True Crime

by Samantha Kolesnik

This book is dedicated to the Creators and Builders, the kind souls whom the world rarely deserves and so desperately needs.

Lim saw to it that night that Moses didn’t suffer anymore. My friend at school said Moses had gone to doggy heaven. I was only five, but I was smart enough to know there was no place like that.

Alice said there were spiders in the basement just like there were in the book. She had told me through the vent one night she’d begun to welcome their company. The touch of anything living gave her hope, or so she said.

I often left my body and lost track of the time. My imagination took me places when my body had to endure things my mind couldn’t. My flesh was a monument to bad things I wished I could forget. I wondered if that was what people meant when they said they felt God in their hearts because what happened was not of me. I was not what I did. And I was not what was done unto me.

didn’t take a special joy in the fact that I had killed. Did the trash man take joy in his haul? It was something that needed doing.

The cowboy laughed. He shared a look with Lim, or at least he tried to. It was one of those exchanges men made without talking. They always said the same thing, those exchanges. “Ain’t them women silly,” the cowboy’s eyes said.

“You think they have feelings?” I asked. She spat on the ground. “You think them men think us women have feelings? You got a heart that beats, you got feelings, Alice. And every daughter on this earth is just somebody’s broodmare.”

Her eyes warbled around in her head like she was trying to say something. It felt pleading. It struck me then how much distance we put between ourselves and animals. Perhaps this was from design, to ensure the very thin line which kept us polite would seem thick and impenetrable. We were all murderers, after all. Some of us just hadn’t discovered it yet.

Her voice cracked. “The things he’d do.” All of nature began to hum along with her refrain, echoing her pain. The things he’d do, the flies buzzed. The things he’d do, the snakes hissed. The things he’d do, the frogs croaked.

The world was just an echo chamber for man’s sin.

Every once in a while, I’d wonder what Mama had been like when Lim and I were babies. It scared me. I saw babies from time to time and they were so weak. I didn’t like to think of myself so vulnerable in her arms. The same question haunted my thoughts. What did she do to me? What did she do to Lim? Things we’ll never know.

She’d feel too guilty not to get out and look. Every girl in the world was taught not to trust her gut. Every girl in the world knew she was the fool in the play.

And then I thought of the newspapers and TVs. And how my face in black-and-white would look like the rest of them. How I was the monster I pretended not to be. Alice died an angel. She was not me.

The world never accepted the unwanted child. Firmer than any scripture was the belief that no matter how ugly or horrid a child could be, at least the child’s mother would love it. Perhaps the worst damage to society had been the perpetuation of this myth . . . for it orphaned Lim and me. It orphaned all of us. The unwanted. The abused. The raped. The Unloved.

I turned around and stared at the two milky-skinned teenagers. There must’ve been something about the way I looked at them that stilled their cocks. They took a step back from me, eyeballing each other as if I were the freak. “Let’s get out of here,” the teenager said.

I was now on the legless pig’s level and our eyes locked. I saw that pig’s missing legs and I knew, without asking, it wasn’t born that way. Someone had made it that way. There was no evil in the world that was not man’s work. And there was no man in the world that was not woman’s work.

I worried about Lim sometimes. I knew he could defend himself but I worried about his heart. If I were more honest, I worried about my place in his heart. I missed having my older brother by my side.

There was a rage so deep inside of me that wanted a man to dare try to kill me. There was a hate so deep inside of me that wanted me to dare just die. When I returned at night from my secret walks, I cried in such a way that no one could hear me. I cried because Lim was the only person who might’ve ever loved me, at least enough to see to it that any hand that harmed me lost the ability to harm at all. What did it say about me that my one true guardian angel was the earth’s devil?

He was an older man with a scraggly red beard and a hideous pock-marked face. He was one of those men whose appearance shamelessly showcased the darkness of his soul.

It was unwise to underestimate a weak opponent. Even a weak man could find someone strong to fight his battles for him. Even weak people sometimes had charming tongues and even the strong sometimes had listening ears.

Yeah, who was I fooling? Nobody kept their hands off a woman because a woman didn’t want it . . . there was always some man who loomed in the distance threatening something worse.

The monseigneur was silent for a long time before he finally remarked, “You’re not uncomfortable with silence.” I shook my head. I didn’t really see why I should be discomforted by people not talking. “It’s unusual,” he said. “Why?” “People want to fill silence. They’ll reveal their hand, so to speak.” The monseigneur folded his own hands neatly in his lap. “You don’t.”

“And none of those men, little fairy tales that they are, answered me. Or maybe I’m not good enough for them,” I said. I laughed a dry, hollow laugh. “In any case, my Moses was sweet, he was, and so even if I was bad, why did he have to die? If there’s such a thing as God, he never, ever has ever shown me any love. But then again, who am I? My mother didn’t love me and my father wanted me for parts. So who am I to God? I think he’s likely made my value quite clear.”

Devastating

He studied them as if he hadn’t known them his whole life. He had an astounding disinterest in my anger.

This caught me off guard. I wasn’t used to people responding to anger so calmly. I had just threatened to kill the man. I didn’t understand why he would trust me with a favor.

I could bash, I could cut and I could run if I had to. I could do the things I needed to to keep breathing. But when Milton took out his dick and forced me to watch, I could not even utter the word no. All I could do was stare and hurt, a frozen bruise of a woman. Certain memories emerged whenever men or women made sexual gestures at me. I always felt like my body was up for grabs. I didn’t want to have it anymore. I wanted to cut out all of the entrances.

I was certain there was no worse feeling than having someone inside of you when you did not want it. It did not go away. The memory raped long after the person stopped. My childhood self was clay and sometimes I felt like my insides were shaped by their fingers, by their organs, by their wills. I didn’t even want to touch myself, or look at it, really. I didn’t want anything to do with it except to maybe cut it out of me.

He had an impenetrable optimism about him and, though I was reluctant to admit it, sometimes I felt scared for Hank Riley. Men like him didn’t stand a chance.

His eyes were kind. The way he looked at me made me uncomfortable. My discomfort wasn’t because he wanted anything, but precisely because I felt like he wanted nothing. It was easier to deal with people when I could see the blueprint of their desires.

The dogs had real presence. They were calm, but I sensed a readiness on their part to attack at any moment. They were three beasts which commanded my respect almost immediately.

There were people who hurt others thinking others would hurt them. And then there were people who hurt others knowing others wouldn’t hurt them back. The world was all comprised of people just causing hurt. And it got me to thinking for a moment about love and what does love mean. And I wanted to ask Hank Riley this important question, but there was something about his beige sandals and the way his shorts fell, the dopiness of his haircut and the sincerity of his gaze as he poked around for Mr. Lorry . . . Instead, I stared into that girlish beast’s eyes, the shepherd of the house. And the darkness of her pupils told me everything I’d ever already supposed about life.

One, with a black oval on her back, went to his side and sat on her haunches. Her tongue was flapping like a good girl, but I wasn’t fooled. I was sure she would go right for my throat if I had ill intent. I surmised they were smart beasts and I took a liking to them right off.

There was a moment of quiet and then the shepherd next to the old man did something I’d never understand. She walked over to me and licked my hand. Her lukewarm tongue lapped at my fingers. She finally took a seat next to me and stared at her master with an air of defiance. Or maybe I was imagining things.

“Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos,” he said, gesturing to each of the dogs. “The three fates. Girl, don’t you read?”

The old man waved a hand at my tepid ward. “It’s alright. I get the allure of those rags. But don’t you know there’s plenty of murder in classic literature, too?” I hadn’t really thought about it. “What kind of murder?” “All kinds, girl. Torture, rape, murder. Deceit! The deceit is what will get you,” he said, wagging a finger in the air. “To come in as a murderer and to murder is one thing. To come in as a friend, but to be a foe is another. Deceit is really the true crime of humanity.”

Deceit

I ignored the threat. Men like Milton fed off fear and discomfort.

“I guess it is. Makes him a sonuvabitch, that’s for sure. Makes her an idiot. You women are all idiots and whores. And now before you go taking offense, just know I don’t hold it against you.”

I wondered if Hank Riley had put her up to this. Men tried to squeeze the women in their lives together, as if our common biology were enough to bond us. That’s what men never understood about women. It wasn’t enough just to have breasts to want to be together. We had minds, too. Men never saw the minds. They saw lumps and mounds, holes and crevasses. Places to stare, places to molest. Men were handsy that way. Tactile. I

I shook my head and brought the mug to my lips again. I took a sip and let the hot chocolate ease over my tongue and down my throat. It tasted and felt odd . . . perhaps loving.

Perhaps loving

“A train lets you be alone with your thoughts. It takes you along at the right speed. A plane—that’s a different matter.

A plane wants to rush things. It jumbles your soul and makes everything come out much too fast. There’s no time to think on a plane. But on a train, you can actually have a thought that might matter in the end.”

I was surprised he didn’t sound angry. I was more surprised he didn’t tell me to leave. I sat down and waited. “You’ve been over here several times. I like you. You’re a bright young lady,” the old man began. He turned his head away from me. “You remind me of my daughter—when you’re not acting foolish.” “I didn’t know you had a daughter.” “Have. She’s dead but she’s still mine.”

“It’s very easy to destroy, Suzy. It’s easy to tear things apart.” He gestured to the puzzle pieces all across the kitchen floor. “How easily you destroyed the puzzle. The pieces are everywhere now and the picture that could have been—isn’t.”

“No. Sit,” he said. I looked up at him, confused. “This is important. You have to understand this.” “Understand what?” “That even though it feels like God to kill another human being, you are the opposite of God. Every foul word you speak about another person, every item you soil, every person you harm. That is not the work of a God, but of a maggot.” A palm outstretched, as if summoning God, himself, to testify. He continued, “And this world has lots of maggots. They multiply and feed on the vulnerable as though it were their natural right. Your brother is a maggot. And you, hell. You might be one, too. Who am I to say?”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you,” I said. At least I thought I’d said it. I thought the words, but I was so paralyzed with the old man’s sorrow that it’s possible I remained silent. It struck me that his sorrow was mightier than mine. There was something sacred about his anger, as if he had let it ferment over time. It was potent.

Sacred anger

If I could tell a parent one thing, it would be this: you can be the best damn parent in the world Monday through Saturday but if you hit your kid on Sunday, that’s all the kid will remember. Your hand and the hurt, the anger in your eyes.

Hank Riley reached out to touch me again, as if his hands could offer anything palliative. I didn’t want to be touched and I shrugged him off. He looked wounded, like all men did when their touch was rejected. It was okay for me to be upset, so long as he could control it. My emotions weren’t something to listen to or empathize with, but something to solve. Like a broken toilet in the middle of the night.

I couldn’t say I felt regret or even understood it, as it were, but I felt a sadness for little Alice. The same sadness I supposed I felt for all little things. We were waiting to be abused, all of us, abused into monsters or abused into ash.

I knew caring never changed a bad man’s mind. Just excited it, was all. I wouldn’t give him any satisfaction.