How could I have know?

I can still feel the disgusting warmth on my hands, even to this day. Even if all my memories were to fade, that feeling would still haunt me. I have my daughter handle the cooking now, though holding utensils can be challenging. Sherry always asks me if I’m okay, and I always tell her it’s fine, even if the fork I’m holding rattles between my teeth. I’ll be honest I’m scared of the day she stops asking. Though knowing her, the only day that’ll be is my funeral. Odd comfort that would be. Then, I wouldn’t have this feeling in my hands. It reminds me of old Lady Macbeth. I chuckled somewhat when she brought that up, Sherry, I mean. Though deep down, I wished she never did.

It's worse at night. When the room is dark, and the only thing I can hear is my own breathing, my palms begin to ache with the sensation. I can’t stand to look at mirrors, either. They only remind me of how long it’s been and how little time is remaining. Eventually, though, I do catch a glance, and it’s hard to recognize the person staring back, cold mute eyes, greying hair, and wrinkling skin. A corpse. The only thing left was to die.

Sherry often asks me what it was like when I was younger, during those heady days of the “Wild West” with the outlaws, gun fights, and all that other sensationalized nonsense. Granted, it was hectic, and I admit I sometimes miss those busy days. But I tell her how it was. It was hot as hell in the day, cold as shit at night, the food would rather have you eat dirt, but the liquor was half decent. Then, inevitably, that dreaded question passes her lips, her tone always as sweet as honey.

 “Ms. Hewitt? What was Lucas even like?” Seven words, each one its own layer of hell.

I’d always dismiss it, “How many times are you going to ask that?” I’d bark back as if I already answered her. And in some ways, I have.

I’ve told her the story of our childhoods together. How me and him used to play around in lakes and forests as kids. How my parents always yelled at me for misbehaving and to stop playing with “That devil child ‘cross the river.” I’d tell her that growing up poor in Appalachia meant I had to do my share, helping my mother sell pickaxes one day and my father to go swing them the next, just to make ends meet. How the sounds of the late-night rustle of leaves would always sing me to sleep. Though always glossed over the fact it’d be Lucas’ arms that I’d sleep in more often than not. Instead, I’d tell her that when the rush came, we’d set off west together in search of gold, with nothing but a rickety wagon and our trusty picks, braving the elements together to finally make our fortunes. 

But then, recently, she asked me another “What about when you two were older?” throwing me down another seven layers. I’d struggle to find a purpose to that question, which only set me off.

“What’s there to say that I haven’t already? Looking for business advice? Well, here’s mine! Don’t put your eggs in one basket, and especially don’t have that basket run off with some hussy!” 

She looked at me with a tint in her eyes that made my stomach churn. Suffice it to say she didn’t ask that question again. Months pass, and even so, her words rattle around my head, clinking against my skull like the fork on my teeth. If I were younger, I’d have left it at that, a passing question best forgotten. But I’m old now. And old people like to talk about their past, especially when they have no future. The words flowed out of me one day as we sat on the balcony drinking tea. I was looking out at the sunrise, warm summer’s rays washing on my face, much like it was the day me and Lucas arrived. 

“He wanted to find gold first…” 

Sherry looked at me strangely and opened her mouth to say something, but I quickly shot her a glance that told her she'd keep her lips shut if she wanted to hear this story. 

“He wanted to find gold, said he’d make a ring out of it, then build our lives together on it. Lucas was a romantic like that. I don’t know where he’d gotten it from, but he had it in spades…” I said with a bit of a bitter laugh.

I regale her for a bit, much as I’m doing now. I told her how hectic it was and how many people there were, with new stores, bars, brothels, and mines popping up left and right. Then there were the con men and the vultures that always seemed to lurk around, too lazy to pan the rivers or crack the rocks themselves but instead wait on some old coot to yell out that deadly word “Gold!”. We’d set up our store a little ways from town along the river leading up towards the newly built mines, doing as we did back home, sold picks and swung them. The only difference now was the panning in the cold, knee-deep water every morning. Lucas couldn’t stand it, but I found it refreshing, the cool mountain runoff rushing between my legs, smooth rocks massaging at overworked soles, with that crisp morning air in every breath.

“Then, one day, we got lucky, or rather he did... Lucas found a hunk’a gold the size of your head. He proposed to me with it as the ring. Then he took it to town to sell it. Told me to stay behind in case of bandits, and then, he never came back…” Those last words off my tongue weren’t a lie, but they certainly weren’t true either. But I couldn’t tell her, even as the truth clawed at my throat, I couldn’t say it. I trail off, my gaze connecting to some distant horizon of thought.

“Well, what happened next?” she asked meekly, breaking the minutes of silence that had passed. I sneered at her as if she asked me something vile, but really, I was just angry at myself.

“Exactly what you think happened! He ran off, got stinking rich, and decided to hitch up with some pretty-looking whore instead! Parading around town with all that cash caught up to him though, got shot dead by bandits, exactly what the pig deserved! Once news of all that came to me, I rolled up my damn sleeves and decided to do it myself, found gold just as good as his, and built my own business! From the ground up! No help needed from the good-for-nothing and any other pig for that matter!”

I wish my words hadn’t been so harsh, but they had to be. To keep myself from falling into tears, I had to be cruel instead. Sherry stopped with the questions after that, and to be honest, I wish she never started. For many long years, I never thought about that man, and now I can’t seem to get him out of my head. I guess with nothing better to do these days, all I have left is daydreaming. It's little wonder, too, that I usually find myself thinking of Lucas, whether about that stupid smile of his always making my heart skip a beat or how he always held me in bed. Even if it was hotter than hell, he’d still at least wrap a pinky around mine just to let me know he wasn’t going anywhere. I figured to myself, that's why he left when I was wide awake. If he did it at night, I’d know something was up when he wasn’t there to hold me. I hate how much I still miss him. 

I have to remind myself what he did to me, how he left me to fend for myself for four long years without so much as a word. How I became fed up and went into town looking for him, only to see him there, arms wrapped around another woman. I can’t describe how it made my blood boil and how embarrassed I felt, spending all those sleepless nights twisting and turning, with no warmth beside me, wondering if something happened. I still remember the look on his face, how deeply he hugged that woman, how his eyes glistened like he was staring at the Virgin Mary herself. Worst of all was the little girl that hung to the woman’s dress, doe eyes staring at me, being the only one to notice me, before I bolted away, hot tears streaming down my face.

I still wish that girl had said something then. Pointed me out. Maybe I could’ve had the strength to confront him then and there. Next time I saw him, I’d say my peace though. I made sure of that.

Yesterday, Sherry got me wooden cutlery. My hands still shake when I hold them, but at least that clatter on my teeth doesn’t hurt as much, and I don’t have to see myself in their reflection anymore. Sherry also brought me pancakes this morning, soft and fluffy, with berries in them, my favorite. Though there was a candle on top, I looked at her a little confused. 

“Happy birthday, Ms. Hewitt! I know you don’t really like cake, so I made you these!” she had such sweetness in her smile, sweeter than any syrup that I could’ve used.

Despite this, I couldn’t help but feel a swirling pit in my stomach. Guilt swirling no doubt in my guts, no doubt. I thank her, pulling her in for a hug.

She handed me a small parcel wrapped in paper, covered in various stamps and markings, and said the post office found these while renevating. Undoing the string, I unwrap the paper, spreading it open like the petals of a dead flower. The first letter is unmarked and quite old, and I begin to read it, the handwriting immediately familiar.

“My lovely Abigail-” I throw the letter to the floor.

“Toss it” I said told Sherry bluntly. She picked the letter up and saw who it was from. “But Ms. Hewitt, this is from Lucas, isn’t it?”

“Toss. It.” I repeat, the look in my eye leaving no room for misinterpretation.

Poor Sherry simply nodded her head and took the letter away from my sight. The rest was just as useless to me, con men and vultures, just like it always is, only this time their words are put to paper. I crumpled the rest without a second thought. I poked away at the pancakes, my mood thoroughly ruined, that terrible man still haunting my thoughts even as I tried and enjoy what few things I had left on this earth. Sherry returned not too long later, her look solemn, clearly thinking I made the wrong choice to throw the letter away. Despite it being a day of celebration, it passed like any other, going through the motions, spent locked away in my little mansion on the hill, like some vampire cursed to never step into the light again, lest the weight of her sins burn her up into ash.

After a long day of nothing, I went to bed prepared for another night's struggle to catch any sleep. My eyes close, and eventually, my mind went to where it always did when I was in bed, the still, pitch-black room taking me back to that night. I remember it like a bad dream, a hazy mix of emotions and thoughts.

After that horrible encounter in town, I felt a vengeful resolve possess me, my mind filled with disgust and hatred for that vile man. I trailed him, followed along his path, until nightfall, when he rode out of town, out to where he’d been hiding all those years, a rocky overhang half a mile or so away from town. I crept my way over, quiet as a mouse, only the faint embers of a fire guiding me through the inky black night. There I saw him, cooking something, back turned. I made my way behind him, eyes on his holster before I pounced. I pushed him to his side, grabbing the revolver from him as I did. He raised his hands pleading, no doubt thinking I was some common robber, but his eyes lit up as he looked at me. He stood up with that disgusting smile on his face as he tried to embrace me, which earned him a swift pistol whip to the jaw. He cried out, his eyes tearing up, a red welt on his face. He pleaded with me and asked me what had happened and what was wrong. That earned him a shot in the leg. I remember the words we exchanged. Each one that left my mouth was its own regret.

“I saw you with that whore. Don’t you dare deny it either… Is this what you’ve been doing? While I’ve been up trying to hold down our life together, you were here? Starting a new one?” I accused, my voice oozing with spite.

His eyes darted around wild, confused, like a rabbit stuck in a trap, knowing it would be dead soon but struggling anyway. And struggle he did.

“Abby, please, there’s been a misunderstanding. She’s not my wife.” That earned him another bullet, this time in the shoulder.

“I know she ain’t 'cause I am! You proposed to me! Or did you forget all that, cock deep in someone else?” I say, followed by a flurry of insults. “And about your daughter, cute thing, isn’t she? I can see why you ran away. She really has her mother's eyes! And she looks about four, too. Remind me again? How long have you been away now?”

Lucas sat there weakly breathing, two dark patches growing on his clothes, his eyes starting to go dull, a dreadful long silence in the air before he finally spoke.

“Please, Abigail, it isn’t like that. Her mother is sick. I’m trying to do right by her and take care of her. I’m sorry I haven’t been back sooner. I am. I promise there’s still plenty of money… Plenty of time to start that future I promised you. But I have to do right by her too, for the both of them…”

I remember how angry I was that even then, two bullets in and a gun pointed at his head, all he could talk about was her. I pull the trigger again, the bullet landing between his eyes, his body crashing limp like a thrown ragdoll, eyes pointing lifelessly into the sky. I wake up suddenly, early morning like always, my heart racing and a tear down my face, feeling as though I just shot him, the recoil still pulsing in my hands. I make my way to my desk, hoping to get some paperwork done to clear my head. However, I notice the familiar letter. I was ready to crumple it up and march over to Sherry to scold her, but with his death so fresh in my mind, I didn’t see the harm in at least glancing it over.

“My lovely Abigail,

I hope this letter finds you well. I apologize for not writing to you more often, but Aunty has been quite sick, and I’ve been up and down trying to get things in order here. She says the doctors gave only a year at most. I know I’ve been out long, but I promise you I’ll be back. I just have to set things right here first. You know how I am. Couldn’t rightly sleep if I just left my family to die. I’ve been thinking, also that we should adopt little Sherry aswell. I don’t have any other family out here, and honestly, the thought of sending her back to Appalachia on one of those wagons worries me. So, I’d like your thoughts on possibly taking her in. I think you’ll like her. She’s a sweet little thing, timid as a mouse but curious, and likes to read, she’d definitely liven up the store a little. Anyway, I’m hoping to come back soon. 

Forever yours, Lucas.”

I could barely read those last few lines with how much my eyes watered up. What I fool was. Still am one for never giving the situation a second thought. It’s funny, though, in that cruel sort of way, how I still ended up on the same line of thought even without the letter. After hearing of her mother's death, I swept in to adopt her, thinking I could atone after I’d just killed her father. Even so, I’ve treated her so poorly all these years, all cause of my misconceptions. But how could I have known? Better yet, how could I be so cruel? I clutched the letter tight, tears rolling down my face, as I asked him why? Why couldn’t he have visited to tell me in person? Why didn’t he say anything that night? Why couldn’t I have been more patient? I tore myself into pieces, crying and muttering useless questions. I spent the morning crying. Sherry walked in at some point to come and comfort me. I apologized to her, desperately I apologized. For everything, for the truth I’ve hid from her, how it wasn’t even the truth, to begin with, how my own misconception led me to be a cruel and terrible mother, running the list of every pitifully spiteful thing I’ve done because of it.

Lucas’ funeral is a few months from now. I hope to ask for forgiveness if I’m still alive by then. But I predict I’ll ask him in person sooner rather than later.