The high midday sun streaks through the windows of your little island home, filling it with light and love. After so many years of wrongness, of emptiness, of life without your Abby, you've created paradise in just over two weeks. You're counting now: as soon as you worked out what Abby's count of tears at the wallpaper behind your marriage bed meant, you drew up a calendar for the kitchen. She has made a slight dash in the corner of today's date with lipstick that she never wears; tomorrow morning she'll cross the date through and mark the next one. You don't understand her fixation with keeping track of the date – after all, why should it matter to either of you anymore? – but you'll humor her. It's October 16th and your wife wants to go running.
She is sweet, delightfully sweet, a little black-and-white butterfly fluttering around inside a cage. You want to let her out, to eat outside on the patio by candlelight, to walk in the woods, to oblige her and take her running. But there is always your father's voice in the back of your mind, insisting that Abby's like her mother and that she'll fly away given the chance. Over the past two weeks, she's proven that wrong. And if you can trust her with this, you can plan your first fishing trip together.
She's asked for nail clippers and a nail file too. You might have to give her them anyway because she's been shredding the skin on your back as she rakes longer and longer nails over it. But she's so much more affectionate if she thinks they'll come as a reward for good behaviour, a sign that you trust her with sharp metal objects. You wouldn't with anything else. The knives and scissors are locked away and you keep a careful eye on her when you need to use them.
Two filled water bottles sit on the counter next to the sink. You're just waiting for her, leaning against the living room wall, and then you'll go exploring together. You wanted to do this weeks ago, before your new life, before it was just the two of you even. But as usual everyone else got in your way. Abby understands why you had to kill them.
You can do anything now.
Anything
At
All.
She appears in front of you. Her dark eyes are big and glittery as they meet yours. You can see everything in those eyes and, when you doubted if your plan would work, the love in them kept you going.
Better?
Wonderful.
She's back to looking at the floor as she pushes her hair behind her ears and starts fishing through her pockets. You wait for her to give up, reflecting for what must be the hundredth time on how well she's settled in, before you offer back her hair tie. She thanks you, shy but unafraid. She has nothing to be afraid of anymore. You father, the source of all her nightmares, is dead as the final token of your love and there's nothing in the world that can hurt either of you anymore.
She gasps as you push her backwards against the sofa, one hand cupping the side of her face and the other around her waist. You can't help touching her. You can't stop wanting her and she loves it. She loves the long kisses on the sofa in the evenings as you watch DVDs, making love all over the house, cuddling up to you in bed at night. You lift her up, worryingly light, and sit her on the back of the sofa as you pepper her jaw line with kisses. You lick the side of her neck and she mewls. You lick harder and she mewls louder. She tastes of sweat and it's amazing. But Abby is full of surprises. Tilting her head back, you sink your teeth softly into either side of her throat. She whimpers hard and begins to scratch at the back of your head and Henry, sweetheart on her lips is the purest thing you've ever heard.
You want to rip her throat out. You'll stand back and watch as her blood, the blood she shares with you, trickles down her neck, her collarbone and over her breasts, her clothing ripped apart to bare her ivory-white skin. You can imagine how helpless she would be as she bled to death in your arms. Only you don't want her dead. You'd die if she died.
Please, Henry! I thought we were going running. You release her throat and her soft black hair and meet those shining, glimmering eyes. Those eyes that can see everything you've done and forgive you. You promised.
I did. You're going to keep all the promises you made to her. Tie your hair up and let's go.
I was hoping to get some wildflowers on our way back. If that's OK. To make the kitchen look nicer. I mean, it's lovely but we should have flowers. Is that OK? she asks, then thanks you as you nod and try to remember if you have a vase.
You grab one bottle and unlock the door to the patio as she takes a short swig from the other, tops it up from the sink and ties her hair back.
She changes as she steps outside into the clean island air. She stops walking, tilts her head back, raises her arms either side and the light bathes her. You catch her as soon as she begins shaking. You've seen her do this before and the panic tells you to take her back inside and do this tomorrow when she's calm. Is she going to run? Try to escape? Try to kill you? Or herself? You tell yourself she wouldn't but she's threatened to do so enough before. With her head cradled against your chest, you take a few deep breathes as you remind yourself that they were threats made in anger and you shouldn't take them seriously.
Abby, sweetheart, what's wrong? It's OK, it's OK, let's go back inside and we can go out tomorrow when you're feeling yourself again.
No! No! Henry, please, you promised! Her voice shakes. You can feel the warm touch of her skin against your arms. She's where she should be. How could she ever have not wanted to be in your arms? She's probably still mourning her dad a bit. You miss yours.
Then what's wrong?
I love you, she blurts out and you feel her breathe in, stiffen and relax, then Nothing. Nothing's wrong. It's right. Everything's right. I love you.
I love you, Abby and your tongue's in her mouth and your lips crush hers hard enough to bruise. Yes, this is right. It's beautiful and it all makes sense. You, Abby and Harper's Island. You're going to make it yours today. She'll lose that top and those sweatpants up in the fields and you'll make love in the long grass. You could go anywhere. The island's all yours.
How about we visit the playground? Have a go on the swings? We'll be children again.
You stand and watch as she shoots off, not too fast as she places her feet tentatively on nearly-new ground. You're not even angry at the large arc she makes around the shed where she stabbed you in the foot that one time. Feet heal. You take off after her, stronger and faster than your wife. She couldn't get away if she tried.
Another "Captivity" piece.