Lost Souls - 9. Victoria-Ann Cantrell- Gone

Now twenty-one years old, Victoria lived on her own, committed to a relationship with Jackson. He was a short, muscular man with dark, brown skin and neatly cut hair. His face had chiseled cheekbones that lead to his narrow chin.. A few strands of gray dotted his jaw bone which was rough with a shorted beard. He wore a navy blue, arm-hole shirt and gray sweat pants. At thirty- seven years old, Jerome was almost 20 years Victoria's senior. His hand slowly crawled below her boney waist, gently cupping her crotch. He squeezed. Jerome pushed his hand further beneath the over-sized, gray tee-shirt she wore. Its length covered past Victoria's knees like a dress.

“No....”

“What happen?” Jackson said in his Barbadian accent. His voice was deep, dry like sandpaper and just as rough. He brushed away stands of brown hair partially covering her face.“I not going to hurt you.”

“I can't,” she refused. “Not yet.”

“You still won't tell me what happen to you before we meet two years ago.”

“Not again Jack....” Victoria sighed. “Why does it matter?”

“Why we doing this?” Jackson replied. He removed his hand from beneath the shirt.

“Doing what?”

“Us!” he snapped.

“I-I want to...I really want to!” she begged.

“But you won't!” He stood up.

“No...I really can't tell you because I don't even understand it myself!”

Jackson's eyes were narrow slits, “You expect me to believe that?” he said walking away.

She grabbed his hand, “Please don't go! Please don't leave me! I can't be alone!”

Jackson jerked his hand away from the pleading woman. “We were together two years...I bring you to Barbados with every last piece of cent I had so you could start up you a new life...” he said flailing his right hand. “And I don't even know you're parents' names; where you grow up; where you went school...nothing!”

“But....”

“And then you writing these weird- ass poems and jumping up in the middle of the night like duppy chasing you.” He continued.

“I've been having strange dreams ever since I moved here....” Victoria explained.

“Dreams 'bout what?”

“I-I....don't understand them.”

“Look...I had enough of you and you madness,” Jackson argued. “What they say 'bout English people true....”

“What?” Victoria shrieked. “Fine! Fine! You really want to know what happened?”

“Yes! 'Bout damn time too!”

Victoria, now overwhelmed with emotions grabbed one of the couch pillows. “My uncle used to rape me!”

Jackson's eyes widened like watermelons, “You're serious?”

“No, I'm being a rass-hole.” Victoria said shoving Jackson.

He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Sorry.”

“Almost every fuckinggg night he fucked me like I was his whore!” she screamed. “He fucked me and then starved me! He starved me like I didn't deserve to live! He'd beat me like I didn't deserve to feel!” she cried. Victoria threw the pillow at the white wall as hard as she could. “There! There it is God-dammit!” she exclaimed.

Jackson stood silent, holding Victoria steady.

“And now I have dreams... I dream of killing the old bastard.” she grinned. “The poems! The dreams! Its like I'm being told I have to kill him just to get some proper God-damn sleep!” she yelled. “I want him dead!” she laughed. Every word stuck to the walls of the apartment as her voice reverberated, making sharp echoes. “DEAD! DEAD! DEAD! DEAD!” Victoria bellowed..She hunched over, head between her legs; exhausted from this sudden release. As she straightened up, hair covered Victoria's face, half- covering her reddened eyes. When the smoke from her blinding rage cleared, she noticed Jackson had let her go; now standing a few feet away from her near the door. She took two steps toward him; he moved two steps back.

Jackson, still in shock from the breakdown he'd just witnessed, was a statue. On the glass coffee table were his Blackberry and car keys; his eyes turned toward them. Victoria's eyes followed his; as if siphoning his thoughts, Victoria's body became cold as Jackson moved toward the table.

“No don't leave me!” She reached for the keys but he pushed her away; she landed on the couch. Jackson marched to the door; she lunged for him, grabbing him by the sleeve. They tussled as she fought to remain attached to the man; he opened the door and pushed her back.

Victoria threw her body against the door, slamming it shut and making a thunderous BRAM! Jackson grabbed her by the bicep, “I can't do this!”

Victoria dropped to her knees, planting herself on his leg. “Jackson....”

He kicked her off, “You got serious issues woman! You want to kill him that badly? I can't be around when you do it!” He stormed out, slamming the door and releasing a gust of wind that blew the hair from Victoria's face. On the coffee table she picked up a framed photo of her and Jackson; embraced.

“You said you wouldn't leave,” she said. “But you left me anyways. You left me with him, didn't you.” She stood up; thrashed the photo against the wall, sandwiching it between the palm of her hand and the wall. The glass shattered into what looked like a million pieces, littering the floor like confetti. Looking down at her palm she saw a few spots of blood where glass cut her.

Victoria looked at the glass on the floor and one piece stood out: it was long, thin and sharp resembling the blade of a knife. She picked it up with her bleeding hand; it cut her skin as she squeezed it hard. Blood flowed from her palm as her hand trembled from the pressure she exerted on the edge of the thin glass strip. Victoria forced pain, yet she didn't feel hurt; she felt 'normal' and this disappointed her. She dropped the glass on the floor.