The Opening

By Terrel Kelly

A copycat killer has hit town. Stuck with the mindless circle of death, the original killer from jail is called upon, along with his therapist, to help track down and solve the murders. Elijah James is just as unpredictable as they say, but when he agrees to find the killer, something else happens which will either turn the entire investigation around or destroy the entire police department. To find the new killer, Elijah James must first battle his demons and his need for freedom and survival because as will be seen, things are not always as they seem. And when he will come face-to-face with the killer, Elijah will have to decide whether to join or fight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887639130

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Book 1: Existentialism

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Book 2: Brutality

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Book 3: The Fall

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Epilogue

About the Author

cover.jpg

The Opening

Terrel Kelly

Copyright © 2023 Terrel Kelly

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2023

ISBN 979-8-88763-912-3 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88763-913-0 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Book 1

Existentialism

Prologue

Freddy Winters—also called FW by his friends—made himself a hot bath silently adorned with red roses scattered to a fault. When he slipped into the waters, a part of him knew it would be his last. The waters, cold and slippery, captured his body like silky tendrils, and he sank in, quietly undisturbed.

A scream tore through the air, and Freddy jumped out, his body still wet and foamy. Naked, FW groped the walls until he found his robe. Then, and because he was uncertain, he stilled, waiting to hear anything else. The silence was almost deathly.

Perhaps the scream had been a figment of his imagination. That was always the problem with him. Freddy was a fifty-year-old man who had the uncontrollable problem of hearing sounds that were not there. His doctor, the man with the languished expression, had found the right words without even meaning to: schizophrenia. Now as Freddy stood in his bathroom robe, the idea that he would make a mistake again made him hesitate.

Someone had told him that it was always better for people like him to second-guess every sound. It was meant to be an advice, but sometimes, Freddy would find himself worried over the vibrant use of descriptions over the kind of mind he had. Even if he tried, Freddy was certain he would not remember who'd graced him with that sort of advice. When they told him he had to wait and second-guess, what he thought they meant was that he was as clueless as a rag doll being tossed into the night sky.

So Freddy waited in his room, the door opened, and the hallway lights fluctuating just so that he could pretend he'd heard nothing. The next time the sound came again, he jumped, afraid he was taking too much time being uncertain.

He yelled for his wife. She would be in the kitchen making dinner, a half-empty bottle of white wine on the table, her curls bouncing off her shoulders. He hoped the sound was hers, but when he called out for her, only to be greeted by the stinging silence, he started to pray it wasn't hers.

As he stepped out of the room, standing by the door out of fear, he heard the sound again. This time, it was not the loud, throaty scream he'd heard before. What Freddy heard now was a whimper, like someone was drowning but had little strength to fight back. If he was wrong, Freddy would meet his doctor and take as many medicines as required, but he would not stand and wait.

Behind him, Freddy could feel the drifting colors of the moon from the open window and the curtains flapping freely. In the hallway, he hesitated. Would he find his wife stirring the stew with one too much garlic, the kind he liked, or would he find a strangulating amount of silence in her place? He could not be sure.

Hailey? he called.

She did not answer. In her place, the kettle whistled. Freddy strode down the stairs, his sickly fingers grabbing the rail as he moved. At the foot of the stairs, he swore he saw a shadow move. It was probably a fraction of a second, really, but Freddy saw it, and he knew it could not be his wife.

FW moved back, turning swiftly, taking the stairs two at a time. In his mind, there appeared an obstacle that was both daunting and frightening, two things he had grown accustomed to but which still felt bothersome. The problem with him was his somewhat problematic understanding of sound.

When Freddy moved back into his room and locked the door, pulling back only when he'd heard the soft click, he realized it hadn't been the sound that disturbed him. It was more than that, really. The sound was throaty. The kettle's whistle was maniacally familiar. It was that shadowy figure, the curve of the dimming darkness, and the soft thumping of his chest that brought in him a kind of awareness that would invariably bring him to his knees.

In his room, Freddy dialed 911, half aware that he was sweating now despite the chilly air. It was past nine, and down the street, Freddy could still hear a dog barking. A van sped past. Freddy's hands shook with precision, the kind that made him convulsively fragile.

Freddy heard it then—the sound—the almost guttural scream of an angry man, and he shifted his weight from one foot to another. Freddy did not wait to be asked what his emergency was. There were quite a number of things he had found himself waiting on in his fifty years, but today, none of that mattered. Here he was, in his own home, frightened and angry and worried.

What about Hailey?

He told the operator, I think there's someone in my house.

And when he said this, he realized there was a probability he sounded like half the town. There was always some stranger in somebody's house. How did he sound now? If they pulled out a record, they would find that he was just as unreliable as a little kid. He hoped they believed him.

He spurted out an address, and when the operator told him to stay hidden, Freddy hung up. The lights flickered, and then the handle of the door turned. Freddy would be safe in this room if he stayed put. And he would. The handle turned again and again, faster like a carousel. Then it stopped, and the silence crept in the aftermath.

A loud sound cracked the silence open. Freddy saw the zigzag line appear on the door, and he fell back against the bed. Someone was using an axe to break in, and Freddy hated that he did not know what to do.

He thought of jumping out through the window but stopped himself, knowing that it was probably a foolish idea. He brought his phone out again, but then the door caved in, and he saw the stranger standing there, one hand over an axe. The phone slid out of his hands and onto the rug. He swallowed and gently stood, dragging his body to the window.

The stranger stepped into the room and placed the axe against the door, letting it rest precariously against the wall. It had taken Freddy two days to find the right color to stain the walls with, and in the end, despite his wife's roaring arguments, he'd settled for a bright green. She said it made the room feel like a cave. She did not mean how she said it; she told him so. Still, she did not like how bright it was, and he knew. He liked it anyway. As Freddy stared at the axe resting dangerously against the green walls, he began to wonder if it would be the last thing he would see.

In the morning, as he prepared for work, he switched on the radio and watched as his wife swayed dutifully to the sound of bad music. It was always a poor choice to dance with all the lights hanging low, but the sun was slipping in through the curtains, and in the slippery glow, she looked like a whippoorwill. He told her so. She laughed.

It was funny now. Amidst the fear of dying alone without knowing where his wife was, Freddy found out it was the little things which came to mind now. It was the way she'd lowered her head as she laughed, the sound thickening as it reached him. It was her hands as they tenderly found his shoulders, the way she held on tight, squeezing gently as if love could never find a different path.

The stranger took a step forward. Freddy saw that he was wearing a black suit, and on his face, a black mask sat fitted like a second skin. Freddy saw his gloved hands and drew in a deep breath.

Who are you? he asked.

It was a miracle, literally, that his voice managed to fit into the quiet nervousness of his soul, but when the question spilled out like fallen milk, he threw his head back and pressed his back against the wall.

The stranger said nothing.

In the distance, Freddy heard sirens. How long would it take for them to find him and his wife? He swallowed. Perhaps he could be saved. All he had to do was stay hidden.

Where's my wife? he said.

In a swift movement, the masked man was in front of him. All Freddy heard was the thumping of his chest, beating against his ribs in an unfamiliar rhythm.

I am…your nightmare, the masked man said.

The sound was metallic, grating against his ears in a stubborn, forceful appeal.

It hit him first in his stomach. Freddy looked down at the hand and the metal flashing against the glow of the moonlight before the pain began to register. The masked man pulled out the knife and waved it in his face. Freddy groaned and spat out blood. The knife plunged deep again, and Freddy screamed, falling forward against his attacker.

The masked man pulled back, and Freddy fell down against the bed. His attacker hovered above him, but all Freddy could think about was the ache as it filled him up with excruciating pain.

Blood and spit pooled in his mouth, spilling out from his lips as he muffled a scream. The knife tore him open, and when the masked man continued to dip the knife in, in a disturbing pattern, Freddy closed his eyes.

He was dead long before the man stood, leaving the knife behind in the dead man's stomach. Blood had stained the white sheets, mapping the pretty sheets with thickening red. Fourteen marks, he thought. A smile crept steadily against his lips, and his body shook with ease and excitement.

The man was quick with the carving. Two minutes, he timed himself. And when he was done, he picked up his axe, and as the moon dissolved in the metal blades, the smile drifted off so all that was left was an expression devoid of emotion.

Another man dead.

Chapter 1

The doors swung open, but the man in uniform did not step in. Elijah James sat upright immediately, his eyes darting restlessly. His roommate, still sound asleep in the bed above his, turned, and Elijah groaned.

He did not know the time or day it was, and before now, he'd not seemed to care. The cop by the door made him feel like an alien, suddenly, and Elijah began to wish he had kept tabs.

You have a visitor, the officer announced.

Elijah wanted to laugh; after all, he did find this subtlety amusing. Yet he did not laugh, and it was mostly because of this man before him, who stood feet apart, glaring at him.

He had been in this cell for years, and no one had come to visit. He knew nobody. Back then, when he was still young and foolish, Elijah had made friends. There was a girl once, with pretty brown hair and a small smile permanently etched on her lips. When she broke his heart, she still had that smile there, as if she did not know there was something called a gnawing pain.

By the time he was put away in prison, there was not a single person who knew him. Some people knew his name—Elijah James. It was not all that difficult. Elijah had made a name for himself by being dangerously unpredictable, enough to make people fear him. But no one knew how much weight he carried, a burden which sometimes caused him to have a wild surge of panic.

Here, now, he was being summoned by a friend. Elijah wanted to curl back in bed and count to a thousand, the way he'd since learned how to, but he did not. And he knew why. Elijah was curious. Who'd want to see him? He was not stupid. He knew how much people hated him now. Hell, he could very well pass for the most hated person in the country, yet there was someone here who wanted to see him.

A friend? He stood and adjusted his shirt. The guard frowned.

Elijah stepped forward, and the guard put him in handcuffs. They walked side by side down the corridor, and for a fleeting second, Elijah imagined they were friends. It was not for his longing or his need to feel what others feel when they talk about having true friends. This was more than that, in fact. Elijah craved this bond in a way because there was a gentle animalistic feel to being vulnerable.

The guard opened a door, and Elijah walked in. The door closed behind him. He stood by the closed door, handcuffs still in hand, and stared at the visitor. The room was small. The walls were painted a faint grey, as if the very idea of a brightened room was out of place.

In the room, a table and two chairs stared at him. One was occupied by his visitor. The other one sat empty. Elijah did not move from his position.

The visitor turned, and Elijah chuckled. Good morning, she said to him.

Her voice was almost cheery, like she was happy being in the room with him. Was she fascinated simply by being in the same room with a killer? Elijah wanted to go back, but seeing her now, he knew it was too late.

He stepped closer and settled in the chair in front of her.

She offered him a quiet smile, the kind meant to reassure him, and Elijah began to hate all that she represented: a version of stability and unbroken promises.

What do you want? he threw the words out, his patience limited.

She eyed him and then planted a firm, steady hand on a notepad on the table. The pen rolled. He picked it up and twirled it.

I'm Barbara West, she said to him. Can I know you?

He shrugged. She waited.

They said you came to see me, he said, and then his hands, joined together by the cuffs, pointed at her accusatorily. I'm pretty certain you know who I am.

She nodded. I do.

Elijah flicked his tongue and glanced back at the door. It was closed, locked from the outside, but suddenly, he felt a pull, a need to run out and be by himself. This need and this craving were the types that closely followed his will to kill, and he did not like that. The killing had been like some sort of fix for him, a drug he could not get enough of. But now? Things were different. He was beginning to see clearly. With this woman in the room, everything felt miserably torn apart. He did not like that one bit.

Barbara shifted her weight on the chair and leaned in so that the smell of her perfume filled the space. Elijah sniffed. She smelt like chrysanthemums, and on a good day, he would have complimented her smell. Not today, though.

Let me put this simply for your understanding, Mr. Elijah James, she said.

He nodded, waiting. She intrigued him. Or no, she did not intrigue him. It was the tone of her voice, the way she spoke, as if she could ignite already dead feelings inside of him. It was the way she dipped her voice, confining it to the space between them, like she was about to divulge secrets she needed only him to know; that intrigued him.

And Elijah waited, as he seldom ever did, for her to speak. She took her time, wallowing in the subliminal curiosity that was inside of him and which was already seeping out. Did he not notice?

Then she said, I have been assigned to be your therapist, Mr. James, starting today.

Elijah laughed because it was better than anything else. Laughter, for Elijah, was an art. He had learned how to control it, how to bring it out like a rocky platform or as a metaphor for something otherworldly. Laughter was a trick. He knew that. With laughter, there came a price: to live or to die. And Elijah had done both.

Barbara touched her notepad and then took the pen from him. I'll let that information sink in first, she whispered.

Elijah stopped laughing. He leaned in. My therapist, you say?

She nodded.

That's cute, though, he said and then pulled back, leaning heavily against his chair. Know what I was thinking?

She shook her head and raised her note. Her fingers poised to a steady rhythm, and Barbara waited for him to speak.

He said, I am a serial killer, yet the cops put me in a room with a pretty girl like you. Handcuffs on, but I could very well use this to strangle you.

So you think I'm pretty? It's very nice of you to compliment me on the first day. I must have made an impression.

Elijah arched an eyebrow.

She gave him a tight, practiced smile. I'm sorry, that's all I caught from all you said.

Elijah's lips curved into a small smile. I don't need a therapist. I'm in here, minding my business.

I don't think this is a matter of whether or not you need a therapist, Mr. James.

Oh?

She stood up from her steel chair, grazing the sharp edge against the floor. Elijah winced. When they told him of his visitor, he had been keen and curious at the same time. Now, though, he was annoyed. She had the face, the walk, and the tone of someone lost in his memory, and the more he tried to remember, the lost he became.

Barbara West circled his seat. Her subtle movement vexed him terribly. He turned sharply to her and hissed. She walked back to him, standing and leaning heavily against the wall in front of him. She crossed her arm against her chest and eyed him with an unfocused look.

Are you comfortable? she asked.

He leaned back, not fully but just enough to catch her eyes again. He thought he saw a tremor in her lips but shook it off almost immediately.

I don't know, he said. Are you?

Barbara had read somewhere that blatantly telling killers to be comfortable would make them almost uncomfortable. When she looked at Elijah, she realized there was indeed some truth in what she had read. He looked puzzled, grasping her question and the silence in between. So she told herself she would refrain from saying that.

Could she make him comfortable either way?

Elijah would not be the first killer she was meeting. The others she'd met and talked with were almost alike in how they thought as well as their motivating factors for why they had ended up killing. But this man was different. She could not trust his words as they went, but she wanted, desperately, to win him over.

She stepped closer, pulled her chair backward, and sat down in one swift motion. How long do I have to sit cramped in this space? he said, eyeing her.

Frustrated and deeply upset, Barbara reached over to touch his hands. He pulled back sharply. His puckered lips told her she'd just made another mistake. She shook the uncertainty out of her mind and sighed.

You do know that talking with me will earn you points from the warden? she asked.

Barbara told the lie through grated breath. The warden could care less about him, but it was a lie she'd told one too many times, a lie good enough to get them to start talking. She shared a momentarily glance at his hands. When he looked at her again, she saw the hesitation there. He was thinking about what she had just told him. Well, that was good in itself.

Elijah shuffled his feet underneath the table and broke out in stifling laughter. She placed her hands on her neck until her fingers found the heart-shaped necklace. And suddenly, it felt heavy against her chest. It was the necklace she'd worn for a year after he'd left her, the one she touched steadily when she was uncertain about what to expect from the world.

I've been in here for years, he said finally. I already knew what the end would be. I don't need any points.

She nodded. It was just as expected.

This man was different, and she knew that now. She studied him. It was the shortness of his hair, the lipid way he pursed his lips, and his nose that reminded her of a scarecrow. His eyes were frigid, staring her down, the coffee-brown lightness bouncing off the walls. If she looked closely, she would see that he had a somewhat childish look on his face, the kind that was sincere enough to pass as love. Was that how he found his prey? She dared not ask this now.

Barbara sighed. The mood in the room was gloomy. She wanted him to trust her, but she also did not want to push the moment. She had since learned how treacherous such waters could be in the long run, and even though there was a comical advantage to being here with him, she did not want to push in too deeply.

Tell me anything, she said. Anything is good, Elijah.

He despised his name as it rolled off her tongue like an anthem. She said his name as though she had always known him, as if they had always been friends, and it was he who'd since forgotten about the memories, and he hated that about her.

He shrugged her question off by flicking his tongue.

She eyed him. The silence was the loudest she'd ever heard.

Do you always flick your tongue like that? she said to him suddenly.

Elijah gazed at her, the way he used to do with prey. She excited him in a quiet, burdensome way, and the more he thought about it, the more pathetic the entire situation with her was becoming.

I couldn't help but notice, she said again.

Elijah's lips cracked into a smile. Only when I'm stressed out or with someone pathetic.

She nodded. Well, are you stressed out now? Does being in this room stress you, Elijah?

No, he said. You are simply pathetic.

Oh, I see.

She said this like she was finally grasping a question for the first time. She relaxed against her seat and licked her lower lip. His gaze followed her until his eyes caught hers and stayed. For the first time, Elijah noticed the emptiness layered underneath the smiles, and he saw his reflection in those black pools of nothingness.

Elijah turned away, past her shoulders, to the walls with their dull view. He did not know it now, but she reminded him of someone—a friend, his mother, someone. He did not know who, and he doubted he ever would, but it was how her lips caressed the words she spoke that undid him.

Thank you for your time today, she said to him.

The door creaked open, and two guards appeared. Elijah stood up and allowed himself to be manhandled by the men in uniform. She did not stand up as he moved out. At the door, he turned back to her. She had the saddest eyes, and Elijah began to wonder how quickly her expressions had the tendency to change at the slightest turn.

He waved at her. In truth, it couldn't even be considered a wave. Shackled to metal cuffs, Elijah's hands were limited, so he wriggled his fingers in front of her. She smiled. It was the last thing he remembered of her, and in fact, it was the one thing which made sense to him after he got back to his room.

For the first time, Elijah discovered there was a putrid smell laced in every corner of the room. It was darker, too, smaller in the twists and turns. It took him a second to adjust to the darkness, but once he did, Elijah went to his bed and lay in the crook of an elbow.

The thing about darkness was how subtle it was in its most delicate form. If one stayed too long in the darkness, the light would become unnecessary. It was how Elijah felt when he first stood in the middle of the tiny cell.

As he lay there, he strained his ears to hear what the outside felt like. In the distance, he heard metal clanking, heavy footsteps, and silence, and then, unexpectedly, a shout so authoritative Elijah startled himself with a gasp, pulling back from his position.

Nightmare? his roommate asked.

Elijah had forgotten he was not alone. He covered his face with his palms and took a deep breath.

I'm fine, Elijah muttered. He was shaking so much he thought it would not be long before he found himself stuck at crossroads.

Nothing was said afterward, even though Elijah held his breath, waiting for a question from this person. The silence was almost deathly, staining the top of his lips with exhaustion. Elijah closed his eyes and tried, as best as he could, to forget the features of his therapist. What was her name again? He knew that if he allowed his mind to forget, then the what ifs and maybes would not plague him as much as it did now. Yet as much as he tried to forget her, he found that he could not. She had a weird and familiar smell about her that destroyed all of the barriers he'd put up.

The silence would be the first to kill him. Elijah knew that now. He sat upright and dragged his feet closer. There was a hole on his left sole now. He felt the stiff coldness of the floor against his feet and shook his head.

What do you think the sky looks like now? he asked.

Probably silky, you know those things are, Link called out, laughing.

Elijah trailed his hands along the walls in the darkness. He knew of the graffiti on the walls, had seen it from the times the fluorescent light had shone brightly. It was gone now. Now it was the silver of moonlight and sunlight. Nothing was ever enough anyway.

Trust no one. Don't trust yourself too.

He wanted to meet the person who'd found no other way of expressing himself than in graffiti with this hidden meaning. It said a lot to someone like Elijah, even within a few lines, but it was heavy and capable of driving holes inside his chest. He could no longer trust himself; that much was true. Before, Elijah had known of the things he could do, plans he could make and be okay with, and the things he could very well do. Now, though, there were too many things even he could no longer predict. He had since come to the conclusion that he could not trust himself.

Then there was the question of whether or not he could trust his new therapist. If he was being truthful, it was she who'd managed to awaken this part of him that was wildly uncertain of anything else. It was she who threatened his sanity now and made him doubt himself. So perhaps this person was right in his wordings. It was a terrible choice to make, but it was right.

When he stumbled back into bed, he had already made the conscious decision to not care about the sessions or what the sun and moon would look like now after years of being away from it. He would, at last, be a free man in his mind, body, and soul.

Chapter 2

The woman dropped to her knees beside her husband and placed one hand over her baby bump. Three months in, and she could swear her stomach, which had permanently been flat, was swollen. To her mother, who lived miles away, she said she looked like a balloon, and sometimes, she looked like the sun dipped low.

She watched him carefully. He was seated on one of her favorite blankets, wearing an oversized shirt. In his hands, her manuscript rested. It was half done, but he held it as if it wasn't hers—a book he prized more than anything else. Instinctively, Mary found herself smiling. In a way, he was a terrible person, but she would forgive all of his careless abandons if he liked her writings.

Did you write this? he asked.

She did not answer.

Her handwriting, with the dented P's and the uncertain E's adorned the book. There had to be a meaning behind his question, she mused. Did he find the words tragically flawed, or did he like it?

Is it good enough? she asked him.

He opened the book again, and he glanced through, hesitating at the middle. His hands trailed the lines slowly, delicately, as if she had written about his past in the lines. She saw the frown etched across his forehead, saw that he looked startled at the words, and did not know what else to say to quell the silence.

Mary took a deep breath and stared at the sun. In the blue-and-white sky, the sun seemed distant. It was not as bright as she had hoped, sitting in the verandah of her home. This sun was yellow but cold, and as it grazed her sides, she shivered. She adjusted her skirt and ran a hand through her hair.

By her side, her husband remained steadfastly quiet. He was done with the story, one she had woken up in the middle of the night to write and not finish. In a matter of minutes, he would begin to criticize the work. It wasn't her best—nothing ever was—but he had a sullen look on his face. She watched him, and then she stared straight ahead at the waters with the ripples like a storm. The water was green, almost black, and she watched it wide-eyed.

Do you want my honest opinion? he asked suddenly.

She nodded, turning to look at him. He had a wild look on his face, the kind of look that was almost happy and angry at the same time. When Mary looked deeper into those dark eyes, she saw that there was no pride in there, only denial. What? Did he like the story or not?

Keep writing it, he said to her.

She shook her head, and she said, What, Stephen?

He shrugged, and he put the book back on the blanket by his side. She nudged closer. It's an interesting idea, he muttered. Keep writing it. I want to know how it ends.

It was sudden and quick that afterward, she lay stretched out in the sands, and she eyed the sky and the clouds. Behind the cloud that looked like an arrow, she saw streaks of pink and grey, and she laughed.

She was not one of those good writers, but she had written for three journals already. In her room, she had fourteen rejection letters all pinned together. Whenever they came in her email, she'd print them out and pin them together, like tracks to something beautifully fragile and tragic.

This man, her husband, was a good critic, she had to admit, but perhaps it was because of his work and his addiction to perfection.

Do you say this as my husband or as an editor? she asked him.

She did not turn to look at him, but she knew he still sat there, on the sands, her manuscript by his side.

He said nothing for a long time.

Mary was not content with the silence, but she did not implore him to talk. If he thought it was good, then perhaps it was.

Later, as the cold began to creep in, he said, I say this as both.

She nodded. He helped her get back on her feet. Don't raise your hopes, though, she said through a laughter that threatened to spill like a sandstorm. This baby might take the will away, you know.

He did not smile, but she knew that he acknowledged the joke. It was the way with him, and even though they'd only been married for three years, she knew him better than anyone else.

The house was small. She told him this a week ago when they first moved in. It's temporary, he'd said.

And she had trailed her fingers along the curves and slopes of the house, bruising the paint with her overly long nails. It had been three years already, and she had since learned that nothing with him was ever temporary.

Today, as they stepped in, she tiptoed to the kitchen, and she made herself a large glass of tea. And she did not tell him the house still smelt of his cigarettes and whisky and vomit and how bad it was for her and the baby.

He came into the kitchen, and he sipped from her cup. Do you want one? she asked him.

No, he said with a tight smile. It's too sweet. Are you sure you should be drinking this?

She said she was certain. Sometimes it was allowed for her to indulge in this. Sometimes it was good to be a woman first before a mother. Mary did not want to give birth to a daughter she'd come to hate, a daughter built in the body of her what ifs and maybes. She wanted more.

He leaned against the ceramic countertop and ran a hand through his hair. Outside, darkness had come and settled in the space where, only hours before, the sun had wrapped its gentle broken fingers against the sky. And Mary thought she'd hate the moon if she'd been born a sun. It was perhaps the way of the world.

Why…do you write that? he asked.

She frowned. This was supposed to be the question he should have asked when they'd sat by the waters. Still, she thought it was good that he still thought about her story long after he'd read it. Wasn't that the joy of being a writer?

I was inspired by a song, she replied, and she looked languidly at him as if, at once, she was bored by the question. You do think it is something good, right?

He nodded. I'm just surprised you'd write that.

Why? she asked him.

He stared at her for a long time, his eyes searching the dip of her neck and her lips and her brown eyes and her messy hair. Then he shook his head. He reached over, and he took a sip from her cup again.

In the middle of the night, he pushed one hand over her swollen stomach, and he kissed the back of her neck. She was awake, but she pretended to be asleep. This way, her body did not align with his. It was limp like a dead stranger. Finally, frustrated, he turned away. She heard him snoring half an hour later.

Sometimes, she thought shamelessly, it was better to be a woman than a wife. Just before daybreak, Mary found her way to her book and scribbled