Cassie is self-sabotaging, a dry sense of humour, a sultry melody, a sarcastic remark. She's a dead gaze, smudged eyeliner, a garden of withering red tulips, and... an addict. 

Etienne is indecisive, anxious, classically handsome, a teller of great stories. He's a smile that doesn't reach the eyes, a lit cigarette, an alternative rock song, and a bad friend.  

It all started when they were only six years old. And it hasn't stopped. It keeps happening. They weave in and out of each other's lives, with their strange connection to blame. Their bond is both strengthened and weakened by their shared traumas. Their relationship is a ballad about codependency and the electricity of first love. 

Their lives are an unmanageable mess that sees them dwell in the world of drugs, depression, and the multitude of young women being found dead in the Merseyside Area. They each must confront their faith in second chances, fate, and circumstance. 

                                                         ― ― ― ― ― 

 And he's somewhere in the middle. But you can also find him at the beginning, and he'll be waiting for you by the end. He's everywhere. He is good with ropes, great at sketching, addicted to pornographic content. He hates his wife, hates his son, knows how to avoid leaving fingerprints on his victims.

ON MOUNT EVEREST WITH YOU.

A worn-out shoelace. Soft to the touch. Its white fabric stained by the passing of time, by its careless exposure to different dust particles. It fiddles in his fingers. His thumb caresses it softly. Next to him, his wife. With a look of discontent. Always with a look of discontent. Her lips are moving but his ears cannot register sound. All of his senses have become enamoured by the thrill of the string moving in his fingers. He can hear wind, can hear his heartbeat, then comes a ringing, and finally, her voice. 


 She's giving him orders. Do this. Do that. I'm tired. You should help more. You barely do anything around the house these days. She's still going by the time he's stepped out of their bedroom and only distance is capable of drowning out the sound of her voice, for it echoes in the hallways and sometimes in the chambers of his brain. He needs distance. He needs to find his way away from her. 


 He places the shoelace back in his pocket. He can feel it there. Moving along to his every step, burning past the soft cotton fabric of his pants and into his skin. He takes out the trash. Lets the dogs out. Cleans up their leftovers. Lets the dogs in. Locks the doors. Locks the windows. Turns off the lights. Do this. Do that. Like a toy soldier. 


 A small light bulb dimly illuminates every inch of his cramped little room. The only space in the house that feels his—unapologetically his. 


 The only place that has not been contaminated with reminders of his family's presence disturbing the environment. The only place where right and wrong become profoundly subjective. 


 Adorned in its entirety with old furniture that his family had planned to discard. An armchair that had once belonged to his father and now belongs in the dumpster sits against the wall of the small squared space. Its brown leather peels a little more every time his body comes in contact with it. Across from it, a TV. Small, square, old, grey. It too continues to serve its purpose despite being an old discontinued model. 


 Around them, clutter. Clutter on top of the coffee table, on top of the old, scratched mahogany writing desk. Newspapers, loose papers, notebooks and books, sealed cardboard boxes, disorganised piles of videotapes and zipped-up duffel bags stacked inside plastic containers that threaten to come undone. 


 He turns on the television. Lowers the volume until the small number in the upper right corner gets to zero. Pushes in the VHS tape. He sinks down on the armchair. Electricity pulses through his veins. His hands tremble with anticipation. He reaches for the shoelace. On the screen, there is a woman. His eyes light up with recognition. 


 Her body is naked, restrained. Her makeup smudged. Her mouth open. He can hear wind, can hear his heartbeat, then comes a ringing, and finally, her screams. The sound comes from the inside of his head. 


 His chest rises and falls. Deep intakes of breath, shaky exhales. There is a pattern in the way his body operates. In the way his fingers move. They wrap around the small metal tube that rests on the crooked side table, a loose piece of a big machine that had been disposed of at work. He drapes the shoelace over it. His eyes are glued to the TV. 


 He crosses one end of the shoelace over the other and around the tube. Tucks it under itself. Passes it under the first wrap. Pulls. 


 The screen goes black. Just for eight seconds. He counts them. A new image appears before he reaches nine. A laundry room. It's dark. Not a speck of natural light reaches this room. But he can still see her. Naked, tied to a pipe, dripping blood. Her skin is yellow and blue. Her dark hair is damp and it clings to her skin. 


 Her body is limp. Her head is drooping. His hands squeeze the metal tube until his knuckles turn white.


Chapter Five.