Wounds for the Innocent

tw: murder, violence

It’s amazing what you can find on the internet these days- thought Diane Morales. Hell, maybe I would have even used it to find my Dad if I hadn’t given up on him entirely.

Diane’s dilapidated apartment walls were almost completely barren minus a framed newspaper clipping entitled, “Will teenage prodigy Diane Morales follow up her hit novel, The Stalker’s Pray? A tale encompassing the life of a young pedophile killer.” The name of her novel was deliberately misspelled to emphasize the theme. Outside of her apartment, rain pounded against the window overlooking a dormant alleyway. 

Diane sat with her face resting atop her black sweater covered arms, leaning into a dated laptop. Her wavy dark hair covered one eye as it’s gleaming counterpart darted to and fro across the laptop's screen. It displayed the bio of a dark-haired man wearing a flannel shirt, with a woman one could only presume to be his wife. In his arms lay a baby, seemingly suffocating in his embrace. He was locked away in his 400 by 400 confinement. 

After reading the final sentence of the bio, Diane reached out her pale hand accented by jet-black nail polish to grab hold of the mouse. She highlighted an address before clicking over to a tab with a navigation system open where she pasted it. She then leaned back in her seat, her shirt covering up the exposed small of her back. 

After a moment, she sprinted over to her closet and pulled on a beaded cord hanging from an exposed bulb to reveal an assortment of outfits.

She brushed her finger across the row, they rattled in response as if saying- pick me! Pick me! Her hand naturally came to rest on a white silk dress. She retrieved it and smiled while holding the dress against her skeletal frame like a girl picking out a prom dress. Shortly thereafter she set it on her disheveled bed and returned to the closet.

This time she had to stand on the tips of her toes, or, as her mother used to call them, “tippy toes” to reach an antique chest. Diane let out a muffled moan as she strained to bring it down. Upon doing so she waddled over toward her bed with the chest between her legs and heaved the chest onto it. The shoddy bed’s rusted springs creak and groan as the bed gently swayed. Diane pushes up on the chest latch lifting up the lid with one hand as she beholds the treasure within.

She took out a framed photo of a reclined woman with puffy blonde hair and a voluptuous white dress any woman would kill for. In the corner of the photo was an autograph, and above it all, a cracked window to the past. A tear escaped Diane’s uncovered eye. In one swift motion she brushed it away and pushed her hair back. She sniffled then returned the portrait. Thunder rumbled almost in tandem with her phone. She pulls it out of her rear jean pocket and turned it on to see a social media notification which she promptly clicked on.

It was a message from her next victim saying, why don’t you come over to my place later tonight and keep me company? Almost seconds after the first message appeared, another spawned beneath it with an address. Diane thought to herself- is it really that easy nowadays? Well there goes an hours’ worth of research to find out where this guy lives.

 She put her phone away and her attention returned to the chest from which she grabbed yet another artifact. Diane now held what looked to be the blonde woman's wig in her hands. She placed it under her arm as she tied up her long hair. After doing so, Diane held the wig out in front of herself one last time before taking a deep breath and putting it on.

Shortly after, Diane slipped into the white dress to complete the ensemble. She felt the silk material beneath her fingers, admiring the dress’s sleek design some more. Diane then made her way over to her full body mirror. She touched her cheek which was now drained off all its color and was hardly able to keep her tears from flooding out.

The special moment ended too soon when her upstairs neighbors started their weekly quarrel. Diane took in a deep breath and put on a hell-bent beam in response. As the couple above continued to quarrel, the thunder grew only louder. Diane walked over to her bed, reaching underneath to tear off a knife that had been duct taped to the underside of the bed frame. Once she had pulled off the remaining tape, lightning flashed and illuminated her stern face.

She pulled up her dress, revealing a makeshift blade holder just above her pantyhose which she places the knife in. After pulling down her dress, she walked towards her door, halting a few feet in front of her mirror. She backtracked over to it and licked her lips before wrapping her arms around it. Diane provocatively danced with it for a moment, then discreetly took out her blade, still holding onto the mirror with her other arm.

She leaned over and whispered, “How bout I show you something I know you’ve been dying to see.”

Despite her bold performance, she winced as she stabbed the back of the wooden frame. Diane inserted it so deep that she struggled to pull it out. She effortlessly slid behind the mirror and placed her foot against it for leverage. After yanking out her knife, the precariously balanced body mirror came down with a crash.

The lightning flashed once more. Except this time, instead of highlighting the face of a cold-blooded killer, it reveals only the face of a scared little girl.

The man in the apartment above yelled down in a slur, “What’s going on down there!” Diane looked up, paralyzed where she stood. She gulped and looked down before rushing out of her apartment, grabbing her incongruous lavish coat off the wooden rack on the way out.

Once outside her apartment, Diane ran as fast as she could in her heels. She quickly assimilated the appearance of a man she passed by. He was a tall man with a prickly beard and blue eyes. He was also wearing a trench coat, jeans and holding an umbrella. From behind her Diane hears “Hey! Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

Diane stoped and turned around while pushing her soggy wig back as she began to back pedal. “I guess I just have one of those faces.” Diane flashed a congenial smile. 

Before she could turn around, a smile grew on the man’s face as he yelled back, “No, you’re Diane Morales.”

Diane paused in her tracks and yelled back, “what gave me away!”

The man rushed over saying, “please, I’d know my favorite author anywhere.” Diane smiled again. She avoided eye contact while he closed the distance between them.

A series of frantic thoughts overtook her mind- He knows something, I just know it. You’re being ridiculous he’s just another stupid fa…”

“So what’s my favorite author doing out here soaking in the rain?”

Diane thought up a quick excuse. “Oh you know, just about to run some errands.”

The man flashed his smile once more. “I do know. All too well actually. Though I will say, I definitely thought you had servants fetch you your groceries and whatnot.”

Diane put on a weak smile.

“Anyways, what are you doing in this part of town? Diane doesn't reply so the man points behind him asking, “you don’t live in Sunnyside Suites do y…”

“…No, no, of course not.” 

The man darted his eyes down.

“I mean… I like to get all kinds of perspectives for my novels by going around meeting people.” 

The man’s lack of response filled the air with an awkward silence.

“Anyways, I should be going, I…”

“…So are they true?”

Diane paused again. “Is what true?”

The man finally looked up from the ground with his ocean blue eyes. “Your stories.” 

Diane responds with an overly apparent vocal fry, “I’m afraid I don’t know what you are asking me?” She cleared her throat. 

“Is there really a pedophile killer? Cause there was this similar case a while back and I was just wondering if there was any correlation.” 

Diane’s mind ran rampant- He does know something. Could this be a trap? Diane struggles to come up with a response in her bedlam of thoughts, “Uh… I… uh… of course not! It is fiction, and you’ve now proven to me you don’t comprehend a lick of it.”

Diane almost regretted saying that until the man replied, “Oh… okay.” He retreated without another word. Diane’s mouth was ajar as she watched him leave. She had a look of sorrow that she quickly swallowed up.

Upon doing so she pushed back her wig again to find two strands of blonde hair in her palm. She curled her bottom lip and bit it before going on her way to find her car. Once she arrived, Diane opened the door to two of her crumpled-up ideas falling out. Ignoring her litter she got in and drove away. 

By the time Diane reached her affluent destination, it was nearly dark out. By now it had stopped raining. However, little did she know, she was only moving out of one storm into the eye of another. 

She started to feel like a fish out of water, suffocating on the shores of regret and envy. You’re such an idiot Diane. If you wrote another book in the limelight you could be living here and not your cesspool of an apartment. Diane swiped at the water that escaped her thick wig. 

The colossal dwellings inundating her on either side were almost blinding to glance at due to the countless windows. Diane squinted as she tried to read each one of the upcoming house numbers on her right. 3571, 3572, 3573...

Diane’s car came to an abrupt halt when she saw the man she was looking for helping his aged kid down out of a suburban. Unlike the photo, he was wearing a baby blue button up shirt with khakis fastened by a black belt. He turned around and stared into Diane’s eyes like a deer in headlights. As does his wife and curly haired son.

Seconds after, Diane broke from her trance and sped away. As soon as she was a couple houses away, she looked into the rearview mirror to see if any of them had walked out past the suburban to watch her leave. To her relief, none of them had.

After parallel parking on the adjacent street, Diane started to bawl her eyes out. She stopped only when she saw a small family walk by with their dog. Diane briskly wiped away her tears and tried to console herself with her phone. She typed in her passcode and went right to the photo gallery.

With each photo of a woman who looked identical to the model minus the wig, she breathed a little deeper as the tears threatened to escape her eyes. She reached a photo of her standing in front of a tree with a sun flair covering her face, leaving only her pretty sundress to behold. Diane frantically swipes to the left to no avail.

Diane quickly shut off her phone and placed it in one of her empty cup holders. Her bosom rapidly rose and fell as she stared out the window. The deep blue dusk sky provided some comfort as she stared at it with glassy eyes. Out of the corner of her eye, something catches her attention.

Diane looked into the rearview mirror to see the “family man,” at the end of the street sauntering up to her car with his hands buried in his khakis.

She tugged up her dress while hovering above her seat and took out her knife, setting it beneath her. After pulling her dress back down, she sat on the sheathed knife sticking out just far enough that she could tear it out at a moment’s notice. 

Diane pulled down her floppy sun visor and flipped up a dust cover to reveal a mirror. She quickly wiped away her running eyeliner that was in the process of painting her blank canvas of a face black, then looked at herself with the same foolhardiness she had while pulling the knife out from beneath her bed.

She shoved up the visor and checked the man’s progress in the rearview mirror. By now he was only a couple of feet away from the car, but Diane was ready. Despite this, when the man knocked on the passenger side window it made Diane slightly jolt in her seat. Without looking at the man she hit the unlock button on the console beside her.

When the man stepped in and slammed the door behind him, the entire car’s weight shifted. Diane refused to look his way until his burning stare became too much to bear. She glanced his way once then stared at the mailbox in front of her. The man’s attention was then pulled to the same mailbox as he followed her gaze. 

The silence was finally broken by the man asking in a gravely attempt at sounding sexy, “Meredith I presume?”

Diane replied in a tantalizing yet breaking voice, “yeah.”

The man then looked over to Diane and stared at her as if he were trying to get a read on her while she gripped the handle of her knife. 

“You looked older in your profile picture.” 

Diane’s brow began to precipitate but she painfully held back from wiping the bead of sweat that was nearing her left eye. The small droplet reached her eye, but instead of giving into the searing pain, Diane attempted to blink it away.

The man spoke up again, “My ex-wife’s name was Meredith…. Her and you share an uncanny resemblance as well.”

Diane looked at him and let out a giggle more awkward than sexy before unconsciously blurting out, “I guess everyone’s got a type.”

The man looked to the mailbox before saying, “Yeah… I really loved her for her though.”

Diane reached out and stroked his leg saying, “what’s love anyway?”

The man looked at Diane’s hand, her eyes, and finally back out the window as Diane retracted her hand in silence. His remorseful stare broke Diane’s concentration.

“I never meant to hurt her, but she needed help and I needed to take care of Ava.”

Diane’s grip on the knife loosened. “What do you mean she needed help?”

The man rubbed his left eye and said in a whimper, “She wanted to kill herself… She hit a rough patch in her modeling career, and I didn’t want Ava or me to be around when she finally did.” 

Diane let go of the knife entirely and placed her left hand over her right in her lap and started to twiddle with her fingers. “What about you? Is what they say true?” 

The man turned his head to Diane and hung his left arms around the headrest behind him and held his head with his right. “You mean that I’m a creep who likes adolescent girls?” he replied in a bothered tone.

“No, I... I...”

“…Well it’s not.”

Diane looked into his eyes for the first time and asked, “what do you mean it’s not?”

The man took down his right arm and angrily gesticulated with it as he yelled, “The only reason I was at that high school in the first place was in hopes of finding Ava.”

Diane stared at her hands for a moment before asking, “You think Ava is still alive?”

The man stared at Diane and said with conviction, “I know she is… and if my math is right, she would have graduated by now so there goes my only chance of seeing my daughter again.”

“Why didn’t you just look her up?”

The man held his head again with his right arm as he said, “Oh, and search through the millions of Ava’s out there.”

Diane offers a rebuttal in a sassy tone, “It’s better than asking a couple of seniors about her after soccer practice.”

The man gesticulates with his right arm once more saying, “what do you want me to say? I was desperate, okay? Ava loved kicking her dainty soccer ball around as a kid, and by my calculations, she was in her senior year… So yes, I did the audacious and talked to some high school girls out of the blue.”

Diane looked into his eyes. “But the news said you took one of them home?”

“Of course they did. They’re the press for god's sake.” Diane looked down as the man went on, “One of the girls was sympathetic towards my case while the others just brushed me off. So I walked her to her car but by the end of it I wasn’t anywhere closer to finding Ava.”

Diane’s voice started to break as she yelled back “You didn’t ever consider, I don’t know, the fact that Ava might have changed her name after her traumatic past. Or, or, or had to raise herself with hardly anything to her knowledge expect soccer! Or had to read to survive everyday life and barely graduate high school despite that!”

The man looked her in the eyes, his skin was paler than that of a corpse. “Ava?”

“Diane.”

The man reached over and hugged her as she bawled into his shoulder. His eyes begin to well.

The man fought his tears to say, “I never thought I’d see you again.”

I never thought I’d see my father again either, but I guess fate had a different plan…