My One and Only

The young, blonde woman walks amidst a sea of dull eyes and white masks.  Her own mask is drawn up over her nose, her blue eyes downcast.  

Six feet apart, don’t fall apart.

The air is ashen and damp with the sky’s tears when she reaches her destination.  The government mandated screening device’s metal arm pricks her finger.  After a quick analysis, a green light flashes and the door unlocks.  She doesn’t have the virus.

She is met with distant, sympathetic eyes as the glass doors close behind her and she takes her place behind the teller counter.  The faces of missing local women flash on the television as the reporter recites their names

Chelsea Atwater.   Janine Clark.  Bernadette Johnson. Rebecca Fuller.  Alistair Montgomery. 

Wait, what?  

She looks up and sees his face on the screen: strong jawline, hooded eyelids above intense grey eyes, and cropped black hair.  Alistair has been missing for 72 hours and the reporter says there is reason to believe he is still alive.  The bruises on her arms scream through their confinements of synthetic fibers and she is certain her coworkers can hear them.

Look what she did, we know where he is, they say.

She tugs at her wrinkled sleeves and attempts to smile, if only with her eyes, as she snaps on gloves and resists the urge to scratch her nose through her mask.  The virus isn’t keeping people from withdrawing money, and Mrs Walter comes in for her daily withdrawal.

“One ten and two fives please.”

“Ten, Fifteen, Twenty. . .”  She counts out the money and transfers it from gloved hands to wrinkled fingers and they tell each other to stay safe, the new way of saying goodbye.  

Stan comes in at ten o’clock and promptly calls her into his office.  His pudgy face is a ball of red flames with lips, “You deposited ten thousand dollars into the wrong account last Friday!  I had to fix your mess and stay late on Saturday!  Lately when you’re here it seems like you’re not really here, like your mind is elsewhere.”

She apologies, saying it won’t happen again, but he can’t make ten thousand dollar exceptions.  

She walks amidst a sea of faces adorned with white masks and dull eyes.  Her own mask is damp, her eyes red.  She stops at the pharmacy and invests $10.52 in lung cancer.  Outside, she pulls down her mask and puffs away the pain.  A police officer approaches and tells her to keep her mask on.  She tugs at her wrinkled sleeves and puts out the cigarette and mutters an apology before complying.

The temporary Band-Aid dissipates and the pain in her chest returns.  His absence chips away at her heart more than his presence ever did.  She breathes in her own hot breath and trudges through the sludge of unemployment towards her apartment.  

Speakers affixed to street lamps announce the latest virus statistics, the death toll ever rising.  She comforts herself with the likelihood of the virus killing him if she hadn’t.  The image of him in the hospital floods her mind, artificial breaths filling his lungs and the shadow of death hovering over his bed.  

Yes, a quick death was better, she thinks.

Her apartment building comes into view and she digs in her purse for her keys.  They slip from her hand and she bends to pick them up from the sidewalk.  When she stands, her heart climbs into her throat.

His smile stands out amidst the sea of white masks and his grey eyes sparkle with life.

Six feet under, he went under. . .

Didn’t he go under?

She turns for the safety of four walls but he is there, his muscular build blocking her.  He smells like the river and lilacs and water drips from his suit and tie.  She pounds on his chest and he takes her wrists in his hands.  The scream gets caught in her throat, her heart still blocking its escape.

“I came back for you, my one and only.  I could never leave you.”  He sniffs her hair and she squeezes her eyes shut as tears stream down her face.  She knows it’s true.  He will never leave her.

She opens her eyes and he is gone, but the scent of lilacs and the river lingers on the air.  A patrolling police officer asks her if she is ok and she tugs at her sleeves and adjusts her mask before nodding and shakily unlocking her door.

I came back for you, my one and only.

The incriminating lilac perfume reminds her she wasn’t his one and only.  She was his one of many.  She remembers his face when he met her on the boat the night he was expecting someone else.  Confusion, anger, and contempt had all flashed in his eyes.  Not guilt, though.  Never guilt.

She pours herself a glass of water and walks into the shadowed living room.  He is sitting on the couch, water pooling at his feet.  A scream forces its way past her crowded throat and her glass shatters against the wooden floor.  She looks down at the mess of glass and water, reaching to turn on the light.  When she looks back at the couch, it’s empty and dry.

Pull yourself together.  He’s not here.  He can’t be here.

Shaking, she retreats to the kitchen and snatches up a bottle of amber liquid before barricading herself in her bedroom.  She sits atop her mattress, knees hugged to chest, back pressed to wall, and brings the bottle to her lip.  The alcohol burns her throat and her charred heart slips down with it, down to the pit of her stomach.  It lays there, heavy with the weight of her past and she takes another long pull from the bottle, trying to forget.

It’s a moonless night.  The boat is rocking with the river’s current and she rocks with it, the gentle motion a great contrast to the torrent swirling in her mind.  She sits in the cabin, knees hugged to chest, back pressed to wall.  Anger boils behind her eyes and streams of steam pour from her ears.  His recent texts are emblazoned in her memory, filthy, deceitful strings of beautiful poetry.  She had fallen for them too, long ago.

The docks are quiet and his footsteps cut through the silence of curfew.  He is risking a citation by meeting her here at this hour.

He is a monster.  Don’t let him win.

She untangles her arms and picks up the pistol as she stands, less than an inch between her head and the ceiling.  A couple deep breaths settle the boiling rage and her heart freezes over with cold hatred.  The boat lurches as it accepts the weight of a killer and his voice whispers on the wind.

“Clara, are you here?”

His dark hair and tanned skin blends into the night and she sees only a shadow with eyes standing in the doorway.  A ghoul of night, a monster of love.  He pulls out his phone, turning the flashlight on her.  She stands firm, unmoving as the blinding light reveals her identity.  Not Clara, not Chelsea or Janine, or any of the others.  The silent tension stretches between them, pulled so tight it threatens to snap.

“What are you doing here.”  Alistair whispers into the tense cabin.

“Why did you do it.”  Her voice is frigid, emotionless.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, what did I do?”  He steps towards her and she holds the pistol up, “Jesus, what the hell Mattie!”  He raises his hands overhead, the light from his phone bathing the ceiling, reflecting a soft glow over them.

“I know what you did,”  She repeats, “I know they’re dead, and I want to know why or I swear to God I will pull this trigger.”

Confusion.  Anger.  Contempt.

He lunges for her and the cabin is plunged into darkness as he drops his phone.  His large fingers wrap around her forearms and slam her against the wall.  The pistol thuds to the floor.  Her heart is still frozen, her emotions numb.  His fingers dig into her arms and he curses her, blaming her for what he has to do next.

“My one and only, I never wanted to hurt you.”  He sobs as he sniffs her hair and lets go of one arm, pulling out a knife.  

A knife with Clara’s name on it, not hers.

She feels the wall next to her with her free arm and grasps the fire extinguisher, cracking it over his head.  The sound echoes through the small cabin and he slumps to the floor, his body rocking in time with the motion of the boat.  The ice around her heart thaws and she is left with a flood of emotion.

Fear.  Guilt. Relief.

Her muscles expand, pumped with adrenaline, and she drags his limp corpse out of the cabin, heaving him over the side of the boat.  The splash is loud in the quiet night and she watches him sink into the dark waters, carried away with the current.  Joining his victims in the deep.  A dog barks and she hears footsteps on the docks.  She stares into the black waters as the boat and docks fade until nothing but she and her relief remain.

The alarm wakes her from the nothingness and her room comes into focus around her.  She looks down.  She is wearing her burgundy night slip, Alistair’s favorite.  The bruises on her arms are gone and she hears the sizzle of bacon before she smells it.  She pulls on her silk robe and her bare feet slap against the cold wood into the kitchen.

He is standing in her kitchen, wearing just his boxers, cooking at the stove.  His eyes are glued to the tv.  The bacon is burning.  

She follows his gaze to the footage of a man being arrested.  The headline “Black River Killer in Custody, Over 10 Bodies Discovered” flashes across the screen.  The images of the missing women appear in the bottom corner.  Chelsea and Janine’s faces appear in the bottom corner, their bodies discovered in the river.  Her head swims as memories meld with dreams and she is left grasping for reality.  Her friends are dead and they caught the killer.  Or did they?

Alistair notices her and crosses the room, his face twisted with apprehension, “They found the bodies last night.  Oh baby, I’m so sorry.  At least they caught the guy, right?”  He says as he pulls her into an embrace and kisses her forehead and sniffs her hair.

She nods, eyes glued to the television as the scent of lilacs and burnt bacon fills her nostrils and her heart climbs into her throat.