Snow Creek(48)

My gun is a divining rod in search of evil.

“Anyone home?” I ask. “This is the Jefferson County Sheriff. We need to talk to you.”

No response.

I make my way down the narrow, dark hall and nudge the only door open. The stench comes at me in full force. I continue to breathe through my mouth.

It doesn’t help.

I can taste something dead.

The scene comes at me in pieces, my mind trying to pull what I’m seeing together in some kind of semblance of reality.

Curtains drawn.

A sliver of sunlight leads to the bed.

A battery-operated candle flickers on the nightstand.

Two figures are on the bed, side by side; the beam of light from the window illuminates a hand. It’s small. A woman’s? A child’s?

“Regina? Amy?” I say, reaching behind me to flick on the lights, but my fingers can’t find a switch anywhere. Gun still out, I reach for the curtain and yank it open.

I gasp and suck in the foul air and nearly fall to my knees.

I see a series of pulleys and wires coming from the ceiling.

What is this? What did he do to them?

My hip scrapes a wire and the woman farthest from me moves. I lose my breath immediately, and at the same time I feel a tinge of relief.

“Are you okay?” I ask. My voice is a whisper.

Her face is hidden.

The other woman, the larger of the two, stares at me with a single eye.

A dead, lifeless one. My gun feels heavy. I nearly drop it on the floor as I steady myself.

I lean down, prod her gently. She’s gone. I do the same with the other, moving the white sheet that covers most of her.

I’ve found Amy. Or what used to be her. She’s desiccated and shiny, like a preserved mummy in a curiosity shop. Her hair is a wig. In fact, I notice several now on the dresser. Her limbs, neck and arms are strapped with fabric that holds industrial-sized cup hooks. The lines that run from her body to the ceiling are a means to move her.

Amy’s body is a puppet.

A doll.

The grotesqueness of the scene overtakes me. No matter what I’ve seen or done has never been this horrific.

A bizarre game played by one.

I can’t breathe. I can’t look. My brain is trying to make sense of it all.

As I spin around to leave, I see a folded slip of paper in Regina’s hand. It’s against procedure, I know. I take it.

I’m a ping-pong ball in the hallway, disoriented, revulsed, nearly staggering as I hurry out the door. I’m stronger than this. I say it over and over to myself. And yet, I slump on the porch. Now I’m a marionette.

The air in my lungs is purged of the vile scent of the bedroom, but my mouth still tastes the scene.

The paper remains in my hand. Actually, there are two of them. In pristine condition; treasured souvenirs of their life together, I think, as I unfold the first one.

It’s not a cherished memento at all.

It’s the kind of letter no one wants to receive from someone she loves. It’s written in a neat cursive hand, like a veteran schoolteacher who wants her students to appreciate the beauty of penmanship in a world of texting: a completely losing proposition.

Dear Regina,

You aren’t making this easy. You don’t seem to want to listen. I need you to hear me now. I love you. I really do. You will always be one of the best parts of my life.





It’s easy to see where this is going. I could stop reading now. “One of the best parts” is an inimitable beginning of a goodbye.

We did something amazing here on our farm, our piece of paradise. The two of us created a world. We really did. Remember how our friends thought we were crazy? We showed them all, didn’t we? I know that. I honor that. And, yes, I loved it here for a long, long time. But for a while now, I’ve been feeling the need for more. I can’t ask you for anything because you have given me all of you. All you have. I have so much appreciation and gratitude for you.

Here’s the hard part. You need to know this. I’m no longer in love with you. I want us to separate in the spirit in which we came together. Do you love me enough to let me go? Know that I will always cherish you, but I need to leave. I’m sorry. I really am.

Love,

Amy





Amy’s words are heartfelt. I feel sorry for her. I know about those kinds of feelings too. I left someone long ago and it was only because I couldn’t save both of us. I couldn’t be what he wanted me to be.

I know the next letter will be from Regina; a suicide note, I suspect. I start to read and it’s immediately clear that I’m wrong. This missive was written in a rage. Pen strokes made with such fury some tore through the paper.

Amy,

Goddamn you. I’m sorry that you made me lose my temper. You hurt me to the core. Just tossing me aside like I never mattered. You are my wife and you will always be for eternity. Our vows are sacred. What was this to you? Our life? Just test driving something that you didn’t want in the first place? Seriously. You confound me. You do. It’s as if we didn’t really know each other if you could keep silent for so long. I wish you would have killed me. Really. Look at me. Look at you. I don’t have an eye anymore. You did this to me. You shoved that kitchen knife into my face. I was only trying to stop you. I wanted to talk to you. Tell you that I would never love another like I’ve loved you. Look what you made me do. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I know you didn’t mean it either. I just wanted you to turn around and tell me that you would come back someday. And now… Now when I hold you it will be like it was supposed to be.