she never felt any empathy.

She thinks of killing a human herself, thinks of having a life in her hands and destroying it, letting their life and their insides bleed out.

She feels nothing.

A flit of doubt crosses Bailey's mind. Is she crazy? All of her life she's seen people crying, people grieving, people killing themselves because of a loved one's death and Bailey can't even find a sliver of empathy for them.

She shakes her head. "I'm not crazy," she says to herself under her breath. "I'm not."

Bailey leans down the stroke her mother's golden lab, Reggie. She can remember, vividly, all the time that she and Drew would play with the puppy.

They would pick him up roughly, toss him, occasionally hurt him, and Bailey liked it. She remembers, in the next couple years following her youngest brother's death, how she would still rough up the dog, and even occasionally fantasized about really hurting him,
but she never did.

Now as she pet Reggie, she feels affection for the old dog, having put up with so many years of abuse. The thought of hurting him now discomfited her, yet the thought of taking another human life didn't. Bailey feels a surge of discomfort, but no pity.

    Rain is pattering on the roof above her, and she closes her eyes, wishing that she felt as peaceful as the droplets sounded. The moment ended abruptly as her door bangs open and her mother steps in. "Come on, Bailey," she says tiredly, brushing strands of blonde hair behind her ear. "Your father's home, and he wants to see you."

     Bailey drags herself off of the bed and follows her mother without complaint. She knows that if she protests or delays, he'll be in an even worse mood. Smoothing her wrinkled shirt, she enters the dim kitchen.

     James Nikitis Sr. is leaning against the counter, across the kitchen from his wife and daughter. Bailey is not used to feeling small, but next to her father, she feels like nothing. He towers above everyone with his 6'6 height, his dark eyes staring intently at his youngest daughter with an unreadable expression.

     Her father is the only person in the world that Bailey Nikitis fears. He is a much larger, much more experienced version of her. When he was home and Bailey was younger, her bedtime stories consisted of tales of the men and women he'd hurt, or killed.
 
    Raising himself to his full height, her father looks down at Bailey, ignoring her mother, who stands uneasily by the door. "You've been avoiding me." It isn't a question.

     She swallows before answering. "I haven't. I've been busy. With school."

     Bailey looks at the bridge of his nose, not looking in the blank, empty dark eyes. He waits, several tense seconds, before leaning back against the counter and looking her over. "I hear you've been... experimenting with my new pistol."

     Is she delusional, or is that a hint of pleasure she heard in his voice? She forces herself to look him in the eye. "Only once. Sir."

     He smiles briefly, a cold, thin smile, but a smile nevertheless. "Is there any plans going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

     Bailey shakes her head, careful not to appear too eager to refute his statement. Her father tilts his head slightly, then accepts her answer with a nod. "Alright then." He leans over and kisses her mother on the cheek, and she disappears to the bedroom off the kitchen. Bailey doesn't like being alone with her father, and she edges towards the door.

     "Bailey." Her father's voice is low and conspiratorial. Pausing right before the door, she turns her head. "I'm leaving that new pistol at home. I'll be gone for three months."

     There's more behind his words than what is actually said. She nods, once, jerkily, and then lifts one hand in a wave before shutting the kitchen door behind her.

    She knows that her father was always disappointed that his first three children never became like him. Exactly what he did for a living was never something he told his children, but she could guess.

     The guns he bought (illegally, was her guess) and the times he disappeared and came back with blood on his hands and money in an envelope made her wonder why they didn't live more luxuriously. She imagine someone asking her what her father did for a living. What would she say? "I'm not sure, but I think he's a hitman. A private assassin. Whatever you want to call it."

    Sometimes, she thinks, leaving the door behind and heading towards her room, she's envious of James. He escaped the chaos that is the life they live, the dark and twisty part. He escaped the clutches of the people surrounding him, the people that had long ago lost their humanity.

    He's successful and engaged to someone she's never met because he's too afraid that his messed-up family will scare away. He's comfortably rich and maybe he's even happy. But he left Bailey, and she doesn't know if she can ever forgive him for that. He's happy without her and she's not.