Zachary Small, Minutes before
I am standing in the kitchen and tossing the small bowl of milk and Lucky Charms down the sink. It’s been a real task, pretending that a whole person exists who isn’t really there at all. Most of all, it’s been painful watching Sophie interact with her.
Last night, she tucked the child into bed, and read her a bedtime story. I was standing in the doorway in disbelief, unable to speak, with tears pouring out of my eyes, crying the way no grown ass man should ever cry. I’ve watched her treating this invisible person which such incredible gentleness and love, that I didn’t know how to behave. I didn’t know what to do with myself.
All I could manage to do was buy Lucky Charms and ice cream. That seemed to make Sophie happy.
But doesn’t she notice that the spoon doesn’t move? Doesn’t she notice that there is no dent in the pillow where a small head should be resting? I keep worrying that reality will reach her, and she will be devastated to learn that the child isn’t real. How will I take care of her then?
I am afraid.
How much longer can this go on? I’m not entirely sure. But I’m prepared to be the father to a ghost girl for as long as humanly possible. I’ll do anything for Soph—anything to make her feel better.
But is this really making her feel better?
I look out of the kitchen window toward the lake. She is quite far away, a small figure sitting cross legged on the deck. She looks so peaceful. She thinks Joy is already sleeping, and trusts me to take care of her. I am confident that taking her up to this cottage has been the best decision. The best that I could manage. I just don’t know what to do next. I don’t know how to ease her pain from watching Joy get killed. Or whatever happened back there with Benjamin.
I don’t know how to help her move on.
“You pathetic piece of shit,” says a voice behind me.
It’s more amazed than accusatory.
When I turn around, I am startled to see Cole standing there, with a gun pointed at my head. There is a silencer attached to the nozzle, and a look on his face that means business. I swallow.
“Look, I haven’t done anything. I’ve been taking care of her.”
“She’s my fucking wife,” Cole says, with a look of death on his face—and amusement. He shakes his head, and I realize he thinks I’m nothing. Not even worth his time, or bullets.
“You don’t know anything about her,” he says simply. “You don’t even know half of who she is. What makes you think you could be equipped to help her through this? You fucking imbecile.”
I hold up my hands in surrender. “You don’t understand, Cole. This is different. I couldn’t make her go back there. She said she couldn’t handle seeing you in her current state. She’s been imagining this young girl who isn’t really there—”
“Lucy told me,” he says, and his voice is shaking. “You had no right.”
“I only did what she asked—”
“You should have called me,” he says through gritted teeth. His hand trembles ever-so-slightly, and I realize that he is actually going to pull the trigger. “Do you know how fragile her mental health is? Have you fought to pull her back from the brink of suicide for years because of what that man did? You have no idea. You risked her life so you could keep her to yourself, because you knew she would never choose you under normal circumstances. You liked the fact that she was traumatized because it meant she was pliable. You just wanted to fuck a broken girl.”
“No!” I shout, angrily. “Cole, I haven’t touched her. I swear to you. I tried, but I could see that she wasn’t in any condition—”
The look on his face is one of such disgust. And boredom. It happens so fast that I feel like he pulls the trigger to keep from vomiting at the sight of me. To keep me from wasting any more space on this planet. I’m not expecting it, so I can only stare with my lips slightly parted as his finger violently yanks the trigger. There is an impact against my forehead, and a sound.
And then the world goes black.