Elle
Monday, October 10th
my work, including on Olivia’s ring—my ring—that she willingly handed over to me, I trudge into the kitchen. I grab a snifter and a wine glass from the cupboard, as my phone chimes obnoxiously.
Some people choose ringtones that they enjoy, signifying their love of the caller. I prefer a tune that makes me want to rip my hair out, so that I’m reminded to answer faster. As it blares, the wine glass slips from my fingers, shattering onto the gray slate tile and warming my chest with delight.
“Hi, Love,” I sing into the phone as I place it on speaker and inch around the broken crystal to retrieve a bottle of bourbon.
I splash it into the snifter, and my tongue tingles in anticipation.
“Hey. What’re you up to?” Zane asks.
“Wondering where you’ve been all my life,” I say seductively.
"Oh yeah?” He chuckles.
I take a sip of the bourbon and set a half empty bottle of wine by the sink, admiring the label before dumping the dark liquid down the drain. The color is a vivid reminder of the blood bags that hung over my father’s stretcher the night he and my mother died.
“It’s how I fill my time, but I have you now,” I say. “How’s Washington State?”
“It’s raining and miserable. I bet it would be great in the summer. They have a ton of wineries here. I grabbed a couple of bottles to bring you this time, but if I get called back here, you should come.”
I take another swig of the bourbon.
“That sounds great, Love,” I say an octave higher than normal.
Ten years of marriage and fourteen years of lies. If I went with him on one business trip, he’d want me to tag along on others. Soon, I’d never get to sneak to New York city or take a break from the burden of this person I’ve created, but damn, I miss him.
“When are you coming home?”
His tone turns melancholy. “Not sure yet. We’re still in the middle of this case.”
“Okay then, you want to take this to FaceTime?” I suggest, downing the rest of the bourbon and tiptoeing around the wineglass shards to the bedroom.
Phone sex with video is far better than any audio only call, and I’m needing to stare at Zane’s hot as fuck body.
“Hun, it’s the middle of the day here. I’m working,” he protests.
“So, go to the bathroom. Or your car. Behind a building—I don’t care.” I pull my shirt over my head and switch to video.
“Hun!” he shouts, but the sound of a door clicking tells me he’s followed my direction.
His smile is mischievous when he accepts the FaceTime request. It’ll be a cold day in hell when he turns me down.
Travis’ dead eyes stare at me. His surroundings are blurry, like he’s in water.
“Where are you?” I call to him.
He doesn’t answer. He’s not breathing.
“Where are you?” I’m crying.
Flies swarm around his body. Buzzing.
“It’s your fault,” his voice says behind me.
I spin around, fear deep in my bones. Vibrating through me. His skin is ashen.
“No, it wasn’t me,” I protest.
A cackle ripples through the air. Not him. But him.
“Don’t lie. We both know it was,” he says, his tone gruff. “You fucking bitch. You had to run away. Had to have money. A home. Had to drag me into it. Now I’m dead.”
“Where are you?” I ask again, my words quiet.
“Does it matter?”
“You have the jewelry. The—”
“You think I’m giving them back?” He laughs again.
He backs away, blurring into the space around us. It’s darker now. Almost black. But it’s now that I notice the two gravestones on either side of him. Mom and Dad.
“You’ll never find it. You’ll never get the key. You don’t deserve it. Not after murdering us.” Travis’ voice echoes around me.
I sit up in bed, gasping. Drenched in sweat.
“Fuck,” I say into the darkness.
Instinctively, I reach to my left. Zane isn’t here.
Slipping from the bed, I wrap my arms around myself as I shiver. I move through the dark to the kitchen and pull a pen and notepad from a drawer.
The aching in my chest compels me to write. I shouldn’t do this, not that anyone will ever find the letters that I write to him. It’s the only thing that keeps him close, makes him feel more alive. I’d never tell the counselor from juvie that she was right, that composing these letters brings me comfort and closure, but they do. We wrote letters to one another excessively as children, from our rooms across the hall. It kept us linked when our parents died, and we were separated in foster care. It helps me carry on in the wake of his death.
Dear Travis,
What are you trying to tell me? I’m fucking tired of these dreams…
The words flow, and the eeriness from the dream fades.
I sign it as I always do.
Miss you with all my heart.
~L
I fold it neatly and go to the office where my lapidary equipment looms in the night. The closet doors slide easily, and I shove the basket of spare blankets to the side before searching for the indent in the floor. When I find it, I wedge my fingers into the crack and grip the carpet until the cover lifts, revealing a small space. I reach inside and extract a shoebox full of letters to my brother. Placing my newest inside, I return it to hiding.
I can’t bring myself to get rid of them or to stop writing them. When they pronounced him dead, without a body to confirm it, I’d dream of him walking around somewhere like an amnesiac in a movie. I was a kid. I had high hopes. I guess some things never change.
It's easier to go back to bed after the familiar process. The dreams and the letters are the only things that remind me why things must be as they are, and why I must be the way that I am.
They are another nightmarish reminder that people who know the real me end up dead. I trap her in my letters to the dead and keep the dead alive in my dreams.
I return to bed to wait for sleep, scared to see Travis but desperate for him to come back.