The Goodbye Girl (Red Market Series Book 2) (20 page)

Black we are but much admired by men

they seek us until they are tired

When you have
been around as many dead bodies as my family has you can smell it a mile away. The thick foul odor permeates everything and clings to it as if hanging onto life after death. My son has the reek about him when he gets close to me, the putrid stench of burnt flesh is more than any aftershave can hide. He looks different today, his eyes are darker, his back is straighter and he is smiling. Caesar never smiles when he sees me. In fact the man hardly smiles at all, making the smirk on his face confusing. He even has a tie on and his dress shirt has been ironed properly. He isn't his usual scruffy self, he looks fit to be my son, my successor. He looks like a businessman and not a common criminal for the first time since I stopped dressing him. I like this version of my boy, he looks like his father, handsome and charming. 

I look around the hotel room he has brought me to, it's nicer than mine. I wondered where he was staying, he usually chooses squalor over the luxury of hotels. The table is set for two and there is a waiter standing next to a food cart waiting. Caesar pulls out a chair for me to sit, he hasn’t forgotten the manners I beat into him as a child after all. There is nothing more attractive than a gentleman, a man that carries himself correctly and does so with good manners. You can hide all sorts of bad things behind good manners, like our business. 

“Caesar, you look so handsome, my boy.” My words are a sword to him and yet today he doesn’t even flinch.

“Thank you Madre.” He turns to the waiter and I notice he has something in his ears, I can see the white flash as his head moves. I feel my brow furrow as I try to strain my failing eyes to see better. He stuffed his ears with cotton; he can’t even hear me at all I suspect. Yet he answered me as if he heard me. 

The waiter pours wine for me and brandy for him, he spills a drop of the blood red liquid on the white cloth as he pulls the bottle away. The red is soaking into the fabric more as he tries to blot it with his cloth. 

“Leave it, you can go now. I will do the rest.” He waves the man away, irritated by his presence. He scurries off closing the door behind him, I hear the automated lock click like all the hotels do these days. I am alone with my son who is allergic to my voice and for the first time since he was teenager I am afraid of him. I no longer want to torment him, I never did, but when he couldn’t stand my voice, it broke my heart and I became bitter. He was a thorn in my existence, the boy I wanted so badly and I couldn’t even tell him I loved him without him becoming a raging monster. Then when the sexual responses started I had no way to hide my disgust at his affliction. How could a boy be turned on by his mother; it was repulsive, the thought alone still turning my stomach. I had nightmares about my son masturbating to the sound of my voice, I became determined to cure him. I would not shut up, he would get over it. He never ever did though. 

He places my lunch in front of me and then collects his from the trolley removing the silver cloches, revealing a beautifully plated cold starter. The chef here is definitely better than where I am staying, I might consider moving.

“The food here is excellent, have you enjoyed your stay? I might move hotels after this lunch.” Nothing no twitch, no flexed muscles or growls, he listened to me without being affected. 

“I am not staying here. I stay at the factory.” His answer catches me off guard and I look around the room and there is no sign of him living here at all.

“Then why are we here, Caesar?” I am confused as to why he has brought me to hotel he isn’t staying in. 

“Because we cannot exactly eat at the factory and I don’t trust that restaurants here are not serving me dead dog, cat, bat, or fucking rat. So I came to a place owned by a business colleague I can trust. You are also impossible to please, Madre, so I thought you would appreciate a private lunch somewhere nice. I also wanted to avoid the public spectacle we had last time we dined together.” He answers me, clearly no teeth grinding, no holding in his rage. 

“Thank you, son. Let’s enjoy our meal before we discuss work.” We eat in silence. My voice hasn’t made him go crazy; he is relaxed and seems to genuinely enjoy the food and more surprisingly, my company. He smiles and comments on the taste and fresh ingredients. When he swirls his brandy glass and sips it, all I see is my late husband. I am in time capsule with him, we would dine like this when we started this business. Together, a team, but he had other ideas. He didn’t love me like I loved him. The bitter sting of his rejection and my son’s inability to be anywhere near me turned me into something dark and bitter. I became poisonous to myself and I was the incurable disease in my son.

“Would you like dessert?” He breaks the memory of my past.

“No thank you. Could we order some coffee?” I am not one for sweet things. Caesar stands and uses the phone on the sideboard to call room service to come and clear away lunch and bring coffee. The view out the window over the hotel gardens makes me feel like I am not in the filth of the city. I watch as a young couple walk hand in hand, I see the lonely girl on the bench watch them with jealous eyes. So much to live for, you only see what life is when you are getting ready to die. The flowers, the trees, the clouds building up in the sky. How often do we take a minute to look at the sky, to look into our children's eyes. I wished in that minute I hadn’t looked in his, because what I saw wasn’t anything good. I saw the monster I made, the baby I birthed and I saw his intentions all in a glance. I saw the reflection of my heart breaking in his black eyes.
My son is going to kill me today.
 

I turn away. I will not run or fight because if I really think about my life and what is left for me, I would rather him kill me and find his peace, then die a miserable death from the cancer that is already killing me. Slow suffering and dying in agony is not what I want, but neither is seeing my own flesh and blood take my life. I wish that my life had ended with his father’s, that we had left this Earth together. What would he think of this mess? Our own son is driven to murdering me by my actions, by my inability to love him despite his illness. My need for perfection will be my death sentence. Perfection is a disease and it has finally killed me.

Caesar is busy, distracted by the waiter removing plates and cleaning the table where we ate. I choose to stand away by the window and watch the world just a little longer. Out the corner of my eye I see him hand the man a large wad of money and shake his head when the man says something hushed. His lack of reaction to the man's whisper has me intrigued, has my son been cured at last? The coffee tray is set up in the small seating area. Two old fashioned wood and fabric chairs and a small glass topped table on a lavish rug. 

“Sit, Ma. I will pour the coffee.” He is being so nice, yet I know his intentions are not good, there is no good in the man. The smell of good South American coffee fills the air as he pours the black liquid into a fine china cup. His hand trembles as he hands it to me, his burns still hindering his movements and making his grip weak. The cup rattles on the saucer. He turns his back to me as he goes to sit down opposite me. I gulp down the first sip of coffee and instantly know what has happened. The acid burns my mouth and throat as it goes down. I cough, gag and splutter trying to expel it but it's no use. The damage is done. I have been silenced, Caesar has delivered his message loud and clear. I let tears stream from my eyes as the pain overtakes me and I am lost to the searing burn as the acid enters my stomach and eats the lining away. I am going to die very slowly, very painfully and very quietly.

The diseases of her past finally started to shed.

“No! No, Mat’!”
I scream, huddled in the corner, grasping the backs of my calves tightly, until I can feel my nails tear into my flesh.

I remember those moments now. The love that I held onto from my mother was never really there. I suppose it’s what you do when you have nothing else to grasp a hold of. She, like most others, wanted to rid me from this world. Fuck, even I thought I wanted to die until now. I kept fighting for reasons unknown to me. But, with the memories that haunt me like the plague, I recall the one and only that was destined to love and protect me in his own dysfunctional way.

Caesar.

The Goodbye Man. I would be the only one that he would not bid farewell to. The words he would never be able to follow through with disturb me.

Where is he? Why can’t he love me like I love him?

Just as sanity clings onto me for mere seconds, it is lost again. I feel myself wanting to fall down the dark rabbit hole, allowing myself to explode into insanity, but the clacking of metal from the fan above my bed keeps me in check. My senses are on high alert, something, again, that I am not used to. I have masked the devil’s touch for most of my life, allowing the few days of love to envelope me.

“Caesar, come save me again!” I scream, closing my eyes, desperately trying to picture his face and the soft gaze he would show me. His hands were rough, but his touch was anything but deadly. He healed parts of me. I may be his poison, but he is my salvation. He is my heaven and I am his hell.
God, give him to me!

Click, click
. I hear the creak of the door open, and I immediately make my way to my knees, bending my face down to the coldness of the sun-burnt orange tiled floors. It’s something Mateo had me do. I was his little pet and I was reminded every day when I sat next to him as he stroked my hair like an owner would pet a dog. Something deep in my belly breaks as anger consumes me again. I am not accustomed to such a sentiment. I was taught to put all feelings deep beneath the surface where no one could sense them, including myself. I was simply a warm body to fuck and abuse.

I am confused. So confused as the recollections as well conflicting feelings I feel swirl about in my fucked up skull. I have to withhold the urge from banging my head against the hard ground. That would be pointless. I would not get any sort of gratification from that act. Caesar is not here to get my attention and Mateo would sure enough have already killed me.

Footsteps pepper lightly across the ground as my ears peak, the noise of the fan and shoes on ceramic calming my toxic and unstable state.

“Little girl,” a woman says in a thick, Spanish accent.

I swallow hard, trying to push that virtue hard away. Trust. It doesn’t exist. I want to destroy it just as it has destroyed me. I wish it would burn and never threaten to make its way back into my life, but my heart craves trust. I always wanted to feel safe and loved, protected and cared for, but no one truly gave me a reason for it.

“Don’t worry, Mi Amor. One day you will be safe again.”

Caesar’s deep, Spanish accented voice troubles me, reminding me of a different ghost from my past. But why didn’t he save me then? Why? I want to scream out at the voices in my head, telling the memories that I hate them, but my voice is mute for the lady before me. I don’t have the courage to look at her because I worry that my little heart will not be able to take it. As soon as I do, I know I will allow that virtue to blanket itself heavy around me, giving me no other choice but to abide by it.

Trust.

“Little girl…” she hums, stepping closer.

My body is shaking as my face is still hard-pressed against the cold tile floor.

“I will not hurt you, little girl.”

I am deceived by my heart once more as my head battles with it, submitting to what I have always wished to come true; to trust someone wholeheartedly and feel safe and loved.

My head perks up as my dark strands veil my eyes, making it impossible to see the woman before me. I am grateful for it. Perhaps my head won this time. I feel warmth bend down near me as a wrinkled hand brushes my hair away from my face and tucks it behind my ear. I look down, but she senses my apprehension. Her hand gently pushes my chin up to meet her eyes. My heart is beating so hard in my chest; the last time I felt safe was in the arms of the man that saved me. The last thing that I wish for is disappointment again. I’m not sure I could survive it with lucidity.

“There’s someone here to see you. He came into your room earlier, but you were not in a well state. He has things he needs to tell you.” Her English is surprisingly fluent.

I furrow my brows as I try to remember.

Hugo?

There are so many questions I want to ask, but I have never been entitled to them before. What would change now? I simply nod my head yes, agreeing with her.

She puts her wrinkled, arthritic hand out to help me up, but I push myself up on my own. I need to know that I can stand on my own two feet, literally and figuratively. I stand up and feel the soft cotton rub against my skin. It’s comforting, but I don’t want to think that it will last. Like earlier, I feel like I am just a girl.

I am lost. I want to be loved, but most of all, I am finally feeling something I am not used to.

I am fucking angry.

I try my best not to stare at the old lady before me as her thick, snow white hair is piled high on top of her head in a perfectly round bun. Her bronze skin is beautiful, reminding me of a canvas that is filled with none other than beauty and kindness. I hope that I am not deceived this time.

She turns around, and I follow, leaving the safety of my room. The small hallway is adorned with antique family pictures, dozens of memories plastered on the wall of happiness that I have never had the pleasure of living. More disdain fills me as I understand the life I have been withheld. My jaw starts to ache, the clenching of my teeth making my head start to throb. I curl my fingers into my palms as fear skulks up my spine. I wonder now, if these feelings that I am so used to will ever go away?

The stench of food assaults my nose and I have to withhold the urge to run to it, sniffing until I find where it’s coming from like a maddened dog. My chest heaves as my belly grumbles. I feel blackness obscuring me again just as I was about to find out something worth anything…

Times of dumpster diving with Pavel play about in my mind, pirouetting to their own melody and taunting me with utter disgust. I want to keep my wits, but I have no control over what is happening to me; the remembrances that are less than pleasant flash before me. I have no control as I see a pot on the stove, the steam wafting heavy above, as the smell of warm food waves through the air like a priceless delicacy.

“Svetlana?” a familiar hum calls to me.

I briefly look over to see Hugo, but I am betrayed by the mind that I wish to save. I run to the food that is cooking on the stove, and before I can be my own salvation, the void that I am used to sucks me in and I am back to the day where everything changed.

“You whore. You
fuck that Spanish fuck when he not pay me!” Pavel yelled, smacking my mother across the face.

It was nothing short of the norm. It was how he communicated with her. My mother took it. Like me, I don’t think she would have known how to survive without the hands of the devils abusing and using her like spit-out trash.

Marta laid on the ground, her blonde curls cascading over her face like a waterfall of fucked up bliss. She was living in her own made up dream, one that was one-sided and would never come true. I thought then that Marta loved me, and maybe she did just a little in her own way before the threat of another’s love was on the horizon, but I think she was too far gone to be saved.

The only love that she had was for the poison that she injected through her veins and up her nose.

Her drunken cackles filled the air as she struggled to get up from the floor of the abandoned apartment on Kelly Street. The pecking of roaches filled the walls and floors, and all I did was sit there as the serenade attempted to soothe me. I would often pretend to be watching a movie, hoping and praying for a happily-ever-after, but I would soon learn that the queen and princess were not born to be saved.

“He The Goodbye Man. He will take care of that shit over there,” Marta laughed, pointing to me.

My little body, which was clothed in nothing but a pair of dirty white underwear, sat in the corner. That was my place. It was where I belonged. I was naughty; born to be unwanted and I would forever be recapped on why.

Pavel walked over to the counter, ripping open a bag of white powder to sniff up his nose.

Sniff, sniff. His world was more tolerable and I wouldn’t get beaten as bad with the white powder he loved. Sometimes he would use the needle, but the powder made him happier. He would grow to rely solely on the needle, as it was cheaper and easier to come by in the hovels of Hunts Point.

Pavel let the effects of the wonder drug set in, then he cracked his neck from side to side, turning around to face me. He let himself smile, but it wasn’t a welcome one.

“You want to die, little girl? Mat’ wants to kill you…” he voice trailed to a whisper.

Desecration would be inevitable for the man that looked at me the way that he did. He ran over to me, grabbing my skinny cheeks between his hands, which reeked of stale cigarettes and liquor.

“You want The Goodbye Man? Mat’ wants you dead, Svetlana.”

He was mocking my existence; it wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last.

“We go see this man. Now,” Pavel seethed, squeezing my cheeks until I tasted blood. My hungry belly drank it up.

“Marta! Now!” he boasted, looking over his shoulder to my mother who was a heap of drugs and alcohol. Her laughter had turned into a whisper, because she, too, was contemptuous of my life.

I wanted to fight, but it would be worthless. I was created to sustain the harshness of the world. Some are born for love, not me. It was then that I wished for it, but I understood that it was not in the cards for me.

Pavel lit a cigarette with his free hand, still grasping my dark strands with his other, and strung me along like a useless piece of garbage. Seconds later, he pounded on a door. I tried so hard in that moment to cry and beg for mercy nonverbally, but the devil had expelled me from allowing myself to communicate in any such way. I didn’t belong to anyone who had a heart. Not even myself.

“I told you to not fucking come here,” the man said. The Goodbye Man. He promised me things, despite times I would be too much for him. He promised that I would be safe again one day, but it was then that I would understand my fate was nothing more than a lie. I was a bargaining tool for trade. My worth meant nothing.

“Marta want her to die. You want spare parts for little one? Money. Lots, Caesar!” Pavel screamed, throwing me within the threshold of Caesar’s doorway. I expected my mother’s voice to come screaming behind, but she was likely too drunk to walk or maybe she didn’t like to interfere with Pavel’s business practices. Whatever the case, she was probably sitting back smoking her cigarette, smiling at the thought of never having to care for me again.

My big eyes looked up to the man that promised me things, but I would not get the safety I craved. Instead, I would see yet another facet of misguided emotions and fractured minds.

“I told you that would never happen, Pavel. I will tear your heart out of your chest now, you Russian fuck,” Caesar seethed, all while his dark eyes remained on me.

His nostrils flared and I could see the torment and heartache written all over his face. Understanding such depravity at four-years-old is disheartening, yet real. I was witness to it all, removing any memory of it until my mind was ready to splinter before attempting to heal itself after years of monstrosity.

Caesar gulped hard, staring at me as if he, too, was weighing a decision that would forever change his life. I was a rotting piece of flesh, melting onto the ground beneath him and at his clemency. Humanity, though, wouldn’t find me that day. Hope was for the wicked, and it was then that my distorted view of life would come full circle.

Caesar charged through his open doorway, grasping Pavel by the neck. He bent his mouth down to his ear, whispering something to him. My understanding would not come. Pavel smiled, looking at me like he had me hook-line and sinker. Caesar’s grasp loosened, and Pavel took a step to the side, inhaling his cig.