Killing Kate (23 page)

Kate pulls out slowly and pushes
inside of him hard.  She was gentler with Justin.  She shows Drake no mercy. 
Ironically, when she reaches around to feel if he is hard, she gets angry to
find that he is.  She notes there is fluid on the black dildo that is probably
blood, and so she pumps away faster.  There is blood on her thighs from the
marks she gave Drake from whipping him with the belt, too.  The sight of his
blood and knowing he is suffering is making her wet, and while she pushes the
dildo inside of Drake’s ass, the other end inside of her pushes against her in
the most enticing way.  She is definitely enjoying this.  She forgets for a
minute what she’s supposed to be doing and moves her hand just above the dildo
and places her middle fingertip against her clit and begins to rub as she
thrusts.

Drake hears Kate moan and feels her
tense up behind him as she comes.  His own dick is pulsing against the concrete
even though his vision blacks out around the edges every time he feels the
dildo push deeper inside of him.  When Kate slowly pulls it out, however, the
feeling is amazing, and he hates how she’s actually making him enjoy something
so brutal and painful.  He feels both of her hands on his waist as she
continues to plunge into him and realizes she isn’t holding the gun anymore. 
He can move his head a little bit, and she has let go of the belt, and so Drake
cranes his neck a bit and sees the beautiful glimmer of metal.  The gun!  He
looks at how his hands are tied with the rope to the television stand.  I can
do this, he thinks.  One surge of strength and I can take her down.  The
television stand is heavy, but if he can tip it over, his hands will be free.

Kate doesn’t realize it’s coming,
but suddenly she is thrown off of Drake’s back and smacks her head against the
concrete floor.  She doesn’t lose consciousness, and tries to sit up, but
suddenly feels a biting sharp pain in her leg, accompanied by a loud gunshot. 
She screams and kicks with her other leg, connecting with Drake’s hand.  They
both scramble to get the gun, but she is there first, despite the horrible pain
in her leg.  Drake’s legs are still tied to the recliner and his range of
motion is limited.  Her hands are shaking, but she aims it at Drake’s head.

“Don’t kill me,” he pleads, taking
the belt out of his mouth.  “Please.  Look, you’re bleeding.  You could die. 
Get yourself to a hospital and I’ll leave and won’t say a word.  Please.”

“I would be too easy to kill you
and let you die so quickly,” she says.  She stands up and puts her weight on
the leg that wasn’t shot.  She tentatively places some weight on the other leg
and winces, but stays silent.  She aims the gun and shoots Drake in the
stomach, then readjusts her aim and shoots him in the crotch area.  He is
screaming.  “In case I don’t succeed, at least you’ll never be able to fuck
anyone again like you fucked me.”

*

I limp up the stairs to the garage
and find the red can of gasoline that Devin had filled for the lawnmower.  My
hands are a bloody mix of Drake’s and my own but they are steady and sure.  Then
I wander around the house, still limping and begin to pour gasoline everywhere,
throwing a generous amount down the basement stairs.  Drake’s screams have died
down, and perhaps he’s passed out from the pain.  Or maybe he’s already dead. 
I bring the gasoline container back up and finish the last of it near the front
door, and take a pack of matches out of my purse.  I light one and throw it
down and watch the flames explode into a trail behind me.

I sit down on my front lawn.  The
smoke is starting to pour out the door.  I reach into my purse and pull out my
phone and call Justin.  “I’ve been shot,” I say, “And the house is on fire.”

My new apartment overlooks Lake
Michigan and Lake Shore Drive, which is nice.  It’s not really a nice area at
night but during the day I’m able to go for walks.  Supervised, of course. 
It’s not too far from the place I went to dinner with Devin where we ate Pho,
but I can’t walk that far.  Rehabilitation is difficult.  The surgery left me
with a rod in my leg from knee to ankle, which will eventually be removed, but
I will need to go to extensive physical therapy to be able to regain full use
of my leg.  Most of my day is spent sitting in a chair and looking out the
window at the cars driving north and south.  There’s nothing else to do.  I
have a television provided for my entertainment, but I can’t seem to watch
television anymore.  Everything I see is replaced in my mind with images of a
child doing something she doesn’t want to do.  Turning on the news is torture. 
Everywhere in Chicago and the rest of the world there are kids who are going
through shit that no kid should ever have to go through and it’s depressing. 
Kids like me.  Instead of watching and wanting to do something about it, I turn
and pretend it’s not there.  Someone else can change the fucking world, not me.

The police listened to my story,
backed by Justin, my old therapist, and a neighbor or two.  The police
indicated that some of the DVDs survived the fire and were used as evidence.  I
have been court ordered to rekindle my relationship with my therapist.  I’ve
been assured by Dr. Collins that I will never see those videos again, but she’s
wrong.  Every time I close my eyes I see my child self being violated by a
grown man who should know better.  The memories have all come back, and it
sucks.  She comes to see me once a day, which is ironic because I’m no longer
two people.  I parted with that side of myself when I watched the house burn
down and decided to let everything go.  I won.

Devin's funeral was small and quiet
and on a Tuesday, and the turnout was slightly better than Jack's but not
much.  Besides his friends from the railroad, and people from the neighborhood,
including Joe and Louisa, it's a small and quiet affair, and nothing worth
noting.  Holly was there, and devastated.  I just felt numb.  I haven’t even
cried since that day I left him behind in the hospital.  I can’t cry for Devin,
there’s nothing left.

“I wish I'd had longer with him,”
Holly said to me.  “I mean, we had years together, but really it didn't count
since most of those were spent not really being ourselves.”

I know what she means.  So many
years wasted locked inside of my body without my true self completely
absorbed.  Now I’m a whole person, Devin isn't even around to experience it.  He
would be happy I’m in therapy again, but like everything with Devin, it would
be a struggle to convince him that everything is okay.  He always cared too
much.  I blame Jack for that along with everything else.  It’s Jack’s fault I’m
unable to come and go as I please from this place.  It’s his fault I don’t have
my brother with me anymore.  It’s his fault that I lost half of myself.

Every so often I experience her. 
It's like a feeling of deja vu, a shudder of her like she wants to come outside
and play, but I can swallow her back and repress it.

I am learning to be mobile on
crutches.  Things could be so much worse.  I could have lost my leg, or even
worse, my life, but I didn't.  I guess I should be pleased with how things
turned out.  But really, how is this any better?  I’m alone as alone can be.  I
don’t even have her to keep me company.

Justin is here to visit today.  He
looks good and I wonder if things could actually work out between us one day. 
I’ll have to convince him that I’m healthy, which will take time.  Dr. Collins
says it’s a process and I tell her to “process this” and show her my middle
finger.  I really hate therapy.  It’s such bullshit.

“I thought I’d show you today’s
newspaper,” he tells me, sitting down in a chair next to me and sliding the
paper across the table to me.  I unfold it and spread it on the table.  It's
the New York Times.  The headline reads “Washington Congress Elect Charged with
Statutory Rape”.  My breath goes in sharply and I feel that shudder again, but
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.  My therapist told me to close my eyes
and count to ten and think about something that is distinctively me.  I hand
him back the paper.  “Don't you want to read the article?”

“Not really,” I say.  “The headline
is enough.”

“Do you think maybe you’re making
any progress?” he asks me.  Ugh, there’s that fucking word again.  I glare at
him but check myself.  He wants me to be nice, like Jenna.  But I am not Jenna
and it’s hard to be nice.

“Do you think it would be
inappropriate if we made out in here?” I ask him.  He looks uncomfortable.

“Yes, I do,” he finally says. 
“You’re not the person I fell in love with.”

“Oh, Justin,” I say dramatically. 
“I am the very same person you fell in love with.  Same body, same heart, same
dirty mind.  It’s all there.  We even share the same memories.  Do you remember
when you painted me like a peacock?”

“I painted Jenna,” he says flatly.

“But I was there,” I point out.  “I
was aware of what you were doing the entire time.  You don’t seem to understand
that no matter if I’m Jenna or Kate, it’s the same thing.”

He shakes his head.  “Not to me.” 
I pout.  “Everything is different about you.  Voice, mannerisms, the things you
say.  They are different.”

I shrug.  “Dr. Collins says it’s
not about Kate taking over.  It’s about merging myself and becoming one person
with both sides of my personality in that person.  I think I’ve nearly achieved
that.”

Justin listens.  “Maybe,” he says. 
“But to me it’s like starting over.”

“So let’s start over,” I suggest. 
“Besides,” I say, batting my eyelashes melodramatically in his direction.  “We
did have fun once.”

He laughs.  “Fainting isn’t fun.” 
He is still smiling, though.  “So are you suggesting that I ‘court’ you?” He
uses air quotes.  “Pretend we just met?”

“Maybe,” I say.  “We can play it
however you want.”

Justin stands up.  “I’ll think
about it.”  He indicates the paper that’s been left on the table.  “You want to
keep that and read it?”

“Sure,” I say, though I know I will
throw it out.  If I were a dog I’d use it to pee on.  Maybe I’ll find something
to do with it during craft time.  “Will I see you again soon?”

“The day after tomorrow,” Justin
says.  “Same as always.”  Then he does what he does every time he leaves.  He
leans over and whispers in my ear.  “I love you Jenna,” he tells me.  “I hope
you’re still in there.”

“I love you too,” I say to him and
he smirks.  He turns and walks out the door.

I sigh and unfold the paper and
begin to read.  It’s nothing I don’t already know.  Luckily HIPAA prevents the
article from talking about me very much or about my strange medical condition
I’m determined to have.  I skim through and toss it aside and realize I’m very
tired.

Even though I’m locked away in this
building, even though my brother is dead and my boyfriend wants nothing to do
with me, even though I am considered unfit to live in society, despite all of
those things, I feel good.  I finally feel like an entire person.  I feel like
I’m finally out of my cage.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Marikit
Caste
ñ
eda
– Who took what I saw in my head and made it come to life, and made it even
better with her own ideas.  Thank you for the most beautiful cover that
Killing
Kate
could have.  You all should visit her site at
http://marikit.deviantart.com/
because she’s awesome.

Jess,
Karen, Susan and Tiff
– Who read
Killing Kate
, gave me honest opinions and found my typos. 
Thank you all for your friendship and not judging me.

Charlie
– Who read a book when he never
reads books, didn’t judge, and went through all of the crap I didn’t feel like
doing to get this thing published.  I love you.

Anyone
who got this far
– I can’t even describe how grateful I am to you for reading this, and I would
be even more grateful if you would write a review for me!  Honest reviews are
the best kind.