I Know Who You Are

It’s freezing outside and the howling wind takes my breath away. The tarmac driveway bites my bare feet, and I wrap the open blouse around myself, not that anyone lives close enough to see me in the darkness. Or hear me, if I were brave enough to scream. In my terror I can’t remember the geography of the place, and as I stumble towards what I think is the main road, I realize too late that I am running towards the back of the property and the sea. I hear the door slam behind me.

“Where you going, Baby Girl? I thought you wanted to be together. I thought you weren’t going to run away anymore?” He sounds like the version of himself that attacked me in our bedroom the night before he disappeared; the version of him that I believed might kill me.

I trip and fall, knowing he isn’t far behind.

I’m lost in the darkness. I’ve turned in the wrong direction again, and this time it will mean the end of me, not the beginning.

I hear the whiny sound of wood fighting elderly hinges, and make out the shadowy shape of a shed door banging in the wind. I run for it, choosing to hide from whatever comes next. I can’t see what I’m walking over in the shed, it feels like straw. The metal hooks that my daddy used to hang the chickens on are swinging up above me, disturbed by the storm. Screeching and scraping against one another to produce an animal-like warning. When I look up, I see their silver smiles lit by moonlight.

“Big brother will always find you.” I hear him close the shed door, trapping me inside with him. The gale outside is picking up, and the door doesn’t want to stay shut. It continues to bang against its hinges, as though wanting to set me free. I fall to the floor and crawl away from the sound of my brother’s voice. Knowing there is nowhere left for me to run away to now, nowhere left to hide.

That’s when my fingers find it.

I don’t know what it is at first. My hand slides along the length of the wood until it meets the cold metal end, still sharp enough to cut my finger.

I pick it up and turn around, crouching and facing the sound of his footsteps coming closer and closer. The shed door flies open, and the moonlight illuminates the face of my brother right above me. He’s distracted by the sound of the door, and I swing the ax with every last bit of strength that I have. It lodges itself in the side of his neck, blood spurting out of him as he falls to the floor.

I don’t move.

I can’t.

Nothing moves, except for the steady stream of blood.

I bend down, drawn to the sight of his broken body. With his eyes closed, and all the changes he has made to his face, he looks like a complete stranger to me now. A monster I never knew I’d met. His eyes open, and the hate I see in them makes me grab the handle of the ax once more. I yank it from his partially severed throat, lift it high above my head, and swing it down.

His eyes are still open, as if they are looking at me, as his head rolls across the shed floor.

Six Months Later …

I do not like movie junkets, they are always so melodramatic and distasteful.

One interview after another after another. The same questions, the same answers over and over. The eyes of journalists and their cameras all pointing in my direction, studying me, trying to catch me out, trying to see what lies lurk beneath my surface.

“Last one,” says Tony, before getting up to answer the knock on the door.

The production company has hired a hotel suite for the interviews today. There’s something quite surreal about working on a movie for months, then having almost nothing to do with it until sometimes a year later, when you’re in the middle of a completely different project. It’s as if I have become a time traveler, talking about different characters, in different stories, in different countries all over the world. I know that Jack is in the room next door, and I’m glad he’s not too far away. I’m also glad my agent is here; I don’t think I can do this on my own today. Just the thought makes me furious with myself; I’ve never needed anyone, and I don’t like the idea of needing someone now.

Nobody knows what really happened last year, and I plan to keep it that way.

Jennifer Jones sashays into the room, her cameraman desperately trying to keep up behind her while carrying all the gear himself. I can’t believe I agreed to do this.

“Aimee, darling, you’re looking so well!” She kisses the air on either side of my face, making sound effects with her lips. They are hot pink today and match her figure-hugging dress. “So, I know we don’t have very long, your agent has made that very clear.” She gives him a little wave. “No personal questions, I promise.” I look at Tony, a tiny shard of panic piercing my armor, but he nods reassuringly and I try not to fiddle with the hem of my dress.

“Rolling,” says the cameraman.

Jennifer Jones hones in on me, sharpening her tongue. “So, Sometimes I Kill is a great movie.” Her level of insincerity is genuinely impressive.

“Thank you.” I smile.

“And congratulations, how long do you have left to go?” She stares down at my bump.

“Three months.”

“Wow! And how is the father-to-be?”

He lost his head.

I look at Tony before answering. So much for no personal questions. “Jack is fine.”

“It’s just like a fairy tale, it really is. The two of you meeting on set last year, falling in love, getting married … I noticed that you’ve kept your name … again.”

“Yes, I have.”

“And now a little mini Aimee or Jack on the way, how delightful!”

“I’m very lucky.” I move my hand to my belly, as though wanting to protect my unborn child from Jennifer Jones’s potentially poisonous comments.

“So lucky that you’ve also just finished filming another project, this time with Fincher directing no less! I mean, wow, lady! How do you have the time?”

“Because of my growing bump, we filmed all my scenes in just a few months. It was full-on, but such a great experience, I loved every minute.”

And I finally have everything that I wanted.

“He’d originally cast someone else in that role, is that right?”

I hold her stare and try not to shift in my seat. “Yes, he did.”

“It must have been hard for you. Stepping into Alicia White’s shoes after she vanished without a trace.”

“I feel so sorry for Alicia and her family. She hid it very well, but she was obviously a very troubled individual.”

“It’s almost six months since she disappeared, and still no sightings or any explanation. What do you think happened to her?”

“Can we stick to questions about the film please,” Tony interrupts, sensing my unease.

“Of course,” says Jennifer Jones. “I’m not going to lie, your character in this film is really scary. And an actress playing an actress, that must have been fun. We’ve been getting the other actors to do a little something to camera for a promo, would you mind doing one? You just say the name of your character, a little something about who they are, then the name of the film.”

“Sure.”

“Great stuff. Just look straight down the barrel of the camera when you’re ready…”

I turn to face the camera and oblige her for this one, final request.