As I sat there in the dark, next to my only true ally, I realized she was one of them all along. She made me this way. I was always alone. She saw me as a freak, too. And now that she was gone, I had nothing to keep me rooted to this world. If she lived to protect them and me from myself, well now a beast had been set free. For years I had spied on these lives, my mother's existence keeping me from breaching an invisible wall. I could walk through their homes, I could study their things, I could watch them through their windows, but I couldn't take their lives. I could not touch them.
After a couple of hours, as she lay there comatose, I leaned in and whispered into her ear the things I felt deep inside all these years but was too afraid to believe. She was all I had. She was mommy. She was my savior. But what I always knew was she was my ruiner. I blamed dad for everything. And he deserved blame. But I couldn't allow myself to be angry at her, the only person I had. And she used that against me. “I want you to know that I hate you, you sick bitch. And you've done nothing to save anyone, including me. If you hear this, I want you to know that there will be pain in your name. I promise you this. No one will be safe.”
She never did open her eyes again, dying a few hours later.
I wait, seated, with my back pressed against the locked door of the cabin, staring at the sweeping blood stain on the floor, so many unanswered questions demanding answers. Why did the sheriff leave me here? How did he find me? Why wasn't he in his uniform? Where the hell is Sam?
It's all over, it has to be. So many instances over the course of my time here, I envisioned what it would be like if I was found. I imagined droves of police kicking down doors, or even a covert mission of officers sneaking in and swooping me away from the man who took me. I haven't been imagining that lately. No, instead it's been visions of what the baby would look like. Imaginings of my future, sometimes a happy one, sometimes something more tragic.
I understand the choice I made. I made it hoping that the Sam I see now is the one I'll continue to have, that somehow his sinister urges have been tempered. But I still don't understand what is unfolding around me. I didn't want to be saved, but now that I'm locked in here by the person who was supposed to drag me to safety, even against my wishes, I am beginning to believe things are far more complicated than I understood.
Time passes slowly. Yelling indiscriminately is of no use out here, so I wait, listening for any sounds of life outside the planks of the shack wall. Finally, I hear footsteps close by. I know Sam's gait when something is wrong. I know it like my own heartbeat.
“Sam?” I call out cautiously. “Sam!” I shout, pounding on the door.
He unlatches it and pulls it open, and I collapse into his arms. I don't know how he'll receive me. If he'll blame me for leaving, if he has any idea of what transpired. For all he knows, I ran away.
“Someone was here. I recognized him, I'm almost one hundred percent sure he's the sheriff. He might be back,” I recite frantically.
Sam shushes me, running a tender hand over my head. He pulls back and nods like he already knows.
“You saw him too?” Dread seeps over me like hot tar as I think of what he might have done. “I don't understand. Did you—” I can't bring myself to ask. This fragile fantasy I built, the one where he could become someone better, hinges on a few words.
He shakes his head. No, I didn’t hurt him.
He looks me in the eyes, the color of glacial ice, often so frigid, doing his best to warm them, to focus them on mine. He doesn't look away until I return the same calm focus, and then he nods measuredly.
It's okay.
“The baby, it's gone,” I murmur.
He nods and tilts his head towards the door, leading me outside. I follow him in a trance, still holding the items I collected underneath one arm, taking one last glance back at the only evidence of a life we created. I don't try to fill in the silence. For once, I have nothing left to say. I'm as lost now as I have ever been.
He leads me into the woods until we are in front of a fresh mound of dirt marked with smooth stones from the lake.
“You buried it?” I ask.
He nods.
“When?”
He points at me and then rests his head on his hands. When you were asleep. Sam motions towards it. I hesitate, but finally I kneel at the tiny bump of earth.
“Did the animals—?” I ask, without looking back. I don't want to know. I give a few tears, but it's all I have left. There's no time for lengthy requiems.
I stand up and give Sam a nod. He leads me back to the main house, and up the stairs, towards his bedroom, but we stop short of that destination. Instead, he turns the knob to the room that was locked and this time it rotates. The door pops open and he gestures for me to go ahead.
The room is a disturbing contrast to the barren organization of the rest of the house. The walls and windows are covered with layers of colorful tapestry. He clicks on a lamp, illuminating the cave-like atmosphere. Over the tapestries are countless news articles, many of them foxed, a few still crisp. Framed photos rest on most available surfaces, likely the ones that seem to have been removed from the rest of the house.