"The Replacement"
How many times will this happen? How many times will I do this? How many times... No, I don't care. I don't care about what I've done or what I will do, what I've seen. It doesn't matter. At least, that's what I'll keep telling myself. I can spend the rest of my life telling myself that it was necessary, that it was needed. That I did what I've done for good, for the benefit of others.
They called us heroes, spoke about how proud they are, how thankful they are. They call me a hero, but I was just a butcher. I was never a hero, others sure, of course. Men and women who fight for what they believe in, for their country or their families back home. The ones who risk their lives, the ones who give their lives, they are heroes and they are the ones who should get respect. I never had those things, I wasn't fighting to protect my country or my family. I fought for the man next to me, the ones who should be alive and safe. Admirable enough, but more so I fought because I was ordered to, because I was good at it or because I could.
I killed so many, I took so many lives in my time it makes me nauseous and I want to vomit when I think back on them all. But in the moment it was different. Then, when they died by my hands, I felt nothing. They were there, and it was just a pull of the trigger or the movement of a knife. The sound of a gunshot or the sight of blood. It was nothing, in the moment it was nothing. What does that make me? What does it mean to do something so terrible and not care till later, not be ashamed or disgusted till after? I know what it makes me, I know what I am. I'm not a hero, I was never a hero. I'm something else, I'm the replacement for the girl that left.
I never unpacked, never even moved the bag again after I opened it. I never slept, never did any of the things I needed to do. Sure I tore off clothes and ripped away my bandages, I showered and cleaned. But it was quick and uncomfortable, no leisure. The water was warm and clean and it felt wrong. It felt wrong to open drawers and dig through clothes for things that would fit, even though they are my clothes, things she bought for me. This is my room, and it feels wrong.
Afterwards, I took a rag and cleaned my knife, cleaned away the blood and dirt that clung to it. I made it as it should be. And since then I've just sat here, twirling the knife in my palm the way Carmine used to. Sitting against the headboard with my legs stretched out and my feet crossed, staring at the painting the one of the flowers. The longer I stare at it the more I see.
It's a simple watercolor painting, a field of flowers tucked away in an evergreen forest, the tall grass hanging over the edge of a small blue pond with a dying sun reflected in the mirror like water. At first glance all one sees is the green of the grass and maybe some flowers, but there's more. The bright colors of the flowers gently blowing in the soft wind of a cool spring dusk. The shades of red, orange and yellow of the sun melting away in the water and the top of the canvas where the sun sits just out of view near the left corner. The faint shadows stretching across the field, hardly noticeable in the evening light.
There's so much to see, and I don't care for any of it. I know it's pretty, and in reality, it would be breathtaking. But to me, it's a good place for an ambush. I know where I would sit, where the others should be. I know which way they would most likely come from and I can't help but think of the splashes of red that would be left afterward.
I hear her footsteps, I hear her stop and stand in the doorway, her arms crossed and a frown on her lips. I don't need to look to see eyes follow the knife as it twirls in my hand. I don't need to look to know she's worried about me, worried about her sister. I don't deserve her help, but I can't turn it away. I cant make it on my own. Not yet.
"I picked it up at a flea market a few years ago. It was only a few bucks and I had just moved in, I needed things to liven the place up some. The lady selling them had a bunch, I think she painted them herself. But that one, I don't know, I just liked that one the most." She's nervous, her voice quiet. I can see why.
Here I am sitting on the bed without a shirt and twirling a knife while staring at a painting like it was the most interesting thing in the world. I spin the knife one last time and grip it tightly, like I had so many times before, my eyes never leaving the painting.
"Have you ever really looked at it? I mean, really saw everything that's in there. The flowers, the sun in the water. Or more so the little things, the signs of a gentle breeze in the grass and the trees, the family of deer by the bushes on the right, hiding in the shadows before they go for a drink." I see something I didn't see before, something that almost makes me laugh, just a little bit of red that's so out of place. I look at her and she's staring at the painting like it's the first time she's seen it.
"No, I don't think I ever really saw that stuff." She sounds distant, lost in the painting. Maybe she'll see it, maybe she'll notice it.
"Then I take it you never noticed the little bit of red down near the bottom left corner."
She leans in before walking across the room to the painting. She studies it for a moment before tilting her head.
"Is that..."
"A shadowy figure with a bleeding pentagram carved in its chest."
She leans back and steps away. "Oh god."
"I think it might be the other one."
She laughs and leans in again, studying the figure. "I can't believe I bought a painting with a demon in it. That little old lady was so nice though." She laughs again and reaches to the sides of the painting. "Let's throw this out."
"No, leave it." I can't help but notice myself smiling some at her finding it. "It livens up the room."
She drops her hands. "But it has a demon."
She spins and looks at me before looking away again and I'm suddenly very aware of my lack of a shirt.
"Let me go get the bandages so you can put a shirt on."
"That would be nice," I say she nods and darts out of the room. "Hail Satan!" I shout casually as she disappears into the bathroom and shouts disapprovingly in return.
The process of applying my bandages is long and tedious. It was mostly silent as well, save for the sound of her unwrapping bandages and medical tape. There was also a few attempts at small talk on her part, but after a few one-word answers she stayed silent for a while. She was wrapping the last roll around me when she asked me a question that caught me off guard.
"Have you been in any relationships?" she asks it casually, just small talk. At least it is to her.
How do I even answer? Do I tell her that I've had a rather miserable love life with a string of one night stands I used to try and forget why I left? That I can't form meaningful relationships because I walled myself off to the thought of being with others and everyone since has just been a disappointment because I couldn't form emotional attachments because every time I tried I would start to think about what it would have been like if I had been with Carly?
"Uh, no. I haven't really had a serious relationship since middle school." Or I could just say that.
But at some point, she'll figure it out. At some point, she'll see the way I... oh god. It didn't click till just know but I'm getting ready to go see Carly, today. She bailed me out of jail and I have to go see her. I knew I'd see her at some point, but I was hoping it would be different. I was hoping it would be... I don't know actually. Just not a situation where I have to thank her, where she pulled my ass out the fire again. There's a knot in my stomach and I go cold, and she notices.
"Sorry, didn't know that was another touchy subject. I get it though, it's a personal question and it's not my place to ask. I haven't had much luck either. Except...never mind. We're done here, your mummification is complete." She taps my side, leaving the bathroom quickly.
I stare at myself in the mirror, at the bandages and the scars, at the muscle and the tattoos. It's the same as it was when I cut my hair. A giant mess I don't recognize, like a stranger staring at me and mimicking my motions. I can't help but look away, almost ashamed at what I see. But that's me, that's what I look like, it's who I am. It's what I did with myself when I had the chance.
I shake away the thoughts and pull on the shirt she left behind for me. It's another simple long sleeve, but looser than the other one. I guess she noticed the size difference between us. I'm not as small as I once was. I've spent years training myself to keep up with the others. But that's gone now. I don't have anyone to save, no one to race or fight. At least no one who I can direct myself at, not like the bar. I can't just go around swinging wildly at anyone who gets on my nerves.
I can hear her in the kitchen, making coffee and toast for us before we get going. The cold is back, the knot twisting my guts. Anxiety grips me again. Can I really see her and keep any sort of composure? What will she be like? If things went the way they were supposed to she'll be less than enthused to see me, but if that was the case why would she bail me out? It doesn't matter, there isn't anything I can do about it now. Whatever happens, happens. Even though what's going to happen is going to be terrible.
"How do you like your coffee?" She's standing by the fridge when I come out of the bathroom, pressing the buttons on what I can only assume to be a coffee maker.
To me, it's just a big silver thing.
"If it isn't filtered with a sock I'll take it with just about anything or nothing. Except cream."
She just looks at me for a moment, a confused look on her face. She's trying to decide if it was a joke or not and she can't quite figure it out.
"We ran out of supplies more than once. It wasn't always, but enough to make me ask. Speaking of except, what did you mean back in the bathroom?" I ask and she doesn't say a word, just hums a note before handing me a cup and a piece of toast. "So there is someone?" I could say I don't want to pry, or that I'm just curious, but that's not quite it. I just want to turn off for a bit, just move on autopilot or be distracted before everything goes to hell.
"Sam... you have things you don't want to talk about, and so do I." She's serious for a moment before taking a bite of toast and a sip of coffee and I notice the bags under her eyes.
Faint and hidden with makeup, but they're there. She didn't sleep. She sat there in her room for however long and did nothing, something bugging her.
"What is it?" There's a small note of concern in my voice and she narrows her eyes before finishing her toast.
"You need to take your medicine." She seemingly pulls a bottle from thin air and sets it on the island. "Sam, those are strong pills. They don't just give those to anybody and you have to be careful." The concern in her voice is much more evident, no desire to hide it. Nor does she hide the frustration. "You can't keep downing painkillers and getting wasted while you take these. It won't end well."
I pick at the edge of the bandages on my neck and look at the ceiling. "It ain't fun for me." I take the bottle and swallow a couple pills.
This whole morning has been a waste. Nothing has been done, nothing achieved. We haven't even left the apartment yet and I already want to disappear back into my room. But it wouldn't be any better there, haunted by my own memories.
"You said you had something to give me." Let's just get today over with.
"No, later. I want to give it to you when we visit Carmine's grave. If you want to, that is..." The words hang in the air like a sour note.
I've thought about it over the years. Every time I was back at base I was tempted to come here, to say goodbye to him. But I never did, I always avoided it, telling myself it was a useless notion. He was already dead, what good would seeing his grave be? It was just another way I lied to myself to try and make it easier. I must have taken longer than I thought to reply because she looked like she was about to apologize.
"That would be nice. But do we really have to do the whole wine thing?"
She almost scoffs. "Yes, Sam, we do. They have helped me out more than once. I owe them so much. So yes, I am going to give them a gift because I can't even begin to pay them back." Her words slip through and hit me square in the gut. They, them.
"Them?" I try to keep calm, ask as if I was just curious.
"Oh yeah," She shakes her head before moving away from the island to a small closet. "Carly is engaged. His name is Devin. I think he works in accounting or something. They met in college and I guess they just hit it off. It's a sweet-"
I walk back to my room, the knot in my gut a ball of hot lead. I can feel it burning, a mix of anger and confusion. But this is what I wanted her to do, I wanted her to move on and be happy. I guess I was wrong, I guess I wanted her to be alone this whole time. All those years trying to forget, coming so close just to be back here and find out everything has gone the way it was supposed to. She moved on, they all moved on in some way.
So why does it hurt? I can't blame this on how I feel. I should be happy for her. Should be, but I'm not. I didn't realize I had even moved from the doorway till Melanie put a hand on my shoulder.
"You okay?"
I spin and face her. I can't force a smile, I can't lie through it and pretend, but I can't just blurt it out to her.
"I uh... I'll be fine. Just remembered something I needed to grab."
She nods and waits as I grab the knife from the bed and clip the sheath through a belt loop.
"You can't seriously be taking that thing with you."
I don't need to, but I feel like I do. I'm going out into a world I don't know. I'm about to go face my biggest fear, the thing I dread most and the knife is a small comfort, a small shield to keep me safe.
"I'd be carrying a gun if I had one. It's like how people feel weird without a phone in there pocket, except for me it's something to protect myself with. Might as well be naked without it."
She nods, shoving a coat into my hands, having changed into the same one she picked me up in. I slip it on, taking a second to look it over. It's an old wool coat, worn down and gray in color, the bottom brushing against the back of my knees.
"It fits, good. And speaking of phones," She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a sleek black smartphone. It's thin and long but clearly not top of the line. But still more than I need. "Here, I wanted to give it to you earlier but you kinda left and then were arrested. I already put the numbers you'll need in there so it should just be good to go."
The numbers I need. What numbers do I need? I fumble with it till I figure out which one is the power button and find the contact list. The numbers I need. They're all there, everyone I knew. Everyone I should have stayed in contact with, should have called and checked up on. And Carly's name is right at the top, a taunt from the universe for my desertion. I turn off the screen and drop the phone in my pants pocket. It's likely to stay there for quite some time.
She looks around for a moment, going over a mental checklist. "Let's go." She only wait's for a moment before leaving me.
"Yeah, let's go," I repeat in a mocking tone and follow her out.
The car ride to the liquor store was short and quiet. A soft tune on the radio and the hum of the heater. She didn't try to pry, she didn't ask questions, just calmly drove. It was obvious, she wanted to ask me something. She wants an answer to one of the many questions she has but she doesn't want to be rude.
There was a soft bump as we pulled into the lot behind the small series of shops. She pulled us into a spot between a rather new car I can't place and don't particularly like, and a beater from when I was a kid. It summed things up pretty well: stuck between a shitty past and looking a future I don't care for in the slightest. She didn't get out when we parked, didn't move after putting the car in park. She simply turned the car off and leaned back in her seat before looking for me.
"Just ask what you're going to ask."
She nods a few times and works up the words. "What's wrong, Sam. I'm not asking about what happened in... I mean, what was that back at the apartment? Why did you just leave the room when I was talking about Carly? I mean, do you hate her now or something? Ever since I mentioned her you've been acting strange. Stranger, I mean. Do you really not want to see her?"
Do I hate her? No, I've never been able to get past her. I've never felt the same about anybody I've ever met, I love her and I fucked up my whole life because of it. No, Mel, I don't hate her. As for actually seeing her? That's a whole different monster. That's its own problem. I want to avoid her, I want to stay away, just disappear again. The thought of seeing her makes me so nervous I can't breathe, can't hardly move. But at the same time, there is something else, butterflies. I want to see her more than anything in the world. But I can't hardly say any of this to you, so I'll just give you some half backed response and you'll get frustrated again.
You don't deserve this. Neither did Carly. I can't help but think back to when I was younger, lying awake at night on Carly's couch, my head her lap as I vented all my problems and she would simply listen, she would comfort me and tell me things would be okay. And in the light of the TV, in the dark of those nights when I was dealing with those problems, her face would be lit up and I could see the smile on her face, the warmth in her eyes and I would feel like I would be okay. But not now, never again, I'm not the same, and I fucked everything else up. I look at my hands, at the little scars and the rough skin and I can't stop the thought. Even if I left on good terms, even I stayed in touch I would feel the same right now.
"It's not that I don't want to see her..." A partial truth, a half lie. A way to explain this without giving up my reasons. "I just don't think she'll want to see me. I don't think she'll like what she sees." More twisted words and faulty emotions drag up a thought from earlier, a thought I first had some time ago, something from the past.
"Why? She clearly wants to see you again, you guys were best friends for so long. You guys were attached at the hip. Why wouldn't she like you?"
I can't just spit out bullshit again, I can't keep up with this whirlwind I'm fighting. But I can't tell her. It would change things. It would make everything all too real.
"Because I was still just Sam when I left. But I'm not just Sam now. She never came back." I don't look at her or wait for a response, I simply exit the car and wrap the coat tighter around myself, ignoring the soreness of my body.
She never came back, she died when she had to pull the trigger. Sam Puckett died and I'm just the monster that took her place.
