Alex comes home. He hasn’t left.
But there’s one catch – he’s three hours late. That means he must’ve at least considered it. He must’ve thought about leaving. Maybe he even did leave, his car chasing dusty trails to unknown destinations. Perhaps he was long gone. Yet something changed his mind, because here he is, slowly pulling into the driveway.
I can’t believe it. I’m stunned. What is he doing? What could he possibly be thinking? Why would he walk back into this?
Am I losing my mind? She did have a knife to his throat, didn’t she? Did I imagine it? Because why else would he be back?
I pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger, taking deep breaths and counting to ten. My head is swirling and pounding, pain rippling through my body. I don’t understand. How could anyone understand?
I open my eyes to see him, hands in his pockets, trudging up the driveway, up the stairs onto the porch. At the door, he hesitates, his hand on the doorknob. He turns and glances at the car and, for a moment, it seems like he’s looking right at me. I think for a second he might wave or might come over. If he does, I’m telling him. I’m telling him what he needs to hear – get out. Get out before it’s too late, before she does something truly maniacal, something unthinkable. Something more maniacal and unthinkable, that is.
But eventually his hand turns the knob, and he steps inside – to what, I can’t be sure. You can never be sure.
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. This is absurd. How could he do this? How could she?
Suddenly, I don’t feel like living vicariously through 312 Bristol Lane. I don’t feel hope or joy or company. I feel betrayed. I feel awestruck by how wrong I was about them, about what they could mean. I feel like I’m living a nightmare, the only witness to the dysfunction of the house across the street. And I also shudder thinking about what terrors are lurking ahead, Jane the ringmaster in this twisted sport.
I no longer like my prime seating or view. This window feels more like an execution viewing window, not a glimpse into a peaceful world I’m missing.
I rock gently, staring at the car in the driveway, sickened at what might happen next. But, like so many of us, I can’t turn away. I can’t stop looking. Human nature beckons me to stare on, to watch the disaster unfold, to see the tragedy. I’ve been called to be a witness in this covert trial unfolding. I just don’t think I’m strong enough to do the job.
* * *
Time passes. How much time? I don’t know when I come to how long I’ve been sleeping. I do know it’s dark, the moonlight shimmering down onto 312 Bristol Lane, looking like some kind of Christmas card. This is no Christmas card, though. This is something very different.
I shudder, a chill from the frosty window wafting towards me. I pull the afghan from my lap up around my chin, tucking in for the sight across the way.
The moonlight casts an eerie glow on them, glinting off the silver of his car and the silver in her hand.
They’re both outside. She’s screaming, and a shoving match ensues again. This time, though, she’s claimed a new victim. I watch him chase her, beg her to stop, as she sinks the knife into the soft flesh of the tyres, getting two before he tackles her to the ground, the snow around them as she cries and kicks like the beast she’s become. The car sinks lower and lower, her damage done.
He sinks to the ground, too, and for a second, there’s an odd peacefulness to the scene. It’s like she relents, exhaustion kicking in. She collapses in to him as he almost cradles her in the snow, his arms locked on her wrists, the knife still in her grasp. She’s sobbing, and he holds her. Down on the ground, the chilling white around them, I wonder if they can get back up. I pull the blanket even tighter around me, as if I’m the one sinking into the snow, as if I can feel it wrapping itself around me like it must be them.
The knife drops out of her hand, finally. She’s given in, beaten at her own game. But she’s still won. The car, deflated, isn’t going anywhere for now, and neither is Alex.
Of course, it’s not just a broken-down car that’s holding him hostage. He’s deflated, too, and I think even with four working tyres, he’s not going anywhere. He’s too far in. Like her, he’s too far gone.
After a moment, he must loosen his grip, because she stands in a perfunctory motion, swiping at her eyes, glancing at the car, and then, arms wrapped around her chest, she marches inside, leaving him sitting, staring, freezing.
She slams the door, and I watch him in the beams of the moonlight, wondering how a human being gets to that point. Wondering how a human being becomes willing prey, how someone becomes so chilled they don’t even feel the knife stabbing in over and over again.
My hand finds my heart underneath the scratchy afghan. I feel the steady thumping of it in my chest, feel the blood pulsing through me.
I think about that for a long while after he’s gone. I think about it as I stare at the spot where he sat in the snow, icy frost chilling him both externally and internally.