Letting Go (Chapter-20)

Edmond

Miranda Adler’s cheek felt smooth and cold as Edmond kissed it for the final time. He tucked the pink sheets around her small, frail body, wondering how she still looked so full of life after dying in his arms an hour before. He plugged in the star shaped night light, turned off the main light, and closed the bedroom door. Across the hall his wife, Sharon, lay heavily against the pillows of their king sized bed, just as delicate and small boned as their daughter, with her blonde hair tangled amidst the twisted sheets. Edmond placed a wool blanket over her lifeless body and kissed her tenderly on the lips before switching off the light and closing the bedroom door behind him. He turned around and immediately staggered back, slamming his head against the door. Flames of fire had traveled up the wooden staircase, igniting the floor only inches away from his feet. He tried to turn the doorknob but, finding it locked into place, turned his back to the raging fire and desperately kicked the door until it broke open.

Edmond entered the room, darted for the window, and froze. His wife and daughter were standing motionless before the window, with pale-white skin and eyes that floated in faces more skull-like than human.

Sharon stared at him and smiled, revealing a toothless, gaping hole where a mouth should have been.

“It’s your turn Edmond,” she spoke in a robotic tone, “It’s your turn to burn.”

Edmond glanced over his shoulder. The flames had traveled quickly, and were now within inches of his heels. When he turned back around, Miranda had elevated off of the floor so she was at his eye level.

“Yes, daddy,” her eyes bulged from their sockets as she spoke, “It’s your turn to burn...your turn...you turn...your tur--”

Edmond jerked awake. He blinked his eyes several times, reached for his phone, and clicked off the alarm.

“Dammit,” he whispered, looking at the time. It was 9:03 am, which meant that the alarm had been ringing for three straight minutes. He lay still for a moment and listened intently for the sound of his employer, Vera, rustling in her room across the hallway. He had taken her hearing aids the night before, but still worried that the alarm had gone off enough times for her to hear it through the condo’s paper-thin walls.

Edmond pushed himself from the bed and rested his head against the wall. Fourth time. Fourth fucking time, he thought, wiping sweat from his brow. The nightmare had occurred three times before, first the night after he’d killed them in Oregon, then many years later on an unusually cold night in San Bernadino, and finally on a warm afternoon in Santiago. It’s been twenty five years, he looked up to the ceiling, When will they stop fucking with me?

Edmond turned to his side, opened the top drawer of his bedside table, and observed its contents - Vera’s hearing aids, a small black journal, a blue inked pen, and a syringe with a few drops of white liquid in its barrel. An involuntary smile came upon his face as he slid the syringe to the back of the drawer. That little bitch, he thought, remembering Michelle’s face as he injected the needle into the birthmark on her neck, she thought she’d gotten away from me forever. He pushed the black journal aside, lifted out the hearing aids, and walked across the room to the door.

Edmond Rowen’s room was simple and impeccably clean. His bed was placed in the far right corner with a small mahogany table beside it. On the table was a reading lamp, a pair of glasses, and an empty cup with a coaster. Opposite the bed, to the left of the door, was a bookcase with two gardening books on the top shelf. The off-white walls were bare except for a framed painting of daisies and a window that offered a view of the garden and Vera’s neighbor, Frank.

Edmond carried the hearing aids with him to the bathroom, placed them in the small wooden cabinet beside the sink, and turned to the mirror. Though his eyes were sunken, there was a particular brightness behind his slightly dilated pupils that made him smile at his reflection. He grazed his hand over his bald head, then across his chin.

“More shaving cream,” he said under his breath, remembering he had forgotten to buy some during the last grocery run. He picked up a rusted razor from the counter, “and razors.” He put the razor down and leaned closer into the mirror. I knew getting rid of it would pay off one day, Edmond thought, examining a scar on his right cheek where a mole had been.

A recognizable screech erupted from two rooms down. “Rick? Rick?!”

“Shit,” Edmond said as he rolled his eyes. The name ‘Rick’ seemed like a good choice at first, but after nearly ten years he loathed it almost as much as he loathed the people screaming it.

He spoke loudly, almost yelling, to ensure she could hear his reply. “Yes, Vera, I’m here!”

Vera Robert was a near deaf 89-year-old woman with dwindling eyesight and an unusual fascination with daisies. She lived in The Gardens - a small, senior living community in Glendale, and had hired Edmond after a referral from a neighbor who had been moved to an assisted living home in Burbank. Edmond was hired primarily for his gardening, but spent more time housekeeping than attending to the pots of daisies on the porch.

“Rick? Have you seen my aids? Rick!”

“God... that voice,” Edmond muttered, “If age doesn’t kill her soon, I will.”

Edmond despised old people. Their smell, rasping voices, and incessant muttering drove him nearly insane, but the benefits he reaped from his work outweighed the negative aspects. Edmond’s job allowed him to live by an entirely new identity; he went by a different name, worked in exchange for housing and a weekly cash allowance, and was surrounded by employers with memory loss and deteriorating senses.

Edmond opened the cabinet, retrieved the hearing aids, and headed down the hallway. He turned into her bedroom and, thankful to see that she had already dressed, plastered on a smile.

“Here you are, Ms. Robert, I found them in the bathroom. You must have forgotten them last night.”

“Oh you’re an angel, Rick,” Vera put the hearing aids in slowly and carefully, “I’m losing my mind, forgetting things all over the place. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d manage just fine,” Edmond gave her a wink and turned to the door, “I’ll start breakfast. Call if you need anything.”

He made his way through a hallway adorned with pictures of children and grandchildren he hoped he’d never have to meet, and stepped into the kitchen. Edmond went about his usual morning routine, pouring water into a small pot and tea kettle, placing them both on the electric stovetop to boil, and making his coffee. The coffee machine was the only thing in the kitchen that was truly Edmond’s, not because he owned it, but because Vera had lost the urge for coffee after her husband died - a fact she felt obligated to share every time she saw him pour a cup.

This particular morning, Edmond moved through the kitchen with a sense of lightness he hadn’t felt in a long while. He prepared Vera’s chamomile tea in a daisy-adorned mug, poured her oatmeal into a bowl with flowers printed along its rim, and placed them on the table.

Vera made her way to the dining room several minutes later and sat down with her book - a novel by Emily Bronte, he assumed. Please, please don’t look up, Edmond thought as he poured his coffee, I’m not in the mood to hear about your dead husband… again. He gazed behind his shoulder and, thankful that she was too consumed in her book to start up a conversation, quickly cooked two eggs sunny side up in a frying pan.

With his mug of coffee in one hand and a plate of eggs in the other, Edmond glanced at Vera to be sure she hadn’t died while swallowing a spoonful of oatmeal, and walked to his room. As he sat on the floor eating his breakfast, he felt content in a way he hadn’t since his last major fire nearly two years ago. Edmond’s recent fires had been unplanned and small, primarily in trash cans or alleyways. They were frequent enough to give him a sense of purpose, but subtle enough to keep him from getting caught. It was after his grander, premeditated acts of arson - such as the one the night before - that left him feeling completely satisfied. Edmond was well aware of the risks involved, which was why his larger fires were rare - and he knew, after the skepticism that followed the death of his family in Oregon, that he’d have to be cautious.

She looked just like Sharon, Edmond thought as he sipped his coffee, Yes. Michelle and Sharon. Equally as beautiful when they died...almost identical. He took a small bite of eggs and looked out the window, feeling the glow of the morning sun on his skin. But Michelle… she was unusually pretty when she was scared... he put down his mug and leaned his head against the wall. It feels like so long ago that we were married. God, if I could have her for one more night… to see her face turn white when I threw her onto the bed... to slap her softly, then firmly enough to bring color back into her cheeks. To grab her wrists and watch her eyes grow wider and wider…

Heat radiated from Edmond’s body in cold sweat, followed by a tingling current that traveled quickly down his spine. And her small, weak body… god, I could do anything I wanted with it, even when she pushed against me... He closed his eyes, feeling blood rush along with the current, causing his pants to press tighter against him. Edmond pushed his plate of food aside, unzipped his pants, and with a deep breath grazed his fingers along his firm erection. He thought of Michelle’s deep brown eyes looking back at him in terror. He imagined the feeling of her body tense beneath him, then helplessly concede. And as he pleasured himself to a climax Edmond smiled, envisioning Michelle’s lifeless, contorted body being engulfed by flames.