The Contradiction of Solitude(30)

My father’s stars that he brutally murdered.

Stella.

Emma.

Elizabeth.

Rosie.

And the countless others that were stars forever. Lost but not gone. Always in my mind.

That’s where they stayed.

But I knew the twenty in the papers weren’t the only stars. There were more. In the silent hours of the early morning I’d let my mind wander to those other girls. And I was desperate to know them. To hear them. To tell their stories for my father.

Even as I hated him and who he was, I loved and missed him in equal measure. The contradiction was too much sometimes. I was being torn in two.

I fought against them every single day. Sometimes I wanted to surrender. To give into the dark promise that he offered.

My father’s blood ran deep. Too deep. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to break away. And sometimes I didn’t want to.

Most of the time I accepted my inevitable fate. To fall into the obsession.

Because the blood…

It’s what I wanted.

It’s what I craved.

From the time I was a child I knew that I was different.

And my father nurtured it. He celebrated it.

It became the link that bound us together.

The blood.

I began to shake. My fingers twisting and gripping at the fabric of my shirt. Ripping and pulling.

I let myself remember. No matter the cost. No matter the pain.

The day when I realized exactly whose blood ran in my veins.

The day it all began to make sense.



“Your father isn’t coming home.” I stared at my mother as though she were speaking another language. She looked awful. Her brown hair, much lighter than mine, was stringy and unwashed. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen.

Matty made a noise and started crying. I wanted to tell him to shut up. I hated it when he cried.

“Where is he?” I asked, feeling a door slam shut. The end. That is what this was.

“He’s gone.” And that was it. She wouldn’t explain. I stopped asking questions.

And then my friend, Tasha, told me the truth. Not in a nice way. But in words tinged with ridicule and accusation.

“Your dad’s the one that killed all those girls.”

The Nautical Killer.

Everyone knew. But my mother would never talk about it. It was as though my father were just gone. On a fishing trip that was a little longer than usual. And perhaps, at the time, it was for the best. To pretend that he was off doing something he loved.

But no one else would let me forget about the man I called father.

“Are you a psycho too?”

“Is that why you never cry?”

“Is that why you’re so freaking weird?”

Was it?

Was I?

I was horrified by my father’s crimes but also oddly relieved to know the truth.

Was I just like my daddy?

Did the sick compulsions lie dormant inside me?

Some days I felt them there. Ready and waiting.

Rotting.

I fought against them all the time.

Other days I didn’t fight them at all.



My phone rang and I picked it up, knowing it was him.

“Layna. How are you?”

I didn’t say anything. Tonight of all nights the words just couldn’t be spoken.

“I feel it too. Today especially. I got my letter. Did you get yours?”

“Yes,” I whispered to my brother.

“Did you read it?”

“No.”

Silence again. Solitude. I loathed it. I loved it.

Contradiction.

“I didn’t either.” My brother’s voice was older but still familiar. I hadn’t seen him in six years.

Six years.

I didn’t know what he looked like anymore.

I only knew his voice.

I couldn’t let myself have any more than that.

“I lit it on fire,” my brother said and I could hear his soft chuckle. I didn’t laugh Perhaps he was stronger than I was. Being able to laugh in the face of all this ugliness.

“I kept it.”

I kept it.

I couldn’t throw it away. What did that make me?

“It doesn’t mean anything, Lay.”

“Yes it does,” I argued softly. The fight was gone. He knew it. I knew it.

“Throw it away.”

“I can’t.”

My brother said nothing else. We sat on the phone, a hush between us. I watched the flickering flame wondering if my life wouldn’t be easier if I just…

“I’ve met someone,” I said quietly.

“Me too,” my brother admitted. I didn’t know anything about Matt’s life. I never asked. He never volunteered any information.

We didn’t have that kind of relationship.

Ours was that of two people using one another to hold onto their last shreds of humanity.

“Will you tell her?” I asked him, though I knew what he’d say. His answer was mine.

“No.”

“Wouldn’t it just be easier—?”

“You’re not him,” my brother broke in.

I smiled. He was a fool.

Such a na?ve, sweet fool.

“Liar.”