Chapter forty-nine:

 

 

“We should probably leave,” I say. “The neighbors might have called the police. I don’t want you getting arrested, Carrie.”

See, Carrie? I’m still looking out for you. I am a good boyfriend

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she says without looking up at me. And I don’t get it. He treated her like trash yet she’s still fawning over him like it’s true love. Maybe there’s no coming back for her. Maybe I do need to let her go, because she obviously has something very wrong with her, that she can care so much about someone so bad.

“You’ll be arrested,” I say, a last-ditch attempt to convince her. She’s confused right now, and I should try to support her, at least for a little bit more. After all, I’ve waited for her for a very long time; a couple more minutes won’t matter. Because no matter what, with or without Carrie, I definitely need to leave.

“I don’t care,” she replies. “I’ll explain to them.”

I laugh then, and I know it’s wrong, but I can’t help it. She looks up at me with fire in her eyes. That fire that I used to love so much. Fire that would burn me up on the inside so badly that I’d die if I couldn’t touch her. Now, though, the fire just burns and hurts. It just fucking hurts. And there’s blood smeared down her cheek and it’s disgusting. Much like her infatuation with Mr. Fancy Asshole Adam.

“What will you explain, Carrie? You shot a man in cold blood. He’s dead! At best it’s manslaughter, and then what? Are you really going to go to prison for this piece-of-shit person?”

“He wasn’t shit!” she screams at me.

“No?” I reply.

“No! He cared about me.”

I laugh again and her face goes red with fury. “If he cared about you, why was he paying you for sex? Why was he selling you? Why are you living in this…” I wave my arms around us, “…this hellhole? Because he’s a piece-of-shit person and the best he could offer you was this piece-of-shit house, Carrie! Wake up and see that you’re better than this. Better than him!”

She opens her mouth to speak but no words come out, and then she wails and buries her face against his chest. I wait several minutes, hoping she’ll calm down, but when she doesn’t I make to leave. I can’t save her, I decide. Perhaps my last gift to her will be to get rid of the gun.

I open the bedroom door. I hate to go, but I can’t go back to prison or to the hospital. I just can’t. I’ve worked too hard. I’ve waited too long. Not even my love for Carrie will keep me here. They’ll never let me out again.

I want a life.

I want something better.

Something more.

And maybe it’s for the best. Maybe she’s getting what she deserves.

I’m done with her and the world she lives in. I thought she was what I wanted, but I was wrong. I don’t know what I’ll do now. But I know I can’t stay here.

I don’t deserve any of this, so why should I pay for it?

“Don’t go,” she whispers as I take a step into the hallway.

And my heart soars. I look back in and she’s looking up at me with her bloody, bruised face. Her eyes are lost in a sea of tears. Her hair is a knotty nest of despair. But her voice is pleading, almost begging.

“Please don’t leave me.”

“I don’t want to, but I can’t stay, Carrie.” I hold out my hand to her. “Come with me.”

After everything, what do I expect her to do? I don’t even know anymore. I know what I want her to do. I know what I need her to do. But Carrie has always been confusing to me. She’s the ultimate puzzle. An enigma.

She stares at my hand with her sad, sad eyes and I’m reminded of another time in another place when I said that very same thing to her. That moment changed our lives for ever. Would this be the same? Would this moment in time finally be our moment in time?

“I can’t,” she says, her words a whisper. And then she sounds like an injured dog. She mewls, and her face crumples in angst and despair, and I want to take it all away for her, I really do. But I can’t do this on my own. She has to want his as much as me too.

I see that now.

I see where we keep going wrong.

Where it all keeps falling apart for us.

I try too hard, and she doesn’t try enough. But maybe this time, if I meet her halfway, maybe she’ll take them step with me

“You can.”

She shakes her head and I try again, pushing my hand further to her, more insistent than I’ve ever been before. Because this time has to be different. I get it this time. I know what’s really happening now. I get it. Finally, I fucking get it!

I didn’t the last time.

I didn’t know the consequences.

I didn’t know what I was asking of her.

*

“Come with me, Carrie,” I plead.

“Why didn’t you do it, Ethan? Why?” She cries like I haven’t said anything. Like I haven’t asked her the most important question in my life. “You said you would. You said you’d protect me!”

And I feel bad. I honestly do. But I couldn’t do it. Killing was bad, and surely there had to be another way. Surely there was always another way.

“It doesn’t have to be like this. We can go, together. I’ll look after you, Carrie, I’ll keep you safe. I promise.” I beg her, my arm still outstretched, my hand still open, palm up, forever reaching for her.

“Your promises don’t mean anything,” she says, and she sounds angry, and I don’t like angry Carrie. I shake my head, because it’s not true. I mean my promises, but she tricked me into this promise and I can’t do it. “You lied to me. You can’t keep me safe, Ethan. No one can.”

“Carrie—” I start, but she puts a hand up to stop me from talking, and I do, because I’m polite.

“I don’t want to hear it. You said you would kill him. It’s now or never. It’s me or him. It’s life or death. I can’t live like this anymore, I just can’t.” And she looks at me with those beautiful almond-shaped eyes of hers. “Please help me, Ethan. Kill him for me. Kill my dad! Stop him from hurting me ever again, please.” And then she breaks down crying as if saying the words out loud are a knife to her side.

It’s nighttime and we’re hidden down by the side of her house, below her father’s window.

This was where we said we would meet.

This is where she gave me the knife, the knife I hold in my sweaty hand right now.

This is where she first told me what he had been doing to her, and this is where I was sick on the ground afterwards.

This is where she told me what my dad had been doing and how he’d punched her in the stomach to make her lose the baby.

I look down at the knife. It’s big and sharp, with shiny metal teeth that glint in the moonlight like a crocodile in the water. It scares me, this deadly weapon, this knife that should be used for cutting food, not human flesh.

Can I do it?

Could I carve out his heart and feed it to him?

He deserves it, after all.

How could he hurt her like that?

How could I promise to save her and then not follow through?

How could her mother let it happen?

I swallow and look up at her. Her eyes still glisten, and so does the knife.

“Okay,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

Sorry, Mom. Sorry, Dad, I think.