22

“By slow, thoughtful watching, you can gain much”

—Ernest Vincent Wright, Gadsby

It was definitely her, no doubt about it. He’d recognize that face anywhere, even after all these years.

He should’ve dealt with things when he had the chance but back then he was too young and afraid. Afraid of being caught, thrilled by the feelings she’d released in him. Seeing her again awakened something dark. He felt it stirring and he needed to be careful. He could feel an undercurrent of rage gaining momentum and he mustn’t let it fracture the tight control he’d worked so hard to gain.

He’d hidden in the trees at the edge of the orchard earlier that evening and had watched from a distance. He’d seen her tipping the wine down her throat all so happy and flirty. Didn’t she realize? She had no right to be there, no right at all.

Now he stood by the dining room window outside the circle of light and he watched her. The curve of her throat with its jangle of silver, the boniness of her arms all sinew and skin. He shuddered at her darkness. She had no shine or glimmer, no sparkle or glitter. It was no wonder that afterward he’d only wanted his golden girls. She sucked the light from the very room and dimmed the candles as she passed. She did nothing for him and had nothing he wanted, not anymore. This would be purely self-preservation. But despite his best intentions he closed his eyes and let himself savor the thought of killing her, let it calm his mind.

He’d seen her earlier, there at the window, hanging her rags like a shroud. He’d willed her to fall from the chair, for him to hear the scream and the happy snap of her neck but she hadn’t. No gash of red. No pearly iridescent bone. No, she’d continued to defy the gods, clinging to life with her tenacious, bony fingers.

He stepped closer and for a moment her eyes flickered toward the glass and widened as though with fear. Could she sense he was there? Did she feel her future out there in the darkness, plotting and planning and spreading its wings? He liked the thought of that. The idea that his power and presence could flow through the glass and still touch her.

He looked at the table. A jug of white roses was there in the centre, a blizzard of blooms. He realized with a thumping heart just what they were—the Winchester Cathedral, his father’s pride and his mother’s joy. He felt his control waver and the hate washed over him; of all people she shouldn’t have them.

While they dined in the light he was there in the blackness unleashing his rage, slashing and wrecking and breaking the bushes until no blossom was left. He ground a final blowsy head with his heel and unzipped his fly, releasing a hot stream of urine onto the bushes. He pissed on the leaves and the flower heads, venting his fury. There, let the dirty bitch touch them now.

He crouched in the shadows and watched her descend into drunkenness. He saw her hurl bloody meat in the kitchen and row with her husband. Her mouth a black hole in her face as she shouted. Now that had his interest. Maybe that was his way back inside her head again. Could he really stand to get that close to her, the ugly, ugly bitch? To think he’d once thought that she’d shown him the shape of his life.