Wishing Well

by Lily White

Vincent cut me a scathing look, pulling a syringe from the box and uncapping it. “John retrieves the dishes from Maurice when I’m unavailable to do so. Apparently he didn’t have to go past the elevator doors to hear the sound of objects being broken. And this,” Vincent explained, holding up the syringe to check the clear liquid beneath the light of the elevator, “Is what I have to give Maurice when he won’t calm down.”

  The doors slid open again before I could respond, the sound of shattering glass and splintering wood filtering down from the left hall. As we both stalked toward it, Vincent kept his voice low. “He already tore apart that room once today. I doubt there’s much left for him to destroy.”

  Turning, I froze in the doorway while Vincent charged forward, tears bursting from my eyes to see Maurice so out of control. His mouth was opened wide on a frustrated scream, his eyes vacant, his fists beating holes into the walls. This wasn’t the man - the friend - I’d known earlier. This wasn’t the man who’d shown me that, despite his aggression, he could be gentle.

  So lost in his anger that he didn’t notice us come in, Maurice struck out with his arm when Vincent stuck the needle in his neck and pressed the plunger. Vincent was able to move in time to avoid being hit, and within seconds Maurice was off balance, his body stumbling back as Vincent caught him and directed him onto the cushion of the couch. Although his eyes didn’t close and he wasn’t sleeping, Maurice didn’t actually see me when his head lulled in my direction.

  Standing over his brother, Vincent released a heavy sigh, actual pain clearly evident in his expression. I was caught off guard to see it.

  Still crying, I didn’t move until Vincent walked past me and grabbed my arm to pull me down the hall. Stopping when we’d reached the entryway in front of the elevator, he said, “Never, and I fucking mean NEVER, bring up our father around him again.”

  Puzzle pieces began clicking together in my head, the truth of Maurice’s life becoming clearer. “Is your dad responsible for those scars on his chest?”

  Vincent’s expression shadowed. “Some of them, yes. Some of them are from Maurice himself. He wasn’t the easiest child to deal with and our father believed too much that harsh discipline was the answer to keeping Maurice under control.”

  True agony was a cold chill across my bones. “Is that why you lock him down here?”

  With an agonized grin, Vincent answered, “At first I’d believed Maurice was trapped, but lately I’ve learned that he’s had the ability to leave the basement the entire time we’ve been here. It’s not just me that keeps him apart from the world. I believe Maurice traps himself-“

  “Because he believes he’s bad,” I finished for him.

  “That’s probably exactly right. And most likely the result of my father’s words and my continued handling of him.”

  Regret and guilt flooded his eyes before he turned to push the elevator button. “We should go.”

  Shifting my weight from one foot to the other, I wrapped my arms around my abdomen. “We can’t just leave him like that. What will happen when the drugs wear off?”

  “He’ll wake up and go to bed.”

  “I’ll stay with him,” I offered. “Maybe clean up the room as much as possible and then help him when he comes around.”

  Vincent looked at me like I was an idiot, but there was something else behind those green eyes of his, something that pleased him. “Suit yourself,” he answered, allowing the doors to close and leaving me to stay in the basement with Maurice.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  While Maurice was lying on the couch, not quite sleeping and not quite awake, I spent the next few hours doing my best to clean up the mess he’d made of the room. After finding trash bags, a dustpan and broom in the small kitchen down the hall, I swept up the shattered glass, the blisters of wood and the plaster that had been pummeled into a fine dust over the carpet. Setting the bags near the entryway of the elevator, I returned to the yellow room that now resembled what was left of a hollowed out bomb shelter.

  Maurice blinked his eyes every so often, his gaze tracking me in moments where he found some sense of lucidity, and while he continued to lay there from the effects of the drugs, I found a first aid kit in a bathroom and went to work disinfecting and bandaging the cuts and scrapes on his hands.

  After finishing, I set the first aid kit aside, sat on the floor next the couch and lay my head on his chest, the motion from his deep, rhythmic breathing reminding me that, even as the world felt like it was closing in, his quiet strength was there.

  The silence was too much after a while, so I got up to retrieve a book from his shelf. Not recognizing the title, I sat back down and started reading to him, intentionally keeping my voice soft. The story wasn’t all that great, a tragedy I assumed by the somber tone, but I kept reading regardless, not stopping until I felt his arm move and his hand cup the back of my head. Closing the book, I glanced up to see him looking at me, a sleepy haze over his green eyes, surprise written into the line of his brow.

  “Hi,” I whispered, forcing a smile on my face even when I felt like crying.

  “Hello,” he answered, his voice gritty and slow.

  Not knowing what to say, and not wanting to bring up what he’d done before Vincent knocked him out, I simply stared at him, waiting to see how he would react to my presence. Weaving his fingers through my hair, he watched my face for a while.

  “Why are you here?” he asked, confusion mixing with shame.

  “I thought I’d help you get to bed when you’re finally strong enough to walk to your room.”

  I don’t want you to be alone , I didn’t say. I don’t want you to be sad, or angry, or afraid.

  Brows pulling together, he asked again, “Why?”

  Shrugging a shoulder, I answered, “That’s what friends do.”

  Nodding his head, he pulled his hand from my hair and struggling to push himself up. There wasn’t much I could do to help, Maurice must have been two hundred pounds of pure muscle. But eventually he’d righted himself into a seated position, his wild, dark hair falling down over his face giving him a boyish charm I’d never seen before.

  I thought he’d ask me to leave again before heading to bed, but instead he took my hand, his fingers exploring mine. “Will you stay with me?”

  “Is it safe?”

  His eyes met mine. “I won’t hurt you...and I’d like to know if you can chase away the nightmares.”

  Nodding my head, fighting not to let more tears fall, I accepted his offer. “Okay, Maurice, lead the way.”

  His fingers squeezed mine, his body unbalanced as he pushed to his feet. For a moment, I worried he’d fall over and take me with him. But somehow we managed to make it out into the hall, and although his shoulder dragged the wall to keep him upright, we made it to his room.

  The bed creaked when he crashed down on it. I thought he’d fall asleep with his clothes and shoes on, but he righted himself, pushing up to sit on the edge of the bed, his movements clumsy as he attempted to untie his boots. Moving out from the shadows, I lowered myself to my knees in front of him to untie the laces when he couldn’t. Above me, Maurice silently watched, his fingers running through my hair.

  After tugging the boots off - and almost toppling over from the effort - I pushed to my feet and said, now the pants and the shirt. He lifted his arms just barely, the bulge of his biceps defined beneath the short sleeves of his black shirt.

  Stripping the shirt off him, I reached for the button of the pants. His hand grabbed mine, drawing my eyes to his in question.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re suddenly feeling shy.”

  Shaking his head, the motion more uncoordinated than fluid, he attempted to smile suggestively. I rolled my eyes. “You can’t possibly think you have the strength for sex. Let’s sleep tonight, Maurice. Together.”

  Uncertainty filtered through his gaze, but he relented, allowing me to strip off his pants and toss them aside. They hadn’t fully hit the floor by the time he was tuggi
ng at my clothes. Raising my arms, I let him strip the shirt from my body, and I balanced myself with my hands on his shoulders as he tugged my pants down my legs.

  By the time we were cuddled up next to each other, our bodies tucked beneath blankets and our heads resting on pillows, he’d closed his eyes and fallen asleep.

  Brushing the hair from his face, I stared at him for a while, finally doing what he wouldn’t allow me to do when he was awake. Pressing my lips to his, I lingered there for a moment, wishing he knew how I cared about him.

  Someone had to love this gentle beast of a man. Someone had to see the light that could exist at the end of his dark tunnel and then take him by the hand to show him.

  . . .

  Weeks passed, each day bringing more of Maurice’s playful side out for me to see. Sure, there were still the fits of anger, the days when he worried I’d reject him and run away. There were days that lifted my spirits high just so they could shatter. But there were other days that started out in Maurice’s arms and built into the most amazing of crescendos.

  In those weeks I spent luring the truth of Maurice’s spirit out from beneath the shadow that held him, I noticed that Vincent had backed off from his games. And after Maurice started showing actual improvement, Vincent not only complimented what I was doing, he set out to help me along.

  During the day, I’d spend most of my time in Maurice’s basement, either sitting quietly by as he typed on his computer or talking to his counselors to learn what I could do to help crack his shell, and of course, my body was always left sore from the countless hours we’d spent exploring each other’s bodies to find some form of Heaven within his constant Hell.

  Not once had he allowed me to kiss him, and on rare occasion would he let me touch his face. I still didn’t understand why he demanded that one barrier, but I knew not to push him by asking too many questions.

  Most nights, Vincent would accompany us up to the garden, staying back as Maurice and I wandered the paths. And although he was always close enough to help should Maurice lose control, Vincent was also elated that Maurice never did. It was a turning point in the life of his brother, and for the role I’d played, Vincent rewarded me by becoming a more tolerable human.

  That wasn’t to say that Vincent didn’t still make his sordid comments and rude jokes when Maurice wasn’t in the vicinity to hear, but he didn’t make demands of me that I’d find inappropriate, he didn’t threaten me with homelessness for not playing his games.

  I could breathe easier in those weeks, and in the emails I was still sending to my sister, I was finally honest when telling her how happy I’d been. I felt bad that the emails were becoming less frequent and for longer time periods between each one, but Maurice was taking up so much of my time.

  On a bright afternoon with the sun beaming down in waves of delicious warmth, I was taking a walk through the garden wondering if the day would come where Maurice could be walking beside me. I didn’t think he’d overreact too much to see guests pass by, didn’t think he’d panic to be out among society when the dark veil of night wasn’t there to keep him hidden. But each time I brought the subject up to Vincent, he was always quick to shut me down.

  So, while standing by the well and peering down at the glimmer of coins beneath the surface of the water, I considered how I would convince Vincent to let Maurice out just once. As was always the way with my sadist for a boss, just thinking about him was like whispering his name, calling him to wherever I was standing.

  “Tu faites un vœu, et espérons que cela devienne réalité.”

  Recognizing the deep voice at my ear, I ignored the heat of Vincent’s chest against my back. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t speak French?”

  Masculine laughter was a deep note vibrating against my body. “I just said that I’d like to pick you up, dunk your head in the well, and laugh while you struggle to breathe.”

  Finally turning, I glared at him until he took a step back, his green eyes glittering in the sunlight. Cocking a brow, I asked, “Is that really what you said?”

  His smirk curled. “Your name is Penny, is it not? Or at least that’s the ridiculous name you like to be called. What I said was only fitting.”

  Shaking my head, I vacillated between slapping him and laughing. Vincent Mercier deserved a hard smack, but I was in too good of a mood to get violent.

  Levity lost, he confessed, “I’ve been thinking about what you said. And while I’m not yet comfortable bringing Maurice out into the garden during the busiest part of the day, perhaps baby steps can be taken.”

  “Really?” My heart damn near burst from my chest. “What kind of steps?”

  Vincent cocked his head, his eyes darting to an attractive couple that passed by arm in arm. After greeting them with a wave, his eyes returned to mine. “We can try bringing him out around sunset for the first time. There will be a few stragglers out wandering, but most will be inside. We’ll see how he reacts.”

  My cheeks hurt from the stretch of my smile. “Thank you, Vincent.”

  “You’re welcome,” he answered, turning to stroll off. But before he was more than a few feet away, he glanced back at me. “I just want you to know that if anything should go wrong, your ass will be on the line for it. Literally.”

  Giving him the finger, I smiled sweetly, watching him stroll off with his shoulders shaking with laughter.

  It didn’t matter if Vincent had threatened me directly, not when I realized that, for once, Maurice would witness a sunset.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Faiville Prison, 4:53 p.m.

  Stretching her neck to ease the muscles, Meadow released a heavy breath, relaxing back in her chair as Vincent digested the portion of the story she told. Studying his face, she wondered about the shadows beneath his eyes, the exhaustion of a man who, until then, had been content to appear unaffected. Not wanting to give him the time to recover - to pull his professional mask back in place - she asked a simple question.

  “I’ve thought about that part of the story quite often. Penny was so happy to learn Maurice would be able to see a sunset, that in the progress he’d made, he would gain new experiences in his life. But as you told me yesterday in our discussions, Maurice had escaped the basement on the night of the masquerade ball. Not just escaped, he’d been around a large group of people without striking out.”

  Vincent lifted his eyes to give her his attention. The green was flat, the normal smile that curled his lips absent.

  “Why could he handle the ball and not a walk through the garden among other people? What was the difference?”

  It wasn’t until Meadow remembered this particular part of the story that she’d connected the two events, but now that she knew Maurice had been out on his own previously, she couldn’t help her curiosity.

  Rolling his shoulders, the weight of Maurice’s problems were heavy on Vincent’s chest. “I often wondered that myself. It was the reason I was so shocked to find him in the hallway the night of the ball. I guess I’d never considered his escape because I knew, for as careful I was to keep Maurice separate from society, he’d internalized my fear and deemed himself unworthy of human interaction. It wasn’t that he wanted to strike out at people, it was simply that he couldn’t handle the attention or the perceived rejection. Perhaps the mask at the ball made it easier for him to be in a crowd. Nobody could reject him if they didn’t know who he was.”

  Not wanting to see any light within the septic soul of the man across the table, Meadow couldn’t help her belief that, despite Vincent’s games, despite the mistakes he’d made, there was a spark of compassion inside him. It was that spark that made it impossible for her to celebrate his death like others would do in two days.

  However, she also couldn’t allowed the weakness he showed when it came to his brother to distract her from the answers she’d come to this interview to ask. One, he still hadn’t answered, one she needed to know so that she could soothe her battered heart.


  “Who killed Penny?” she asked, her voice calm, her demeanor practiced.

  Nostrils flaring with a deep inhaled breath, Vincent’s head tipped back, his eyes closing, “If you read the police reports you’ll see that I did. Her and several other people. The police did an excellent job of investigating the garden around Wishing Well, the cadaver dogs digging up the past.”

  Meadow slammed her hand on the surface of the table, “Damn it, Vincent! That’s not an answer.”

  The door popped open to Meadow’s left, a guard stepping through to announce, “Day’s over. You’ll need to end the interview for today and start again tomorrow.”

  She could see the slow smile stretch across Vincent’s face. “For fucking once in the time I’ve been here, I’m actually happy to see a guard.” His head lowered again, his eyes opening as he threaded his fingers together over the table. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Meadow. I suggest you use what time you have tonight to focus your thoughts and determine what questions must be asked. We only have a few hours remaining before they stick a needle in my vein, and whatever answers you later remember you needed will be forever buried with me in my grave.”

  Glaring at the pompous expression on his face, she stood from her seat a bit too forcefully before turning to stop the tape and retrieve her recorder. She didn’t bother glancing back as she allowed the guard to lead her from the room.

  . . .

  Spending the night reviewing the tapes, pushing off sleep even when it clutched its greedy fingers over her tired bones, begging her eyes to close her just once, Meadow regretted the loss of the effect she’d hoped Penny’s true feelings for Maurice would have had on Vincent. She’d wanted the words to sting, the realization that his games weren’t as perfect as he’d believed following him into death. But as usual, Vincent had been one step ahead.

  However, there was still one secret he hadn’t discovered, a hidden tidbit she intended to use to crush him into dust.