December, 2017
Having inadvertently caused two murders – that she knew of – took a steep toll on Ingrid. Relentless work commitments were the only thing keeping her tethered, but being wholly unable, rather than unwilling, to share her burden with anyone made it that much heavier to bear.
Adding to that, she had no way of knowing what Leon's next move would be now. She'd given up clubbing as a result – and shopping, weekend outings, generally leaving the house beyond going to the office. Because whenever out and about, she'd constantly look over her shoulder, and it hurt. Fried her nerves to the point where panic attacks first thing in the morning became a regular occurrence and required big, bitter gulps of bourbon to stabilise.
"Why so jittery?" Pri asked one day over lunch.
Ingrid's head snapped up. "Jittery? Who? Me?"
Her co-worker quirked an eyebrow at her. "Yeah. You alright? You've been skipping out on all the fun lately."
Ingrid chewed her mouthful of sandwich and swallowed. "No, I'm okay, just focusing on... work."
"Right." Pri picked up her phone, scrolled through social media. "Your friends are really so cool," she said.
"What friends?"
"You mean you haven't seen this?"
Priyanka showed her a collection of Instagram photos, picturing various artworks. The caption labelled them as feminam amor pieces from the grand opus exhibition of the 'rosette' artist duo.
"No fucking way!" Ingrid exclaimed. "That's Rose and Liz!"
"Yup," Priyanka popped the p. "There's more." She retrieved the phone and pulled up a different album.
"That's from the wedding!" Ingrid shrieked, pointing at the picture. "And that's me! How did I miss this?"
Priyanka laughed. "Goes to show how out of it you've been, mate."
Ingrid blinked, Leon's crazed expression flashing before her eyes. She shook it away and her vision cleared. How had she not been told of the exhibition? She reached for her phone and studied the group chat. She had been told, it seemed. Not too long ago, either. Ingrid remembered the sudden surge of activity she'd pointedly ignored. Now a current of guilt rippled through her.
Hey, she wrote to Rose, her fingers trembling above the screen of her device. So sorry I was such a dick about your thing. I literally just noticed you guys have put on an awesome exhibition. Wish I was there to see it in person!
Ingrid then proceeded to follow all the 'rosette' social media accounts and set each one of them on priority. She'd be damned if she missed another opportunity to support her friends' endeavours.
Hey!!!! Rose replied, sooner than expected. That's quite all right, I figured you were swamped with work!! How's New York treating you??
Ingrid couldn't help a smile.
It's a shithole as ever.
Nooo, don't say that!! Shocked and sad emojis attached. Seriously, though – are you okay?...
Ingrid grimaced to herself. Okay enough. Don't worry about me. Tell me about this project of yours. Looks massive.
It is! We've gathered material from our entire lives and featured pretty much all the prominent women we've ever come into contact with.
Paintings, drawings, sketches, photographs... Videotape footage, Snapchat clips
You name it, we're showcasing it.
Wow. Sounds like a lot of work.
It was! It took us forever to put it together, and then put it out there...
It's really only too bad you couldn't be here for opening night!
There's quite a lot of pictures from Uni! And you're in them! Wink.
Send me some, alright?
Doubt I'll be able to come to London anytime soon.
Sure thing!
Take care of yourself, Ingrid. Love you.
A row of kisses and colourful hearts.
The exchange helped lighten her mood, so Ingrid returned to the meeting room with a spring to her step and a twinkle in her eye.
*
Edgar watched Ingrid thrash in her sleep, moonlit sweat glistening on her skin.
"No... don't... no..."
He'd heard her scream, as he now slept with his connecting door open, in case she ever needed him. But despite his best intentions, he just stood over her bed, unsure what else to do.
"...don't... kill him... no..."
"Ingrid..." Edgar climbed in and drew the blanket down to her waist. "Ingrid, wake up, it's only a nightmare."
He squeezed her shoulder, attempting to nudge her into consciousness without scaring her awake.
It didn't work.
Her eyes flew open at the same time as her mouth. A terrified screech stung his ears. She backed away from him, pressing herself into the headboard. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, sweat trickled in streams down her neck.
"It's okay," Edgar held up his hands to reassure her he meant no harm. "You're okay, it was only a dream."
Ingrid licked her lips and gulped. Her eyes skittered back and forth, as if she was trapped in her body.
"I'm not going to... Here." He retreated one slow step at a time and sat on the carpet instead. "I'm not going to hurt you."
She reached for the water bottle on her nightstand. Her fingers shivered as she screwed it open.
"I know," she mumbled after a couple of sips. "I know." She took another swig and set the bottle down.
"Ingrid, I think you need to see a doctor."
She vigorously shook her head.
"Then – and don't punch me for this – a priest."
She raised an eyebrow at him in protest. "What for, an exorcism?"
"Ha, no. A confession."
"Yeah... right. A priest is the last fucking thing I need. Remember what happened last time I confessed to one?"
Edgar could clearly recall how Ingrid blamed the village priest from her childhood home for her grandmother's tragic death.
"I know. I know, but... Whatever happened that you keep bottled up like this inside of you... it's poisoning you, Ingrid. You're saying you can't tell anyone, but I know for a fact that catholic priests firmly uphold their Seals of Confession. I should know. The shit I've spewed in confessional... the next day, I'd show up in church and it was like nothing had ever happened."
"Well, I don't believe in God, so what would be the fucking point?"
"You don't have to believe. A confession is a confession. Hell, you don't even have to repent. You just..." A shrug. "You just let it out. I can ask around for a good, honest priest. They tend to be decent therapists, too. Free of charge."
"Whatever." She spun on her side away from him. "Goodnight, Edgar."
He stood and stooped to kiss her. "Goodnight," he breathed over her cheek. "Remember, I love you. And I'm a fucking firefighter."
He pecked her temple, too, for good measure, and straightened up.
*
It had started to snow.
Ingrid bundled up in her big winter coat, the high collar of which hid half her face. She had her fists buried in its deep, warm pockets and a French cap on her head, chic and woollen. All black, down to the tall boots on her feet.
She stood within the filthy haunches of the city, on Eighth Street between Avenues C and D. A sharp plummet from the Upper East Side offices of The Brennan Co., down into the Lower bowels of Manhattan. The taxi had dropped her at the end of the block and she walked along the pavement, glancing sideways left and right.
Her anxiety had become uncontrollable. The irrational fear, the perpetual panic – alcohol could no longer contain it. So she'd withdrawn three thousand dollars in cash and come out looking for something stronger. Something she could only pick up on specific corners.
Her heart fluttered like a caged bird in her chest. She'd taken into account that she might unwittingly wander into Leon Ortega territory, hence the get-up leaving only her eyes visible. This was the only place she knew where to score, though. She'd read about it, once, in a book starring a drug addict. Remi had confirmed the infamy of the neighbourhood. It might have bettered itself in recent years, except not too much, she hoped.
"Hey, mamacita, what can I do you for?"
A cheery, seedy Hispanic man approached her from the darkness of a side alley.
"Weed," she began, "acid. Looking for an appetizer."
He laughed, his white teeth glowing in the night. "You from the police?"
She frowned. "What? No. And if I was, do you think I'd tell you?"
The man shook his head, still chuckling. Suddenly, a blade glinted in the yellow streetlight and before she knew it, Ingrid had it pressed against her throat.
"You look like a rich lady," he growled in her face. She struggled not to scrunch her nose at the stench his mouth emanated. "Why don't you give me all your dough and I'll let you go without sneaking a peek under this nice coat of yours?"
Her nostrils flared as she breathed, her lips pursed behind her collar. She'd been looking for a high, and she'd found it. Briefly, she considered whether she could run fast enough away from him.
"Pronto, mami!" the man shouted, applying more pressure to his blade.
It sliced her skin and she felt warm blood trickle over her collarbone. As she prepared to extract her hands from her pockets, another figure emerged from the shadows, a mere outline in the budding snowstorm.
"Que está pasando aqui?" the newcomer asked, his voice muffled.
Her assailant replied in Spanish but she couldn't make out his slurred words.
"Is that right?" The gruff voice dripped venom.
The second man now stood within sight and she recognised the amber eyes at once. She froze, and not from the cold. Murder flickered in his mien, like fire stoked in a hearth.
"Leon, don't – " Ingrid managed, weakly.
She shouldn't have. It tripped the wrong wire.
"Tú conoces esta puta?" her attacker inquired, incredulous.
Puta. Whore. That wouldn't sit well with Leon. A grim satisfaction blossomed in her chest, which she instantly regretted. At the very least, the suddenness of it likely meant the poor guy didn't suffer.
Ingrid couldn't comprehend how it'd happened so fast. One second Leon was standing a couple of paces away, the next he was right beside the other guy, who'd doubled over and dropped the knife he'd threatened her with.
Red streaks oozed from his mouth. Then Leon removed his crimson-coated blade, larger than the little pocketknife abandoned on the tarmac, and the man crumpled into a twitching heap on the ground. Leon crouched with it and wiped his weapon clean on the corpse before magicking it away, as inconspicuous as when he'd pulled it.
"What the fuck are you doing out here?" Leon turned to glare at her. "Trying to get yourself killed?"
"Stoned, more like." Her own iciness surprised her. "But either one will do, to be honest."
His gaze softened, looked almost like he was feeling sorry for her.
"Should have come to me, then."
"It's you I'm trying to forget. This," she pointed to the body at her feet, "fucking this."
He walked up to her and cupped her face with one hand, his fingers splayed in her hair and his thumb brushing her cheek. His face leaned in and he almost kissed her but her head bobbed slightly back. His warm breath still tickled her lips.
"You'll never forget me," Leon replied. "Just as I'll never forget you. Luna de mi vida, recuerda?"
Moon of my life. Ingrid internally gagged with the recollection. The bastard had ruined Game of Thrones for her.
"Let's go," he whispered. "I'll get you what you need."
He reached down and dragged her hand fully out of her pocket. Trailing alongside him felt at once surreal and excruciatingly vivid. She didn't look back at the body they'd left behind. She wondered if he'd live, then immediately dismissed that notion. It'd been obvious that he wouldn't. Not left for dead out in the cold.
She couldn't bring herself to speak up, or do something – anything. After all, the man had almost killed her. Law of the jungle, concrete or otherwise. Kill or be killed.
And she'd tried. Hadn't she? She'd tried to get Leon not to –
She'd told him not to –
The sonofabitch shouldn't have called her a whore.
Ingrid gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut as Leon pulled her to him and held her tight.
Was this really happening?
*
Too damn good. So fucking guilty.
Smoke filters into her lungs, the world slows down, she falls or the bed comes up to meet her, her body's lying beneath him, his lips taste like fire...
This must have been what Oskar had felt like. Or rather, some infinitely more fucked-up version of it.
Time stops. They're figures from a painting, flesh-and-bone humans encased into a two-dimensional stillness.
As the drugs wore off and a headache pounded between her temples, Ingrid realised that against her better judgement, she'd given in to her guiltiest pleasure – her darkest sin. Maybe she did need Jesus, like Edgar had suggested.
The heat rises, soaked, searing, sweet... The wave hits, crashes, ripples...
Then, again.
She'd let Leon Ortega reclaim control over her body and use it as he saw fit. The weed had helped, sure. But she was the one who'd allowed the ecstasy to burn her insides, a blissful sort of lazy exhaustion she'd ridden high. There was something uniquely gratifying about just letting go of anything and everything as he pressed her every button just how he knew best, sending her flying into the stratosphere.
Something burns. Everything burns. She can smell it. Smell herself. Smell him. Taste him. His sweat, his skin, his... Salty. Sweet. Bitter.
Bourbon. Fire. Flames. Embers glowing in the dark.
Steam or smoke? It floats. She floats, he's grabbing her feet, keeping her grounded. Grabbing her thighs. Her ribs. Her shoulders. Delicious. More.
Though as high as the high had been, the fall would be proportionately painful and decidedly more dangerous. Even if she landed on her feet, it'd hurt like hell.
It's over. She cries. No, she can't. He holds her. Kisses her. There, lower, lower... Harder! He bites. Licks, laughs, lies. Languid.
And again.
Smoke, heat, wave. Repeat. Repeat, until he collapses. Until eyes won't stay open. Until the heat won't surge. Until it sizzles, smoulders, subsides into nothingness –
Cut to black.
At the crack of dawn with a few spare joints in each of her coat pockets, Ingrid made a stealthy escape from Leon's stinky studio flat. The entire hallway reeked of weed and worse and she wondered for a second why he'd choose to live in such a place – surely he must have been filthy rich by now.
She slinked down the dirty staircase, past shadowy figures sprinkled about, and sucked in a mouthful of freezing air once outside, relieved to be alive. She wrapped her coat tight around her, unable to stop shivering due to the sudden shift in temperature.
The streetlamps had gone dark but the winter sunrise was still not bright enough for her to feel comfortable wandering around by herself. She crossed the deserted street and stopped by a barber shop, to have a reference point as she ordered an Uber. A sheet of snow had blanketed the ground overnight and she watched her footprints denting its smoothness.
When the Uber arrived, she directed it towards Central Park, asking the driver to take the most scenic route she knew. The woman didn't question it. Whatever she must have assumed about this strange, early morning adventure of Ingrid's, she kept it sternly to herself.
Don't ask, don't tell.
The sun had come all the way up by the time Ingrid climbed out of the heated car. She no longer trembled. Her limbs, warm and comfortable now, had loosened during the ride. Her headache, too, had receded. Weed later, then. Maybe breakfast first.
She found a food joint open early, filled mostly with trucker-type burly blokes. Ingrid slid into a booth, ordered cheesy eggs, crispy bacon and black coffee. Her phone overflowed with texts, missed calls and miscellaneous notifications.
I'm alive, she wrote in response to Edgar's numerous messages. So fuck off.
She switched her phone off, just in case, and dug into her greasy breakfast. It helped her regain some strength. Her bloodshot eyes hurt less. Her head weighed less. Her sore, frigid body tingled less.
Until a bloodstain popped up on her plate, spreading into her eggs and bacon. Ingrid started, stiffened, shrank into the seat. A few blinks in rapid succession, fingers rubbing at her eyes.
Turned out, it was only ketchup.
*
song of the chapter: judas by lady gaga