Of Monsters and Knights

Rosie

Many would say I’m lucky. But if they’d been through what I have, they’d understand the torment I feel every night when I’m alone.

They’d understand the fear that grabs ahold of you in such a way, you can’t move. You can’t speak. You can’t do anything but grip the sheets so hard your fingernails leave little crescent shaped imprints on your palms from the terror your mind brings—putting you back into the moments that caused such anguish and tore away your innocence like the thin tissue paper from a birthday present.

”I’m going to pluck every petal from you, sweet flower.”

I guess I should feel a shred of comfort. The monster was stupid enough to get caught the last time and it’s a wonder my father didn’t smash his face to a pulp and kill him. The police arrived too quickly.

He flew under the radar all those years he violated me, taking opportunity after opportunity during my father’s monthly meetings. Men drunk off whiskey, those meetings were the perfect chance for him to steal away in the night and ruin the privileged, quiet daughter of the man he called colleague. And all that time I never said a word, shame and fear keeping me silent.

Those meetings are held somewhere else now, my father’s absence apparent when no one comes to comfort me on the nights I can’t sleep and tremble in my bed.

I’ve been a quiet and timid girl my whole life. But something snapped in me the day he was deemed not guilty. That was when I truly realized money can buy anything.

I didn’t let that sink me into depression far enough I couldn’t get out. While I may be shy, I’m smart and resourceful. With the right contacts I’ve made over the years since he was caught, I’ve had plenty of time to do my research. To learn who to trust.

My best friend, Eli, is where I got the tip. A phone number that would lead me to my internal relief. After a few anxiety-ridden weeks in my possession, I’d used it to set up a meeting.

Glancing down at the burner phone I bought with cash for this, I take note of the text I received this morning.

Reed’s Cup o’ Joe. 10AM.

I don’t know who I’m meeting. I wasn’t provided a description and one wasn’t asked of me.

I look down at my watch. 9:59 am. Absentmindedly strumming my fingers on the untouched coffee gripped in my palms, my legs bounce. I’m nervous. My stomach feels like it’s in my throat. I know what I’m about to do is morally wrong, but what was done to me was despicable. And he deserves this. Looking out the window observing the dreary day, I mentally start counting to sixty so I can stop eyeballing my watch. The sky looks foreboding like gray swirls of paint that threaten to spill over the edge of a canvas. A sharp boom of thunder sounds, giving away the sky’s intent.

10:00 am brings a tall, dark haired man pushing through the glass door along with a chime. Ding. He’s wearing bulky, black clothing that no doubt conceals his wide, muscular frame.

I hold my breath as he peers around at the other patrons. Expecting him to walk toward me, I’m disappointed when his cerulean eyes surrounded by long, inky black lashes meet mine before he blinks, breaking our contact, and heads to the counter to place an order. My shoulders sag and I mentally deflate, turning back to the window to watch people passing by… wondering if someone else is coming or if they said, ‘to hell with this,’ and stood me up.

The scrape of chair legs in front of me brings my attention back. He sits at my table, one of his leather gloved hands surrounding a mug of steaming elixir. We stare at each other for a moment and I take notice of the scar that juts out over his left brow. His hair curls and fans slightly into his eyes, giving him the appearance that its wet. My fingers itch to brush it from his tanned face.

He licks his lips, the top one slightly plumper than the bottom. His lips softly pucker, almost as if to conceal a smirk.

“Um… hello,” I muster. He dips his head in greeting.

“Are you…,” I trail off. His eyes are alarming as if they have so many things to say, wordless declarations and stories begging to transfer straight into my mind. Again, a slight smirk.

I’m not sure what else to say. We sit in silence, both of us palming our mugs. He breathes in and out in steady rhythm, tipping his head back slightly to stare down from his faintly crooked but prominent nose at me.

After a beat of silence, I try again. “How do we do this?”

He simply looks at me with a cocked brow. I turn away and feel heat creeping into my cheeks.

Again, he says nothing. But then he reaches down beside him, lifting an object that piques my interest from my peripheral.

He offers me a little black book and I stare at it, wondering its purpose. Our fingers brush when I reach to take it, bolts of electricity zapping my fingers. I gasp and snap my hand back, taking the book into my grasp. I gaze back at him, my brows scrunched in confusion.

He stares down at me again and releases a heavy exhale from his nose, nodding toward the book in a silent gesture that compels me to open it. After a pause, my fingers shakily flick open the cover and sift through the pages, seeing random words and jotted down thoughts. Before I can read what any of it says, gravity causes the pages to rapidly turn until they stop where a little black ribbon marks a new page. My eyes widen and when I snap my attention back to the dark man, the sight of what’s in his hand catches me.

A pen. It is such a simple item, but this one looks like it wields the power of a sword.

I take it from him and look back to the book, held open with my left thumb on the blank page. My hand trembles as I bring pen to page. I’m shaking, unsure of myself. This act won’t right the wrongs of the acts done to me. I’ve told myself countless times that this is what I want, but I wonder if it really is. My mind races with questions to myself. Will anyone miss him? Does this make me a monster? Is this man a monster too? I almost consider handing the man back his items and fleeing, but my anger and pain at what was done trumps any second thoughts I have and forces me to seek my justice.

“Your tears taste so good. Keep crying for me, little flower.” I shudder.

I close my eyes and scribble the name down. A name that’s haunted me for the last three years. But to him it will be just a name added to his book. How many hands have touched this book, gripped this pen, written a name down for whatever their reasons were?

Reaching down into my coat, I remove the fat envelope of cash containing the money I knew to bring. I place it inside.

“How will I know when it’s done?”

Another nod, this time toward the burner phone on the table. He hasn’t said a word and it’s probably smart of him in case I’m recording. You never know who to trust.

My God, what have I done? But it doesn’t make me open my mouth to take it back. I feel sick and full of shame.

I look down to the book in my hands again. My fingers twitch. I can feel his gaze searing into my forehead.

He stares at me for a moment, seeming to have a question in his eyes. But it passes and he smiles. Before I can psych myself out with the battle warring in my head, I burst from my seat, shove the book and pen at his chest, and rush out the glass door as the bell chimes after me. Ding.

My chest almost explodes from how heavy I’m breathing when the cold air slams in my face. I shake my head and make for my car. I cannot—no, I will not stop it now.

It’s raining. With each step I take, drops of icy rain sting my skin on impact, but they do nothing to soothe the burn in my heart. It does nothing to stop the guilt I feel despite my relief. And I guess that is only fitting for a day such as this one, a day where I have condemned a man, a monster, to whatever fate follows for what he did to me.

Hunter

I’m terrible at picking up women. My sister has repeatedly told me I lack any couth. But dealing with my impairment the last year has been anything but an adjustment. It’s been downright fucking impossible.

I completely lost my hearing after my team stumbled upon an IED. The doctors say I’m lucky I’m alive after what happened. They thought I was a goner from all the blood, but the blast just took my hearing and left a gnarly scar. We lost two of our men that day. I lost my hearing and my career. I really should be thankful.

I’ve been told multiple times that I’m a stubborn mother fucker. And it’s true. At best, my attempts to learn sign language have been half-ass. It’s a hard thing to accept. I won’t hear a pretty lady laugh at my lame ass jokes. I won’t hear her moans. I won’t hear my future children cry for the first time when they enter this world. I won’t hear anything but this blackened silence ever again. And it makes me even more stubborn with any adjustments around my hearing loss in hope that my body will miraculously heal itself and I will hear again.

I couldn’t help myself when I walked in for coffee before my appointment with the ASL teacher.

She looked like the most beautiful creature sitting alone by the window, raindrops clinging to the glass just to get closer to her. The soft light circled her honeyed hair like a halo, a perfect angel waiting just for me. She was like a fucking goddess and when I saw her staring back at me, I just had to meet her.

She looked so hopeful when I sat down and she said a few things, none of which I could understand. I wasn’t particularly good at reading lips yet. And when I gave her my notebook and pen, she seemed confused.

It’s not that I can’t talk, but without being able to hear myself I don’t want to use my voice. There’s no telling how loud I might be and didn’t want to scare her.

She must not have been interested because she left as soon as she shoved my notebook back at me after she wrote two words and stuffed an envelope inside. Like a loser, I watched her peel away in her car like a bat out of hell.

Feeling defeated but curious, I flipped the notebook open and saw a name. Even more curious, I opened the envelope and my eyes bulged. Cash. Lots and lots of cash.

Snapping my notebook shut, I high tailed it home without a single fuck given about my ASL appointment. And once safely in my apartment with the door locked, I counted the contents of the envelope.

Heat prickled at the back of my neck while I paced by my front door.

Who the fuck was Gabriel Allocer? And what in the actual fuck was $20,000 doing in my notebook?