J. Redmerski - Behind The Hands That Kill

I nod, but all I can think about now is knowing I’m going to get to see Victor again, even if it’s the last time…I’m going to see him again.

And that gives me hope.

Apollo walks past my cage and disappears within the shadows again; I make note of his footsteps as they get farther away. Then he stops, and I hear the sound of metal pulling away from metal, followed by several clicking sounds. The fluorescent lights high in the ceiling hum to life as he flips the switches in the breaker box one by one.

The space that houses my cell is much larger than I anticipated. I knew it was expansive and mostly empty, but the darkness, and my head still dizzied earlier by the drug, kept me blind to the truth. But my sense of smell was spot on. This place was—maybe still is—some kind menagerie, most likely owned by a private collector or distributor of exotic animals. I count twelve other cages set in the walls to my right and left, six on each side, and three more just like mine, situated down the center of the vast room in a perfect row, spaced at least ten-feet apart. Primates have been kept here, evidence of that in three cages equipped with hanging rope, a swinging tire, and wooden platforms mounted high on the back wall. I am certain other exotic animals have been housed here at some point. But today I am the only one.

Apollo makes his way back up, taking his time, walking toward me in slow strides, his hands folded together behind him. He raises one of them in gesture as if showcasing the place, and says to me, “It’s fitting, don’t you think?”

“I do not care much for the pointless dialogue, Apollo. Let us get to it, shall we?”

He smiles, folding his hands together on his backside again.

“Eager to die, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Eager to get on with this,” I answer.

Eager to see Izabel is more like it; it is killing me not knowing what is happening to her right now.

Apollo takes the chair Izabel had been sitting on earlier and drags it back a few feet from my cage. With the sweep of his hand, he pretends to dust off the seat before sitting down; he brings his right foot up and rests it atop his left knee; he folds his hands loosely across his stomach. And then he just looks at me, waiting, for what exactly he will have to tell me, but of course he knows this already.

“That night,” Apollo begins, “fifteen years ago, what did you do before Osiris burst into the house?”

“Before as in when?” I inquire. “Minutes before? An hour? You could be more specific.”

He smirks.

“Begin with earlier that evening,” he says. “Didn’t you take my sister out for your one-year anniversary?”

“Yes,” I say. “Though it was two days late.”

“Why was it late? Was my sister not worth remembering?”

“No, Apollo, that is not why I took her out late; I did not forget. We both had to work, so we decided to spend our anniversary the following Sunday.”

He nods. “I see.” Then he switches legs, propping the left foot on the right knee. “So tell me about that night. Before Osiris. Tell me everything, even the little things.”

“Why?”

He leans forward.

“Because I want to know how happy my sister was—you were the last person to see her happy, Victor. And she was happy. She was in love with you, thought she’d found the one .” He laughs, and then shakes his head with disappointment. “Why do women care about that shit, anyway? I mean really”—he holds out both hands, palms up—“Any idea, man?”

“No, really I have none.”

Apollo sighs, and folds his hands on his stomach again, interlocking his fingers. “Oh well,” he says. “So anyway. About that night.”

“I took her to dinner,” I say. “An expensive Italian restaurant.”

“So tell me about it.”

I take a deep breath and begin pacing.

“She wore a black dress…

Artemis insisted the restaurant be expensive. She loved expensive things—temporarily. She dreamed of living the high-life, but she had said she only wanted to live it for one month. Not a day more. Artemis’s family was wealthy—as you well know—but it was all blood-money, and she did not want to be part of that. She wanted to earn her wealth honestly, work hard for it, and then spend it all up in one month. I was baffled, and intrigued, by her plan—mostly intrigued.

“I despise money, Victor,” she said, sitting next to me on a chair at our small table. “It ruins lives—it corrupted everyone in my family except me and my brother, Apollo.” She smiled over at me; her long, slender fingers caressed the side of her wine glass; her pinky finger curled around the stem. “If I ever make enough honest money for myself that I can use bills to light my fireplace, I’m going to spend it all up in one month just to see it go.”

“I do not understand,” I told her gently, and with interest.

She moved her hand from the glass and placed it atop mine, brushed her fingertips over the top of my knuckles as she spoke.

“Defiance,” she said. “I want to do it because I can; I want to be the opposite of what my parents were, and what they expected me to be.”

“So then why waste the money?” I asked. “Why not give it away? There are many charities—”

She laughed under her breath, then brushed her fingers across the top of my hand once more and then reached for her wine glass again, fitting her fingers around it. She brought it to her lips, paused before taking a sip and said, “I can’t pretend to be a do-gooder, Victor—there’s no Robin Hood blood in these veins. I’m a Stone, and I accept that. Not that I’m proud of it. It’s just the way I am.” She took a drink, then set the glass carefully back on the table.

When we were done eating, Artemis took the fancy cloth napkin from her lap, placed it on the table, and smiled over at me; it stopped me in my tracks—it was a mysterious smile that, at first, I could not place. But when I reached for my wallet so I could retrieve my credit card, I felt her hand touch my wrist to stop me.

I looked at her inquisitively, but already, somewhere in the back of my subconscious mind, I knew what she intended to do.

“Live a little, my love,” she said, grinning.

I smiled, placed my wallet back into my jacket.

We took off running out of the restaurant, leaving the unpaid bill on the table, Artemis cackling as two waiters came after us. I was laughing too, which surprised me. Though less and less the longer I was with her. I was certainly a different kind of man a couple of months after I met her. I did not know it at the time, but I was changing because of Artemis Stone.

“Were you caught?” Apollo asks.

I look up from the floor, watching the memory of Artemis’s radiant smile evaporate from my mind; hearing her lovely laughter fade, like churned up dust settling over a lonely field.

“No,” I answer. “They never caught us.”

Apollo smiles, genuinely, and not with hatred, which can only mean that he, too, is remembering his twin sister.

Then he shoots up from the chair, wiping the smile away, and replacing it with something less inviting.

He looks right at me.

“Go on,” he demands.

After a lengthy hesitation, I continue, but with difficulty.

“After the restaurant, we went home and changed clothes. We sat together on the porch, looking out at the ocean; she had made coffee—black, the way I liked it—and we talked for a long time before she told me that…”

“Before she told you what?”

I do not want to answer.