I ZONE OUT AS I STARE into my refrigerator, eyeing the assortment of fresh
groceries Mandy just dropped off. I told her she didn’t need to do that—I’m more than capable, and I sure as shit don’t have anything else to do since I’m not back to work yet. But she insisted, carrying inside two brown paper bags filled to the brim, tucked under both arms.
Mandy is now wiping down my countertops as she fixes me a sandwich. “How are you feeling? Did your appointment with Dr. Dryden go well?”
I blink into the yellow light, not fully registering her question even though I heard it. I stare at the head of broccoli, fairly certain I can make out a vague outline of Pat Sajak. If I just tilt my head a little to the left…
Is he still alive? Is Wheel of Fortune still a thing? “Dean, did you hear me?”
I glance up. Mandy is standing in front of me, holding out a sandwich on a paper plate. Her heavily painted eyes are narrowed, slicing me with concern. I close the refrigerator and force a smile. “Yeah, it went okay.”
She sighs with relief, her worried lips turning up into a toothy grin. “Good. You’re being honest with him?”
Honest? Well, I’m not outright lying. But I’m certainly not revealing everything. Dr. Dryden knows I killed a man, but he doesn’t know it was her face I envisioned, the images of her dignity being dismantled, that drove my fists into those savage, fatal blows. He knows I was forced to watch
Cora get raped and abused, but he doesn’t know that I, myself, was forced between her legs with a pistol to my head.
Dr. Dryden knows a lot, but he doesn’t know about the real ghosts that haunt me and keep me up at night.
So, I guess I’m lying by omission.
“Yeah,” I reply, taking the plate from Mandy’s outstretched hands. “I’m being honest.”
Now I’m lying to my fiancé.
Mandy nods her head, her perfectly coifed hair bobbing over her
cashmere sweater. More relief. More smiles. “I’m proud of you, Dean. I know it’s not easy to—”
I spit out the bite of sandwich as soon as it touches my tongue, dropping the plate and wiping at my mouth with the back of my hand. “This is
turkey?”
Mandy gapes at me, her glossy lips parted with alarm. “Y-Yes. You love turkey.”
“I don’t love turkey.” “I thought…”
I close my eyes, shoving the painful flashbacks away as I shake my head. “I don’t love it anymore.” I trek backwards out of the small kitchen, trying to control my breathing. “I think I need a nap.”
“Dean…” Mandy follows me to the couch, sitting down beside me, closer than I’d prefer, and grazes her super-sized fingernails that resemble talons along my knee. “I’m here for you, babe. What can I do?”
I think over all the things she can do, but she won’t like any of them.
Go home.
Stay home.
Give me some fucking space.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, guilt soaring through me in waves. I hate that I’m pushing away my girlfriend of fifteen years—I know she’s only trying to help. I know she cares and wants me to get better. But I feel like an entirely different man, and I’m not even sure this man wants to marry this woman anymore.
I’m fucking broken.
The thought stabs me like the edge of a dagger as I lay my head back against the leather couch cushion. I feel Mandy slide up even closer, her hand trailing higher and higher until…
I grab her hand before it reaches its destination, trying not to crack under the weight of the rejection in her eyes.
“Dean… please. We haven’t been intimate in almost six weeks.” Mandy’s eyes begin to mist, her nails digging into my palm. “I miss you.”
Jesus, I feel like the biggest goddamn asshole. Mandy and I always had a pretty normal sex life—a little vanilla, but I had no complaints. She’s sexy and willing and mine, and yet… I can’t fucking do it.
I’m not ready.
“I just need a little more time,” I say, letting her down as gently as possible. I have no idea how much more time I’ll need. All I know is that it’s too soon.
I just can’t.
Mandy scoots backwards, dropping her chin to her chest as the rejection manifests into anger. “I figured after weeks of celibacy, you’d be all over me.”
A prickling heat crawls up the back of my neck and settles in my ears.
Fuck.
“You were only down there for three weeks, Dean,” Mandy continues, still avoiding my eyes. “I thought you would… you know, bounce back by
now.”
Only three weeks.
Mandy and I once took a vacation to Cancun for three weeks. It’s funny
—I hardly remember any of it. That could have something to do with the unlimited drink packages and the spoiled pozole that knocked me on my ass for a few of those days, but… the memories are vague and fuzzy. Only bits and pieces stand out.
I remember every vivid detail about that basement.
The dripping pipe. The cracks and ridges in the stone wall on my right.
The pink foam insulation overhead, peeking out of the wooden beams in the ceiling. The way the sunrise cast a radiant beam of light into our dungeon, magnifying all of the little dust particles in the air. I tried to count them one morning, but the light kept shifting and I’d lose track.
I remember the Daddy Long Leg spider in the cobwebbed corner that never seemed to move. I thought he was dead until I caught the tiniest twitch of one of his thin legs. I wondered how long he could go without food.
I bet he wondered the same thing about me.
I remember the gaudy, floral wallpaper in that moldy bathroom and the way it peeled from every corner, revealing decayed walls and water damage. I recall looking in the dusty mirror, not recognizing the man reflecting back at me.
Cora.
I think about the way she chewed on her lip while we played ‘Twenty Questions’ to pass the time. She took the game seriously, like she was up for the grand prize on a cheesy game show.
I remember the golden glints in her emerald eyes that seemed to fade which each passing day.
I recall the occasional smile I would pull out of her. They felt so magical
—so beautifully out of place. Her smile was the closest thing I felt to being rescued over the course of those twenty days.
I remember the goosebumps on her skin when I’d gently caress her cheek, or her hip, or her thigh, trying to bring as much tenderness to the moment as possible. It’s just the cold, I told myself. But sometimes a small sound or squeak would accompany the goosebumps and she’d give herself away.
It was only three weeks, but it’s burned into every cell, every vein, every tainted pocket of my soul.
Forever.
And so is she.
 |
I break down the following Saturday morning and send her a text message.
Me: Can we grab coffee? We should talk.
I pace back and forth through my living room in just my sweatpants, staring at my phone screen and scratching the back of my neck, noting that I really need to get a damn haircut.
She reads the message fairly quickly, and I hold my breath, bracing myself for a shut down.
Cora: I suppose. But only because I’m standing at your front door right now.
I blink at the response, processing her words.
Well, shit.
I jog over to the front of my townhouse, pulling open the door to reveal a bundled-up Cora, sprinkled with snowflakes, her hands in her pockets. Her eyes drift downward as the icy wind blasts me, and I remember that I’m shirtless.
She brings her gaze up from my naked chest with a sharp swallow. “You forgot your shirt.”
“You forgot to tell me you were dropping by unexpectedly.” “Then it wouldn’t have been unexpected.”
Faint smiles creep onto both of our faces, almost as if we forgot how but we’re trying to remember. I take a step back, encouraging her to enter. Cora hesitates for a moment before moving forward and stomping her snow- covered boots against my welcome mat. I watch her shake the flurries from her hair and notice that one sticks to her eyelashes. I want to lean in and
swipe it away, but I keep my arms at my sides. “What brings you by?” I stuff my hands into the pockets of my sweats, rocking on the heels of my feet.
“Same reason you texted me, I’m guessing.” Cora unzips her coat and slips out of her boots, sweeping her fingers through damp hair as she takes tentative steps through my entryway. Her eyes dance across the messy living area littered with empty potato chip bags and beer bottles, random
piles of laundry, and my bed comforter I’ve been using for when I fall asleep on the couch at random hours watching mindless television shows. Her eyes are brimming with sympathy as she cuts them back to me, pulling her arms out of her coat sleeves.
I take the jacket from her and hang it over the back of my recliner. “Sorry for the mess.” I scratch the scruff along my jawline—I still haven’t
shaved. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
Cora shrugs her shoulders, a gray, oversized sweater dipping off one of them, and continues her idle perusal. “My house isn’t any better.” Her gaze lands on my side table where a book is being used as a coaster for my Miller Lite. “Of Mice and Men,” she mutters quietly.
We make eye contact and it lingers, and the longer it lingers, the harder it is to break away. But I’m the first to lower my head, massaging the back of my neck with my hand. I reach for a stray t-shirt that luckily only smells
like my cedarwood deodorant, then pull it on while Cora watches from a few feet away. I clear my throat. “Coffee?”
She nods. “Sure.”
I bring two full mugs out of the kitchen a few minutes later and find
Cora on my couch with her feet pulled up. She’s flipping through the book, but sets it back down when I approach.
“Thank you,” she says, cradling the warm ceramic between both palms. She stares down over the rim for a few moments as I situate myself beside her. “It’s the little things I missed the most, I think. Hot coffee. Slobbery dog kisses. My music playlist. The sun on my skin.” Cora takes a sip, sighing as she leans back against the cushions.
I face her, resting my mug on my thigh. Her words are all too relatable. “It’s weird,” I muse. “I thought the first thing I would do after I got home was gorge on cheeseburgers and french fries. Greasy fast food. I was
craving a fuckin’ Big Mac something fierce down there.” I watch her mouth tip into a soft smile as she turns her head towards me. “But I’m finding I don’t have much appetite for anything. I munch on shitty snacks and drink beer all day. I’m always hungry, but I also feel kind of sick inside… you
know?”
“Same here. It’s this strange, hollow feeling—like a hungry hole that needs to be filled, but food isn’t the answer.” Cora averts her eyes to just
beyond my shoulder, drifting away before I can catch her. She finds her way back after about ten seconds, shifting on the couch and picking at the hem of her sweater.
“Are you seeing a therapist?” I wonder.
She nods, still avoiding my gaze. “I’m pretty sure my therapist needs a therapist at this point.”
I observe the way she gnaws on the inside of her lip, scratching at her wrist as she stares at the far wall. “Have you told them… everything?”
Have you told them your sister’s fiancé was forced to fuck you six times, and one of those times you got off?
I keep the fucked up truths to myself as she nods and replies, “Mostly.” I want to know which part she omitted, but I’m pretty sure I already do. Cora changes the subject. “Did they ever find your car?”
My motherfucking car. If I could kill that piece of shit all over again, I probably would. I spent two years saving up for a down payment on my dream Camaro with all the bells and whistles—I only had it three months before Earl “made it disappear”. I shake my head, my anger simmering. “Nope. I’m going back and forth with my insurance company, seeing if there’s anything they can do. I’ve been taking an Uber to my therapy
appointments.”
“That sucks. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well, it’s replaceable. Eventually. He took a hell of a lot more from you.”
We both let that dark cloud hover over us for a minute, and I kind of wish I could take it back. I didn’t mean to give her wounds life. Cora seems to mentally retreat, and I can only imagine what she’s thinking about.
I hope she’s thinking about me talking her through it, begging her to focus on me, to only see me, to only hear me…
But I know she’s not.
“They’re searching for more bodies,” Cora says in a low, shaky breath. “They’ve uncovered a bunch of bones buried on his property. They’re trying to identify the victims.”
I close my eyes. “Fuck…” I haven’t been keeping track of the story unfolding. It’s too much for me to deal with. It’s too soon, too fresh, too personal. I’ve already recanted the story to the police, the doctors, my therapist. I was grilled by detectives who were wondering if they had a goddamn murder case against me. While it was obviously self-defense, there wasn’t a clean bullet wound or a quick stab to the heart. No—I fucking pulverized the bastard with my bare hands. It was violent and
savage and out of control.
He had to be identified by dental records.
But given the circumstances, there were no charges brought against me. Thank God. The last thing I wanted was to leave one prison and go straight to another.
Then again… I have to wonder if I’ll always be in some sort of prison. “It’s so messed up,” Cora continues, setting her coffee down on the
wooden table beside her. She lifts her teary eyes to me as she twists back around. “That was almost us, Dean. That was…”
I hear the panic in her voice and I see it in her wide, green eyes, so I inch my way closer to her on the couch. “Shh, hey… it wasn’t us. We got the fuck out and we survived.” I reach out to graze my knuckles against her cheek, watching as a tear slides down and collapses on my finger. Cora’s
eyelids flutter closed as she sucks in jagged breaths. “We’re alive, we’re breathing, and we’re never going back.”
Cora raises her hand to touch mine, cradling my fingers. The contact makes something inside me spin and buzz and squirm. I grind my teeth together while she brazenly nuzzles her face against my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She kisses the heel of my palm, and I almost fucking lose it.
“I go back there every night.”
I pull her close, holding her tight against me, her head resting on my chest like a long-lost lover. My arms encircle her, fingers weaving through her silky hair as I breathe in her familiar, soothing scent. “Is this alright?”
She nods against my shirt, wrapping her arm around my waist. “It’s alright.” Cora remains quiet for a while, her breathing steady and calm. I almost think she’s drifted off when she quietly says, “It doesn’t feel like Christmas.”
I keep gently stroking her smooth hair, massaging her scalp with my fingertips, trying to ease her pain. With my other hand, I reach into my sweatpants pocket, pull out my phone, and scroll through the stations until I find the one I want. I turn up the volume and lean back, cradling Cora as Christmas music softly plays from my phone.
I feel her relax almost instantly, burrowing her tear-stained cheek further into my chest.
Cora falls asleep a few moments later with I’ll Be Home For Christmas echoing in our ears, warming us up, taming our tortured souls… and I know I’ll be perfectly content if this is all I get for Christmas this year.
