… what does he know?
With the job done, he
places the file on the in tray, turns off the light and leaves the premises,
thinking no more about it.
5
Ayden places my case on the guest bed and I sit myself down beside it, kicking off my
shoes. “Thanks, I can take it from here.”
“Would you like me to
run you a bath?” he asks hesitantly, watching my face for signs of discomfort.
“Yes, that would be
nice.”
“I’ll organise
something to eat; a salad of some sort with a selection of cold meats. How does
that sound?”
“Delicious.” I smile
weakly at his attempt to move things along. Maybe this is how he deals with
such a traumatic series of incidents? Just to get on with things; act as if
nothing of any significance has happened?
But it has …
I stifle a whimper
with my right hand. He’s standing a foot away from me but there’s an ocean
between us. One of us has to reach out before we are swamped in sadness so deep
we may drown in it.
“Ayden, look at me.”
I rest my hands on my thighs and lift my head so our eyes are locked: misty
aquamarine and blue topaz bonded together. I see the tell-tale marks that bear
witness to our encounter with a madman, but those scars run deeper than the
bruises on his face.
“I understand why you
want to wrap me in cotton wool; to lock me away where you know I’ll be safe and
well looked after, but that’s not what I need.” I reach out my hand to him. “I
need you.”
He takes my hand and
edges closer. “I know.”
“I don’t think you
do. I think you’re grieving or you’re in shock or something, because you’re not
yourself, not with me.” I tighten my grip on his hand and tug at it to prompt a
response. “Talk to me. Tell me how you feel because I don’t think I can take
much more of your coldness.” I wipe away my tears with my free hand before they
dampen my cheeks.
He bows his head.
“I’m sorry. It’s a coping mechanism, I suppose …”
“But you don’t have
to cope alone. We’ve both been close to death and the dead, there’s no denying
that, but … by some miracle we’re alive. Fate has taken us by the hand, Ayden,
and led us to this point and …”
He lowers his head
and smiles ruefully. “Is that how you see it?”
I stand before him,
caressing his scarred cheekbone with my fingertips. “It is. I won’t cease to
exist if you say my name. The name you whisper when you’re teasing me; that
same name you call out when we make love. I need to hear my name leave your
lips, Ayden, if only to be reassured that you still love me; that you remember
me and what we had.”
“I want to remember,
but for that I need your permission.” He fixes me with a serious stare.
“Permission?”
“Yes.”
I flop down heavily
on the bed and fiddle with my wedding ring. “I don’t understand.”
“You will, in time …”
Our conversation is
ended abruptly by a knock on the bedroom door. “Excuse me, Mr. Stone, I have a
selection of your wife’s clothes from the master bedroom as you requested.”
He points Bernie in
the direction of the wardrobe. “Thank you. Please place them in there.”
Ending our
conversation he exits the room and I am left watching my clothes slot one piece
at a time into an empty wardrobe. Bernie closes the door and turns to face me,
trying unsuccessfully to conceal her surprise as my ghostly pallor. “Can I get
you anything, Mrs. Stone?”
I shake my head. “No
thank you Bernie, and please call me Beth.”
“Thank you. You can
reach me by pressing zero on the phone by the bed at any time. Please don’t
hesitate. I’ve prepared a selection of food for you in the fridge, so when
you’re ready …”
“That’s kind of you,
thank you.”
She turns and walks
quietly out. I lick at the gloss on my lips, feeling the plumpness of tender
flesh. As I breathe, the scar on my stomach stretches and contracts, leaving me
with a
With the job done, he
places the file on the in tray, turns off the light and leaves the premises,
thinking no more about it.
5
Ayden places my case on the guest bed and I sit myself down beside it, kicking off my
shoes. “Thanks, I can take it from here.”
“Would you like me to
run you a bath?” he asks hesitantly, watching my face for signs of discomfort.
“Yes, that would be
nice.”
“I’ll organise
something to eat; a salad of some sort with a selection of cold meats. How does
that sound?”
“Delicious.” I smile
weakly at his attempt to move things along. Maybe this is how he deals with
such a traumatic series of incidents? Just to get on with things; act as if
nothing of any significance has happened?
But it has …
I stifle a whimper
with my right hand. He’s standing a foot away from me but there’s an ocean
between us. One of us has to reach out before we are swamped in sadness so deep
we may drown in it.
“Ayden, look at me.”
I rest my hands on my thighs and lift my head so our eyes are locked: misty
aquamarine and blue topaz bonded together. I see the tell-tale marks that bear
witness to our encounter with a madman, but those scars run deeper than the
bruises on his face.
“I understand why you
want to wrap me in cotton wool; to lock me away where you know I’ll be safe and
well looked after, but that’s not what I need.” I reach out my hand to him. “I
need you.”
He takes my hand and
edges closer. “I know.”
“I don’t think you
do. I think you’re grieving or you’re in shock or something, because you’re not
yourself, not with me.” I tighten my grip on his hand and tug at it to prompt a
response. “Talk to me. Tell me how you feel because I don’t think I can take
much more of your coldness.” I wipe away my tears with my free hand before they
dampen my cheeks.
He bows his head.
“I’m sorry. It’s a coping mechanism, I suppose …”
“But you don’t have
to cope alone. We’ve both been close to death and the dead, there’s no denying
that, but … by some miracle we’re alive. Fate has taken us by the hand, Ayden,
and led us to this point and …”
He lowers his head
and smiles ruefully. “Is that how you see it?”
I stand before him,
caressing his scarred cheekbone with my fingertips. “It is. I won’t cease to
exist if you say my name. The name you whisper when you’re teasing me; that
same name you call out when we make love. I need to hear my name leave your
lips, Ayden, if only to be reassured that you still love me; that you remember
me and what we had.”
“I want to remember,
but for that I need your permission.” He fixes me with a serious stare.
“Permission?”
“Yes.”
I flop down heavily
on the bed and fiddle with my wedding ring. “I don’t understand.”
“You will, in time …”
Our conversation is
ended abruptly by a knock on the bedroom door. “Excuse me, Mr. Stone, I have a
selection of your wife’s clothes from the master bedroom as you requested.”
He points Bernie in
the direction of the wardrobe. “Thank you. Please place them in there.”
Ending our
conversation he exits the room and I am left watching my clothes slot one piece
at a time into an empty wardrobe. Bernie closes the door and turns to face me,
trying unsuccessfully to conceal her surprise as my ghostly pallor. “Can I get
you anything, Mrs. Stone?”
I shake my head. “No
thank you Bernie, and please call me Beth.”
“Thank you. You can
reach me by pressing zero on the phone by the bed at any time. Please don’t
hesitate. I’ve prepared a selection of food for you in the fridge, so when
you’re ready …”
“That’s kind of you,
thank you.”
She turns and walks
quietly out. I lick at the gloss on my lips, feeling the plumpness of tender
flesh. As I breathe, the scar on my stomach stretches and contracts, leaving me
with a
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