Whistler by K.L. Savage
It’s been two weeks since I’ve been to the jobsite. I told my Dad I had a bad case of the flu, but really, Kenneth locked me in the guest bedroom for being disobedient.
I’m still here.
It’s like a jail cell, only I have a bed, TV, books, and a bathroom. But I’m only allowed to eat once a day when Kenneth decides to slide a tray of food through the small opening in the middle of the door.
Honestly, it sounds horrible, and it is, but it’s a nice break from getting hit. How terrible is that? I’d rather be locked away in isolation than step foot outside of this door where he can get me.
When Whistler confronted me, I didn’t know what to say. I felt defensive and stupid for being so obvious. God, if Kenneth ever found out, he’d kill me.
Whistler had no idea how bad I wanted to scream, “Yes! Save me. Please, help me!” but the fear I felt when I thought about Kenneth finding it out and hurting Whistler because of me was immense. I had to think rationally. Kenneth will hurt anyone who tries to save me.
No one is allowed to be my salvation when I’m cursed with the man I married.
I’m not loyal to Kenneth. I hate him. I don’t love him. I want to leave; I just don’t know-how. I’m afraid for my life.
I finish off the half of the peanut butter and jelly he gave me last night and chug half a bottle of water. I wipe my mouth off just as the door handle turns, and I quickly throw the covers over me, turn over so all he can see is my back, and pretend I’m asleep.
What if he hears my heart pumping in my chest? It’s so loud, I swear it rattles my ribcage.
“Sweetie,” he croons quietly as he tiptoes through the door.
I know that tone.
It’s the voice he used when we were dating, the one that made me feel safe. The reminder of what used to be hurts my soul because I know it’s a lie.
Kenneth Hastings is nothing but a lie.
And I’m so sick of the fake world he has created for me.
The bed dips from his weight, and his fingers slide down my arm. He hasn’t touched me like this in months. I know he is cheating on me, and I don’t care. He can sleep and fuck the entire city of Las Vegas for all I care just as long as it isn’t me.
I wonder every day what I am to him, what I mean to him, but if he feels anything like me, he must feel nothing.
His lips find my shoulder and the thin dried flaps scratch my skin. I want to gag. The bile bubbles in the back of my throat, but I hold it down.
“Wake up, Sweetie. I miss you.” His fingers continue to skim up and down my arm to gently wake me up, and I don’t want to open my eyes.
For the longest time, I believed this man, this tone of voice, his kindness when he wasn’t a complete asshole. I used to sink into his chest when he wrapped his arms around me to hold me instead of punishing me.
A hot huff escapes him and it’s the sound of annoyance. He wraps a hand around my neck and that has my eyes snapping open.
“I said to wake the fuck up, you stupid bitch,” he sneers, flipping me onto my back and straddling my waist. Kenneth wraps both hands around my throat and squeezes so hard I don’t have time to inhale a deep breath to prepare for the lack of oxygen. “You can’t do anything right,” he sneers. “I don’t know why I ever settled for you.” He removes one hand and backhands me, the loud slap causing my ears to ring. “You’re going to get up, get dressed, and go grocery shopping because we are out of food. Take care of your husband. Do you understand me?”
I nod and gasp, gripping his wrist harder as it becomes more difficult to breathe.
He smiles wide and the insanity is gone in a flash. He is wearing a plain white t-shirt and sweatpants. He’s causal because it’s Saturday, so he doesn’t work today, which means I’m stuck with him all weekend. Everyone loves the weekends, but not me. Every Saturday and Sunday, I worry I won’t live to see Monday.
“Get ready,” he says. “I won’t repeat myself.”
I nod and roll out of bed, shivering as the cold wraps around me from the air conditioning. I’m in a small tank top and shorts. My nipples harden and poke through the material, which used to grab his attention, but it doesn’t now.
A huge relief.
I run to the master bedroom and get dressed. I slip on a pair of blue skinny jeans and a long-sleeve plum-colored blouse, then rush to the bathroom. I wash my face and the cold water does nothing to wake me up, Kenneth took care of that already. Brushing my teeth, I stare at the angry red marks around my neck.
I’ll have to wear another scarf.
Kill him.
Thank God for dry shampoo. I spray along the roots to soak up the extra oils. I cringe when the aluminum bottle hits the counter too hard. I wait to see if he says anything about being too loud, but I don’t hear his footsteps coming down the hallway.
While I apply my makeup, covering up the fading bruises from a few weeks ago, I think about my mom. She’d be so disappointed in me to know I haven’t fought harder. She died five years ago from a car accident, but a day didn’t pass where Mom wasn’t a fighter.
She stood up for herself, consequences be damned. She never backed down from anyone. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she killed Kenneth herself and burned the body. She was a real badass.
That gene must have skipped me. I slide the mascara into the holder, unable to stomach my reflection in the mirror.
How can I change when everything scares me, even change?
I’ve been locked away for so long, the only person I know how to be is the one Kenneth has formed.
I snag my purse from the dresser and a hot sweat engulfs my entire body when I walk down the hallway. The low hum of SportsCenter sounds from the TV in the living room. He’s occupied. That works in my favor. The hardwood groans from my weight and I close my eyes, silently cursing to myself.
“List is on the counter. Don’t stray from it or there will be consequences. Understand me?”
“Yes, Kenneth,” I answer pliantly, sliding the small square paper from the countertop. I fold it in half and stick it in my purse. “I’ll be back soon.”
He doesn’t say anything to me as I leave and I give the door the middle finger, wishing I could tell him to fuck off.
Mr. Grant is in the yard weeding his garden. He is wearing a bright pink speedo today and nothing else besides a big straw hat. He has gloves on to protect his hands as he yanks the pesky weeds. “Hey, Charlie!” He waves at me and has to tilt his head back so he can see me from under his hat.
I chuckle, feeling better than I did inside the house. Mr. Grant is good at that. “Hi, Mr. Grant. How’s your day going?”
“Oh, you know, it’s good. It’s hot out. A great day to work on my tan for the ladies.”
“I’m sure you’re a real heartbreaker, Mr. Grant.”
“Oh, one or two when I was younger.”
“Don’t be modest,” I tease him, and he cackles before taking a sip of water.
“Well, I’m going grocery shopping. I’ll see you later.”
“Charlie, before you go, I have a question for you.” He struggles to stand, and I’m tempted to go help him, but I know Mr. Grant is independent and young at heart. He likes to act young too, so I don’t want to offend him. He walks up to me and it’s so hard to keep my eyes focused on his face.
I mean an old man in a pink speedo is walking up to me and it’s shocking. It’s not something you see every day.
Oh god, he has his left nipple pierced.
I cough to cover a giggle. “What’s up, Mr. Grant?” I ask as I open the truck door, hinges squeaking as always.
“Have you noticed a strange man on a bike at night sitting outside my house?”
My tongue dries out. “What?”
“Yeah, the last few weeks there has been this fella parked on the other side of the street. He sits on his bike for hours. I can’t tell what he does. I don’t think he means any harm, but I’m not sure. I think he’s a part of that new motorcycle gang. They bought that old Peep Show place. I wonder what they are turning it into.”
“My dad’s company is remodeling it for them. They did buy it.”
“Maybe you know the guy that is sitting outside my house.”
“I doubt it. I don’t talk to any of the bikers,” I explain, but something tells me that if it is a biker, I bet it is Whistler sitting outside in the dark.
Why would he do that?
“I’ll tell Kenneth to keep an eye out,” I say with a tight smile.
Mr. Grant curls his lip. “No, thanks. I’ll rather take my chances on my own. Your husband is a worthless piece of shit. Don’t think I don’t know what he does to you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking—”
“—Don’t, Charlie. I know the truth. I’ve called the cops a few times, you know. I can hear when things get bad.”
I glance away, ashamed. He probably thinks I’m so weak. I climb into the driver’s seat and start the engine. “I need to go before he comes out here and checks on me.”
“He must have friends at the department because no one ever comes, but I want you to know that you’re not alone. You can come to me.”
“Believe me, Mr. Grant, it’s better if you don’t get in the middle. You’ll wind up getting hurt.” I slam the truck door and roll down the window. “Thank you,” I add.
“You can run away. I’ll help you. I have no kids and I have money. Let me get you away from here.” He clutches the edge of the window so I can’t reverse out of the driveway. If I do, I’ll run his feet over with the tires.
“It isn’t that easy, Mr. Grant.” Tears begin to brim my eyes as he tries to beg me.
“I know. I know, it isn’t, but I can help.”
“Hey, is there a problem out here?”
I stop breathing, not knowing what to do. I’m usually quick with the lies, but today nothing is coming to mind. I think I’m too stunned with the fact that Mr. Grant would help me with his own money to save me from the nightmare of Kenneth.
Mr. Grant responds to Kenneth in stride. “Oh, I’m sorry, Kenneth. I didn’t mean to worry you. I was asking Charlie if she could pick me up some weed killer, pulling them out from the ground is killing my back. I offered to give her some money.”
“I was about to come in and ask you if that was okay. I know I need to be back by a certain time,” I explain as I step out of the truck. I’m so damn nervous right now. It could be okay now but when I get back, he’ll make sure I never talk to Mr. Grant again.
“Of course, it’s okay. You never have to ask to help a neighbor. Just pay us back when you get the chance, Mr. Grant. It’s no problem at all.” Kenneth gives the older man his charming smile that works on anyone and everyone, but not Mr. Grant.
He gives my husband a tight grin. “Thank you so much. I think I’ll head inside now. I get tired so fast these days.”
Liar. Mr. Grant can run circles around me.
“You think about my offer, Charlie. I do need help in the yard with my old age and all, okay?”
Dang, he’s good. “I’ll think about it, Mr. Grant,” I reply as he begins to walk away, pretending to limp as if he is in pain.
“Do you need help, Mr. Grant?” Kenneth calls out and heads down the steps.
The kindness is such a lie.
I grind my teeth together in aggravation and hope Mr. Grant doesn’t fall for it. Kenneth is great at bending people to his will.
“No.” The pink-speedo-wearing-neighbor waves his hand dismissively. “I need to walk while I can without help. Thank you, Kenneth. I appreciate it. Have a good day everyone.” Mr. Grant stops by his front door where Kenneth can’t see him since the entryway is further back than the rest of the brick that creates his home.
He’s watching me to make sure nothing happens.
Kenneth’s smile falls instantly and his eyes narrow as he turns his head to stare at me through the windshield of the truck. I give him a wave, but he doesn’t return it. He turns around and heads inside the house.
Kill him.
Oh, how I want to.
When Kenneth is out of sight, I wave to Mr. Grant, and he gives me a sad smile. He returns the wave and crosses his arms, watching me as I reverse out of the driveway.
I jerk the truck into drive and the diamond ring on my left finger shines as the sun penetrates the glass window. If I could go back in time, I never would have said yes.
I’ve watched my life pass me by in slow motion. Dreams have been crushed. Hope has been banished. Love has been damned. Life is nothing how I envisioned it would be, and it won’t be as long as I stay with Kenneth.
Kill him.
In between the lining of my purse, there is something Kenneth doesn’t know about. I’ve been saving every dollar I can over the last few years and hiding the cash there. It isn’t much, maybe two thousand dollars, but it’s a start.
I could drive and never look back.
He’d find me and kill me.
So it’s only fair if I do it first.
I don’t even remember driving to the grocery store, but I pull into the parking lot fifteen minutes later and park between a smart car and a moped. I’m shaking for some reason, and I press my head against the steering wheel, wondering when my life became a game of survival. “Just do it. Just kill him, Charlie. Prison will be better than another second spent with him.”
The money in my purse burns, tempting me to go to a pawn shop to buy a gun.
“You aren’t a murderer,” I say, trying to convince myself that I’m a good person. I do not plot murder.
With a heavy guilty heart, I climb out of the truck into the dry Vegas air and pass the employee gathering all the carts. “I’ll take that one,” I say before he can grab the cart shoved over a section of the curve.
“Have a great day,” he smiles, chipper and shit.
I’m not in the mood for positive people.
Positivity is a facade too. People tell themselves to be positive, to plaster a smile on their face, and to think of the bright side of things, but you only tell yourself that when you’re feeling dark and negative.
Humanity can continue to fool itself. They are negative, no matter how much they pretend otherwise.
I toss my purse in the seat built into the cart for kids and pull the zipper across to retrieve the shopping list. I have a few hours before I have to be home and I’m going to take my time. I have a system. I head down the aisles first, then the produce so the fruit doesn’t bruise with all the random boxes and cans, then get frozen and cold items so they last longer.
There’s a crying baby screaming its lungs out and a tired Mom eyeing the formula. My heart aches. I’ll never have that, and I wouldn’t want to have a baby in the situation I’m in. Kenneth doesn’t want kids, and I don’t want his kids.
I reluctantly roll the cart down the aisle and grab Italian dressing- his favorite. I like it, but I like ranch more. Not that I’m able to tell him that.
I relax the longer I shop. I assume some people, like the new mom, don’t like grocery shopping but I do. The peace is nice, and I hate to leave it every time.
“Funny running into you here.”
The familiar voice has me dropping the jar of pickles in my hand. The glass shatters on the floor and dill pickles roll along the ground through the pickle juice.
I’m quickly picked up and twirled around, then placed on my feet safely away from the glass.
“Clean up in aisle three,” is announced over the speakers.
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s just an accident.”
Nothing is ever just an accident.
Accidents can be avoided if one pays attention.
Kenneth’s voice echoes in my head.
“Clean up in aisle three.”
Clean up my dignity while you’re at it.
The repeated announcement yanks me from my daze, and I lift my eyes to see the man that had me dropping a jar of pickles.
Dark hair, dark eyes, the scent of leather and laundry.
Whistler.
And he is way too close to me.
Yet, I don’t move away from him either.
