End of Eternity 3 Read online

  End of Eternity 3

  By Loretta Lost

  Copyright 2015 Loretta Lost

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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  What love we’ve given, we’ll have forever. What love we fail to give, will be lost for all eternity.

  -Leo Buscaglia

  Chapter One

  I don’t remember exactly how I ended up with my face plastered against a slab of concrete.

  My shoulder is shaken roughly, and I groan in pain. Due to the tenderness of my breasts, it feels like I am being dragged across the surface of a cheese grater.

  Forcing my eyelids to open halfway, I struggle to lift my hand and press it against my temple. My brain is pounding like a jackhammer, and the world is spinning. When I can finally attempt to focus, I realize that there is a suitcase lying a few feet away from me, and I stare at it in puzzlement. Where am I? I must have had a small stroke, seizure, brain aneurysm, or something of the sort.

  Then I remember why.

  My fingers fall to the ground. I lie there for a few more seconds, completely limp. I almost wish I had fallen a little more strategically, and cracked my head open on the concrete stairs. Then I wouldn’t have to feel any of this pain. Emotional, or otherwise. I guess I did come all this way for knowledge, but I didn’t expect an old woman’s words to be powerful enough to knock me to the ground.

  Maybe I should have taken Owen up on his offer to come out here with me. I must still be quite weak if I can collapse so easily. This sort of thing has never happened to me before—but then again, I don’t think I’ve ever received news quite like this. I shouldn’t have stubbornly refused Owen’s help, but he’s been there so much for me lately and I wanted to stop being a burden. Still, I wish to God he were here right now.

  My breasts hurt like a bitch.

  The massive mounds are engorged to the point of exploding; swollen with sustenance for my daughter. My murdered daughter. Fathered by a murdered man. Perhaps Grayson being driven insane to the point where he took his own life was indirect or unintentional, but it makes no difference to me.

  My husband is gone. I’ve lost everything. And it’s his fault.

  Brad. That bastard.

  I become suddenly aware that someone is speaking to me.

  “Are you okay, dear?” a woman’s voice is saying with distress. “Should I call an ambulance?”

  Taking a deep breath, I try to push myself a few inches off the ground. “No,” I say hoarsely. “Water. I just need water.”

  “Carmen, was it?” the woman asks softly. “Why don’t you come inside and lie down on the sofa? Here, let me help you.”

  I let her grasp my arm and pull me to my feet, and I dizzily lean against her. She guides me over to lie on a worn old couch, and I collapse inelegantly against the cushions. “My suitcase,” I murmur, looking to the front door with worry.

  “I’ll bring it for you,” she tells me. “Don’t you worry, dear. Just rest.”

  I let my head roll against the arm of the sofa. My heart is beating so loudly that I feel it might break my ribcage in half. Additionally, there is a strange pulsing feeling in my empty belly, and I press my hands over my stomach with confusion and anxiety. “Brad did this,” I mutter to myself, nearly choking on the words. “He did this to me. He must have.” I try to force understanding into my slow and disbelieving brain. I find a bit of nausea stirring in my gut as I try to process this information.

  “What is it, dear?” Grayson’s mother asks as she moves to my side.

  I shake my head, unable to respond coherently. “He… did this.”

  Seeing my state of shock, she brings a cool glass of water to my lips. It takes me a moment before I am able to sip the liquid, and the refreshing sensation of it tumbling down my throat revives me a little. I am able to breathe a little slower and think a little more clearly as my headache begins to ease.

  “Are you talking about Brad?” the woman asks. “What did he do?”

  “My baby,” I tell her quietly. “I lost my baby a few days ago.”

  The woman pauses before responding. “Oh. I see.” She places the clear glass of water down on the coffee table nervously; her wizened fingers are swollen with arthritis and shaking with emotion. “Was it… Grayson’s child?”

  “Yes,” I hiss softly. Tears prick the back of my eyes, but they are nothing like the other tears I’ve shed; they are tears of anger. “She was your granddaughter. But now she’s gone. It’s his fault, isn’t it?”

  Grayson’s mother stares at me apprehensively. “You think that Brad might have…?”

  “Yes.” I feel bile rising in my throat. Grasping the back of the sofa, I push myself into a sitting position. “After the story you just told me? About Helen. Grayson’s first love.”

  “Maybe you’re jumping to conclusions,” the old woman whispers fearfully. “You have no proof that…”

  “No,” I whisper vehemently. “There was something wrong with the whole situation. I know there was. I shouldn’t have lost my baby…” Pausing, I have to take a few deep breaths to try to compose myself. “He was there the whole time. I let him get so close to me.”

  I can feel a deep and heavy rage building slowly in my chest. It is only a small, black kernel of vitriol, but I can feel it threatening to spread and consume my whole body, inch by inch, like a cancer.

  I will do nothing to slow its progress.

  I know that I could try to let it go, like I have let go of everything that has ever bothered me in my entire life. The old Carmen would have tried to rise above this, but the new Carmen wants to sink below. Something has snapped in me, and I want to give in to the darkest parts of myself. I want to let them come out to play, and be the cruel, vindictive bitch that I’ve never allowed myself to be. Not once.

  After all, I have failed at being able to create. I might as well destroy.

  “Let me make you a meal, dear,” Grayson’s mother is saying as she rises to her feet. “When was the last time you ate?”

  “I don’t need food,” I tell her sharply. “I need to know why. Why did he do this to me? What the fuck is wrong with him?”

  The old woman lifts her shoulders in a shallow and empty gesture. “I—I don’t know, dear. Brad didn’t really have anything against Helen. The poor girl was just standing in the way of his plans for Grayson, so he disposed of her and her child.”

  “They were collateral damage,” I muse, “on his rise to the top.”

  “Exactly. That man would never let anything stand in his way. Maybe your child was standing in the way of Brad’s plans for you?”

  “What plans for me?” I ask with a frown. Frenzied thoughts rush through my mind as my eyes dart around the room rapidly. “What does he want from me?”

  “I don’t know,” Grayson’s mother says softly. “You need to calm down, dear. It’s not good for your health to get all worked up again. Let’s get some food in you. Do you like pizza?”

  Something suddenly clicks in my brain. “Brad lied to me. My daughter wouldn’t have been sick.” I grab one of the small pillows on the couch and crush it within my hands. “Grayson wasn’t a monster. If drug abuse and steroids led to his schizophre
nia… then my daughter would have been fine. Brad said that she’d be born mentally ill, like her father. But all along, he knew the truth.”

  “My son was never mentally ill,” Grayson’s mother says defensively. “Brad is the one who made him sick. Brad played with my boy like a puppeteer pulling on strings. He controlled his entire life.”

  “And his death,” I add numbly. Closing my eyes, I inhale slowly. Brad might enjoy controlling those around him, but he will never control me. I will see to it that he learns that. I don’t know how yet, but I’m going to find a way to make him regret that he ever messed with my life and my family.

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Grayson’s mother says quietly, and her voice breaks. “I always dreamed that I’d see my son again someday. I thought that maybe when I was sick and dying, he would finally come to visit this old woman. I thought I’d get a chance to hold him one last time. I thought he’d kiss my forehead and say goodbye, and that his smile would be the last thing I saw before I left this world. How can my son be gone before me?”

  Hearing the sorrow in the woman’s voice reminds me of the reason I came here. I see that she has dragged my suitcase inside, and I grasp the arm of the sofa to help myself stand. A wave of dizziness hits me, but I ignore it as I walk toward the suitcase and fall to my knees. Unzipping the small carry-on luggage, I carefully retrieve the bubble-wrapped urn.

  It occurs to me that this is the last time that I’m going to hold my husband.

  I’m really going to lose him forever now.

  As my hand tenderly caresses the curve of the container, I realize that I have never loved Grayson as much as I do in this moment. Tears touch my eyes again. Now, long after he has departed from this world, I have finally been able to learn who he truly was.

  And he was beautiful.

  It means everything to me that I have gotten a chance to understand the true motives behind everything he did. Despite what anyone else believed, I always knew that there was a good soul inside that man. I always knew that there was something pure and full of love inside him, even when he was distant and shut down.

  It breaks my heart to think of how the world twisted him up.

  Grayson could have been someone great. Of all the men I’ve ever met, there was something truly special about my husband; so special that I was willing to overlook his every flaw.

  And now he’s gone.

  All that’s left is a pile of ashes in a decorative urn that I now hold in my hands.

  I bite my lip as I gently remove some more of the packing material. The urn is silver in color, and there is mother-of-pearl inlaid in slender rings around the canister. It’s a lovely design, but it’s cold and artificial to the touch. I would give anything to be able to touch Grayson’s warm skin instead of this inanimate flask. I would give anything to wrap my arms around his strong shoulders and cuddle against his neck, and feel the gentle prickle of his stubble. I would give anything to listen to his heartbeat and feel his chest rising with deep, invigorating breaths. I would give anything to hold his hand.

  How could a man be reduced to dust so easily?

  Maybe we’re all just dust, anyway. It’s our natural state; the state to which we are all heading. Someday the whole planet will be dust, and what will any of this matter? Every day we manage to stay alive is just delaying the inevitable.

  A sound distracts me from my morbid thoughts. I hear a soft whimper coming from behind me, and I turn to see Grayson’s mother crying.

  “Is that—is that him?” she asks tearfully.

  I nod, rising slowly to my feet. There is a bit of pain in my knees and weakness in my legs, but I don’t care anymore. I move over to the woman and hold out the urn. “This is yours, Mrs. Scott. Grayson’s will stipulated that I should bring his ashes to you after his passing.”

  She smiles through her tears as she accepts the urn. “My son did love me after all. He wanted his final resting place to be close to his mother. Brad can’t take him away from me anymore. No one can.”

  Large droplets of water roll down her cheeks and splash down onto the vessel as she holds it tightly against her chest. I don’t know if I have the heart to tell her that Grayson meant it as an insult.

  The old woman moves to a small, worn-out fireplace. She lovingly places the urn on the mantle. “Now we can finally be a family again; for eternity.”

  The word gives me a little shiver. “Brad said that Grayson wanted you to have the ashes because he hated you. That Grayson said the only way he’d return home was in a pile of ashes…”

  “Brad said that?” the old woman scoffs. “What would he know about the love shared between a mother and her child? Brad never had a mother. Not a real one, anyway.”

  This piques my interest. “He didn’t?”

  “He was a curse,” the old woman explains. “He grew up in the foster system and mostly lived in group homes. No one would adopt him, because every family he ever belonged to ended up losing one of their other children—or they would get seriously injured. It was never confirmed, but there were rumors that he was responsible for the deaths.”

  I ruminate on this information for a moment. It seems like Brad is the one who was born a monster. “Maybe he killed them out of jealousy? To get more love and attention from his foster parents?”

  “Maybe,” the old woman says with a small shudder. “I don’t know if you can actually find reasons for the messed up things that man does. I think he just does whatever he wants. Maybe he killed your daughter so that he could get more of your attention.”

  “Well,” I say softly. “It worked. Brad has my full attention.”

  “What are you going to do?” she asks me nervously. “There’s a strange look in your eyes.”

  Turning away from her, I try to conceal the anger that’s eating me alive inside. I wonder if I can hurt Brad even a fraction as much as he has hurt me. How will I go about doing this? I need to take away everything he cares about. I need to damage his body, the way he’s damaged mine.

  My eyes settle on an old picture frame. There is a slender young man wearing a high school football jersey, and holding his helmet below his arm. A smile touches my lips at this image of my husband as a teenager. I have never seen any of his baby photos. If he had lived, maybe we would have had a son. Maybe our son would have looked a little like this beautiful young boy.

  Brad has ripped this all away from me. Everything that could have been is ruined.

  “Will you help me?” I ask Grayson’s mother. “I’m going to hurt him.”

  “How?” she asks me fearfully.

  “In the most brutal way that I can hurt another human being. In every way I can think of.”

  “My dear, you should not take this upon yourself. God will punish him someday. He will be made to atone for his sins. But if you hurt Brad, then you will be damaging your own soul. You will become just like him.”

  “I don’t care anymore.” Being a good girl never got me anywhere. Maybe it’s time I took a page out of Brad’s book, and played the villain. I have no other purpose for living, other than to cause him pain.

  “Just be patient, dear. When the reckoning comes, Brad will be made to pay for all he’s done. Nothing you can do to him will compare to his eternal suffering.”

  My head snaps toward the old woman. I stare at her for a moment, before a smile slowly overtakes my features. “Is that a challenge?”

  “Carmen,” she says, moving toward me and grasping both of my hands. There is a great tenderness in her eyes. “My son might be gone, but I have gained a daughter-in-law. It means so much that you’ve come all this way to meet me. Please, don’t do anything to hurt yourself. Brad isn’t worth it. He is going to hell for sure; there is no reason that you should follow him.”

  “Hell?” I ask in confusion. I don’t know what that means. Hell and heaven are fine concepts, but there is no guarantee. Maybe Grayson is in hell right now; maybe he’s in heaven. I have no time for these hypothetical places. Ev
en if Brad does spend an eternity burning in hell, it won’t be enough for me.

  I need to know that I caused him pain.

  I need to do this now; long before the onset of any fabled afterlife.

  If I had absolute confirmation that he would burn in hell, I might not be so enraged. If I could contact the underworld organization and send them advance payment for his imprisonment and torture, and receive some kind of receipt for their services, I might feel a tad bit better. But then I’d have to wait. I simply can’t wait any longer. Why should Brad live a long, happy, prosperous life when Grayson will not? When that poor young girl, Helen, could not? When my daughter will never live to see the candle on her first birthday cake?

  One thing’s for sure:

  Long before Brad turns to dust, I am going to make him suffer.

  Chapter Two

  “You can rest here,” the old woman says as she guides me into a small bedroom and turns on a lamp. “This was Grayson’s room. I’ve kept it clean over the years, in case he ever wanted to come home. It’s not much… but you can see that all his things are still here. Just as he left them, a decade ago.”

  For the most part it looks like the normal room of a young boy. The furnishings are cheap and simple, and there are some old toys lining the shelves. However, there is one thing that catches my attention. In one corner of the room, near an old writing desk, there is a wall covered in sketches and paintings. They are very similar to the ones that Brad showed me in the attic. The same young girl with light brown hair is depicted, over and over. At first, the images are simple. They are even so true to life and perfect that I believe they might have been sketched from a photograph. But then, they change. They become morbid, with plenty of blood and darkness. The color scheme changes as the art grows more and more sinister.

  Finally, I see the angel wings beginning to appear. That was a common theme in the drawings I saw in my house.

  “My son was a talented artist,” the old woman explains. “It was one of the many things he excelled at. His art teacher gave him private tutorials after school, and frequently encouraged him to become an artist. But we had no money, and he knew he needed to pay more attention to his other skills if he wanted a strong career someday. This took a backseat as his hobby.”