Thing Six: Horror

This was supposed to be a story, but it ended up being more of a brief scene.  I finished it in an hour (and it shows), but I think it's enough to put up here.

Wishing Well

A Short Scene by Sean McGovern

For Rebecca.  Be careful what you wish for.

Luke Fallon had been in love.  True, that could have been said for three or four times in his life, but this time…this time it was different.  He knew the him in high school had just had a series of infatuations.  And the college him had been…well, the girls had been willing and he had usually been good enough for them to give him a second go around.  But after all of that he had met Tessa– and, well, he knew that he had been a little boy until them.  All swagger, and nothing really to back it up – but now he wanted to back it up.

And for two years, he had.  For two great years.  She had been everything he could have hoped for – sure, the nagging got to be a bit much towards the end, but that was relationships for you – and he had never hit her.  It was weird to have that as a point of pride, but there it was – he had never hit her.  Even when he had wanted to.  Even when she had said she was going back home.  Even when he knew it was to that loser, Nate, who drank in an obviously secret manner.

So he had gone down to the well.  It was a kids’ thing to do.  He knew that – but he didn’t anyway.  He laughed and shook his head when he tripped along the path to the well, cutting his palm on a rock as he tried, unsuccessfully, to break his fall.  He had pulled the penny out of his pocket, and tossed the blood smeared cent piece into the well and let it sink down, wishing that Tessa would stay with him.  And when he had walked back to his place, and saw the blinking message on his voice mail, he ignored it.  Because he was tired.

And a few months later…

“I made breakfast,” Tessa said.  Her voice was light and sweet, the chipper tones of someone who meant it when they said ‘good morning’.  She was already dressed for the day, looking like a 1950’s house wife, with a sundress under her Kiss the Cook apron and shoes with a slightly raised heel.  The half of her face that was mottled by scar tissue and burns remained still, so the voice only came from the one side of her thin mouth – one blue eye twinkled with the fresh promise of a new day, while the other started out under the charred remains of its brow, bloodshot and shriveled.

Luke winced, but not at the sight of his girlfriend.  He had gotten used to that.  It was his wrist that made his face twitch – the lump of healing bruises that he was still vaguely amazed wasn’t broken when she had gripped and squeezed last night during one of their rougher sessions in bed.  Every night he hoped she would let it pass, that he would be able to drink his ability away.  Her persistence seemed to defy the laws of chemistry and he would find himself bleary and being forced across her, and whatever she gripped would be black and blue in the morning.

He got up, knowing that she wouldn’t be refused the fruits of her labors.  He made it a point to eat everything she made, even the pack lunches for work.  She seemed to know if someone else ate them, or if they ended up in the trash can.  And then there would be hell to pay.  “It smells great,” he lied, “eggs?”  Of course it was eggs; it was always eggs, and toast and something that had once been a pig.  All of it black as tar yet never setting off the fire alarms.  That might have been the worst part of it.  Like everything else, there had been no warning.  Nothing at all about the car crash, or how Tessa would come back from it – how Nate, that bastard friend of hers from back home, would keep trying to get in contact with her, more than her family, and how she was now his.  All his.

Six months of this had been more than enough.  And this cold February morning was just another bullshit day of co-habitation bliss with a woman who should have been bound for a closed casket ceremony on the day she had moved in.  He put on his slippers against the chill of the floor, and stretched, trying not to think about the eggs or the pain in his wrist.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you last night,” she said.  She had said that every morning, right before…there it was.  The simple kiss on the cheek and, “And a good morning to you!”  She took the hand that wasn’t attached to a mass of discolored skin and bones and led him, walking backwards and trying to be as coquettish as possible with half a face that would never heal from a gasoline fire.  “I made your favorite – eggs, bacon, and wheat toast with apple butter,” she added yummy noises.

“Have you eaten,” Luke asked.  Then he bit back a scream as she almost crushed his finger without apparent effort.

“We shouldn’t have one of those days, Luke,” she said, “can’t we have a nice day?  Last week was just so great!  Can’t we have another?”  She looked up to Luke, her mismatched eyes half glistening with tears and half with hate fueled rage.  And Luke knew that she had already decided that it would be a good day – they would all be good days.  This had been what he had wanted after all – finding her waiting for him every morning, breakfast ready after a night of passionate lovemaking.

But after six months…Luke just didn’t care anymore.  “It’ll be fine,” Luke said, “after the charcoal briquette breakfast and” and he screamed almost loud enough to covered the sound of his fingers breaking.  She didn’t let go, just squeezed harder as she pulled him after her.  He realized, dumbly, that she was humming, still cheerful as the multiple bits of bone rattled in her hand.

She brought him to the kitchen and all but threw him into the chair.  She pushed in the chair, and tucked the napkin into the color of his shirt while his mouth moved weakly, trying to form another scream.  “It’s too nice a morning to fight,” she said, still in that sing-song way, as she poured a glass of orange juice.  Luke looked over to the window, where the sky was just starting to lighten.  “And you’ve got to be in the office in an hour.”

“I have to go to a hospital you bitch,” he said.

Her eyes locked to his.  “Please don’t take that tone, Luke,” she said, “I’m just trying to make sure you have your breakfast.”

“I need to call out,” he said, “and I need to call an ambulance!”

“Are you sick,” she asked.  “I can call the office for you.”

“Fine,” he whimpered, and pushed the plate away.

“You still have to eat,” she said.  “Feed a cold, starve a fever.”

“I’ll eat at the hospital,” he said, and tried to get up.  Her hands were on his shoulders, pinning him to the seat.  “No,” he said, “please just,” her hands began to squeeze.  He yelped in pain and would have sworn he heard his bones begin to creak under the strain.  “I just want to go back to bed,” he whispered.

“Eat first,” she said.  And Luke thought, for a second, she was purposefully keeping her burned side to him, the withered eye glaring out, knowing that he was the reason for her being here, like this.  But her voice didn’t change.  “You’ll need your strength.”

“I can’t move my hands.”

“I know,” she said as though a music cue was coming.  She let go of his shoulders and gripped the sides of his head.  Her grip was still intense and painful, and with a weird delicacy, lowered his face into the plate of eggs.  “But I’m here for you,” she said in her sweet, sing-song voice, “just like you wanted.”