Forgive Me Page 2

  “You and I must think alike,” Stripe said. “I like to work in the kitchen too.” She looked around and saw the giant trees from outside. “It’s nice how open this place is.”

  “It's one of the reasons I wanted to live here, apart from the views,” Isaac said. “The acoustics are good too. I like the noise of rain against the windows. It’s quite soothing. Do you?”

  He’s a sweetie. “Yeah, sure.”

  Stripe clocked Isaac’s apprehension, especially when he saw her gear. They looked daunting to the untrained eye. He agreed to wear a microphone. She laughed at him, not intentionally, he reminded her of a deer in headlights. “Don’t be nervous. I don’t bite.”

  Isaac smiled with unease, especially when she leaned close and attached the microphone to the collar of his shirt. Stripe began with an exercise as he was clearly nervous. She asked him random questions like his favourite basketball team and so forth. They got into the rhythm and the topic of his education sprang up.

  “I studied engineering at NYU,” he replied during their conversation.

  Her heart froze for a moment and she lost track of her thoughts.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “You seem concerned.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just that I...went to high school with someone who also attended NYU.”

  “Who was it?”

  “A friend of mine. Cameron...Storms?”

  “Name rings a bell. I don’t recall him.”

  “It was a she.”

  “Oh, yeah, sorry. I remember her now. We... weren’t friends, but she was in the same class as me. She... was a tough cookie.”

  “Yeah, she was,” Stripe said, butterflies waking up in her stomach. “Wow, it feels weird talking about her. We’d promised to stay in contact after high school finished. I wrote her a letter but she never got back to me. Probably busy with college, living the high life in the Big Apple I guess.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “Anyway, fuck her. This time is about you. Let’s get on with the interview.”

  Isaac laughed, showing his teeth. “You’re not a typical journalist, are you?”

  “Never heard of a typical journalist before.” Stripe smirked. “You’re not like most CEOs I’ve met.”

  His cheeks blossomed a rosy pink and he hid his face fleetingly with his coffee mug. “My colleagues call me Lurch when it comes to my managerial side.”

  She frowned. “I’ve seen The Addams Family. Why would they call you that?”

  “Because of the way I look. I didn’t get my height and pale complexion by choice.”

  “Oh, okay. I can see the association now. Anyway, I always found Lurch to be a gentle giant. He looks terrifying but, on the inside, he’s as sweet as a puppy. I’d take it as a compliment.”

  “I do. I’m very lucky that I get on with my co-workers and I hope they know that I appreciate them.”

  “You’re very kind.” Stripe grabbed her notepad and announced that her recorder was ready to work. “So, how come you wanted me to interview you?”

  “I read your article about Charles Libby. I thought it was wonderful the way you wrote about his life. It was really moving.”

  That’s one for the memory banks. “Thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed it. So my latest article made you request for my help?”

  “I like your writing style and I felt it would work great for introducing my company.”

  “It’s only been out for a couple of days,” she said, laughing under her breath. “The Charles Libby story was pretty dark. Are you absolutely sure you want me to write for you? We’ve got plenty of other journalists back at the office that would do a better job, maybe match the voice you’re looking for as you want to pull in more revenue. I like to map out my articles as if I’m telling a story.”

  “I’d like you to write it, Stripe.”

  “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “I’m certain.”

  “Well, I’ve given you a fair warning.”

  Isaac smiled, sucking up his coffee. “You have, and I’m happy with your work representing my business.”

  “Some critics out there would say you’re making a big mistake.”

  “Fuck them.”

  Stripe smirked at his remark. “How did you start Virtisan?”

  “I got the idea back in college. I was at lectures and seminars during the day, then coding in my dorm room until the early hours of the morning. It took a really long time to get off the ground.”

  “I bet it did. Starting your own company isn’t easy. How did it grow?”

  “After I graduated, I was working as a computer programmer for a cybersecurity software company and I casually mentioned it to a colleague of mine. They thought it had potential. We brainstormed it, took the idea to a couple of conventions, and I managed to get backers for it.” Isaac adjusted his shirt and cleared his throat. “I wanted to create something where people wouldn’t feel lonely, where there was someone to talk to, and where they could display their creativity.”

  Stripe glanced from taking notes. “How does it work exactly?”

  “As easy as setting up an email.” Isaac reached over the work surface and grabbed his laptop. “Do you want to create an account?”

  “Sure, go for it.”

  Isaac tipped the screen so she could see what he was doing. He helped her through the signing-up process. Throughout the conversation, she noticed his eyes would linger, but she shook it off. Mind back on the job, girl.

  “So what would you say is a hobby or pass time of yours?” Isaac asked.

  “I like movies.”

  “Any particular genre?”

  “Horror, science fiction or the occasional crime thriller. You?”

  “Not a movie person myself, but I watch them when I have company.” Isaac turned back to the screen. “So I add horror in the search bar and here are your results.”

  Stripe saw an endless collection of stories, articles, videos and pictures. “Wow, it’s like a library.” She took over, swiping her finger on the keypad. Her skin came in contact with Isaac’s wrist and he pulled away, muttering something lightly under his breath. She felt a pleasant sensation when it happened. “So what makes this different from any other search engine?”

  Isaac smiled, as if he’d been waiting, eagerly excited, to answer. “Everything that you see on here, the content you’re looking at, users have created themselves. It’s nothing like a search engine, more a virtual art gallery.”

  “Makes sense with the website name.”

  He smirked. “I’m impressed.”

  “A hybrid of the words, virtuoso and artisan. Am I right?”

  “You’ve done your research on me.”

  Of course I did. “Is it a platform for artists?”

  “Precisely. But it doesn’t just have to be artwork. It can be anything, from music, news, and journals, to movies. I wanted to make something where people could express their artistic skills and have a podium for publication. It’s a great place if you’re starting out, or if you’re looking to network, or want to get feedback.”

  “So if I were an aspiring songwriter, I could upload songs on here?”

  “Absolutely, by sound files or sheets of music. Some of our active users are musicians.”

  “What about copyright? What if someone steals my work?”

  “Unfortunately it’s the internet. Stealing happens, and the web isn’t policed. But it’s something I will not tolerate. Every user who uploads their work has to read and sign a declaration that it is original and theirs. I implemented a piece of software where it scans the internet to see if the work has been uploaded before to catch any thieves. If they were uploading stolen work from another source, they’re permanently banned from the platform.”

  “Amazing. I wish I’d had access to something like this back in high school.” Stripe typed a word into the search tab. When she saw the results, she was shocked. I was hoping nothing would come up.

  She clicked on a parti
cular image. The artist had drawn a masked man, his face blurred in the context of a Rorschach test. He was carrying an axe dripping with blood.

  “What got you into journalism?” Isaac asked.

  She blinked from concentrating. “Oh, I-I’ve always had an interest in people and history. I knew from a young age I wanted to go into the field. Ideally, I’d love to be freelance one day. Do it all my own way but I’ve gotta learn the ropes like any other profession. I knew it was my ideal career when I hit a particular dark curb in my life…” Her voice trailed off as she looked at him. “My dad died on the night of my senior prom.” She motioned towards the painting on the screen. “We reckon this guy got him.”

  Isaac’s face drained of colour. “Oh, I...didn't know. That’s awful. I’m so sorry.” He clicked off the image and went back to the homepage. “I really didn’t know. Carla didn’t mention it and there was nothing on your bio about it.”

  Stripe laughed politely. “It’s okay, don’t worry. It’s not something I want people to know about from the get-go. I’m hoping sometime in the future that I could write my own story, maybe make a documentary, but there’s plenty of them swimming around right now. I don't think I'm ready for something that intense just yet.”

  “I feel stupid,” Isaac muttered. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why are you apologising? It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s better than being walked up to on the street by some jackass asking me if my daddy was killed by the Night Scrawler.”

  “People actually do that?”

  “Back in the early years yeah. I think murder and death is an entertainment to some people. When they’re watching it on screen or reading it in the newspaper, it’s like a movie or a sitcom. They don’t really believe it’s real, the power of the screen or page separates them. When it comes to a good crime thriller, people want to know about the murderer, not the family members of the victims. We take a back seat, we’re not interesting. But it’s something I’m okay with talking about now. I’ve had my therapy and it was a long time ago.”

  “Did they ever catch the Night Scrawler?”

  Stripe shook her head. It’s been years, but it still hurts.

  Chapter Three

  Spring 1989

  Her parents had told her not to venture into the wood. She was never a child to wander off, and she knew the trails like an old friend. She never spoke to strangers and routinely looked left then right before crossing the road. But that was the thing when you’re a kid, nobody trusted you.

  Her family visited the same cabin every year. The morning sun was out. Her favourite time to venture. She wasn’t brave enough to go out in the dark just yet. She sung the song her nana had taught her. It was about a princess and a soldier who had fallen in love. They had to keep their romance a secret from her father, the King - a jealous man who wanted to marry her off to a rich noble Lord. It reminded her of William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, they loved each other so much, they were willing to take their own lives to be together. It was so powerful yet so sad.

  Her momma was asleep in the cabin and her daddy had been called out due to an emergency at work. She never ever got to see him much these days. He was always busy with his job. She wasn’t entirely sure what her daddy did, but what she did know was that he wore loads of long white coats and carried a black suitcase with a great big lock on the buckle.

  She turned her attention to the fence which separated her from the wilderness. She knew about the brown bears and wolves in the wood. The cabin site was constantly patrolled by men in green cloaks carrying rifles. She stared towards the unknown. It wouldn’t be harmful to climb up and have a little walk, or could it?

  A branch snapped in the distance and the sound made her recoil from her adventurous idea, but it increased her curiosity. She followed the echo; the cracking grew louder and closer to her. Then she saw something emerge from the clearing.

  Don’t talk to strangers, she remembered, holding her breath.

  A pair of arms, then legs drifted from the bushes. It didn’t have scales, sharp claws or slobber dripping from its teeth. It wasn’t carrying an axe or wearing a gas mask either. There was nothing remotely monstrous about the figure.

  It was a boy.

  A child, just like her.

  His skin was grey and his clothes were caked in soil and leaves, as if he’d been swallowed by a hurricane. He had a rucksack on his back reminding her of a lonely traveller. The glare he gave made her retreat momentarily, then she saw his hands. They were painted in vibrant crimson streaks.

  “Do you need help?” the girl asked.

  The boy stared at her, his fists clenched at his sides.

  “I'm lost,” he said.

  “I can get my momma to call someone to take you back home.”

  “I... don't have a home.”

  “Why are you so dirty? You're not meant to be out there. It’s forbidden! The lumberjack will get you!”

  “He doesn’t live out there,” the boy said, his eyes darkening as he moved out of the clearing. “You wouldn’t want to be out here. There are monsters everywhere.”

  “I’m not scared,” the girl replied with defiance. He was just a kid. “And I’m not scared of you!”

  He leant on the netted fence, peering down at her. “Is that right?”

  She froze when she saw his face more clearly. Mud caked his skin. there were purple bruises and cuts on his cheeks. He must have been only a few years older or so. Had someone hurt him?

  She didn’t answer his question, he was being mean. The girl stared back, she remembered bright blue glittering orbs hovering before he pulled her closer, his lips finding hers through the netting. He breathed her in, sucking out her energy. His mouth tasted of soil and spit; making her squirm. Her body trembled from his embrace and then she stumbled backwards as he pushed her away.

  “Why did you do that?” the girl whispered intimately, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  His lips curled into a gratifying smile. There was no response.

  “What’s on your hands?” she asked, fear aching in her throat.

  The boy glanced at them, the substance was shiny, fresh and new. He hissed like a snake, his face transforming into pure malevolence.

  It made her flee back to the cabin. She huddled into the bed with Momma, telling herself she was safe. Maybe her parents were right, perhaps children shouldn’t be trusted.

  At breakfast, she told her story about the strange scary boy with the red hands.

  “You read far too many of those horror comics,” Momma whispered softly. “You were having a nightmare, darling. Don’t be frightened, we all have them from time to time.”

  “But I wasn’t dreaming,” the girl protested. “I was outside, and I saw a boy.”

  “I'm locking the cabinet when we get home, Susan. I know you keep going into daddy’s study to read those comics. You know you’re not meant to.”

  Arguing with her wasn’t working. Momma had a response for everything. After she’d wolfed down her pancakes and maple syrup, she’d come to a conclusion. Maybe Momma had been right the whole time; she must’ve been dreaming. She certainly had the imagination for it but her supposed dream didn’t explain the hems of her nightdress being dotted with dirt. Maybe she’d sleepwalked, she’d done it before.

  The girl was never told that one of the patrol men was found later on in the day. His head had been ripped clean off. The police put his tragic demise down to a ravage attack from a wild bear or wolf, they were known to freely roam wooded areas.

  Chapter Four

  Summer 1996

  Jace, Doug, Zippo and Stripe sat on the football field during lunch break. They’d finally made it to senior year and were already discussing the prom, the choice of the school play and the next blockbuster movie. Independence Day was a personal favourite of theirs, a science fiction flick where aliens from outer space attacked the world. They loved the scene where Will Smith was dragging a parachute across the piping h
ot desert, his character had narrowly survived a crash. He started to kick the alien he’d captured out of anger as his character nearly ended up ‘in a barbecue.’

  Jace Patterson yanked the peel of her orange and swung the skin into her lunch box, she was the most opinionated out of the group. She had the shortest fuse which matched her wiry copper hair and deep brown eyes.

  Doug Hayden was the leader; he had the most ideas when it came to their weekend activities and the only one with a car. He was the ‘handsome’ one out of the guys, according to the authority of the girls outside the group.

  Jack ‘Zippo’ Bloom was the liveliest, the most eccentric. Sometimes his actions got him into trouble. The nickname was coined from his colourful attitude and speed-talking nature, he wore the name proudly like it was a medal of honour.

  Stripe was the quietest one out of her friends; well she wasn't all the time. Sometimes, it was hard to get a word in edge ways with the mouths she congregated with. Her long blonde hair fell to her shoulders and she messed with the sleeve of her t-shirt. She was obsessed with history and crime stories. She’d revolt her friends with tales such as the British monarch, Henry Tudor who had six wives, two of them were beheaded on his orders and the Hungarian Countess Elizabeth Báthory, who bathed in the blood of maidens to keep herself young. She enjoyed reading the latest details in the news and occasionally brought up random articles to tease their reactions.

  “Sheila Martin was axed to death in her sleep,” Stripe said, slapping the local newspaper on the grass. “They still haven’t found the killer. Now that’s three people gone.”

  “Don’t, Stripe, I’m trying to eat,” Jace grimaced.

  “You should want to know what’s happening in the world, J. Aren’t you a little curious?”

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to bring up my lunch!”

  “Hey,” Doug whispered. “Joan Jett. Nine o’clock.”

  The group clocked to a tall girl walking along the pathway to the gym with a bunch of boys. Her name was Cameron Storms. She was a rumoured lunatic, apparently tough to the bone.