Stella stood in the hall of her flat in London bruised, shaken, and exhausted. The Spector case had abruptly ended, and the cloak and dagger games she had lived for the past two months had finally ceased. It was a relief for her to be home, but she still had not yet processed any of what had happened this last week. This case, unlike others, had taken a lot out of her both emotionally, and physically.
She gazed down and observed the abundant scattered mail on the floor underfoot, as evidence of how long she had been away delving into the devil's mind. She could no longer think or feel. Her body was too exhausted to prioritize any kind of need. She had been main-lining coffee and short 2-hour sleep schedules for too long as they consolidated the paperwork and closed the case. That combined with the attack meant her body needed rest as much as her mind did. It had all come to a screaming halt with Spector's suicide, leaving many dead ends unanswered. She hated that it ended the way it did. He bested her by dying.
Her whole body weighed down by the emotional turmoil brewing in her own mind. So many old wounds had been reopened and ripped raw. Now every part of her yearned for some form of oblivion that she could crawl into for the night.
Picking up the mail she made her way into the kitchen and tossed it on the counter. She pulled a bottle of red from the wine rack, not caring to glance at it before pouring a glass. Alcohol was alcohol. An escape.
She slipped her hand into her suit pocket and removed Spector's Irish 20-pound note. Forgetting she had left it there she read it again before clipping it to the refrigerator next to postcards, photos, and other memoirs from more pleasant times.
HE THAT LOVES NOT, ABIDES IN DEATH
The words sat with her at the kitchen table. Pondering them over the wine as she allowed herself to begin to unravel. Realising she had no real love in her life. It was her who abides in death every day denying herself any kind of serious human relationships.
She felt like too much of her intimate parts had been ripped out and beaten, just like her body had been. Her mind as bruised as she was physically. She poured herself glass after glass of wine. Sipping slowly with silent tears rolling down her cheeks in the dark. Alone.
She wept for all the pain which had resurfaced from her youth, for her physical pain after being attacked, for being unable to hide her weaknesses, for being violated by the uncovering of her private thoughts, and for being weak and broken. Ever the professional woman her façade was so important, it was imperative that people only saw strength, but too much of her tainted history had been exposed. Her dream diary and all her dark intimacies are now evidence.
She quietly cried sitting dead still staring at the note sipping wine and refilling her glass until the bottle was empty. Wiping her tears, she got up from the table and retrieved a bottle of Jameson from the top cupboard. Cusping a whisky tumbler she poured herself a generous helping and fell back onto the stool. Like the star her father always said she was, she stared intensely into deep space.
The alcohol in her blood swayed her balance as she stood to leave the kitchen, and she savored the loss of control. Her tired tight muscles were loosening but still she felt tense. She felt as though she could tear herself apart at the seams and it still wouldn't release the darkness seeping into her through the bruises. Speaking to young Katie had rekindled memories of her dark troubled youth, and all the scars she kept hidden. The conversation so selfishly interrupted by Spector's suicide, had shaken her, and now she struggled to grasp onto anything stable in her life.
Her entire being was craving the need for a blade against her skin like she remembered. For the endorphin rush transfused with sharp precise pain. For the blood to run and for the light feeling of weakness to descend. It was too private a feeling for anyone to ever know about but her. It was like a dark secret addiction.
She kicked off her stilettos and clumsily climbed the stairs. Her body was heavy and unresponsive courtesy of the alcohol. Exhaustion, injury, and darkness also slowed her progress. She moved towards the bathroom, set the diminishing whiskey down on the sink and turned on the bathtub taps. Feeling the water gush over a hand she changed the temperature until it approached scalding and left it to fill.
She reached for her drink and stood. Gazing at her reflection in the mirror above the basin she carefully examined every pattern of the purple bruises on her face. Her cold and drained eyes absorbing the detail in each hue of blackened blood under the skin. It happened days ago, but she had not yet had the chance to become intimate with her injuries. To examine her damage. The stitched cut on her brow will probably leave a scar. A permanent mark on her that will publicly display a reminder of her fuck up on this case for eternity. Images flashed through her mind of Spector attacking her. She felt his raw powerful strength overwhelm her once again. She hated that she couldn't fight back against him, and that she had never predicted he would attack at all. She hated that as much as she got into his head and sacrificed so much of her privacy for answers, it wasn't enough.
She spent years profiling, interviewing, and probing killers and criminals. She has seen the worst of them, the atrocities they committed, and the chaos that made them. Spectre was different. Although he was painted by the same dark brush that made the rest, he got to her. He got under her skin in more ways than one.
She unbuttoned her designer blouse, peeled off her work clothes, and submerged herself under the hot water allowing herself to sink into the heat and relax. Tracing a finger over the white lines on her thighs, nostalgia tugging at her foggy brain, she yearned for that release once again. She held her head under for a while and succumbed to the floating sensation. Her blonde hair fanning out in the water. The stitch on her eyebrow stinging. She remembered how Spector bathed his victims after killing them. Images flashed from her nightmare and she felt a vice close in around her throat. She abruptly pulled herself up gasping for air as though even here, miles from his grave in Belfast, he was able to choke her. It disgusted her and sullied her relaxation. She climbed out shaking and reached for her whiskey.
Wrapped up in her fluffy white bath robe, wet hair hanging limp and dripping around her shoulders, she opened the bathroom cabinet and reached into a small container at the back of the highest shelf. She had not needed this object in a very long time, but she always kept one. The tips of her fingers grasped tightly around a fresh surgical blade and she was careful not to slice them as she lifted it out. The light flickered as it reflected off its pristine metallic surface as if it were begging to cut something.
A serenity overcame her as she held it within her fingertips. Thumb grazing against the blade testing its sharpness. Calmly collapsing to the floor and pulling back her dressing gown she exposed all the marks of the past. Shiny white streaks scattered the soft fair skin of her upper thighs. She traced her fingertips over a couple remembering the melancholy that lead to their presence.
It was then that need overcame her. She was not the same stable person who left for Belfast a month ago. Something in her had snapped, and all her usual avenues of control had been exhausted. She felt unstable in the tension. She needed this. There was a sharp sting, a burst of scarlet, and a powerful release as the endorphins flooded her system. She let out a moan and relinquished the tension held in every particle of herself. She gave herself to the sensation. Relaxing into the relief.
Sighing every time blade met skin. Disappearing into oblivion.
The first grey light of dawn tinted the sky outside as blood trickled freely into her robe and down to the glossy tile beneath her. Here, curled up on the cold hard floor she finally welcomed sleep.