Him

I found an article in the newspaper about you today, yelled, “Pshaw,” and tossed it across the room. They’ve got you all wrong. Why can't they see that?

I woke up half in a dream, and thought you’d called me. I wish you would call or text or send me a coded email so I could find you. I bet you’re hiding somewhere horrible. I imagine it is cold and dank. Is your asthma acting up? If only you’d contact me. I’d put together a care package of all your favourite things, then steal you away when the coast was clear. We’d draw the curtains in the spare room and hide you away until all this nonsense blows over.

That stupid article drew me back. I read it properly this time. Do you know they are accusing you of raping three women? If only they knew you like I do. You’d never hurt a fly! Remember when I was out on the patio roasting ants with Dad’s magnifying glass? You came roaring out of the house and slapped the magnifying glass out of my hand. It smashed on the paving slabs. Dad gave me six lashings for that. One for each pound it had cost him.

You’re the one person I’ve looked up to my whole life. You looked out for me and protected me when everyone else gave up on me, called me too troubled and pushed me on to the next therapist. All the while you were quietly going about your life, finishing school and going off to uni. I’d boast about you when they had me in the Pru. You were the magic one, the special one. While I was smashing my life into shards you were the one light that kept me from grabbing one of those shards and ending it all.

They think you killed those women as well. How are we going to fix this? I keep expecting reporters to land at my doorstep. I’m like a twitcher waiting at the window, peeking out every five minutes. Sometimes I think I hear the back door slam and imagine you’ve sneaked in, but no. There’s no one here but me.

There’s a dark stain on the floor in the hallway. It keeps catching my eye, but I can’t remember why it’s there, how it got there, or even when. But every time I walk over it, I think of you, and I’m walking over it lots. I’m pacing, thinking of that stupid newspaper, worrying where you’re hiding and… it squelches. That stain in the hall. It’s wet.

That definitely was the back door going this time. Christ my head hurts. Feels like I slammed it into something… and my guts are turning over themselves, trying to escape. There’s a tender spot when I touch my scalp at the back, and it’s all puffy and the hair crusty. Did I fall over? I should sit down. Call for an ambulance. Christ my head hurts.

It’s when I reach for the phone that I finally see you. Your face is contorted, all rage and madness. There’s a metal pole in your hand and you’re swinging it at me…