A Few Short Words

Dylan’s hand is heavy upon my leg. It sits there like a passionless paperweight, placed on my thigh to keep me from moving. I have nowhere to go though, so I stay, moored under his paw, draining every glass that lands in front of me and watching for my cues.

Sarah-Jean, is braying incomprehensible things at me between mouthfuls of salmon. I nod my head to fill in the gaps like some half chewed ellipsis. My neck hurts. Her vapid patois keeps sticking to my palate. I chase it down with lick after lick of scotch, but it always returns.

Connor’s tirade continues across the table from me. I can hear his rhetoric in the rhythmic clutching of my husbands hand, keeping time on the inside of my thigh. I count the seconds. It’s a four, four beat. Of course Connor is a complete ass, but among this idiot council I’m sure he must seem like a reasonable man. In the land of the blind, the one eyed man is king, they say.

Some raw vestige of etiquette must live on in me. I’ve been able to feign interest in these people so far, but it’s becoming increasingly hard as they drone into the night. I imagine I’m attending the reading of some third rate play. I’m trying to enjoy myself, but I have no passion for it. The players are callow things with more real drama in the pages of their scripts than the words on their lips.

I feel harassed.

I excuse myself to the kitchen. More wine, I say, Sarah-Jean looks frankly parched, the poor thing. I laugh lightly to show how nonchalant I am, that their company is the last thing I’d wish to be away from.

I take two bottles of Shiraz down from the pantry. My eyes flicker to the bottom shelf and over the rat poison there. I think briefly about seasoning their wine with it and proposing a toast to better times. I wonder how hard it is to dig a grave and if we own a shovel. I will tell my husband I am woozy from excess and can not stomach another drink, though I know how he thinks. Nonsense, he will say, and I will be compelled to drink to my death along with the rest.

Better off dead maybe. That or answering a slew of uncomfortable questions to the police. A couple of somber detectives with rugged jaws. Five o’clock shadows in long coats with understanding expressions draped over their steely gazes. Tough men, with maybe a soft spot for a fresh young widow. Perhaps one who is understanding and bold enough as to offer his shoulder in a consoling way. Perhaps Prison. I’m not so sure prison would be any worse than here, I doubt that it could be. At any rate, I am sure I’m not tuned for it. I think I would miss sleeping in on weekends and not being stabbed while I do so. I quite enjoy my freedoms.

I slink back to the table with the wine as quietly as I can. I sit down and compose myself. Even with a mouthful of meringue, Sarah-Jean will not shut up and Conner must have hit his stride because I can feel the tempo in my thigh growing more upbeat when Dylan casts his meaty anchor back over my leg. I fill their glasses and raise mine. To better times, I say.

I think after dinner I will play the piano.

We’ve been stuck in here for days, a week maybe. I’ve lost track. Just the three of us, the rain and the rising tide. Build a house on stilts and expect to need it I guess. The power went out last night, now all we have to occupy us is the sound of the rain; A relentless rooftop tattoo and a constant reminder of our captivity. I tell Christie, this is how cabin fever starts, just to stir her up, but she only shrugs and looks at me with sad wide eyes.

The water is lapping tenderly at the back deck, urged up and down by the whims of the river’s tide. If I lay on my stomach with my arm hanging down, I can press the flat of my palm against its skin. I stay like this for hours. I imagine I can hear it wanting. It needs us.

I can hear Dale and Christie arguing in the kitchen. Its the same argument they always have, only amplified. They call my name for mediation, but its more than that, I know they want a side to be taken. I stay at my post, listening to the impartial lapping of the water. Christie comes out, wielding my name like a blunt instrument, and kicks me sharply in the heel of my foot. We’re running out of food, she says. I tell her not to worry, that at least we have plenty of water. She gives me another kick and storms back into the house. The rain sounds like a thousand whispers and I strain to hear its secrets. I press my palm to the water and listen, but the noise from inside is drowning it’s voice. If only they’d be quiet.

Dale looks relieved to see me back inside at first. I watch his relief turn to shock while I slide the knife into his stomach. Christie starts screaming as Dale hits the ground. I swing around to silence her, but my foot slips in Dale’s mess and I fall forward. My head connects viciously with the kitchen bench and the world turns white for a moment. I can hear Christie running through the house while I pull myself up. I shake my head lightly and listen to her footfalls, there’s nowhere for her to go, the house has become an island. My island. I can hear the rain again, beating restlessly against the roof; marching orders.

I find Christie in the bedroom, she hasn’t even locked the door. She’s crouched in the corner next to the bed, hands over her face, sobbing quietly. I stand over her and she looks up at me with those sad wide eyes, her face wet and her mouth moving. I know there’s meaning there, but the rain is so loud now I can’t hear what she’s saying. Its not important. She scrambles to her feet and tries to push past me. I knock her to the ground and kick the fight out of her. She doesn’t struggle while I tie her up.

The water’s so high now that Dale and Christie are almost submerged before I roll them off the deck. There’s hardly even a splash. I lay back on the deck with my arms out wide and my head lolling off the edge. I can feel the water tousling my hair gently. I think I’m crying, but I cant be sure. I stay like this for hours. The rain feels so warm on my face.