Mercy

Even after Frankie chose to vacate the bathroom by gradually fading into his surroundings until I felt certain I was alone at last, bathing myself proved to be a laborious and at times excruciating task. Whenever I made to grasp the bar of soap in my mangled hands, the sting of the substance as it seeped down into my wounds was absolutely unbearable, and imagining how severely the pain would intensify as I ran the bar over the assorted abrasions carved into my flesh was almost daunting enough to bring me to put an end to my partially self-inflicted suffering. Just when I thought the physical ache would drive me mad, I was bombarded with images pertaining to the origins of each individual injury. A throb from the bruised backside of my thighs threw a vision of Elliot’s knees pinning my down as he forced his cock into my again and again. The burning in my fingertips thrust me into an unlit hospital bathroom where I was reduced to clawing my way through the door while a bitter old man seemed intent on snapping my already shredded sanity. My overtly sensitive ribcage sent me hurtling back into a forest alongside Jakob Armstrong with trees and underbrush lashing out at me from every direction. I was more than hesitant to remove the bandages from around my neck in fear of the sting and the flashbacks cleansing that area would bring, but I understood how important it was that every inch of myself be utterly purified for not only Billie Joe but for myself. It was entirely necessary to experience all the atrocities one by one until I was comfortable accepting the hell I’d been put through. Regrettably, reliving each one made them no easier to swallow, and I would no doubt be haunted by some more than others until the day my body finally called it quits.

But that was only assuming my soul wasn’t doomed to roam the earth in the afterlife like Frankie’s was.

Not long after I’d plucked up the courage to unwrap my blistered neck and allow for the soap and the shampoo to trickle down over it, I noticed how murky the bathwater had become. Not only were its considerably muddied qualities unnerving, but the rate at which the temperature rose as opposed to how one’s bath generally grew cold after being inside for too long was alarming. It grew to a frightening point where removing myself from the dark waters was an immediate necessity as they began to boil around me. Primarily, my body was in too profound a state of shock to do much more than flail in fear of the supernatural whirlpool churning about me, but once the brief astonishment ebbed away, survival mode kicked in at full speed, and I damn near flew out of that bathtub. As my feet skidded along the slackened tiles of the bathroom floor, I noticed the water were inexplicably silent.

Curious, I grabbed the first towel off the wooden rack on the wall and turned back to face what was left of my grimy curse. The water was absolutely still, and not a single wisp of steam wafted up from water that had previously been too hot for my body to handle. I frowned, wary of what would become of my hand if I dipped it inside once more, yet I gingerly bent to pull the plug from the drain despite my apprehensions. The fluid inside was as frigid as it should have been while I was still bathing within it until my hand lingered a moment too long. It was then that I realized I had been the cause for the drastic rise in temperature, or at least whatever paranormal hex Frankie had donned me with was what had triggered the bathtub disturbance.

Shivering, I backpedaled away from the tub and commenced in ridding my body of the moisture which beaded itself sporadically upon my skin and hair. Sometime during the drying ritual I detected a scent I’d initially noticed when resting my head against Billie Joe while were still in the backseat of Jakob’s car. He smelled of burnt spearmint, though when he plucked the observation from my mind he thought I was comparing him to flaming toothpaste. I grinned and deducted that the fragrance of spearmint derived from the old bastard’s shampoo. I too smelled like faggot toothpaste, right down to the subtle aroma of campfire, but the second attribute to the layered scent could only be explained by one entity that had met a fiery end and appeared to be haunting us both. Frankie.

While in the process of wrapping the towel around my waist to temporarily cover myself before I fetched the clothes Jakob had bought me the day we went shopping for baby supplies, I heard a moan from somewhere outside of the bathroom. At first, I assumed I’d imagined the noise and proceeded to do away with the scraps of gauze which littered the floor. Once every bloody scrap was thrown haphazardly into the trash, however, I heard the distress call yet again, and it was noticeably louder than before. Billie Joe was crying out to me, alone and evidently in pain. Cursing myself for not having recognized his voice in the first place, I fled from the bathroom and into his room in seconds. The very first thing my eyes landed upon was that fucking tattoo on his outstretched arm, reminding me of his unforgivable deceit with one simple black and white film strip. My expression clouded with resentment so swiftly that my darkened features must have alarmed the old bastard, for he recoiled and whimpered before we’d had the opportunity to have spoken.

“You’re mad at me,” he murmured, eyes widening with some unspoken comprehension. He groaned again and brought both his outstretched hands to knead his temples as if he’d suddenly acquired a crippling migraine.

“Good call. Are you in pain? Do you want an Aspirin or something?” I asked him implacably while I crossed my arms over my chest. I was no longer interested in the possibility that my touch wouldn’t burn him, though I was beyond fascinated in knowing why he’d allowed that woman anywhere near me if he was already fully aware what she was capable of.

“Y-yes, it hurts so bad,” he mewled. I caught a glimpse of a tear sneaking its way down his cheek, but I refused to be swayed by his deteriorating emotional state.

“What, you’ve got no innuendos for me now? No sexual banter to make me forget that you’re a goddamn lying bastard?” I spat, hardly registering his request for a mild painkiller.

“I ain’t lyin.’ I need them pills ‘fore my fuckin’ head ‘splodes, ‘n’ if it’s a raunchy comment you’re lookin’ for, then fine. You’re lookin’ damn sexy in that little towel-skirt, Fairy,” he mumbled. His breathing had greatly improved over the course of one short catnap.

“Thanks, asshole,” I growled. “Where’s your medicine cabinet?”

“There should be a bottle o’ Aspirin or somethin’ b’hind the mirror in the bathroom,” Billie sighed, attempting to sit up. He groaned once more before he collapsed back into his pillow, cursing under his breath, “Son of a bitch, stop yellin’ at me!”

I was about head off into the bathroom for the second time that afternoon, but something in his choice of words stopped me dead in my tracks. Audibly, I wasn’t saying a single word against him, but in my head? Shit, I was building myself an argument so solid that nothing the old cunt threw at me in return could possibly penetrate it.

“I’m not yelling at you, Old Man,” I hissed.

“In your head…so many angry thoughts…I can’t even pick one of ‘em out. All I’m gettin’ is…betrayal,” he panted, eyes feverishly scanning mine to pluck other potential rarities from my mind before I exited the room. Apparently, Frankie’s spirit-voodoo had been completely reversed by his cryptic bath, and I wasn’t about to stick around to allow the old bastard’s scrutinizing gaze to pick me apart.

I ducked into the bathroom and made a beeline towards the mirror which concealed the cabinet Billie Joe had mentioned. My quivering fingers pressed against the glass to reveal the contents within, and sure enough, there was a bottle of generic, over-the-counter painkillers amidst the general clutter one would expect to find in an average medicine cabinet. When I turned to re-enter his bedroom with the pills in hand, Frankie was blocking the door.

“Funny how that psychic link Peach’s got with you’s what’s keepin’ him alive. When I cut him off, he was dyin’ fast, but now? Fuck, he ain’t even wheezin’ no more,” he pointed out, the ever-present grin nowhere to be found in his pallid countenance.

“Go away,” I whispered, trying to keep my volume down to virtually imperceptible levels as to not alert Billie Joe to the third presence in his home.

“You could just walk through me, Sug. I ain’t nothin’ but air,” he pressed, winking at me as the aggravation steadily rose within the pit of my stomach. I was tempted to do just that, but I knew that his touch held a far more significant quality than simple air considering how it had managed to harm the old bastard in making me both physically and psychologically unattainable to him.

“That’s not true. Step aside so I can give Billie his meds,” I commanded.

“Ooo, look who’s all eager to play doctor. What’re you gonna ask your patient first once his head’s all cleared up?” Frankie damn near squealed, clapping his hands together in unabashed enthusiasm at the prospect of a squabble between Billie Joe and me.

I mulled it over, taking a moment to consider every burning question for the old man that was gradually corroding me from the inside out. Should I cut right to the chase and interrogate him about the woman who carried both his sons for nine months, or should I start small and allow for his story to grow as each question became more difficult to answer than the last? The latter called for more details, and that was unquestionably what I desired from Billie.

“I’m going to ask him about you.”

Frankie smirked and babbled, “Aw, I’m flattered, babydoll…but I think you’re gonna have to go with the big guns if you’re really pushin’ to pick his brains. You gotta ask him somethin’ else.”

“Do you have anything specific in mind, or are you just fucking with me again?” I groaned, anxiously shifting my weight from foot to foot as I waited on his response. I should have already been in the kitchen fixing Billie Joe a glass of water and something to eat to ensure that the pills went down smoothly and wouldn’t upset an empty stomach. Instead, I was reduced to convincing his deceased and impossibly jealous ex-boyfriend to let me through a fucking door. Needless to say, my patience was running dangerously thin.

“Yeah…I do got somethin’ pretty damn good in mind. Ask Peach if he’s your daddy. I mean, Adie was your momma, right?”