Cuts Like Glass Read online

  CUTS LIKE GLASS

  by

  Dana S. Feldman

  Copyright © 2015 by Dana S. Feldman

  Cover Design: Janice O’Bryan

  Cover Picture: Dana S. Feldman

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher and author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN 10: 1511802111

  ISBN 13: 978-1511802116

  Acknowledgements

  Thank you to my wonderful parents, Ellen Shatz and Jerry Feldman, for always being so supportive.

  Thank you to my friends that read the first drafts and gave me honest opinions and notes: Janice O’Bryan, Darsha Philips, Zorianna Kit, Amanda Levene, and my mom.

  I also want to thank everyone that read Sweet Things Dying and supported my first attempt in the book world.

  The characters and situations in this book are all works of fiction, but the message behind them is a sad reality. I’ve witnessed violence and have seen the devastation left in its wake.

  This book is dedicated to anyone that has ever been in an abusive relationship that they believed they would never be able to get out of.

  You can. You are stronger than you know.

  If you think you are too small to make a difference,

  try sleeping with a mosquito.

  -Dalai Lama

  PROLOGUE

  GOODBYE, AMELIA

  Four years ago…

  He stood over her, waiting, watching as she lay there dying. It was taking too long. He took no pleasure in watching her suffer. Tears streamed down his face as her breaths became fewer and farther in-between and he could hear a distinctive gurgle as her lungs filled with blood. He had once believed that they would be together forever. They talked about growing old with one another, what that would be like, about the children they would someday have, what they might be like. Well, at least they used to talk about those things. Before it all went to shit, before she decided that these things would never be. And now that she lay here dying slowly, drowning in her own blood, he knew that she had been right all along.

  His rage for her was mounting steadily. He hadn’t meant for any of this to happen. He hadn’t planned to kill her today, or any day for that matter. But he just couldn’t let her leave. That was simply not an option. Had she just done as she was told, things would’ve turned out very differently. He blamed her for making him do this.

  When he came home from work, she was packing her bags, crying and yelling at him. He’d snapped. She’d thrown the vase filled with the flowers that he’d picked up for her on his way home. This had been his attempt at a peace offering. It had barely missed his head, spraying the white wall behind him tan with flecks of water. He had followed her into the garage, her final attempt to leave him. No one leaves him.

  When he picked up that thick shard of glass, he hadn’t planned to stab her in the chest with it. It was as if some force unknown to him was controlling his hands, as if he was a puppet watching them, willing them to stop. But he couldn’t stop any of it. Once he started, he just kept going, stabbing at her repeatedly until she stopped fighting back. After he counted thirty-three plunges with the glass dagger, he’d stopped keeping track. Killing a person this way, he’d come to learn, was an exhausting effort. Sweat poured from him, dripping onto her. He wasn’t worried about leaving his DNA. Where she was going, it wouldn’t matter.

  Her nails had left marks on his face that he’d have to find a way to explain. Three jagged lines down the right cheek, two down the left. She’d fallen backwards, forgetting that he’d moved the old couch out here. She’d tripped while backing away from him. The blood was pooling around her now, growing underneath her, spreading widely by the second in a perfect oval, turning the tan fabric a dark shade of crimson.

  I’m finally free. This was her thought now as she lay struggling for air, though an admittedly pathetic end to her life. She had almost gotten away, had she left just five minutes sooner. But he was always faster than her. Except in the water, she could beat anyone there. She’d almost gone professional but life had gotten in her way.

  Dreams of Olympic gold flashed in front of her eyes. She’d always wanted to be the best at something. Swimming, at one point in time, seemed the answer. She imagined herself swimming, gliding along smoothly like a knife through warm butter. Swift, agile, she cut through the clear blue water, touching the side of the pool and quickly pushing off against the wall, her legs strong and lean so that she could out-swim the competition and get to the other side first. She always loved the feel of the water, like silk against her skin. So clean, so pure, she was in control.

  She looked up at him, trying to make out his face, but couldn’t see him. The lamp that she had tried to use as a weapon lay on the ground just across the garage from her. The light shone up in a way that made it so she could only see the outline of one side of his face. She could see that she’d gotten a few good digs in at least. This made her somewhat happy.

  He wondered if she was actually smiling, perhaps remembering something? Maybe it was true, after all, that one’s life flashes in front of their eyes just before they leave this earth. Her eyes were open wide as she tried for air but couldn’t get any. It had been slow, and for that he was sorry. He even told her so. Finally, she stopped gasping, stopped shaking. And then she was gone. This was the very thing he was trying to avoid. Saying goodbye to Amelia was never easy. Now he knew that he’d never have to do it again.

  Without thinking, an instinct for his survival took over. He pulled the pillows from beneath her and pushed her into the couch that she lay dead on. The pillows had absorbed most of the blood. He put them over her, the side she bled on facing her. He wrapped rope around the couch tightly, securing her in pillows, and pulled the couch towards the back of his truck.

  He then jumped up into the back of his pickup and pulled the couch up as much as he could. Then he jumped out and pushed the other end of the couch up and it slid easily from that point into the cab. He tightened more rope around it and secured it in the bed of the truck, making sure it wouldn’t budge as he drove.

  He’d take her out on the boat and drop her into the ocean that she loved. It seemed appropriate. She never did want to be buried. Always wanted to be cremated, but he couldn’t do that. The couch, he thought to himself, well that was another story. There was a field close by that he could dump it. A little lighter fluid and a match and it would be charred down to metal springs. A lot of homeless people lived over there. The police would assume they’d set it on fire for warmth.

  He grabbed more rope and a thirty-five pound concrete hollow block leftover from a home improvement project, and loaded everything into the back of the truck with her. He double-checked that all was tightly packed up by tugging on a piece of rope hanging just over the side of the cab. By the time he was finished it looked like he was moving a couch. This would get him out of the neighborhood and close to the boat with no questions asked.

  He then ran back into the house and grabbed the suitcases that she’d packed. He threw them onto the passenger seat. Once in the truck himself, he took a deep breath; a sigh of relief escaped him. On the way to the marina he stopped at a local charity to drop off her things. No one was around so he would be able to just leave it all in the parking lot just outside the building.

  He took a quick look inside each suitcase to make sure there was nothing in them that could identify either of them. He removed the contents of her wallet, her prescription medications and the divorce papers that he found in his search. These would all be burned later with the couch, he decided. He waited a few moments and as he expected, a family that by the
looks of it lived out of their car, drove up and started immediately rummaging through everything, taking most of it before he drove away.

  Once tonight was over, he would be the grieving husband who had come home to find out that his wife of three years had suddenly left him. She’d conveniently written a note, which had made this decidedly easier for him, and packed-up all her valued possessions taking them with her. The tears would be real. He was in pain at losing her. She was the only woman that he’d ever loved, and he doubted that he’d ever have the chance to feel this way again.

  Wishing that she hadn’t forced his hand in this way, he once again reassured himself that she was partly to blame for all this. He again reminded himself that had she just done as he’d asked that none of this would have had to happen. Hot tears burned his eyes. Wiping them away with the back of his hand, he assured himself that he’d done the right thing. A man has to do what a man has to do.

  It was less than a mile from the charity to the boat. He needed to move quickly now. He’d been resourceful with the couch and he was proud of himself. She always told him he didn’t use his head. Well, he sure did this time, didn’t he? He looked around the darkness as he pulled into his parking spot and turned the ignition off, leaving his headlights on for a moment. Not a soul in sight.

  A howling wind rhythmically rocked the boats gently against the dock. They moved in tune with each other. He got out and was immediately hit by the cold. He could see his own breath. Quickly, before anyone drove up or popped their head up to say hello, he untangled the rope around the couch, her temporary tomb, and covered her in a thick, wool blanket. He put the pillows back on the couch, upside down, to cover the blood.

  Grateful for the descending angle of the walkway, he was able to get her to the dock within seconds and up onto the boat. He checked again, no one in sight. No lights on in any of the boats. He ran back to the truck and grabbed the concrete block and rope that he’d brought and returned quickly to the boat, jumped onboard and started up the engine.

  As he got further out into the water, he was encased in a thick fog layer, blanketing him in a gray mist that didn’t allow him to see beyond an arm’s reach.

  He opened the blanket and laid the concrete block on top of her, looped the rope through one of the openings and wrapped it around her waist several times before securing a tight slipped square knot securing it all into place. He leaned down to kiss her one last time and closed her eyes gently with two fingers so she would stop staring at him, before once again covering her with the blanket. He then wrapped more rope tightly around the blanket covering her from head to toe, fully encasing her inside.

  He tried to dismiss the feelings welling up inside of him but his rage for her returned at full force. He was so angry with her for putting him in this position. He pulled the blanket down once more, looking at her beautiful face for the final time. He’d watched her sleep many times and that was exactly how she looked right then: peacefully asleep. She was such a beautiful sight.

  His rage for her couldn’t be contained and he could feel his entire body fill up with it to a point that he felt as if he would explode if he didn’t do something to feed the hungry beast within. He’d tried to force it down, but in the end he couldn’t control it. Before he knew what he was doing, he’d taken his heavy-duty metal flashlight and smashed it into the beautiful face that he’d so many times looked at to calm himself down. He hit her with a forceful fury that few ever saw, and those that did, never lived to tell about it.

  The first strike sent a shock of pain up through his arm and into his neck. It got easier with each successive blow until her once beautiful face was contorted into an unrecognizable bloody concoction that no longer resembled anything human. It wasn’t the last time that he’d ever see that beautiful face though; she would be forever lodged into his memory and every time he’d close his eyes from this day forward, she would be there staring back at him, asking why.

  Unable to look at her anymore, he threw her over the side of the boat into the water that she so loved. He watched as she sank slowly into blackness.

  If not for the splatters of blood that he could feel on his face and those that he could see pooling beneath his feet, he could pretend that it had never happened. Maybe it hadn’t, maybe it was just a bad dream.

  CHAPTER ONE

  DEAD END

  Present Day

  “It was a terrible dream and I didn’t get back to sleep after that,” I say, hoping to end this part of the conversation. It doesn’t work. I watch as he quickly flips the page in his notebook and scribbles something, and then circles it several times. My eyes follow the pen as it floats across the page.

  “Care to talk about it?” he asks, trying to appear supportive, I think. Or maybe he’s just prying, wanting to be the one who discovers something. Or perhaps I’m just paranoid. “I find that whenever I have a bad dream, if I just tell someone about it, it’s usually not as bad as I remember it. Whatever it was that frightened me doesn’t seem quite as scary.”

  I look at him, willing him to understand that my reality is in line with my nightmares, and therefore, his ridiculous idea won’t work. I also know that I won’t be getting out of here until I appease him. I’ve begrudgingly agreed to these biweekly sessions, suggested by my attorney, because he believes they’ll help corroborate my story if this ever goes to trial.

  “I woke up somewhere; I don’t know where I was. Nothing looked familiar but I think it was a hotel room. It had that look about it. You know, a sofa, two love seats, a coffee table, and there was a large bed. It was an upscale room, nicely decorated, most likely a suite somewhere. But I was confused as to how I had gotten there. And then I looked across the room and there was a man there.”

  “Who was the man? Was it Gabe?” he asks, interrupting me, furiously taking down notes on every word I say, every facial expression I make and position I shift into. I find it hard to sit still for this long. I don’t fight him. I go with it. All I want to do is get the hell out of here. I should only have about twenty minutes of this torture left.

  “I didn’t know him. He was dead, a bloody corpse on the floor. Blood was everywhere in that corner of the room, on everything, sprayed onto the walls there. The rest of the room remained perfectly pristine. It was odd; the horror was completely contained to that one area and if you looked in any other direction, it was as if nothing at all had happened.”

  “So, what did you do?” he asks, leaning forward in his chair, his chin now resting on his hands, his elbows on his thighs. I have his full attention. His notebook and pen sit on the coffee table between us now. But I know that he’s still recording me. These tapes could possibly end up in court if there’s ever a trial. I must be very careful.

  “I looked down at my outstretched legs before me. I was sitting, leaning against a wall, I think. My blood-soaked clothes were stuck to me. I started to peel them off, layer by layer. The blood had soaked through, onto my bare skin. I tried to scream but nothing came out. No sound.”

  “Were you eventually able to call for help?” he asks, now picking up the notebook again, taking down more notes, analyzing every single thing that I say and do.

  “No. I sat there for a while before getting up. Then I peeled off the remainder of my clothes, I had to get them off me. I was cold. I was standing naked except for my bra and panties. They were still stuck to me. I approached a full-length mirror. I just stood there, looking at myself. Behind my reflection, I could see him and I didn’t know what had happened. He just lay there, so still. It was too quiet. I walked over to him and took my blood-splattered blouse and placed it over his face gently. His eyes were still open and I couldn’t stand looking into them. I could see my reflection in his dilated pupils.”

  I stop because I realize that I don’t remember the rest. I must’ve woken up then.

  “So, then what?” he asks, staring at me intently. His pen held tightly in his hand, he waits with baited breath for my answer.

  �
�I don’t remember,” I tell him, watching the disappointment cross his face.

  “It seems rather obvious, don’t you think?” he asks, wanting me to put the pieces together myself. The problem is, I have no idea what in the hell any of this means. Off my blank stare, he analyzes my mental well being for me.

  “Ella, you’ve been through a traumatic loss. Gabe is gone. You still don’t know what happened to him. It’s a dead end. Your mind is trying to sort things out, to make sense of things. This is good, really, really good. I think that this is the first step in your healing. I think, quite possibly, that your mind is wanting to remember but at the same time protecting you until you’re fully ready.”

  I allow him to ramble. He’s trying to help. He, like everyone, thinks that I’ve gone mad. I wish that people would try to see things from my perspective. I’m not going mad, I’m fucking pissed off. Despite everyone’s resolution that I’ve lost my mind and that they must tread very carefully around me, I’m very much aware of exactly what’s going on here. And I’m not the crazy one.

  But I’ve learned from recent experiences that when I try to say what I really think happened that day I get the look. The look that I’m referring to is one that infers that I’ve lost my marbles. I’ve learned to dodge it. Say what I think people want or expect for me to say. It ends conversations quickly. It gets me out of rooms and through therapy sessions.

  “Thank you. I think that you’re probably right. It’s been an awful year, Dr. Bryer.”

  “I know that it has. This would be too much for anyone, even,” he starts and then stops himself.

  I think that I can finish his thought. “Even someone mentally stable.”