One small act. One long journey. And unmeasurable suffering along the way.
Her skin itched and burned, her thoughts consumed and rushing a million miles a minute in every direction. But the only thought that made any sense to her was the silence at the end of her story.
*
Food. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten anything properly.
Perhaps this morning. Maybe last night? No, she hadn’t eaten last night.
She dragged a hand down her face and yawned. Each day was beginning to blur into the next. How long had she been gone? A day? Two? Three seemed right but she couldn’t be certain. All she knew was that she hadn’t slept since the night her demons had clawed their way free and escaped into her kitchen, taking the knife from the butchers’ block and destroying everything beautiful in the world.
She felt dizzy, almost nauseous with the need to eat now that she had realised it. She looked down at the passenger seat, to the pie that the waitress had given her. Tentatively, she reached for it, prying open the lid with one hand and peering inside. It looked delicious, the pie inside the tub, and her stomach growled with wanton need for it. With shaking fingers, she broke a small section off and brought it to her lips, smelling the sweet cherry filling trapped between the crumbly pastry crust. She chewed on the small section of pie, the flavours strong and vibrant but when she tried to swallow it down, it stuck like a lump in her throat, and she gagged repeatedly, her hand grabbing for the bottle of warm water.
She gulped down the water, feeling the pie finally slide down her throat, scratching its descent before landing into her empty stomach. She closed the lid on the pie box, deciding not to eat any more of it.
Her children would have loved it so much, and that was why she didn’t want to eat it; if they couldn’t have it, then why should she.
The day was drawing to another close anyway, and she realised that she should probably stop and rest. A flashing neon sign shone up ahead, letting her know that there was a turnoff coming up. A motel and restaurant. Delores pulled the silver car off the highway and into the car park, easing it into a small space next to a red Ford. She cut the engine and stared straight ahead to sort through the jumble in her mind. She’d need to speak again. She hated having to speak to anyone. Hated having to make pointless small talk. To form words and sentences, to not show what a total mess she was.
She hadn’t always been like this. Once, she’d been a loving wife and doting mother. Once she’d had everything that a woman could desire; the husband, the children, the house. She’d it all. But somewhere along the road it had all gone wrong. So, so wrong.
She just didn’t know why.
All she knew was that she was bad. From the inside out. Did it really matter what had turned her bad? All she knew was that evil lived within her, and she had done the unspeakable. A crime so vile that even God would not forgive her. And she couldn’t blame him.
Michael’s voice rang through her head.
‘You deserve everything that’s coming to you after this, Del! After what you’ve done...’
His voice came to her, a hissing of words, begging her to make the pain stop. But she couldn’t. It was already too late by then.
Michael.
Oh, how she loved him. He was everything to her at one time. Her entire world wrapped up in a smart suit and dimples. They were young when they met and fell in love, their whole futures laid out before them. She’d gotten pregnant quickly, too quickly, but he’d supported her regardless. And he’d supported her through everything that had come after. How could she have hurt him so badly when he’d only ever been good to her?
He was a good husband and she was a bad wife.
He was a good father and she was just plain evil.
It was as simple as that.
She angled the mirror to look at her reflection. She wasn’t shocked by what she saw. Pale skin covered in pink blotches. Red-rimmed eyes, with dark grey circles underneath like she hadn’t slept in a week. She was granted snatches of sleep and solitude before the nightmares came, but she always awoke screaming their names and begging for the forgiveness that she knew she wasn’t worthy of.
Delores dabbed her cheeks dry, and ran her fingers through her knotted hair. Reaching down, she grabbed her purse and stepped out of the car, the high temperature assaulting her with full force. Even though it was cooling into early evening, heat still clung to everything like gum to a shoe. She glanced at the car next to her, seeing a child’s seat in the back.
Her heart froze in its relentless beating. Her lungs released the air trapped within. Fresh salty tears dripped from her eyes and she stumbled back against her car, a quiet sob exiting her mouth. She brought her hands up to her face and took slow, steadying breaths until she felt calm enough to pass by the red Ford and the child’s seat.
She quickly headed to the reception desk to book a room for the night, knowing that she probably wouldn’t stay the whole night through anyway, she rarely did. Sleep constantly evaded her, and her screams often caused problems for other guests, meaning that the managers would often knock on her door in the early hours and ask her to leave.
But tonight she was so incredibly tired. Perhaps tonight she could sleep through. Perhaps tonight the nightmares would not come. And the screams and blood would abate for long enough to help her think straight.
Deep down she felt that a little sleep might help her to make sense of this most senseless thing. That perhaps, like the waitress had said, tomorrow would be a new day and this would all look better. It would all make sense.
Perhaps this was a nightmare that she couldn’t wake from. Because the thought that this was real was too much to bear.
The little bell jingled as she swung the glass door open, and the young man behind the counter looked up with a pleasant smile, his eyes instantly showing concern as he saw her distress.
“Hey, you okay, Miss?” He came from around the counter and reached for her, but Delores stepped back before his hand made contact with her arm.
