I always loved the lake. My family came here every year. The wooden dock that my great great great grandfather “built with his bare hands”. The walls painted hand painted by great great aunt. The rose bushes out back planted by my great grandmother. The stories of this generational hamydown of a home where boundless and long. Each story added new legend to the cabin by the lake.
But the logs used to build the foundation, were decorative. The "hand painted" walls were peeling wallpaper. The rosebushes, plastic. My family wanted a history, one that was made of hardwork and love that ended in a home. But...
My great great great grandfather filled his pockets with rocks and walked of the end of the dock. My great great aunt drank lead based paint. My great grandmother slit her wrists on her rose's thorns.
I always loved the lake.
All the tired stay at home mothers regretting their decisions to not use birth control. Each one in dark thick framed sunglasses, wide brimmed hats or baseball caps. Empty coffee cups overflowed the communal trash cans. The mothers gossiping to each other about one another. “Well I heard…”. “They are going though a divorce…”. “She just got her breast done and now she’s getting married…”. This was a normal summer here. New moms would pop up and occasionally a dad here and there, but it was always the same. The children knew by heart the exact location of the womb they had exited. Young moms would sit near the picnic area and nurse babies and talk about all natural baby remedies. Middle aged moms would crowd around the benches in group of four. The paid mothers or nannies would stand watching their false children with the eyes of a hawk. Everything was normal, laughing kids, cackling mother, grasshoppers singing. Until one child screamed. Kids screaming is not uncommon. But this scream. Was not what a mother wanted to hear. It was full of fear. The mother’s all rushed over. Whose child was hurt? Whose child needed a hug, and bandaid? Or a juice box? A small child was covered in crimson. Beside the small scared girl, was a body. Missing a head. Blood pooling in the wood chips that covered the playground.
John-Letter number 1 Date January 1st 2017, Dear reader, I hope this letter finds you in good health and a much better situation than I have found myself. I will be here, in this walled oasis of bad men, lost in the sea of my sins. I promise you that I am a good man, flawed as we all are. But not to the extent of the other men here. I have not killed, or hurt, or even drank. All I did was construct a plan to get revenge for my wife. The love of my life. My last images of her are blood stained, twisted, and blurred as my eyes well with tears. You know, I knew I would marry her. My entire life. We meet at four. And at twenty-one I asked her to marry me, she said yes but made me wait until we were twenty-five. She wanted to secure a career of her own, and I wanted anything she wanted. During our first year of marriage, I fell more in love with the woman she had become. How could I not? She was my sun, moon, stars, my universe that I was lucky enough to orbit. We never had kids. Though we wanted them, it just never happened. Besides she would be gone before twenty-seven. I am a good man but a better husband. I planned and created and worked up the courage to take that man’s life. The way he took my world away, he did not deserve for his end to be painless. But I was caught with “attempted murder”. I do hope that you will write back, as I will be here. John
John-Letter number 2 Date January 3rd 2017 Dear reader, A young man has completed what I set out to do all those years ago. I heard about it on the news. At first I felt joy. Then I felt pain for the young man who would ultimately be sent to death for killing another in such a gruesome way. But the news claims that he got away, they know it was a male of a younger age as the pressure used to crush the skull of the other, was more than a woman was capable of. I’m sure it was a man due to the sickening madness that had consumed me many years ago. I do hope to hear from you soon, as I will be here. John
Reader-Letter number 1 Date January 6th 2017 Dear John, In your arrest file, the cops recorded a confession. It stated all the action you planed to perform on your wife’s murder. I’ve listen, I’ve heard. In my second to last act I have completed your story. I often write to people who are serving life sentence, and help to fulfill what they need to move forward in life. As regret is the real killer during a life sentence. I have choose you as my “wrath” I killed the man that took away your “sun, moon, stars, and universe”. I smashed his skull with my bare hands, clawed his chest and ripped his still beating heart from his chest and felt it die in my hand. This is my confession. You may live free of sin, for I have taken your sins. I will see you soon, as I will be there too. Reader
The old man wakes at one a.m. His ritual has begone. Leave the bed, brush his teeth, get dressed, and pour a cup of black coffee. He shuffled down the spiral stair case into his library. The young man at the information station was trying to keep his eye open, staring down at the pages of a book. “My is that one that boring?” “Oh, sorry sir. I was just trying to pass the time, as we are open at truly strange times.” “You say strange, I say that my best readers come now. That being said your shift is over, see you later tonight.” The young man gathered his belongings and sleepily walked to the front door, “Sir, by the way, that book isn’t finished is it?” “Is not.” The old man winked, the young man shook his head and left. The old man only had a couple of hours to pull books for his “best readers”. Below the library was an old wet basement. Vines and tree roots exposed for walls. The air was clean and alive. The old man made sure to thank the plants that keep his most prized books in excellent condition. These books were calling to their reader as the time grew closer to three. The old man picked up seven books he had not seen the night before. The binding of these books were different. The wrinkles showed more that age, and the pages had stains of unknown origin. But these books were like nothing the old man had come across in all his years of caring for written works. But he knew his readers would want these. Back up stairs, the first customer of the night had arrived, alerting the old man with the door chime. A beautiful woman dressed in all black. “How are you? Do you need help?” She called to the old man. “Is it that time already? You are always so punctual!” The old man was standing behind the information station with all seven books laid out in front of him. “So many guesses tonight, for your reading club? Many different widths tonight.” “Many new members, also old man… do not let the young man read that book. It has not been finished and I would hate to ruin it for him.” “He always seems to find it, or should I say it finds him?” They both smiled to each other, in an ominous way. Member one had entered the door, the chime causing the woman to turn around and greet them. “Your book is on the end. Do not skip around, read it from cover to cover.” She smiled sweetly. The old man watched as the book at the end floated away to a cozy corner of the library. He always wonder what they looked like to the woman, but he was just the librarian of life and death.
“Finally! There it is! The black leather one!” Kate yells excited to her cab driver. Her luggage has arrive at the baggage claim. The cool black leather trunk that her father bought her for graduating law school. She has studied so hard and worked part time in a law office being the “go for” girl. Getting coffees, coordinating lunches, and occasionally researching for up coming trials. All of Kate’s hard work had paid off. Next month she would be opening her own office, with her father’s help of course. So for now, she was taking time to relax in the Italian sun. Kate had dreamed about going to Italy for years but school and work always won the battle of importance. But now she would have it all at last. After a long car ride along the coast, to a water taxi, to another cab, she was laying down in the queen sized bed that she would sleep in for the next few weeks. The room was plain, simple designs, but that only complemented the ocean view outside the sliding door. Kate could watch it for hours. The waves pulsing, crashing, the high and low tides. Her stomach growled. Kate decided to wonder around the streets near her hotel to find something to eat. An American friendly pizzeria was only a block away. Kate regretted not learn the native language, but her hunger was stronger than the need for a real authenticate meal. She grabbed a pizza to go, nothing special. Just cheese and sauce with a Diet Coke. Back at her room she sat on the white sheets of her bed and watched the water again. Her nose caught a whiff of something fowl. Disgusting but also sweet. She decided to call her dad and let him know she was safe. Voicemail, typical she thought to herself. “Hey dad, I’m here and its gorgeous. But my room stinks? I’m not sure what that is all about but I’m going to call downstairs and see what is up. So call me back when you can. Love you.” Before making any complaints, Kate decided to unpack her bag. Maybe one or two of her perfume bottles broke and the smell mixed awfully? She grabbed her luggage back and notices its much lighter than she remembers. On closer expectation she sees a monogram embossed into the leather. “DP”. Shock and realizes hit Kate like a ton of bricks. This wasn’t her bag. “Dad! I don’t have my luggage! I mistook this one for mine! Please call me back!” As panic set in, Kate tried to relax. Everything was replaceable, Kate had money. She could buy new clothes, makeup, perfumes, and anything else she was missing. After five full deep breaths she was fine. Then the smell came back. It was coming from the bag, that wasn’t hers. She had to know what was in there. What was that smell? Hopefully there was something that could help her return the bag to the real owner and maybe even get hers back. She unzipped the back slowly. Inch by inch the smell grew stronger. All that was in the cool black leather bag was a garbage bag. She grabbed it. It felt like a ball or a melon. But the smell was overpowering. She couldn’t even think about opening the bag, but her need to know was just as overpowering as the smell. Inside the bag, was her father’s head.
“Recent law graduate, Kate Orangefield, is being accused of murder of her father. She has fled the country and we are conducting a search, any information please contact the authorities.”
She sits on a bench made of steel. Thinking about how her life got her to this very moment. In front of her sits a rare steak, mashed potatoes stuffed with butter and cheddar cheese, a slice of apple pie topped with whipped cream that has began to melt. It was her favorite, and her last. Her life had not been easy. Born addicted and given up for adoption hours after birth. She had many families, and suffer abuse by most. She was determined to better her situation. She had great grades, applied for scholarships, and was consistently on the Dean’s list during the school year. Her life was finally going as planned. But the pain of not knowing her mother would creep in during the night. After debating if it was time to meet her mother, she decided to do an ancestry test. If her mother was in the database, she would reach out to her. If not, at least she would know her nationalities. There, her mother’s name. 99% chance of maternity. She only lived three hours away. The next eight months would bring her here. To this moment. Her mother and her mother’s husband and their four children had been brutally murdered. The bodies had been attacked after death, causing a blood bath. The last person to see them alive was her. That morning they had breakfast at a local dinner. Her D.N.A. Was found at the crime scene. A single strand of hair, and half of a finger print. “It’s time.” The officer says, emotionless. She stands, cuffs placed on her wrists, and the walk starts. As the bring her to the gurney, she looks at her spectators. Three rows of blank faces. “Any last words?” Tears fall from her eyes and stream down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, but I did not do it. You have the wrong person.” Reports scribbling down her statement. In the back row to the left, a hooded figure removes the shroud covering her face. The figure smiles and waves. It’s like looking in a mirror. “Time of death, 4:14. Four minutes from injection.” “New match! 99.9%”
Again, he asks me to meet him in the park. I say “No, you know if I get caught I’ll be dead by sunrise” quietly into the phone reciever. But we both know I am already sneaking out of my window. The window latch flips open so easily.
Into the summer night I am immediately warmed by the humidity. The air is sticky, making my hair cling to my face and my palms clammy. The park is only a block away but walking there feels like forever.
I see a light up the hill with a figure underneath creating a shadow. It’s him. I can’t see his face but I know it’s him. The air becomes cold as soon as I get close enough to see his teeth gleaming from the light of the park lamps. He opens his arms, and as I place my body in his grip I feel his heart beating. It’s fast. He’s sweating. He’s ice cold. He’s crushing me.
I bend my knees to escape his clutches, and duck backwards. He grasps my arm. Tight. His finger nails digging into my forearm. I look up to see him. And before I realize it I’m on my knees trying to pry his hand off me. He squads down and from his pocket he pulls his lucky hunting knife. He flicks the blade at me.
“You know, I think you got caught.”
