Monster

"I wasn't planning on bringing you out of there. But you were protecting them. And children need a mom. Since you were still acting like it in there, it seemed like the logical choice. For now."

"What if... what if they say I have to come back?"

"They won't, you're out. For good. They wouldn't take you back if you showed up on the front step naked with 10 kilos of coke. We have a deal"

She looked pensive. "What kind of deal."

"it's a simple one: They never have anything to do with you or the children again, and in return I don't exterminate everyone wearing purple for 100 mile radius."

She already looked sick and off balance but I decided put the rest of the cards on the table. I had to let her think she had options, otherwise she'd play along for time. "I need to make some things clear. I don't own you, and I don't want to. If you decide to run by yourself, I won't come after you. I'll even leave the debit active, but won't put any more money into that account once you run, so once it is gone, it's gone. If you take the children, though, I will follow you to hell and back – I intend to watch over them until they can make their own decisions from now on. You really, really won't like it if I have to come after you to retrieve the children. You can stay here until they all graduate, and all I will ever ask you to do is to help take care of them. This is solely in the interest of protecting them. According to studies, children from a stable home with two parents are happier and more likely to be successful."

"This part is important. You need to know the truth."

I dropped the mask. And from her expression, she could see the change, but she didn't run. Good. Maybe she'd survive this after all.

I could use help to maintain the mask.

"After this happened" I pointed at the scarring on the side of my head "I've lost nearly all capacity for emotion. I have no feelings about you at all, good or bad, except concern for what you've put the children through. Your decision making for the last year or so has been... less than optimal."

I paused as she considered the meaning of that. Now to give her the choice.

"The only real emotions I seem to have at all now are ones directly connected to my children. I will not tolerate anything that negatively impacts their life. I could use help taking care of them."

That was a lot to take in and I could see her pondering her options.

She made her choices rather more quickly than expected.

Shaking her head "I don't have anywhere else to go. My parents... they don't want anything to do with me."

At the time she may not have realized how close she was to death. I had a handgun – a piece of shit Glock. Unlovely things, Glocks, all the feeling and warmth of a staple gun. Brutally functional though. Like me.

I'd taken it from Brian. Trapped scared people look toward what they believe is salvation. In his case a much abused Glock 19 in the television stand drawer. I'd made sure his prints and blood DNA were on it. Just in case. I couldn't afford for her to leave with my secret.

Best to change the subject.

"We apparently do have to get one of your tattoos removed. According to the 'negotiators' yesterday, it is mandatory when a woman leaves their social club for any reason. Removal is customarily done with a belt sander, but unless you have your heart set on that, I think we can just get laser removal."

She paled and her hand shot down to her pubic mound. The tattoo, according to my negotiation discussion, was a small Purple Pranksterz emblem located about an inch above the vagina, overlaid with the number of guys involved in "ganging" the woman in. Apparently, according to Cueball, in Anne's case, the number was 15. She started to visibly shrink in on herself as she realized I probably knew all about the meaning of the tattoo.

I held my hand up. "We can set it up with a respectable tattoo parlor in town, there are a couple, including a really pleasant-looking one at the mall. Or maybe they can hide it under different kind of tattoo if you want, I really don't care. Either way it is likely to be somewhat painful, but a lot less trouble than if somebody finds out you still have it now that you are out."

The conversation died out a bit after that and she headed out with my three children. I reminded her to wear the sunglasses until she found some to buy – her black eye was a glorious purple and yellow blossom over a third of her face now. The day went more or less as planned, with the repainting and clean up complete on time.

I waited to see if she would run.

She wouldn't get far. The gas gauge was rigged – she'd get less than 40 miles before it ran dry - and the lo-jack would tell me where she was.

All I would need was a starting point.

The car pulled up not long after I finished and the children spilled out bubbling with excitement over all their new 'stuff'. It seemed to take forever to unload the clothes, books and other necessities from the car, but a light supper was soon fixed, eaten and cleaned up. The children insisted on showing me their school clothes and other sundry items before heading off to bed.

Anne seemed a bit down and unhappy, but tried to keep a cheerful face on for the children until she put them to bed. I was sitting paging through a book in one of the two big wingback chairs by the fireplace when she plopped herself down in the other. She all but had a black cloud hanging over her head – I vaguely remembered that as sure sign she had something she needed to talk about, but really didn't want to. I considered letting her sit there without saying anything, but decided that asking would be a good way to gauge how she was adjusting.

"Something wrong?"

She went off, although it wasn't aimed at me. "EVERYTHING is WRONG. I was stopped twice by police to see if I needed 'assistance getting out of a bad situation' because of my black eye!"

"They were doing their job and trying to help."

"Sure, but where were they YESTERDAY? Or two weeks ago when I had my last black eye? Or four months ago? Or a FUCKING YEAR AGO? Just because I was part of that club, everybody was okay with me being hurt? But today, while I am wearing regular "Mom" clothes everyone wants to help!"

I didn't say anything – I was sure this wasn't over.

"Then I went to the tattoo place in the mall and basically the girl there told me I would have to get permission to get it removed – like somebody owns me!"

Which was pretty much what the tattoo meant, but here was no reason to really point that out, she already knew it.

"Then the little bitch tells me that, even with permission, she won't touch me without a broad panel STD test from a clinic!"

I thought that was probably a pretty good idea. There was no telling what she could have picked up.

I let her stew for minute. "The Tattoo artist is making sure her place doesn't get burned down in retaliation. As to the... tests, I'll try to put you on my family health plan at the school. I can tell them it was part of the divorce agreement, as long as I pay for it they won't care. The children are still on my military plan."

For a second, just a second, she looked at me with disbelief and a hint of anger.

The answer was that a woman who had had a 15 man gangbang and has been loaned out like a library book for the last couple years should probably be tested anyway. But that seemed to be self-evident, so I sat silent. In any case, a few seconds later, she obviously came to that rather logical conclusion herself without my prompting.

She actually blushed – a capability I was dimly surprised she had maintained - and looked down at the ground for a second. "I... I could probably use a checkup anyway. I haven't seen a doctor in a while."

The next few days were busy as the children started school and Anne slipped in a Doctor's appointment - she didn't tell me anything, but since the results netted her a six week course of antibiotics, there obviously was a problem. We also moved the children into their separate rooms downstairs, adjacent to what I thought of as the TV room, but which Anne referred to as the family room. Anne, surprisingly, kept the room upstairs.

Two weeks after I brought them to the house, I got an email message from the guy I called Shaggy; I'd left a note with a cut-out email address and told them to box Anne and the children' stuff up and I would let them know where I would meet them to pick it up. Shaggy's real nickname was "Bear", and from the email, his real name was Ed MacManus, of all things. And Cueball's given nickname appears to be "Wrench". I designated a truck stop on the edge of their little town. It was only a few boxes, so I took the pickup truck. Not being an idiot, I arrived early and made sure I had favorable ground. I needn't have concerned myself, Bear made sure everything was loaded as trouble free as possible.

Before he left he talked to me a bit. "Everything I know about is in there – a lot of her stuff is gone – Cooler probably sold it a long time ago, so it's mostly the kid's stuff. " He paused "I also had a call from a woman who said she was a tattoo artist and was asked to remove a club tattoo. She described Anne, so I told her to go ahead. As far as I can tell, we're done, but if something comes up, email, I'd rather avoid personal visits."

He paused for a long moment.

"Cooler's still really pissed. Probably doesn't mean anything, he's scared shitless of you. But I thought I'd mention it. The rest of us don't want anything to do with you. At all."

I nodded. "We should be done, if it weren't for the children, we'd never have met."

I gave him "Cooler's" sunglasses back, then we parted company carefully.

The boxes were actually carefully packed, and there was a note from one of the other women in the club.

I shouldn't have bothered returning the sunglasses. Brian died in a not-too-tragic one-vehicle crash a couple weeks later. After I'd received an anonymous email detailing Brian's traveling schedule and route. It could have been a trap, but I had the sense that Bear wasn't stupid enough to risk that.

Bear took over the club.

The children, as children do, adjusted quite well; Patrick told Anne that the children and teachers treated him better at the new school. She did the mental math and figured out why, which resulted in her crying in the bathroom for almost an hour after the children went to bed.

Anne and I fell into the habit of talking by the fireplace after the children were asleep for the night. It was essentially a planning meeting, originally focused entirely on making sure the children were taken care of. Anne eventually tentatively initiated some small talk about harmless subjects; I went along with it to maintain a veneer of civility. But it never went beyond that. It proved I was incapable of developing any emotional bond beyond those to my children. Anne recognized fairly quickly that it wasn't an act.

About six months after I moved them to the house, Anne left a medical report on my nightstand stating that she was clear of any STDs, including HIV. That night, she silently came into my bedroom and slipped into bed with me. It wasn't love in any sense, just sex, a release of tension; she slipped back out to her bedroom. But apparently that was enough. Three times a week, Anne returned. Every week.

A couple months later, she came to me with a proposal.

"The children are old enough to think our living arrangement is a bit odd. If I move into your bedroom, we can maintain the fiction of a normal relationship until they graduate college. I'm not trying anything here – I know how you feel. Or rather how you don't feel about me. I'm not under any schoolgirl illusions. I know what you are. I'm here until the children graduate."

I agreed – it certainly simplified everyday life. Everything indicates she was in for the long haul.

My lack of interest in building a personal life at the college was assumed to be because of my "family man" status. She attended every social event and played the perfect wife.

She became part of the mask.

She also asked if she could take courses. She eventually earned her RN – then her RPN, and began working at a small health clinic. Run by women for women.

She also studied psychology with a passion. I knew why she was doing it, of course, but saw no reason to stop her.

At the house we coordinated every day, made plans, solved problems and forged on.

Time passed – we cooperated on every level. We made a perfect team. The children had no idea what was going on, just as we planned. It was easy to act. We went on vacation together, even purchasing a small vacation house in the islands for yearly visits.

The Colonel and Top from my old unit were there, Top even had a bar, The Shack. They'd known the Monster side of me pretty well, and hadn't really seen me outside of 'work', so they had a hard time seeing through the mask.

On reflection it was easy to see why Anne and I worked well together. She was, at best, "damaged goods" with no faith in humanity, including herself. Fortunately for her, I wasn't really human anymore.

I really hadn't made plans past the last graduation – I figured Anne would move on and try to salvage what she could of her life. She'd kept her end of the bargain and supported the children with everything she had. And kept my secret. But a year before Danni graduated college, she announced her engagement to an earnest young law student.

Three weeks later Anne came up to me after dinner, carrying a bundle of folders and handed them to me.

There were at least a dozen studies on the importance of grandparents to the success of grandchildren.

Another gleam of light in that grey void.

Obligations.

It appeared we would be maintaining our fiction for quite a bit longer.

Anne Speaks

I live every day on the edge of a precipice. Don't feel sorry for me, I don't feel sorry for myself.

By most standards it's not a bad life. I live in a nice house, I have three beautiful children and I have grandchildren on the way. I'm treated well. We even have a little vacation home in the islands.

I've chosen to live here and it's probably best for everyone. Maybe even for me.

But I live one step from oblivion. I think it's a long step, but I can't be sure.

I live with my ex-husband and the whole world sees us as a happy loving couple.

But while we may be a couple – whatever that means – we aren't married, and there is no love. At least from his end. I try not to anthropomorphize him, but it's hard not to pretend to myself that he's still human in some sense. Even when I know that, whatever he is, he isn't really human anymore at all.

At night, when I am sure he is asleep, I occasionally whisper "I love you" and pretend he whispers back.

Sometimes I think that by helping him, I'm just maintaining a shrine to the last man I'd ever love.

He is, at least as far as I can tell, an unusual type of sociopath. I've taken classes, attended lectures and read every piece of literature I can get my hands on. With one glaring exception, he has little or no emotion and no empathy. The exception is our children. And, I am sure, the grandchildren. He pretends to have emotion and empathy, pretends to be human. But I know the truth. He doesn't have impulse control issues, and he has no driving desire to torture. But he has no emotional reason not to.

I didn't make him this way – it isn't some trauma or fall out from my stupid decision.

He was severely injured in an explosion – fragments hit his brain just the right way. Erasing his humanity. Just spectacularly bad luck.

My stupidity is why we aren't actually husband and wife.

I divorced him over a year before he was injured, to chase a stupid illusion.

I could go on and try justify myself – but it would all be meaningless shit. Just emotional masturbation. The reality is the same old boring tale, nothing original about it. One minute I was young and in love, the next I found I was a mom with three children and a husband in the Army who just didn't seem to be headed in the same direction anymore. He never had time for us.

Counseling doesn't always work, even if you love each other.

That's how it starts and next thing you know, you're divorced, and you've dragged your children into a shit life with a shit boyfriend who beats the shit out of you on a semi-regular basis.

The Asshole – Brian, also called "Cooler" – had been in the Army, but had gotten out, and seemed to have a plan. He seemed great at first. But it turned out Brian was a president of a motorcycle club, one of the ones deemed OMCs. Which meant I had to be in the club, too. Like many gangs, the initiation for women is pretty misogynistic, and not exactly voluntary. I was drugged at a club meeting and screwed by every guy there. I don't remember much of it – just flashes. But the next morning I found my mound shaved and where the hair had been was a Purple Pranksterz emblem with the number "15" blazoned over the top.

I'm pretty sure that by that point, Brian stopped seeing me as a girlfriend, and started to see me as a commodity. I fought it, but lost more than I won. I was used as an incentive with all that implies. When I deliberately let myself look haggard and quit trying to look pretty, he found other uses for me.

Sometimes I was used as a mule to carry meth and heroin.

Women come with such convenient stowage compartments.

I was lucky I didn't end up in prison.

At least I think I was.

Things had gotten way out of hand and I was trying to figure out how to get away – or at least get my children away. Brian was resenting them more and more. None of my family was talking to me anymore, except my grandmother, and she was in a nursing home. I just didn't have anywhere to go where they wouldn't drag me back.

People use the word "desperate" way too often. As if you can be "desperate" for a piece of chocolate.

I know what it really means.

I don't know what started that last fight; I came out of the kitchen and found Brian looming over Patrick. When I pushed between them, Brian punched me twice, screaming about Patrick talking back to him. I could only see white flashes out of my right eye, and had a mouth full of blood from a split lip. But there was no way I was going to let him beat my son. From the look in Brian's eyes, I was going to be hurt bad. Really, really bad.

Then the door opened behind him and my husband walked in.

Yes, I still think of him that way – I've never married anyone else and don't want to. So the title is still his by default.

My mind exploded with suppressed princess fantasies. He was here to save me! He'd rescue us, carry me out to the carriage and we'd ride off into the Happily Ever After!

Then he turned his head.

My heart froze in mid-leap. Half his face was a horrible insanely grinning mockery of humanity; a devil's face. A smoke filled eye, a leering smile, the skin a relief map of pain – just runnels and crevices on an angry red canvas.

He'd refused to see me, so, although, I'd known he'd been injured, this wasn't what I pictured. I thought Patrick had exaggerated. Kids do that. I don't know what I was expecting; maybe a limp and one pristine dramatic scar down the side of his face, like in the movies.

My stomach lurched.

Brian saw the expression on my face and turned to face him. He didn't stand a chance. He was down before I could even really register what happened. The Thing that had been my husband moved with a machine-like precision, no wasted effort at all.

Instead of an emotional "I Love You!" I was ordered to get my ass and the children in the car. It was pretty damn clear that while my ass was optional, the children were not. His voice was flat and emotionless. He stopped me to demand my club vest and I handed it to him as fast as I could. I had to step over Bear and Wrench on the way out. They hadn't fared any better than Brian. I watched him drag them inside. He was in there for 15 minutes before he came out. Something made me watch for flames as we drove away.