Marry Screw Kill(44)

Nothing … not a sound.

I pace outside the door for a few minutes, wondering what’s going on behind the closed door. A vision of Harlow tied up and helpless races through my mind. The unknown makes me jittery in my own skin.

Confused and defeated, I change my mind about going downstairs for a drink and head back to my room. I find some sweats and a T-shirt where I stashed my suitcase in the closet. My eye catches Harlow’s old purse on the closet shelf and I reach for it, then pull out the book of poetry I found last night.

Her purse drops on the carpeted floor by my feet and I bend to pick it up. There’s an open box of books sitting beneath her old hung clothes and I bring it out closer to inspect the contents. Jane Eyre, Frankenstein, The Picture of Dorian Gray—one after one, I find great classic novels along with a few dead poet books. One consistent theme is human suffering—hearts struggling with love or the judgment of man.

I wonder how a young woman without a college education can sound so mature and possess such an old soul. The books before me speak to her self-possessed education. She learned from the masters about life, love, and the human condition.

I shuffle through a few more titles and spot a rather tattered spiral binder. The front cover is a sunny yellow with the words, “Poetry by Harlow Masters,” written in black marker.

I flip through the notebook and find page after page of poems. A surprising excitement rushes over me, like I’ve won the damn jackpot. I push back the thought of whether peeking into her poetry without permission is right or wrong.

I shove the box back under the clothes and walk to the bed with the notebook in my hands, itching to dive in.

I sit down on the bed and start thumbing through. I notice the poems are dated and I’m curious to read her last few entries.

The last poem is dated from two days ago: the day before I came to Rochester. But the notebook was stuffed down amongst the books like it had been there for some time. It dawns on me that she’s hiding it.

I begin to read the unnamed poem.



Thunder rolls across the dark sky.

The ominous sound vibrates in my bones.

Rain hits the window and matches my own tears.

Angry and sharp.

Stroms surround me from within and without.

Escaping them sits beyond my reach.



I stop after the three verses and let their meaning sink in. Is she writing from her heart or talent? Even in the short time I’ve known her, I believe her talent and heart will combine as one in her writing. The impact of her seeking spirit flows on the page. I fear she has never mourned her mother’s death. Maybe she is beginning to come out of the haze of her life’s tragedy. With no family to lean on, processing the loss has to be difficult. James rules over her with his iron-fisted control, which prevents her from healing. This poem speaks of a trapped soul—hers.

I read the journal of poems and envision Harlow as a beautiful young woman with a stunning depth of emotions, searching for who she is in the world. Trying to break out of what cards she has been dealt in life’s non-discriminating game. By fate, she was born to a single mother. From the looks of her clothes, they didn’t have too many pennies to spare.

She needs time to spread her wings and find her passions, because they are lying dormant and untapped inside her. She writes prose that works my emotions. A talent one inherits as a gift. With the proper education, she could become a true writer. Who knows where her gifts could take her. If she stays here, locked away under James’ suffocating hold, she’ll wither away before she turns twenty-five.

I think of New York City and the writer friends I’ve seen thrive there. The city fosters writing by breeding stories and dreams. It’s like the streets can talk. If I bring her back home with me, she could enter college and work on her talents. The thought is fleeting and impossible, but I can’t shake the idea.

I close my eyes at the thought and picture Harlow a few years from now. I see her carrying a sad heaviness on her angelic face like she is aimlessly living her life. Something inside me twists knowing her fate might even be worse. Without a dream and future, I fear this beautiful, poetic side of her will die.

I set the book aside and crawl under the soft white covers of the bed. Somehow, my mind frees itself from the day’s worries about Harlow, but my dreams are filled with her.

Before I wake up, I’m dreaming of a burning house. Smoke clouds the dark night, but flames leap from a second story window. I hear a woman screaming and on instinct, I run inside to follow the sound.

Once I plunge through the smoke in the dark foyer, I see Harlow lying crumpled on the floor of a metal barred cage.

“Harlow, I’m here!” I shout as the wood crackles and snaps while being consumed by the fire.

I crouch down to breath cleaner air and rattle the cage’s door to open it. It doesn’t move an inch. I glance up and see a closed padlock guarding the door. I grab a hold of the lock and pull, hoping it comes free, but it stays locked like a vault. Adrenaline and fear pump through my body. I have no idea how to save her.

“Help me, Sin,” Harlow cries out in my dream. She coughs between desperate gasps for air. Time presses me to rescue her, but how do I break through the metal and save her?

My friend Bentley would know how to pick the lock. His family has owned a safe and lock company for generations. He is the heir to the multi-national corporation, but he is likely f*cking some random pick-up in my apartment.