The Contradiction of Solitude(32)

The real name, the real person was gone.

Or was he?

I stared in my bathroom mirror, shaving the two-day growth from my chin. Last month when I had looked in this same mirror I had been comfortable with the man who looked back. I had been sure who he was.

I had worked hard to establish his roots. His guts.

But now…

I saw him.

And that scared me.

But I was incapable of stopping the wheels that were already in motion.

My fingers slipped and the razor cut into my skin. Bright red beads welled up and flowed over, dripping into the sink. Sticky and warm, oozing to the surface.

“Son of a—” I winced, licking my thumb and wiping away the blood. I turned on the faucet and watched the bright scarlet dilute and rush down the drain.

I tore off a piece of toilet paper and stuck it to the open cut.

I was a jumbled mess of nerves and anxiety.

Every time I saw her, it was the same. It never lessened. I thought by this point we had been on a date, we had spent some time together, I wouldn’t feel like my insides were folding over on themselves.

What was it about Layna Whitaker that made me lose sight of everything?

Of whom I had trained myself to be?

She had been watching me for a long time.

I had been watching her for just as long, I just hadn’t realized it.

Margie had called it mutual stalking and she wasn’t far from the truth.

Something tapped against the bathroom window. I didn’t jump or startle. I was long past getting the willies in this place, on the edge of the cursed quarry in the middle of nowhere.

The sound of nails scraping, but more likely a branch. The wind had picked up considerably in the last hour and I could feel the storm approaching.

You slip in quietly,

Before the storm.

What had she meant? What storm?

She protected her secrets as fiercely as I protected mine.

I ran the comb through my still wet hair and mentally made a note to get it cut. I hadn’t worn it this long in a while. Not since I was fifteen.

The scraping at the window continued, followed by rhythmic patter. I felt comforted by the noise.

Like I wasn’t alone.

I walked out into my bedroom. I hadn’t done much to the upstairs rooms. I had been devoting my energies to fixing up the main floor. So my sleeping area consisted of a mattress on the floor and several plastic tubs holding my clothes.

It was better than some places I had slept in.

Under bridges. In old warehouses. In wet, soggy fields under the stars.

This place with its ghosts and haunted past was all mine. And that was an amazing feeling.

Home wasn’t something I had allowed myself to have in all of my adult life. I had no intention of putting down roots in Brecken Forest, Virginia when I had driven into town all those years ago.

But when I came upon this place not long after moving to the area, I had impulsively called the town office to track down who owned the tract of land. I was given the name of Grenadine Olinger, whose grandfather had been the foreman at the mine.

She sold me the house and the surrounding acre for thirty-thousand dollars. I had paid her in cash. Money I had received after the death of my mother that I had refused to spend.

Until the day I bought the house.

Now I had roots. And they were going to be nearly impossible to dig up.

I would live at Half Moon Quarry.

And if fate would have it, I would die there too.

And that didn’t make me feel caged in or imprisoned. Quite the opposite.

I felt free.

I found a pair of jeans that weren’t covered in lacquer and stain then smoothed out a button down shirt.

I wanted to make an effort.

I finished dressing and thought about where I had planned to take Layna. She wasn’t a dinner and movie kind of woman.

She was a night under the stars, run through the fields kind of girl.

A flash of lightning lit up the room, followed by the boom of thunder. The storm was close.

I grabbed my phone and my wallet and started to head towards the stairs when a buzzing caught my attention.

My phone was lit up and vibrating.

My finger hovered over ignore as I had done every single night.

The lightning flashed again.

I answered it.

“I’m here,” I said by way of greeting.

“You answered,” the soft voice on the other end sounded surprised. But relieved.

I wished I had never picked up.

Why had I chosen to answer the call I had been avoiding every night for sixteen years?

Why tonight? In the storm. With Layna waiting.

“Why won’t you come back?”

“You know why.” I was suddenly tired. Exhausted. The old arguments, the tired excuses seeming not enough.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Of course it is.”

Silence.

Agonized, bone weary silence.

Then I hung up.

There was nothing more to say. I turned off the phone, knowing the text that would follow. And tonight I couldn’t handle the comfort that it tried to offer.

The guilt, the resentment, the anger became too much, and I let out a yell. A deep, mournful scream that I felt everywhere and nowhere.

It came rushing back. Everything I had tried to forget.

All because I had answered the phone.