15 Elle To Worry #2
“There’s been…” He pauses, searching for the words.
I should leave. I must check on Liney. Be anywhere but here.
“Something good about occupying this lighthouse with you both. I never thought I’d have company.
I didn’t think myself the personable type.
But perhaps, with the dark deeds done, this place could be… ”
Done? He thinks it’s over. Has he forgotten my new contract? If I allow him this fantasy, I might fall into it too. He’s so lost in his vision of me, of us, he’s forgotten what I am.
“There’s a woman on the island.” Speaking it feels as though I were conjuring her. “Bridget. A survivor. I saw her. Last night in the water. In here. I must kill her, James.”
His name feels blasphemous on my tongue. I use it, like the knife, to tear us apart.
His disappointment coats him. Blood drips from his neck, wells at his collarbone, and trickles down a small exposed strip of his chest before seeping beneath his shirt.
“Here I thought that you might’ve become capable of remorse.”
He’s gone. Before I can retort, defend myself, explain that this is nothing compared to all I’ve done. If he can accept everything so far, this is only one drop of seawater in an ocean of sin.
I suppose it’s the nature of ghosts to live in the past. The impossible could’ve been. He found comfort in believing us an odd little family instead of soul-shackled together.
I won’t join him.
* * *
I go downstairs. Eat my peaches. They don’t taste as sweet as I remember.
When Liney wakes up, much later in the day, she’s not well.
Worse than last night. The cold has seeped in despite my efforts.
Her breath rattles in her chest. Every word comes out a rough whisper.
She asks me for tea and for information.
She keeps trying to tell me about a girl on the island, but it doesn’t line up with last night.
She speaks of months, not minutes. It’s enough to develop a theory.
This imagined woman was a trick, last night and all the days before, shown to Liney.
Now that’s a twist to my gut. I thought she was out of Pratterman’s reach.
A prize perhaps, but not a pawn used against me.
I give Liney tea and tell her not to worry. He won’t have her. And I won’t be tricked again by the snake in our Eden.
If Liney develops pneumonia, I have no medicine to give her.
Her skin nearly burns my own while she croaks out requests for more blankets.
If there’s a small, bitter part of me that believes she deserves a little suffering for her trespass, it’s snuffed out watching her shiver with only her eyes peeking out of the covers.
I make soup for supper. The water simmers.
I watch its swirls without focus. I can’t go searching for Bridget while Liney’s health is at risk, but I must come up with a plan.
How can I know she’s still on the island?
I wouldn’t if the roles were reversed. If she’s a demon, is that enough reason to stay?
Would it be better to offer her refuge here?
Keep an eye on her? I fear that risk. Liney is prone to flights of fancy.
I noticed how she looked at other girls in the church pews and local dances.
I could’ve protected her. She could’ve kept the company of whomever she chose.
That dream still lives in my heart, though it will never happen.
I can hate the restraints I’ve put on her here, but that doesn’t stop them from being necessary.
It must be necessary. If it weren’t, I’d be to blame.
I want to toss the pot of bubbling water. Snap the wooden spoon in my hand. Break something so that the brokenness trapped in my chest stops clawing at me.
Is it Mr. Pratterman’s intention to drive me into madness? Scenarios stretch themselves out like branches of a tree, but I can’t keep each leaf of possibility in focus at once. I want to burn the tree and watch every leaf curl until it is all ash.
The water boils. I add peeled potatoes, portions of leek, and nearly-too-stale sections of bread to the pot and stir.
A thought wriggles in as I add rice and a generous pinch of salt to the mixture.
If Bridget dies of exposure, would that count as me killing her?
I’d be the reason she didn’t survive, refusing her respite from the cold.
It isn’t snowing anymore, but the bitter chill is deadly on its own.
Is being the reason someone doesn’t survive the same as killing them?
It likely wouldn’t work anyway. Anyone would take our boat before freezing to death.
I cover the pot and lean over the stove, the steam warming my cheeks. There’s too much room for interpretation unless my hand kills her. This is where the Devil turns a pinprick of doubt into a chasm.
I’ll kill her. And if she isn’t alive enough to count, I’ll find the first person on shore with a heart and rip the beating organ out of them. No room for wordplay or loopholes. I’ve come too far to risk a half job.
Douglas’s disappointment haunts me, not as a ghost but as a foul memory. Not even his guilting can confuse this clarity. Peace washes over me when I straighten.
The decision’s been made. All there’s left to do is enact it.
You stop worrying about the possibilities. Because you’re already a murderer. You move on to the next task.
“I need to step outside,” I tell Liney as I hand her a hefty portion of soup, careful to keep my knife out of her view. “Firewood. I won’t be long. Eat as much as you can, got it?”
Liney nods weakly. I smooth the damp hair out of her face. She’s barely conscious but dutifully lifts the spoon to her lips.
The island didn’t do well in the storm. In the full light of day, I see that there are many fallen trees in the small forest, rocks and sand thrown about, shingles broken off the lighthouse, and fish.
Dozens of fish litter the shore. Big ones, bloated and torn apart by the winds that stole them from the ocean. They should be frozen at this temperature, but the smell is rancid. Under a clear sky’s autumn sun, they must have decomposed. I see no flies, but I hear a buzzing.
I walk along the beach. The fish stretch from the edge of the tide to the first few trees. I throw some back into the tides, but it’s a fruitless venture. They’ll wash back ashore eventually. The current around the island tends to keep anything that gets too close.
I make a full loop of the island. The fish are most concentrated near the lighthouse, and already most of the ones I tossed back are back on the beach. I don’t find a shipwreck survivor.
The boat is still here. She’s not. Was she only an illusion?
Tears well in my eyes. I gaze out from beside the lighthouse at my corner of the Atlantic. The wind is harsh. The ocean is vast. The sky is endless. I’ve never felt so small. Alone, I give into the overwhelm.
Twin trails of tears fall into my mouth. It fills with the taste of rot.