I’ve been here countless times before. It’s always the same. We go into the gloomy hall. The sun has set. It’s neither day or night, somewhere in between. Ironically, that’s how I’ve felt my whole life, since this point, somewhere in between, unable to move on, yet unable to stay.
The body of a woman lies at the foot of the stairs, broken and crumpled. Her neck’s bent in such an unnatural position that even the child understands the finality of. He lets out a long cold, curdling scream, rising each individual nerve ending on my back, penetrating my soul. He doesn’t stop until his aunty finds him cradling the woman’s head on his muddy knees.
Clammy sweat soaks my chest and drenches the cotton bedsheets. I’m stuck, a prisoner of my mind, forced to witness this horrific scene for the hundredth time.
Though there’s something different this time. A sickening hollowing wrench in my gut compels me to watch as the boy strokes the face of the woman he desperately clings to, even though she has long since departed. My hot salty tears mirror his, streaming from my closed eyes, trapped in this state of torturous slumber. And there I see it, the difference. The woman no longer has the same bereft face.
This time it’s Abby.
I finally drag myself from the awfulness to a state of semi-consciousness, waking petrified and alone in a Carton House hotel bedroom.
It’s a good job Abby continuously refuses my advances. How can I even contemplate starting something with her, when I’m already consumed with the fear of losing her?
