The family was seated around my dinner table like it was their own. Eating, laughing, living it up without a care to be had. But as soon as I entered, the party stopped. They just sat there, staring at me as if I was the one who didn’t belong.
Thomas filled the dead air, “Abigail, there you are,” he said, wiping his mouth with a red kerchief that matched his shirt. “You were going to share with us what happened in the basement, yes?”
Keep playing along Eve, don’t escalate. Wait for help to show up. But, why did they all look so calm?
“I… I was looking for tools and got lost in the dark,” I said. “It… reminded me of an old memory. A scary one, and… I let my imagination get the better of me. But I’m okay now, it was all in my head.”
Thomas gave a slight nod: Good work. The kids nodded too, but Paige, she just stared at me, eyes narrowing.
A sharp gust of wind SLAMMED against the windows - the house lights flickered. The family jumped. Thomas looked outside, shaking his head. “These storms get worse every year,” he said. “Hopefully the power holds out.” He motioned for me to take a seat. Hesitating, I stepped forward, pulled back an empty chair, and sat.
Paige wrapped her fingers around the handle of a serrated steak knife. “Your Auntie is going to be moving out soon kids,” she said, cutting into her steak, blood oozing from the veins of the dead meat.
Jenny, the hide and seeker, just sat there, watching me. Only now, her previous gloom was gone. She looked content, cheerful almost. I stared back, searching for cracks in the performance, but there were none.
“Abby?” Thomas chimed.
I looked up.
He blinked at me, expecting an answer to a question I didn’t even hear. “You were going to explain your reasoning,” he prodded, “for moving out.”
“Oh.” I cleared my throat, “I… I just think it’s time for me to be on my own… feels like the right time.”
The kids nodded in unison.
“Well, you sure will be missed,” said Thomas. “But, I think we can all agree it’s time for a change.”
I managed to fake another smile. Didn’t know how many more I had left in me.
“So,” said Thomas, turning towards his daughter, “How was school today?”
Jenny smiled, sheepish, “I… I don’t know.”
“Wow, you don’t know, that’s a first,” Thomas replied playfully.
Jenny gave a little shrug and smiled wider.
Thomas leaned forward, “You gotta tell me ONE thing that happened,” he said, “just one thing, that’s all I ask.”
What is this? Stay calm, Eve. He’s just messing with you.
Jenny laughed a bit, “Okay, Uhm… there… there was this dog in class today.”
“A dog?” said Thomas. “What’s a dog doing in a school?”
“It… it was a seeing-eye dog,” she squirmed in her seat, shy.
Thomas sprinkled salt onto his steak, “A seeing eye dog, what’s that?”
“It’s a dog that… it helps blind people walking around,” Jenny beamed.
“Wow. A professional dog.”
“What’s that?”
Thomas raised an eyebrow, “Professional?”
“Mhm.”
“It’s when you get paid for your work.”
“Oh… I… I don’t think the dog gets paid.”
“Well, he should.”
“Maybe with treats?” said Jenny, sincere.
Thomas chuckled and glanced over at me the way a proud parent does - his eyes filled with: ‘isn’t she cute?’ For a moment, I almost forgot everything else that was going on. Like it was just a typical family dinner, but then-
“-What about your friend in the city?” asked Paige, killing the mirage - right on cue. I snapped back into the fucked-up present, “What?”
She gulped down another mouthful of steak, “Your friend in the city, does she still have that spare room?”
I shook my head, not sure how to respond.
Paige sighed, “Your friend Charlie.”
My stomach twisted. “Oh… I don’t know if… if she still lives there,” I replied, continuing to play along, barely.
“Hmmm,” said Thomas, dousing his mashed potatoes with gravy. “We’ll figure something out. And don’t feel rushed, you can always stay longer if needed. One week is just ideal for us.”
Paige shot him a disapproving look.
Wow, a whole week, to move out of my own house. “Thanks Thomas. Very generous,” I said, sounding a little more sarcastic than intended.
Paige huffed, and rose from the table. She strode to the cupboard, and grabbed a bottle of Charlie’s favorite red wine. Perusing for an extra moment, she grabbed the corkscrew. Eyes locked onto mine, she sat back down, twisted the corkscrew into the wine cork and-
-Another ruthless blast of wind pushed through the house. The lights flickered on and off until-
-Darkness. Power outage. If not for the orange glow of the living room fireplace, it would’ve been pitch dark.
Thomas let out an exasperated sigh, “Great… I’ll get the candles.” Pushing up from the table, he stepped out of the kitchen.
Is now my chance? What do I do? The front door is locked. The windows are barred. Abigail, Queen of the ants, is down in the basement. Ugh. I couldn’t even hear myself think - Paige kept cranking on that corkscrew, staring at me the whole time. She had to be doing it on purpose now. Then, finally, she popped out the cork, and poured until her glass was nearly full. Right to the brim. Classy.
But… that’s when I noticed the necklace.
Around Paige’s neck: Charlie’s necklace. I checked my back pocket. Empty. A flood of emotions followed: Grief. Fear. Confusion. Rage. It started in my temples, pushed to my hands, my feet, every single part of me like an uncontrollable wildfire.
Until now, I’d been in denial about what happened downstairs. Charlie wasn’t hiding. Charlie wasn’t being held captive. Charlie was dead. She must be. Yes, Abigail said Charlie was alive, but I saw that hammer - It was covered in blood. And now, Paige FUCKING Foster was wearing Charlie’s locket like it was her own.
“Where’d you find that?” I said, almost blurting it out.
“Hmm?” said Paige, slowly looking towards me, sipping from her wine.
“The necklace,” I said. “Where’d you find it?”
“Oh, just a store.”
I rose to a stand - the kids tensed up, wary - Paige stared at me, confused - I moved closer.
Wait, what was I doing here? What was my plan?
“…Abigail?” said Paige, nervous.
She kept blathering on, but I wasn’t there anymore. I was in the past. Memories were playing out in my head. Those strange, little moments that stand out more and more as time goes on. The way Charlie snorted when she laughed sometimes, then laughed even harder out of embarrassment. The way her face lit up every time she saw a dog stick its head out a car window. The way she wrapped her arms around me from behind, and nuzzled her chin up to my neck as we fell asleep. All these memories played out in my head like they were happening right now, and then-
-Before I even knew what I was doing - I’d grabbed Paige with one hand, and the corkscrew with the other. Arms gripped around her, I pulled back, and her chair fell to the floor with a CRASH.
Time slowed to a near stop. As I held the corkscrew to the side of her throat, her children screamed. The fireplace crackled. The wind outside howled. But Paige, she was silent. For the first time in her life, she didn’t have a fucking thing to say. Not one word. Only quick, terrified little breaths: music.
“Woah, now…” said Thomas, treading into the dining room, cell phone in hand.
I spun Paige around to face him, “Where is Charlie?” I snapped.
“Kids, go to your rooms. Lock the doors,” he said.
But they didn’t respond - they just sat there, paralyzed.
“NOW,” he boomed. They scrambled out of the kitchen.
“Abigail…” he spoke as calmly as possible, “You have to let her go-”
“-What the FUCK happened to Charlie?”
He took a deep breath, exhaled. “She’s living in the city now. You told us yourself, Abby you-”
“-Thomas, stop. My name isn’t Abby. I’m fucking done with this. Just tell me where Charlie is right now or-”
“-T-Thomas please,” Paige’s voice quivered. Petrified.
“Paige, don’t worry, she’s not going to do anything. Abby, listen to me - Charlie is okay, we can call her right now, she can explain everything and… Abby this isn’t you. The medications. I know you’ve been missing your doses. That’s what’s happening here, your mind is going through withdrawal, playing tricks on you… Your sponsor, they’re on the way right now. They’re going to help you and-”
-He held up his phone-
“-Look. I just called them, and-”
“-THOMAS,” I yelled so loud it shook the floorboards. I lowered my voice, “Thomas. I need you to listen to me. Listen carefully. If you don’t tell me where Charlie is - something really, REALLY bad is going to happen.”
Paige winced as the corkscrew pricked against her skin. “T-Thomas, just tell her,” she quivered again, riddled with fear.
Thomas took another small step forward, “Abby, listen to me. I need you to ground yourself. Focus on your senses. Focus on-”
-Wait, how did he know about that-
“-Focus on-”
-Sight: Paige’s blonde hair. Thomas’ dumbstruck face. The glow of the fireplace.
Sound: Heart thumping. Panicked breath. Howling wind.
Smell: Red wine. Blood. Desperation.
Touch: My hand gripped tightly around the corkscrew, and-
-a sudden, clawing pain shot through my right thigh. My whole body tensed up in a spasm. I staggered backward, let go of Paige, and looked down. Holy fuck. She stabbed a steak knife right into my thigh-
-Then I realized - my hands were empty. The corkscrew was gone. Paige toppled to the floor like a bowling pin. The bloody knife was still in her hand.
She hit the ground choking, gargling. What just happened? My eyes darted around for an answer, until finally, I saw-
-The corkscrew was lodged, handle-deep, into the side of Paige’s throat. I… I must have… I didn’t mean to… A thin line of blood trailed down her neck, onto the hardwood floor - her mouth slowly opened and closed, opened and closed. Like she was trying to speak. Trying to breathe.
“Paige…” Thomas whispered, stunned. I stumbled backward into the kitchen.
Snapping from his daze, Thomas collapsed to the floor over Paige. He held her neck, trying to stop the bleeding. “Paige,” his voice cracked. He stared into her eyes, but her gaze just flicked side to side - empty. Desperation growing, Thomas pressed harder, trying to stop the bleeding.
Mind spinning, leg throbbing, I limped out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Paige wasn’t human, I told myself. She wasn’t even real. None of this is real. But it felt real, more real than anything I’d ever felt. Every memory I ever had, good or bad, it didn’t matter - everything drowned in the present.
Staggering into the moonlit foyer, I went for the door. Locked. Already knew that. Fuck… I needed to get out of here. I looked down, a dark circle of warm blood seeped through my jeans. Deal with that later, just get outside. I turned around, and remembered-
-The hammer. I could use it to pry open the door.
“Paige,” Thomas whimpered from the kitchen, “I’m here, I’m here Paige, I’m not leaving.”
Focus Eve. I swept back into the living room, trudged up to the so-called quiet-corner, snatched up the hammer and scrambled back to the foyer. Wasting no time, I shimmied it pry-bar first into the door frame, and wrenched back. The wood splintered and strained. I kept prying, kept pulling, but it seemed hopeless, it seemed-
-Thomas SCREAMED. Animalistic, filled with unimaginable grief. RAGE. And I knew exactly what it meant:
Paige was dead.
“No… no… NO…” he trailed off into a strange guttural moan. Tragic and terrifying all at once. His clenched fist THUD against the floor - an impact so heavy I could hear the hardwood CRACK. More screaming, thrashing. Now, he was breaking things, tearing apart the kitchen. Wrathful.
I pried on the door harder and harder, but it was no use. It wouldn’t budge.
“ABIGAIL,” he screamed, voice filled with murder.
Fuck the door. Hammer still in hand, I scrambled upstairs. Thomas charged into the foyer, just in time to see me disappear at the top of the steps.
Right leg going numb, I pushed off the wall and staggered down the hallway. Behind me, FOOTSTEPS thundered up the stairs like an ever-rising war drum.
I tried the first door. Locked. The next one. Locked. My eyes shot down to the end of the hall: Abigail’s bedroom. Fuck it. I burst inside, slammed the door shut. Spinning around, I pressed my back up against it. I scanned the room, searching for somewhere to hide, somewhere to-
-Abigail. She was standing in the far corner of her room, back-turned, head slumped. Shaking… sobbing… weeping… “I didn’t know - I didn’t know - I’m sorry - I’m sorry…” she whimpered again and again. Sorry about what?
Behind me, the door BURST open, and Thomas SLAMMED into me like a freight train. Thrusting me against a barred window, he jammed his forearm against my throat, crushing it. He stared into my eyes, silent, possessed by rage. Sorrow.
As I gasped for air, I looked to the far corner: Empty. Abigail was gone. Was she even there to begin with? I looked back to Thomas.
Before this, I thought maybe he’d been putting on a show, but now, I could finally see it in his eyes: He actually believed he lived in this house. He actually believed I was his sister, but-
“-We did so much for you,” he snarled, spit spraying my face. “We gave you EVERYTHING.” With his free hand, he clutched me by the hair, jerked my head forward, and SMASHED it back into the wall. Throbbing pain.
“We ACCEPTED you into our HOME.” He slammed my head back again, harder this time - each impact heavier than the last. Pain radiated. Vision grew blurry. This was it. I was going to die. This was-
-Might as well fight back dipshit.
With my left leg, and all of my remaining strength, I kneed him in the stomach. Winded, he staggered backward, and crumpled to his knees.
I gasped in air, barely conscious-
-He looked up, readied himself to lunge and-
-I swung the hammer -- claw end first -- into the side of his face. A sickening CRACK filled the room as it lodged into his jaw.
Still on his knees, Thomas stared up at me in disbelief. He didn’t think I was capable of this. Neither did I.
Our eyes locked for a strange, quiet moment, and then… I pressed my foot onto his stomach, pushed it forward and - with both arms, all my strength, wrenched back. The hammer tore open his face with a sickening, wet sound. His perfect teeth ripped out and clattered to the floor in a bloody mess.
He crumpled over. Blood trailed down his jaw, over his neck - the torn flap of his cheek hung open - dangling. Fucking horrific.
But slowly, I raised the hammer, tensed up and…
…Thomas started sobbing. His pitiful, rising whimpers filled Abigail’s room like a noxious cloud. He was holding his face now, as if trying to put himself back together. Blood seeped through his fingers, and his whimpering grew more panicked, more desperate…
“Please… please don’t… Abby please…” he sputtered, drooling ropes of blood onto the floor.
…And all the while, I just stood there, hammer raised. Readying myself to finish the job but... I couldn’t. Despite all my fear, all my hatred, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Paige was an accident - I’m not a killer. I lowered my arm. The blood-soaked hammer slipped from my hand and fell to the floor.
I staggered back towards the hallway, stepped out, and started to pull the door shut. But at the last second-
-Thomas eyes snapped up, and his face twisted into a mangled grin, “Where are you going, Eve?”
I yanked the door SHUT, and held it. Why the FUCK did he just call me that?? Hold that thought. I grabbed a red chair from the hallway and wedged it under the door handle.
Focus. But why the fuck was he smiling at me? Stop, Eve. Focus.
-Help isn’t coming, they would’ve been here by now. Get outside, get to the neighbors. But the front door was locked. All the windows were barred. Maybe there was something-
-The attic. The porthole window. There’s no way that’s barred. Just get up there, onto the roof, find a way down - jump in a snowbank if you have to.
I yanked down the attic staircase and climbed, wincing pain throbbed with every step. All the while, not a peep from Abigail’s bedroom. Not a bang on the door, not a whimper, not even a footstep. Only silence - terrifying silence.
Hoisting myself up, I ran down the narrow hallway. Ignore the pain. Keep moving. Light-headed, I stumbled into the corner room, to the porthole window and pushed it open. I shimmied myself up and through. A tight fit. Wriggling my way out-
-A hand CLUTCHED around my ankle and YANKED me back inside. I slammed into the splinter-ridden floor chin-first, and SPUN around just in time to see the moonlight glisten off Thomas’ torn open face. How did he get up here so quickly?
He lunged onto me, wrapped his hands around my throat and started to SQUEEZE.
“We BUILT this house,” he BOOMED like a mad apostle - slobbering blood onto my face. I reached up, grabbed his wrists, tried to pull them away, but it was no use. He squeezed tighter. A lump formed in my throat, like an ever-expanding cyst. I couldn’t breathe. I was fading. Shadows crawled from the corners of my eyes. Everything was becoming nothing.
He lowered his voice to a spitting whisper, “We sowed the forest.”
Great, I get to die listening to a psychotic maniac. Right then, a shiny glint caught the corner of my eye. I looked over: universal tire chains. Thanks Charlie. With a final push of resistance - I reached - wrapped the tips of my fingers around the chains - and-
“-We gave life TO-”
-I swung. The chains CRACKED into his temple, and his head TWISTED to the side. A red curtain of blood WHIPPED onto the floor, the wall, the turtle painting.
Slowly, he turned back to me, but now, his gaze was empty. Vacant. Blood trailed from his cracked temple, into his twitching eye, and dripped onto my cheek. His grip loosened.
“We were… here before… before the” he trailed off into incoherent mumbles.
Tire chains still in hand, I shoved him off of me, and pushed up to standing. Thomas tried to stand too, but he couldn’t. He fell back to his knees, and looked up at me, barely conscious. He kept trying to talk, only to mutter incoherently. Kept trying to stand, only to fall back down. I stepped around - faced him from behind.
“Where… is… Charlie…” I demanded. But Thomas only responded with more meaningless mumbles.
Enough. I breathed in, and on my exhale - wrapped the chains around his neck. I pulled back. He reached up, pawing, trying to tear them away. Futile. Weak. Pulling tighter, I pressed my knee into his back and pushed. He gasped. Choking. Wheezing. I pulled back even harder. He coughed a spatter of blood. His efforts to fight were fading with each passing second until, finally-
“-STOP.”
I looked up.
In the doorway, eyes wide with terror, stood Charlie. I froze in shock, released Thomas, and staggered back. He fell forward, gasping for breath, barely alive.
“Charlie…” I whispered.
But Charlie was looking down, absorbing the sight of a devastated Thomas. Then… she looked up at me.
Questions shuffled through my head so rapidly I couldn’t even speak. What about her phone in the basement? How was she okay? How was she alive?
All the while, Charlie didn’t say a word, she just stood there, eyes filled with growing fear… but she wasn’t scared of Thomas.
She was scared of me.
“Charlie wait,” I finally managed. Lowering the chains, I took a step forward.
But she stepped back, eyes flicking down to the blood-slicked weapon in my hand. I dropped the chains, and took another step. Charlie kept backing away, shaking her head, on the verge of tears. Devastated.
Downstairs, the front door burst open. Heavy footsteps clamored through the foyer, up the stairs. Sirens.
“Charlie, I can explain, I can…” I stammered, voice cracking. She looked into my eyes one last time, then turned away, disappearing down the hallway. “… She’s up here,” said Charlie.
“Wait,” I stepped over Thomas, into the hallway and-
-Two police officers grabbed me by the arms, shoved me into the wall face first - pink insulation sliced my skin like paper-cuts. They clasped handcuffs around my wrists, and yanked me back. I didn’t fight, I didn’t even speak, I just stared ahead blankly as they tugged me through the attic. Now, from exhaustion and blood loss, I was slipping in and out of consciousness.
As they dragged me down the upstairs hallway, a few paramedics rushed into the attic. My gaze drifted across the wall. The dumbwaiter chute was once again covered up - as if it were never even there to begin with. They pulled me around a corner. My eyes landed on a cracked bedroom door. From behind it, Jenny peered out, face filled with inconsolable dread.
They pulled me down the stairs, into the foyer, towards the front door. Just as they pulled me outside, I looked back and saw-
-a painting. On the foyer wall, a painting of the house, covering up the jagged hole. Thomas’ family was in it. Him, Paige and the three kids. All of them standing out front, happy, smiling. But behind them, peering out through the porthole window, a hazy, solitary figure. Eternally trapped.
Outside, the storm was over now, the snow was melting. As the sun crept up over distant mountains - the sky split down the middle, half night, half day. On the ground - commotion everywhere. Fire trucks. Cop cars. Ambulances. Neighbors crowding on the street, Harpreet and Miguel among them. My eyes darted around, looking for Charlie, but she was nowhere to be seen.
The cops dragged me down the driveway, past the yellow tape, through the crowds, onto the street, and then I saw-
-Standing at the edge of the forest - hands once again covering her face like peekaboo - Abigail. But slowly, she started to pull her hands apart, revealing her face bit by bit, until finally, showing herself fully. This time, in the early morning light. Her once dull eyes were now permeating with life, vitality -- Her once sunken face was full again, red-cheeked. She looked straight into my terror-stricken soul and smiled, serene, a look of pure contented peace. Grateful. Grateful for what? Then, she turned around, withdrew into the darkened woods - away from the crowds, the chaos, the house. Before I could even process what this meant, I was thrown into the back of a van, and the door slammed shut.
Darkness.
—
Everyone keeps calling me Abigail.
But my name is Eve. I was born on October 3rd, 1987 at 2:56 in the morning. My current residence is 3719 Heritage Lane. My partner, the love of my life, is Charlie Bastion. We renovate old houses and flip them for profit. We’ve been together for the last seven years. My name is Eve Palmer, but everyone keeps calling me Abigail Foster.
Now, even according to official documents, the family owns the house, and they’d been living there for years. All my neighbors vouch for them, even Harpreet and Miguel. Nobody recognizes me anymore, not even Charlie. I still look the way I always have, but everyone treats me like I’m a completely different person.
So now, beyond all reason, all justice, I’m locked away in a criminal psych ward, charged with one count of homicide and one count of attempted. Locked away in a room no bigger than a walk-in closet. White walls. Rickety bed. Cold fluorescent light. I’m not sure how long it’s been anymore. Could be months. Could be years.
According to the lead doctor here, I’ve been in and out of mental wards my whole life. They tell me I’ve got a laundry list of psychotic delusions. They say my version of events, the story above, is nothing but an elaborate hallucination mixed in with little bits of reality.
Complete.
Fucking.
Bull.
Shit.
I’ve done enough reading to know that psychotic delusions and hallucinations don’t work that way. They don’t work like they do in the stories, with continuity, and tied-up loose ends. These weren’t hallucinations. These weren’t delusions. Somehow, Thomas Foster bent reality around me like a frayed wire.
And I’m pretty sure his sister Abigail was in on it too. I’m still putting it all together, but I think she took me down in exchange for her freedom. I think she replaced me.
As for the rest of his family, I don’t know if they were in on it, held captive or something in between. I’m still figuring that one out.
What about Charlie? According to so-called officials, Charlie was nothing more than my part-time sponsor for the last six months. Basically a volunteer caretaker. Maybe that’s what she is now, maybe that’s what she is in this reality…
At first, I thought everyone was pulling some horrific stunt on me. Even the doctors. But like I said, neighbors, friends, even my own parents, nobody recognizes me anymore. It’s like Thomas Foster pushed me into a completely different reality...
So who do I turn to? Charlie? I’ve tried to contact her dozens of times. Email, phone, even letters, but she’s never responded. Not even once.
—
The only good thing about this place is the library. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m sure this facility helps people who actually need it, but I don’t need it. I’m not psychotic, Thomas Foster is. That said, if this place didn’t have a library, there’s a good chance I would’ve actually lost my mind. They’ve got computers with internet too. Slow internet, but still. That’s where I’ve been doing my research, writing the real version of events, putting together my case. I still have Abigail’s journal too, so I’m threading together pieces from that. Figuring out what Thomas is, how to stop him. I’m not going to share everything until my case is air tight. But you just wait, soon enough the whole world will know what Thomas Foster did to me.
Either way, I don’t care if you believe me or not. Even if I had all the evidence in the world, it wouldn’t matter to some of you. I just need to convince the few people I still care about first. Then, I’ll worry about everyone else.
But despite all this, I feel hopeful. As long as I can stay stable, play along with the doctors. If nothing sets me off, then I can finally get out of here. Then I can finally talk to Charlie in person and explain what happened. Find a way to make everything go back to how it was before. At least, that’s how I felt up until a week ago…
I was lying on my bed when…
My eyes caught something - up on the white stucco ceiling: a solitary ant aimlessly wandering in circles.
“Abigail?” A voice snapped me out of the daze. I turned.
Standing in the doorway, a nurse, two security guards behind her. “You have a visitor.”
—
Flickering cold fluorescent light cast over the visiting room. Faded brick walls. Spaced apart tables. Guards standing at attention in every doorway.
Finally, the door BUZZED open, and in walked:
Thomas Foster. The father. My supposed brother. A sickening chill crawled down my spine. He caught my eyes from across the room and gave me a lopsided smile. The side of his face was scarred, but considering the injury, surprisingly well healed. His eyes were bright, present.
I looked down at the table, staring at my handcuffed wrists. Part of me was expecting the visitor to be Charlie, I don’t know why. Still holding out hope, I guess.
Thomas sat down across from me.
A long silence passed. Buzzing lights. From somewhere deep within the ward, muffled, hysterical laughter - laughter that slowly turned into sorrowful weeping.
“Abigail?” said Thomas, finally breaking the silence.
I didn’t look up, my eyes traced back and forth along the hand-cuff’s chain.
He cleared his throat, “It… it’s okay if you’re still not ready to talk. I understand. I just wanted to share a few things.” Thomas waited for me to acknowledge him. I didn’t. So, he just kept going. “This is kind of odd, but… do you remember Walter?”
Nope.
He continued, “Walter, my pet tortoise… you actually made me a painting of him - for my fifth birthday. Still up in my office.” He breathed out his nose. “I must’ve been six, maybe seven when he died. Even little things can feel pretty world-ending when you’re a kid… Everyone kept trying to make me feel better. Except dad: He said I needed to get over it by the end of the day,” Thomas chuckled bitterly. “Mom said it was normal: Tommy, she told me, pets die all the time, part of life. Walter’s up in heaven now.” Thomas sighed, shifting weight, “I don’t know if you remember this, but… you were the only one who actually made me feel any better.”
I looked up.
But he was looking down at the table now, “…You just sat beside me,” he continued, “wrapped an arm around my shoulder, and let me cry. That’s it. No lessons. No advice. No ultimatums. You just sat there quietly, and let me know it’s okay to feel like crap sometimes. Even if it was just a stupid turtle.”
He sniffed a little, eyes starting to water. “Gosh, Abby. I don’t know. I’ve been thinking a lot about you lately and…”
He looked right at me, but I looked away.
“It’s okay if you don’t wanna talk,” he went on. “I get it. I just wanted to let you know that…” he paused a moment, thinking over his next words carefully. “I’ve been working on myself a lot and, through all this… your relapse, my injuries, Paige’s passing. I’ve rejoined the church. Don’t know if you even knew I’d lost my faith, but…” He paused, again expecting me to say something. But I remained silent. He cleared his throat, “I’ve been talking with the doctors here, and they said you’ve made a lot of progress… They said as long as you keep at it, keep improving, following their guidance. As long as nothing unexpected happens. You could be out on probation sooner than you think.”
I remained quiet.
“Look,” he said. “I’ve come to accept that you weren’t in control of your actions. You have a condition. A condition you’re getting treated for and… I just wanted to let you know that… Abby?” He leaned in slightly, “Abby could you look at me?”
Slowly, I turned, and stared blankly into his eyes.
He stared back for a sullen moment, “I forgive you.”
The words hung in the air like a rotting stench, but my face remained neutral. I looked away. Thomas kept hovering, waiting for a response, but again, I gave him fuck all. I wasn’t playing his make-believe game. Not anymore.
A few tense seconds went by until he nodded slowly, “I understand. We can talk when you’re ready.” He stood up, turned to leave, and froze. “Oh… I almost forgot,” pivoting back, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a manilla envelope.
“The guards said I could leave this here,” he placed it on the table. “I know it meant a lot to you and Charlie.”
Finally, I looked up at him. For the briefest of moments, his face twitched. Then, he smiled sadly, turned around, and went for the exit. Footsteps punctuated the silence. The door buzzed shut as he left the room.
I just sat there, staring at the envelope. I already knew what was inside - but I couldn’t bring myself to look. Seconds dragged by like minutes until finally, I reached forward, opened it, looked in and…
…aching sorrow filled every part of me.
Inside, just as I expected, was the locket. Charlie’s locket.
I pulled it out. Flicked it open and-
-There it was. The photo of me. The one Charlie took when we first started dating. The one she put up in her gallery on that rainy Seattle day. The one in which, at the last second, I’d turned away, held up my hand, and hid my face.
The only known photo of Eve Palmer.
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