Night: A Short Story

by Wendeberg, A.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other Books

  Dedication

  Night

  More

  Acknowledgements

  Night

  by

  A. Wendeberg

  ________________

  The love of your life is trying to kill herself.

  Can you stop her?

  What if you fail? Will you follow her?

  ________________

  Copyright 2016 by Annelie Wendeberg

  Smashwords Edition

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, places, and names in this book are products of the author’s imagination. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written remission of the copyright owner.

  This is the completely ripped-apart, gutted, and newly-put-together version of my very first short story The Moon was Watching (unpublished).

  Cover design by Annelie Wendeberg using a Shutterstock photo.

  Books by this author:

  Mickaela Capra Series:

  1/2986

  fog

  ice

  Anna Kronberg Series:

  The Devil’s Grin

  The Fall

  The Journey

  Moriarty

  The Lion’s Courtship

  Keeper of Pleas Series:

  Keeper of Pleas

  Spider Silk

  Find out more at:

  www.anneliewendeberg.com

  Bonus material at the end of this book:

  Preview of 1/2986

  &

  access to free eBooks.

  To unconditional love - that magic thing we all want to be given and often fail to return.

  NIGHT

  The moon pours rippled silver through a gap in the curtains, touching the kitchen counter and the kinked wood of the cutting board. My fingertips trace the surface, attempting to decipher memories, but nothing comes to life. My hand balls to a fist. Knuckles press against wood. A shout and an angry gesture, and the cutting board flies aside, taking my phone with it. I’m mildly puzzled. It’s as if my body has its own laws, and my mind isn’t here. My heart isn’t here.

  My gaze drops to the floor. A crack in the screen of my phone. Small bits scattered, dotting the white tiles. Yearning grips me. I want to touch and fix, put all the broken pieces back together. Not wanting, and yet wanting, to call him. But I wouldn’t know what to say, anyway.

  It is over? I love you? Had I only?

  I kick the remnants of my phone to a far corner of the room. They hit the wall with a dozen soft clonks. The battery died hours ago.

  Tearing myself from the impossibility of talking to Cam one last time, I dip my hand into a pool of moonlight, turn it, and watch the tiny hairs on my skin rise. I pick a wine glass from the shelf — the only one that has survived these past months — move it into the illuminated space, and smash it against the wood. My palm stings. Beads of blood crawl along the ridges of my hand. Shards sparkle in shades of blue and silver.

  I pick up another glass, a sturdy one from the sink that held water to Cam’s lips this morning, and punch its thick bottom against the broken pieces.

  I’m making a mess. Cam won’t like it.

  Oh, Cam… The pain in my chest blooms. I’m not sure why it comes now, of all times. As though a subconscious survival reflex, an inner animal, begins to rise, its claws sharper than those of forlornness.

  I still my hands and listen. A small part of me whispers, What about Cam?

  My vision begins to swim. My chin quivers. I growl at myself and grind the shards into a coarse powder, then brush it all into a mortar.

  Working with a pestle in my hand, I watch the hectic dance of the diamond-like fragments, and think of a singular night half an eternity ago: Cam and me. His arm around my shoulders, warm and sure. We’re sitting on a tiny bench fastened atop the bridge of a ship. It’s past midnight and we’re gazing up at a sky that is so all-embracing and intimidating, it makes us feel insignificant, yet honoured at the same time. A weather front from the east melts into the black, glittering ocean. The Milky Way is shining as brightly as I have ever seen it, before or since. And, suddenly, the bright full moon paints a silver rainbow into the sky. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever laid eyes on: Cam and me and the silver rainbow.

  It was the night I told him I was pregnant.

  Ten months, three weeks, and two days ago, the world lost its beauty.

  I dip my finger into the glittering dust and examine its texture. Smooth and slippery, with a little grit in it. I scoop three tablespoons of it into Cam’s glass, add water, and stir methodically. One clink at every turn, at every second. Ten clinks. Ten seconds. Ten heartbeats.

  I’m growing calm. The pain in my chest is dissipating. Exhaustion settles on my shoulders and bends my back, empties my lungs. I lean against the counter, hold the concoction up into the light, lift it to my lips, and gulp it down. As though I’m parched.

  No antidote exists to what I’ve taken. By tomorrow morning the glass will have shredded my insides, leaving a pool of blood and guts inside my otherwise normal-looking abdomen.

  I look up at the window, the black outline of the neighbour’s house, the moon hovering above its chimney. Earlier this morning I thought about writing Cam a note. But I couldn’t find the words he might like to read. Something about the good times we’ve shared. I’ve forgotten how they felt. The memory of his kisses is long vanished from my mind.

  My eyes roam the kitchen. I’m trying to gather the energy and willpower to clean up the mess I’ve made. Cam shouldn’t have to deal with this, too. On top of everything.

  Better to not think of him now.

  I touch my belly, wondering when the pain will set in. Should I lie down now, or wait? Is it better to die on the kitchen floor, or in the bed? No, not the bed. He’ll never want to sleep in it again.

  Oh, Cam. I’ll miss you. I miss you already.

  I jump as the door flies open with a bang. A breathless voice calls my name. I freeze, not daring to look up, not daring to breathe.

  He comes to a halt next to me, his chest brushes my shoulder. ‘Are you okay? You didn’t pick up your phone. I was afraid…’

  His voice trails off. I see him extending his arm, his hand touching the counter, the mortar with the white substance sparkling in the moonlight. I’m mortified. I don’t want him to see me like this. I don’t want him to watch me die.

  His scents envelop me. The sharp whiff of disinfectant, the coppery and unpleasant smell of blood — a mere trace — and freshly laundered cotton. No acrid stink of vomit today. Beneath the spectrum of odours of a nurse who has left his job in a hurry, is the musky, warm, and enticing scent of him. Only Cam smells so.

  My eyes flutter shut as I think of kissing him. Of undressing him, and begging him to cover my body with his.

  No thoughts of lovemaking have touched my mind for the past ten months, three weeks, and two days.

  I guess I must be dying already. Or perhaps I’m losing my mind. I don’t know what reality is and what is dream.

  A trembling runs through my body. The empty glass slips from my hand and shatters into a thousand pieces. The noise breaks my stupor. I turn and blink up in Cam’s face.

  A deep frown is carved onto his forehead. His pupils blacken the irises. He touches his index finger to my lips, collects a small white drop, and brings it to his nose. He sniffs at it, then brings it to his mouth and tastes it, noticing the slight crunch it produces between his teeth.

  ‘What is this?’ he asks, and grips my shoulders.

 
‘Ground glass.’ I notice the lack of emotion in my voice.

  He presses his eyes shut, and sucks in a hiss. With a shudder, he lets go of me and grabs a mug from the shelf above him. He scoops the remaining glass powder from the mortar into the mug, tops it up with water, and brings it to his lips.

  ‘Watch me.’ He tips the mixture into his mouth before I can slap it from his hand.

  This cannot be true! I must be hallucinating. Or perhaps I’m dead and didn’t notice I was dying. The word ‘Why?’ barely has the strength to leave my throat.

  His eyes are as dark as pools of tar, his mouth a sharp line. He slaps my face. My cheek stings. He rakes his fingers through my hair, and pulls me against his chest. My ribcage hurts. His mouth is on mine. I struggle as his stubble sets my skin afire.

  He bites my lip and I cry out. But he doesn’t let go. He thrusts his tongue into my mouth until my body responds to his demands. My knees give and we drop to the floor.

  ‘Why?’ he growls. ‘You are asking me that?’

  ‘You drank it!’ I cry.

  ‘You did, too!’ he bellows, pushes back from me, and drives his fist against the floor. His head held low, life crushing him, he slams his frustration and anger into the cold tiles.

  I blink. Another punch. And again. I touch my cheek. He’s never slapped me before. My hand reaches out to him and he produces a keening noise. He looks up, his eyes burning holes into me. Why would he ever wish to kill himself?

  I cannot imagine a world without Cam in it.

  Resolution spreads through me. A raging fire. I stand and yank open the bathroom door. The only door in this small box of an apartment that doesn’t lead to an outside hallway. I find the shower stall, grope for the faucet in the blinding dark, and screw off the plastic shower hose. I run back to the kitchen, slap the hose on the counter, and cut both ends clean off.

  ‘You know the drill,’ I say, and hold up the hose.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll pump your stomach.’

  He looks at my face, at the hose, and back to me. Slowly, he shakes his head no, and asks, ‘How does it feel?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How does it feel to watch me die, Marje. Are you enjoying it?’

  I open my mouth, and shut it. How can I describe this feeling? All these feelings? Words can’t capture them. How does one describe the feeling of being hit and buried in an avalanche, while being burnt from the inside? It is shocking? It hurts? Unbidden, my gaze travels to the bed next to ours, the abandoned toys, the Spiderman blanket. I force my eyes back to Cam.

  ‘It’s as if I’m dying.’ I finally say and swallow the lump in my throat. But it won’t go down.

  ‘Yes. That’s how it feels.’

  ‘Please, Cam. For me?’ I hold out the hose to him. There is a dangerous glittering in his eyes. And again he shakes his head.

  Stubborn man! I take a step forward and kick him in the stomach. Not hard, but enough to make him double over. Not enough to make him retch, though. He grabs my ankle and yanks. I don’t fall. I’m good at staying upright. Physically.

  ‘Fuck you!’ he hisses.

  Cam wants to die. He wants to die, and I’ve made him want it. I can’t take it. I feel myself shutting down, growing light as a feather. Breathing gets a bit easier now. The hailstorm of emotions taps only faintly against my armour.

  I begin to wonder why I feel no pain in my stomach. Shouldn’t the ground glass have acted by now? My gaze travels along the floor. There’re crumbs of what must be muffins or bread, a few dust bunnies, dirt. Maybe I should have swept up before he came home. I wonder where the silvery pool of moonlight has gone.

  ‘Stay with me!’ he says, and grabs my chin. ‘Don’t go away again.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I can’t. It hurts.’

  ‘I hate you,’ he growls. ‘I hate you.’ He stands abruptly, and turns away. His head is buried in his hands, his shoulders trembling. ‘How could you do this to me? How could you do this to yourself?’

  I swallow. How can I explain it? ‘I went outside today.’

  Stunned, he turns back to me. ‘Out? On the street?’

  ‘Yes. I thought it was time. To…go forward. Besides…they cut off our electricity. The fridge was… I put the milk and the butter outside on the windowsill. And then I thought I should do something useful. Get groceries.’

  ‘You…what? Marje. What are you…’ He blinks, swallows, collects himself. ‘You went outside. This is great. Great news! But what happened then? Hell, Marje, have you any idea what I feel? Do you even care?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘I care. That’s why I did this…why I’m doing this. I don’t want to weigh you down anymore. You are young. Young enough.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ He rubs his scalp until he looks like he’s touched a live wire.

  ‘I saw two kids. On the street. And then I saw what…when…’ I clear my throat, blink the tears away. The memory is so vivid, it ties my tongue. For a moment, a horrible moment, I believed it was real: Ben and Micah and the car and all the blood and their broken bodies. Their small bodies…

  I set my chin and continue, ‘I decided that I was finished. For good. You can’t fix me. I can’t fix me. And you have so much on your plate. A wife who can’t get over…’ I gulp. My throat shuts off what needs to be said.

  ‘A wife who can’t get over the death of her two children. Is that what you want to say?’

  I manage a nod.

  ‘Do you really believe I got over it?’ His voice is brittle, wobbling.

  I can’t bring my mouth to say that he cannot get over it because he never gets a moment for himself, for his own grief, because he has to work his arse off for a dysfunctional wife, at a job that takes all his energy yet doesn’t pay enough to feed and clothe two people. Let alone pay all my medical bills. I can’t tell him that I believe he will get over the loss of our children once I am gone, too.

  He presses a palm over his mouth. The moon paints silvery trails down his cheeks.

  ‘It’s not working,’ he says after a moment. He drops his hand and compacts it to a fist, eyes cold like the wind pushing against the windows. A mad cackle slips from his mouth. ‘You took the wrong measure. It’s a myth. Glass powder doesn’t kill. You have to eat shards. Do you want that? Do you?’ His gaze zeroes in on me. ‘Tell me, Marje. Do you want me to smash the window for you and feed the shards to you?’

  ‘Why not?’ I hear myself say. Why wouldn’t the ground glass work? It’s supposed to kill within twelve to twenty-four hours, isn’t it? I’m about to argue with him when he takes the final step to the window and drives his fist though it.

  ‘Cam!’ I scream and jump toward him. Blood pours from his hand. I register its colour in the fresh moonlight: black, sticky, reflective.

  I grab his wrist and pull his hand toward me. My fingers probe the cuts and find sharp fragments buried in his skin. Frigid air creeps into the room, but I’m not cold, I’m sweating with fear. I can’t see the shards, can’t even switch on the lights to pick them out, one by one. I lower my mouth to his wounds and find the glass pieces with my lips and tongue, extract them all with my teeth and spit them on the floor. He trembles. His blood fills my mouth and I swallow, taking a part of Cam into me. Will it stay with me forever?

  ‘Marje?’ A whisper as soft as goose down.

  I look up at him. His rough fingertips find my mouth, trace a line across it. He slides his thumb past my lips and I suck at it.

  He pushes me back toward the bed and I have to tell him to wait, although all I want is his body heavy on mine. Huffing, I pull a tissue from a pocket of my jeans, wrap it around his injured hand and tie a knot.

  I watch his blood dotting the bandage. I gaze at the broken window, wondering briefly where the moon has gone.

  Perhaps he senses I’m disappearing again, because all of a sudden, he pounces. He claws my neck and shoulders, sinks his teeth into mine, and pins me down beneath him. ‘I
cannot let you run away, Marje,’ he growls.

  I’m shocked by the strength he hides in his lanky body. His hunger. I freeze, and pull away from him but he doesn’t let go. He seizes me, forces my mouth, my hips, my breasts against him, inhales my breath as if he needs it for his own survival. I’m his antidote.

  And my body speaks softly to his, while my mind remains in the safe space I have created for myself. My panic room. If pain threatens to kill you, you push a button, a heavy door opens, and you slip inside and hide until all danger has passed.

  ‘Stay with me!’ he says, over and over again.

  Only when he begins to kiss my eyes and wet cheeks, do I realise we are both crying.

  ‘I can’t do this anymore,’ he whispers. ‘Help me, Marje.’

  ‘I can’t. I don’t even know—’

  He presses his forehead against mine. ‘I beg you.’

  So much despair in those three words. Cam’s hair is a wild tangle of brown and auburn, standing on end, his face is flushed, sweat beads on his temples, pupils dilated, light-brown eyes glassy. Desperate.

  I wrap my arms around him, protectively, consolingly, and he answers with a sigh. He speaks my name and trembles. The man I’ve come to know as one who never loses hope, who never shows fear of anything, now holds me and is being held as if Earth has lost her gravitational centre and has begun to tip and drift dangerously. As if only holding on to each other will prevent the end of the world as we know it.

  His trembling hand slides up and down my side, undecided where to come to a rest. I touch my lips to his earlobe. He turns his head and kisses me, gently and cautiously, as though we’d never kissed before. My tongue meets his, and, as though he suddenly knows what to do, his quivering ceases.