Beating a Dead Horse

Coming home is always a good thing — he’s felt more centered more grounded, than he’s ever felt in a long damned time.

Which, of course, makes his stomach feel like it’s turned to lead, and sinking.

Things aren’t wonderful — they don’t stay wonderful.

With her car gone, he wonders if Hollis has done something to himself — he couldn’t imagine Anne being here with the other man, simply because Hollis wouldn’t have wanted it.

His fear begins to solidify, and his steps quicken — walking into the house becomes running into the house, and bolting–panicking–heartpounding–

Flinging the door open, he comes upon Hollis, who is startled by his entrance, but seems otherwise fine as he reads a book. “…hi. she’s gone grocery shopping. Feeling jumpy?”

“…she’s all right?”

“As far as I know. Are you?”

“M’fine. Anne’s with her, then?”

“Nope.”

“…no?” Something tightens in his gut, a cold fist clenching in the pit of him, twisting.

“She’s here.”

He says nothing, just turns to go down the hall, his heart breaking, his expression already blanking out as he runs — it’s too late, he knows it’s too late — down to the guest bedroom.

“Wait! Don’t–” And Hollis is chasing after him, as though on the pretense of keeping him from waking the baby.

And when they both go barreling into the guest room, that silence, that stillness… it’s too much to bear. Wordless, trembling, he turns to Hollis, and stares him down.

“I couldn’t make her sleep.”

“You killed her.”

“I couldn’t make her sleep — I was just trying to make her quiet.”

“You killed her.”

“She was crying, and she wouldn’t stop.”

“So you had to SUFFOCATE her?”

“She wouldn’t stop!”

“…she was a baby.”

“And now she’s a quiet baby–”

It was then, without thinking, that the blue-eyed man moved. Thoughts are gone, and the world is a blur, and there’s the most terrible noise — and then a heavy weight in his arms.

When he’s thinking again–how much time has passed, how much?–bright blue eyes wide and staring, he’s still holding the body of his lover’s lover, and he can hear her car pulling up in the driveway.

He drops the body to the floor, looks to the baby on the bed, and makes his feet move so that he can try to stop her mother from getting in the house.

Try to stop her from seeing this.

Anything but this.

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Scheduled

Monday

Someone was knocking at the door again. She could hear the pounding, above the pounding in her head. Someone wanted in, again, but she didn’t have the wherewithal to claw her way out of the bed and get to it, to answer. They would go away again. That’s what they did. They would come back, later. That’s also what they did.

Tuesday

They came back. Someone was knocking at the door again. She was fairly sure she could hear him shouting her name. If it was really him, he’d have busted down the door, picked the lock, set fire to the building. If it had really been him, he’d have gotten her out, however he wanted to.

Wednesday

He would get her out. Someone was knocking at the door again. She opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling. It was hard to know how long she’d been lying there, staring up. Waiting. She heard them try the handle, try to just grab and turn and come in, as though maybe she’d forgotten to lock it.

Thursday

She forgot to lock it. Someone was knocking at the door again. She thought she could hear someone crying out in the hallway, but it wasn’t enough to get her out of bed.

Friday

She got out of bed. Someone was knocking at the door again. She heard someone shove something through the mail slot. Didn’t matter; she wouldn’t pick it up.

Saturday

No one knocked. She picked it up. And read it.

Sunday

No one knocked. She opened the door anyway, fire in her heart, heart in her throat, and let him in.

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Inches

It was just a scrap of fabric, something small and unremarkable in every fashion, save for the fact that the satin trim was only on two sides, instead of all four. It was too small to be anything useful, too thin to be something like a runner, a napkin, a doily, too fine to be something like a placemat, a rag, a kerchief.

He held it in one hand, and a glass with four inches of scotch in the other.

Blue eyes stared at it for long moments, and in short order, the other hand held a glass with only 2 inches of scotch.

Bringing the soft, pink piece of blanket to his face, he breathed in the scent of baby. Infant, small and precious and perfect, and now laying dead and cold beneath fresh earth.

Infant with blue eyes, black curls and someday, her mother’s smile.

The hand now held an empty glass, and so he set it down and refilled it, all without looking; he was an accomplished drunk.

“Baby,” he murmurs softly, his fingers rubbing over the softness of the fabric, and he breathed in again the scent of baby, that peculiar smell that’s not detergent or talc powder, formula or breastmilk or lotion or anything but… baby.

One hand, the blanket. The other hand, another four inches of scotch.

Blue eyes stare at the pink satin trim and the warm soft of the blanket, and Simon sets it on the arm of the chair, just to look at it.

Two inches of scotch.

Gentle fingers pet the blanket, fingertips sliding over the softness that reminds him of a little cheek, barely rosy, and the bluest eyes.

Shh, it’s okay. Daddy’s here.

The glass is empty, and he refills it, still staring at the blanket, unblinking. Four more inches.

“If I hold you too long,” he tells the scrap conversationally, “you won’t smell like her anymore. If I keep you in my pocket, or my hand, you’ll lose that smell. It’ll fade away like smells do, like the smell of peach shampoo and the smell of your grandmother, and your mother, and now you.”

Two inches.

“If I hold you too long, you’ll smell like blood, instead of baby.”

Empty.

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Short and sweet.

You are something precious to me,
like rare stones.
Small enough to fit their hands,
strong enough to break my bones.

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What you own

I know you’re out there in the dark night,
watching me, drinking up my blood and tears.
I know you’re out there, in the cold black,
dreaming me, sleeping silent all these years.

I am the brilliance of the constellations
spilling all their ancient light down on me,
and you revel in the shadow I cast.
What of me there is I can’t offer you;
how can I give you what you already own?

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