Forgive Me by Kateri Stanley (love letters to the dead txt) 📗

like a penguin. I remembered feeling helpless when you plummeted into the agony of labour. I remember the concerned look on the maternity assistant’s face when you were squeezing my hand and I wasn’t flinching with pain. I must admit, I felt like collapsing when I held my new-born son in my arms.

We’ve had some intriguing visitors, one of them was Charles Libby. He wasn’t how I pictured him at all. He reminded me of a druid, he was lanky with long grey hair strapped back in a ponytail and an ashen beard, looking like a wizard. He was a very kind person; he spoke in a sweet gentle manner.

“So this is the tall glass of milk you’ve been talking about?” Charles quipped to you when you introduced us. I liked his sense of humour and his clean-cut Queens accent. He loved my tattoos. I enjoyed seeing you two interact, there was something fatherly about him. Sofia adored him too, she thought he was Santa Claus at first.

Another visit was by an elderly lady called Mary Summers. She’d helped you with the investigation of Heather Blair. I owed this woman so much. I didn’t want her to know I was the mystery baby, but she looked pretty freaked out when she saw me, even more when she held Sam in her arms. When I bent down to hug her, she cupped my cheek, gazing into my eyes. Now and then, I wonder if she figured it out or not.

“Guess who facebooked me yesterday?” you ask as we walk, disturbing me from my thoughts.

I shrug as I cuddle our daughter. “Who?”

“Jace from high school.”

I remember her, not like you did. “Oh cool. Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s doing really well. She married Zippo and they have kids! Didn’t think there was anything going on between them back then, I must have missed something. I guess I was too in love with Cameron Storms.”

I smile at you warmly.

Someone approaches us. I advance, my curiosity not at a kind level. The man holds a book and his smile was so big, his mouth could've cut someone. I see it in bold writing:

The Night Scrawler Chronicles, a memoir by Stripe McLachlan.

“I haven’t been able to put it down,” the guy responds.

Your cheeks blush a rosy pink. You still aren’t used to the compliments since the book release and the Lorraine Thurman interview. You should be proud of what you've achieved but I know you don't want it to go to your head.

The guy turns to me and his eyes grow like saucers. “Holy crap, you're Isaac Payne! I love your website! My friend’s managed to get some art work commissioned from publishing her paintings on there.”

“Thank you,” I reply. Inside I’m so happy my work has managed to help someone. “Congratulations to your friend. That was the whole point I started it in the first place.”

“Can I get a picture with the two of you?” he asks.

You look at me with silent worry.

“That's fine,” I say. “We don't want our children in the picture.”

“No, of course not.”

Daisy heads to the park café, she’ll meet us later and whisks off with Sofia clutching her hand and Sam in the stroller. The man turns to his companion who takes a photo on their phone. My arm is around your waist, pulling you against me. I make sure I’m positioned next to him instead of you. Strangers aren’t your biggest love right now. They aren’t mine either.

Evening times is when I worry about you the most. I check on our children as the nights tumble into darkness. Sofia is already asleep, clutching her little teddy bear, sucking on her pacifier. Sam is resting peacefully in his cot.

You stare at the trees outside, your hands framing your belly protectively. There are so many questions I want to ask but I stop myself, I have to shake the thought of your expression staring down the barrel of that gun, heaving the crate of petrol.

“What’s the matter?” I ask, walking towards you.

“Am I a good person?”

I’m taken back by your words. “Of course you are.”

“Am I?” You laugh, a deep snigger under your breath. “It doesn’t feel that way.”

“What’s brought this on?”

“I don’t like the silence.”

“Stripe, you need it once in a while. I know busyness is a good distraction but-”

“She’s in my head, Isaac,” you say, cutting me off. “She won’t stop.”

“Who’s in your head?”

“My mom.”

I hold your beautiful face in my hands. “Hey, it wasn’t your fault.”

Your eyes grow cloudy. “But I could have stopped it. If only I'd listened. Now, she's on her own, lying in the ground. Alone. So are Ted and Grace.”

“Stripe,” I whisper. I don't want to think about my parents, not right now. I have enough guilt floating around me till the day I die.

“Help me forget,” you whisper so intimately. Your clothes fall to the ground and you lean forward, kissing me ferociously. “Fuck me, please. She keeps talking to me.”

I lie you in our bed, the one where we conceived Sofia, where you discovered the truth about me. I don't want to be too rough. You have enough bruises and scars.

Chapter Fifty-One

Stripe was drenched in sweat when she woke up. Her joints ached with sexual pain and she swung her legs off the bed. After all the lovemaking, Beverley still managed to squeeze through the cracks in her subconscious, spewing accusations about her father and the blame for not saving her from the dreadful Isaiah. She still had cuts and internal injuries from his attacks.

Stripe pulled on one of Isaac's shirts and moved to the cot by their bedside, her legs wobbling slightly. Sam stirred in his sleep, gripping his little feet. He'd inherited the same dark hair and ice blue eyes of his father. She wondered if he was going to look like Isaac when he was fully grown.

She moved to her daughter’s room who’d kicked off her blanket, her pacifier had popped out but Stripe wasn't worried and