Freedom from Sin

Freedom from Sin
By Jamie Rathbun Iwen

Lizbeth held Sinclair’s head to her breast as his last labored breaths escaped his dry, cracked lips. When his last breath was drawn she began to weep uncontrollably, her tears interrupting the blood that had already begun to clot on his forehead. At long last the sobbing had worn her out and she slept, still cradling her beloved in her arms.

It was a few hours later when she awoke. Before she opened her eyes she knew the events of the previous night had actually happened. The acrid smell of blood was all around her, smothering her senses. She could feel the weight of her dead lover lying across her lap; she still clutched his head to her breast. Lizbeth opened her swollen eyes and forced herself into reality.

Lizbeth shifted Sinclair’s body to the side and gently slid from beneath its weight. Her muscles were cramped from the way in which she had slept; her clothes were stiff with blood. Her jeans stuck to her thighs as if glued to her skin by some awful brown glue that stank of death. The white blouse she had been wearing was now grotesque rust.

“What have I done?” She thought to herself. Her hand rested softly on the back of Sinclair’s misshapen head as her fingers absently played with his blood caked locks. His eyes were still open. Those beautiful eyes, the color of aquamarine sea glass, smooth and perfect from years of being polished by sand and sea. His eyes were what she held responsible for all this trouble, the same eyes which were now staring, a death gaze into her own living ones.

She dare not close those eyes, now more like sea glass than ever before, no matter how disturbing they were. Those eyes still held power over her, even in death.

If escape had mattered to Lizbeth, she would have gathered her things and ran, but all that truly mattered to her was gone. She would wait to be discovered, lying next to the body of her dead lover and let the chips fall where they may. She wondered what people would say, what they would think once her story was told. Would they care she had loved him? Would they believe he had loved her despite the vibrant blue-greens and yellow-browns of the bruises displayed over her body?

It hadn’t always been like this. The first time she had seen Sinclair she was fourteen, just blooming into a woman. She had cursed her mother for the mousy blond hair and freckles which were prominently displayed across her tiny nose and cheeks. Had someone only looked at her face she may have appeared ten or twelve, but her body was that of a woman. Her breasts were high and full, their curves matched that of her hips, creating a perfect hourglass.

Sinclair had appeared that summer with a friend of her mother’s. A golden god is how Lizbeth described him to her friends. He looked just like the rock and roll singers displayed on every wall of Lizbeth’s room. His black leather pants were tight enough to see everything he had to offer. Most often he didn’t wear a shirt, so his long blond locks danced across the bare skin of his back and chest. He didn’t ignore her like the other men who came to visit her mom did. His smile lit her days and his eyes haunted her. It was the eyes that made her trust in his words and actions. His eyes melted the hearts of women and drew everyone to him.

On her fifteenth birthday Sinclair surprised her with tickets to a concert. He was taking her on a real date and she was so proud she almost burst as she rushed up the stairs to get ready. A few minutes later they were out the door, just her and Sinclair on their way like a real couple.

Lizbeth was so excited about the date she didn’t realize until they had been on the road for a while that they weren’t anywhere near the arena where the concert was being held. “Aren’t we goin’ the wrong way?”

“You just sit back and relax.” Sinclair gave her a smile, white and toothy.

She smiled back, not really caring where they were going, only caring she was with him. She had fantasized about him all summer and here it was, her opportunity to insure her first experience with sex was one which she would never forget.

After what seemed like hours, Sinclair pulled into a cheap motel. The butterflies in her stomach were beating their wings faster than they ever had before. She stood behind him as he fumbled with the motel room key. When he finally opened the door he scooped her into his arms and carried her over the threshold. They spent that whole night making love. He taught her things she never dreamed could possibly feel so good. His eyes penetrated into her soul at every turn. She had to keep her own closed lest she be consumed by the power in his eyes. Little did she know it was too late to escape them, she was hooked on Sin and would never be the same.

Sinclair woke her early the next morning. “Get up and get ready, we gotta be on the road by 8.”

“Ummhumm”, Lizbeth moaned as she reached up and put the pillow over her head.

“I said get up!” Sinclair shouted as he pulled all the blankets from the bed, leaving Lizbeth lying exposed.

“Hey!” Lizbeth protested and then stopped cold as she looked into Sinclair’s face. Bright red spots shone against his pale skin, his aquamarine eyes were no longer the clear sea glass, but now stormy and challenging. Best just to do what he wants, she thought to herself. I can always sleep in the car.

They checked out of the motel and were on the road at 7:56 by the clock on the car’s radio. Lizbeth rested her head on the window and promptly began to doze as Sinclair drove. She had assumed they were on their way back home, but when she woke up an hour or so later they were parked at a little diner.

Sinclair ushered her into the diner and picked a booth way in the back of the room. He sat facing the entrance, while Lizbeth had a lovely view of the bathroom doors.

“We’re in some trouble here.” Sinclair said.

“Trouble, what do you mean?” Lizbeth asked.

“You got a choice to make girly and you gotta make it now.”

“What choice? What are you talking about?”

“What we done last night, that is illegal. If I take you home your momma will have me arrested.”

“Illegal? Arrested? Momma wouldn’t do that.”

“Yes, she would. Your momma, she don’t stand for anyone messin with you, no matter what you believe.”

“So what’s the choice?”

“You gotta pick. Do you wanna stay with me or you wanna run home to your momma?”

Lizbeth looked down at the yellowing Formica table top. There were cigarette burns marring its scratched surface. “What do you want me to do?” She whispered.

“Shit, girly. I want you to stay. There wouldn’t be no choice otherwise.”

Lizbeth closed her eyes and tried to picture her mom right at that moment. Was she worried, did she realize Lizbeth wasn’t home from the concert yet? In her mind’s eye Lizbeth saw her mother, not worried about her daughter, not even knowing she was missing. She saw her mother lying in bed, half naked with a man’s arm wrapped around her waist, both of them sleeping blissfully. “I’ll stay,” she said, “I’ll stay.”

The life that began with that snap decision in the diner was one Lizbeth could never have imagined. She was so flattered that Sinclair would risk jail or a life on the run just to be with her, she would follow wherever he led. After a couple of weeks driving across the country, staying in cheap motels and being suspicious of everyone, Lizbeth began to complain. What had started as an adventure of star-crossed lovers was quickly becoming a daily grind.

They were in a roach infested motel somewhere in the middle of Texas the first time he hit her. She had been complaining about the bugs, the heat, the trip, everything and Sinclair just popped her upside the head.

“Shut up!” He screamed. “Shut your fucking trap!”

Lizbeth held her hand to her ear, feeling the warm flush of the blood rising to the surface. The tears began to fill her eyes as she stared at him, glaring and waiting for an apology. That is the way it always worked with the guys who hit her mom, a slap or hurt followed by a quick apology and make up sex.

“Quit staring at me you bitch, or I’ll give you something to really cry about.” Sinclair spat at her, his fingers already clenching into a threat.

Lizbeth turned away from him, and walked to the sink at the far side of the room. She looked into the mirror hanging above the sink, the outline of Sinclair’s hand clearly visible. Lizbeth turned on the cold water, cupped her hands under the stream and filled them. She splashed the water on her face to cool the burn and turned off the faucet. She patted the grimy once-white towel against her face and checked the mirror again. The mark was still there, not as pronounced but still clearly visible. She turned back to face the room, saw that Sinclair was watching television and sat down next to him to watch it too.

After getting hit that first time Lizbeth stepped lightly, but it was never light enough. Almost daily there was another mark left somewhere on her body. Lizbeth learned to accept this treatment as a penance for Sinclair’s love. She must endure pain in order to bask in his radiance; he was still her golden rock god with the sea glass eyes.

The money ran out in Las Vegas, the land of glitz, glamour and broken dreams. It seemed fitting this is where Lizbeth lost the last of her innocence. Sinclair gambled the last of their money, trying to turn a hundred bucks into thousands. Somehow it was Lizbeth’s fault thirty-three didn’t come up on the roulette wheel. As always though, Sinclair had a way for Lizbeth to fix her mistake, all she had to do was make some money and luckily he knew how she could.

It was the first time he sold her to another man. A friend of his with a penchant for young girls was very interested in spending a little cash to fulfill his desires. Lizbeth was terrified when Sinclair brought this old, fat man into their room. The man looked at her with hungry eyes; as if he were a wolf who hadn’t eaten in weeks and she was a feast laid out before him. Sinclair shook his hand, took his money and left Lizbeth in the room with this stranger. When he returned an hour or so later the fat man had finished his business and was on his way out the door. “Excellent, excellent, call me next time your in town.” He tossed one last leering glance at Lizbeth and walked away.

“Go take a shower, you little whore.”

Lizbeth got up and walked into the bathroom, confused and betrayed. How could Sinclair love her and make her be with that man? And why was he acting so mean now, hadn’t she done what he wanted her to? She started the shower and stepped into the hot water. It scalded her as she scrubbed furiously trying to take away the touch and smell of the stranger. She emerged from the shower pink, ragged and a little bloody from the strenuous scrubbing. Sinclair produced a thick terrycloth robe, compliments of the motel, and wrapped it around Lizbeth’s bruised and battered body. He held her close to him, her wet hair lying across his chest. “See, that wasn’t so bad.” He whispered. “Next time will be easier.”

Next time? Lizbeth winced at the thought of that man returning, of any man ever touching her that way again, even Sinclair.

Of course as the days passed she forgave Sinclair his indiscression. Convincing herself it had been only out of necessity and that it would never happen again. Unfortunately that was not to be the case.

They had been on the run for two and a half years when Lizbeth got pregnant. She knew it was Sinclair’s baby, even though he was still arranging “dates” for her. Lizbeth was thrilled to be pregnant. She hoped that once the baby was here Sinclair would see her as the mother of his child, as a person worthy of respect not as his property to pimp out whenever he wanted. She would be 18 before its birth and they would finally able to settle into a normal life. As soon as the home pregnancy test confirmed its positive result she rushed to tell Sinclair. His face was emotionless. A calm which disturbed Lizbeth, she had expected anger, joy, disbelief, anything but nothing.

“I’ll make you an appointment then.” Sinclair said as he leaned over and picked up the phone from the bedside table. After a quick conversation with the receptionist he replaced the receiver, set the phone back on the nightstand and told Lizbeth, “Get ready, the appointment is in an hour.”

They drove to what appeared to be a run-down clinic. The red brick building stood dwarfed all around by high rise apartment buildings. A chain-link fence guarded the building with the only gate facing the front door of the clinic. Through the front doors there was a registration desk, and a little waiting area filled with hard plastic chairs. Sinclair told Lizbeth to sit down there and he would register her. Lizbeth looked around the waiting room. In the corner was a young black girl, staring at her feet. An older woman, Lizbeth guessed her mother, sat beside her, her eyes looking forward, but at what Lizbeth couldn’t guess because the wall in front of her was blank. There was another girl across the room, wrapped in a blanket and shivering. Her eyes shone with tears as she patiently watched the window, seemingly waiting for someone to pick her up.

Sinclair came over to the chairs and sat down next to her. “It will take a few minutes for the Doc to set up and then he will come and get you.”

“Don’t you want to come in too?” Lizbeth asked, her eyes shining with the prospect of motherhood.

“Why do I wanna see this?”

“What do you mean; it’s your baby too.”

“In about 30 minutes there ain’t gonna be a baby.” Sinclair said emphasizing every word as he spoke it.

“What?” Your not serious! I want this baby!”

“You’ll get rid of this kid or I’ll get rid of you.” Sinclair looked at her; those eyes she had once loved so desperately were cold. He lifted up the front of his shirt just enough for her to see the butt of his new pistol.

It was in that moment their fates were sealed. The doctor came out and called Lizbeth’s name. Sinclair shoved her shoulder, pushing her from the chair. She shuffled behind the doctor as she followed him down the hall.

The procedure was quick, and since it was early in the pregnancy, fairly painless, physically. As the doctor finished, all Lizbeth could think of was the baby girl, the one with freckles across the bridge of her nose and the eyes the color of aquamarine sea glass, smoothed by sand and sea.

Sinclair drove them back to the motel. He parked his butt back on the bed and began watching a police drama on the TV. Lizbeth went into the bathroom and vomited. How could she have done this? Someone so innocent, so pure, created of love to be tossed away like that was too much for Lizbeth to comprehend. She opened the bathroom door and saw Sinclair lying on the bed, no longer her golden god deserving adoration, but now she saw him as he truly was, a monster, a stealer of souls. He was sleeping; his snoring could be heard over the sirens on the television. The pistol he had threatened her with was now lying on the night stand next to the phone.

She picked up the gun, and felt the weight of it pulling at her arm, dragging it down to her side. She steadied it with her other hand and squeezed the trigger. The shot woke Sinclair. He jumped out of bed and started a stream of cuss words that died on his lips, as Lizbeth squeezed the trigger again, this time the bullet found flesh. The air around Sinclair seemed to explode with a spray of blood and gray matter. The bullet had gone through his forehead, and out the back of his skull. He dropped to the floor, and she could hear him gasping for breath. She thought about a finishing bullet and then recanted.

Lizbeth set the gun down on the night stand, exactly where I had found it. Sinclair lay on the beige carpet, the blood spreading slowly from his wound. Lizbeth walked over to him and looked down into his eyes. He was dying and the aquamarine sea glass eyes were pleading with her, they were afraid. She slid down the wall, and gathered Sinclair’s body to her, resting his head upon her breast. She clung to him desperately wanting to take back the bullet. Lizbeth wished for the strength to put one in her own body, to join Sinclair in death. But Lizbeth was weak, a woman without spirit, forced to live on while her heart died with Sinclair’s last breaths.