speak of her over my grave | act one
read on ao3 | speak of her over my grave masterlist dr. robby x f!widowed!reader content: 18+ mdni, discussions of suicide, suicidal ideation, death and grief, occasional descriptions of blood and gore, mental illness, ghosts, toxic cult like small community, age gap, reader has long hair but no other physical descriptors, reader is adopted, catholic imagery and religious discussions words: 12.7k synopsis: robby's sabbatical is supposed to be restorative. enjoyable, even. but when he makes a stop in a sleepy new england town, he's informed the place he's staying at is widely believed to be haunted. notably, haunted by you. a recent widow the townspeople claims destroys everything your heart yearns for; your pets, your parents, and now your husband. the townspeople worry that robby may suffer the same fate, but robby's never much feared death when its pointed a bony finger towards him. and he certainly doesn't fear you. a/n: title is take from this poem. authorship seems to be widely debated over the internet, but its most likely author appears to be Qays ibn al-Moullawwah, a 7th century Arabian poet. poem is translated to english in the link. cumberland county hospital is not a real place. i know canonically robbyâs sabbatical begins in july but i wanted it to be late fall/winter ok. sue me. anyway, right now i believe this will be three acts. please be patient with me as this one may take a while. i'm a perfectionist and i very much want this one to be perfect. <3 syd
They asked, "Do you love her to death?" I said, "Speak of her over my grave and watch how she brings me back to life" -Qays ibn al-Moullawwah
NINE MONTHS EARLIER
The house was cold. You remembered the way you had frozen in the foyer when you noticed your breath cloud in front of you. That was odd. You were constantly complaining that your husband burnt the fire too hot, making the house sweltering and dry like the Sahara.
The lights in the house were all off as well, but that didn't spook you the way the bone deep chill did.
"Adrian?" You called and your voice bounced off the walls and back to you. But there was no response.
He could have gone out, you supposed, but that wasn't like him. If you were away as you had been this weekend, he would have taken the opportunity to lock himself away in his study as he worked. Without you there, he often forgot to eat and sleep.
But he wouldn't have let the house get so cold as to make one's fingers ache, because how could he write then?
He would not have left and yet he could not be here without a roaring fire. It wasn't difficult, then, for your mind to extrapolate what may have occurred in your absence.
"Adrian?" You called again, but still, the desperation in your voice as it reverberated around you was the only reply.
You were no stranger to Death. You knew what it felt like when He came to collect a debt you always seemed to be owing, how your haggling and bargaining always fell on deaf ears. Your body began to tremble just slightly when you realized He had once again taken everything from you.
But maybe not, you thought as you tentatively made your way up the staircase, wood creaking and groaning with your every step. Maybe Adrian had just locked himself away in his study, was burning a fire only in his one room with the door shut, forgetting about the rest of the house. Never mind that that would cause the pipes to burst, but you could take some water damage.
Anything to believe that just for a few moments longer you wouldn't be, yet again, ripped forcibly back down into the swamp of grief, sick with the stench of rot.
"Adrian? Honey?" You knocked on his study door, shivering. The door would be warm against your knuckles if he had left the fire burning. A golden light would spill from beneath it into the hall, like honey. But it was dark and frigid.
You rested your forehead against the door, tried to take a few grounding breaths. Maybe it'd be empty when you opened it. Maybe he had just left you, but he was alive somewhere, not dead in this house.
It struck you how much of a relief it would be to open this door and simply find a note from Adrian saying that he couldn't stay in your marriage anymore. That finally, he and Tessa were running away together rather than continuing to screw each other behind your back.
But Adrian was a romantic and a devout Catholic. He believed fully in the vows you had taken. 'Til death do us part.
So when you pushed the door open, it wasn't all that shocking to see him sitting at his desk, blood dripping down from his head onto the hardwood where it collected in a pool and seeped into every crevice.
The gun had slipped from his hand and now laid on the floor, discarded in the mess of blood and sinew and brain matter.
What looked to be a new journal was opened on his desk, his pen rested on the pages to keep it open.
Your husband was a prolific writer, some might say verging on manic. And yet, in the face of death, in the face of leaving you alone for the rest of your mortal existence, he had written just one sentence:
My love, I have failed you.
You stared at the page, blinked, flipped the pages back and forth to see if he had written anything else. But they were all blank.
Your hands shook as you felt the rage build as you looked from the journal to your husband, his face nearly unrecognizable from the violence of his death. The fury warmed you from inside, warred with the devastation you knew sat just beneath it.
There were only so many times you could watch someone you loved die without starting to believe that what everyone said was true. There had to be something dark and twisted inside you, corrupted from infancy, a witch's curse, a deal with the devil, something, something to explain this madness.
You forced yourself to be gentle as you placed the journal back on the desk where you found it. You backed out of the room, closed the door gently behind you. Standing outside his study, you breathed in, breathed out, counted to ten, felt the wetness on your cheeks that you hadn't noticed had accumulated. You sank to your knees in the hallway, let the sobs and screams tear through you, banged your fists against the floor until your knuckles began to bleed.
Then when the violence seemed to be fully exorcised from your veins, you walked back downstairs and called the police, waited outside for them to arrive.
You sat outside the study and pretended not to hear when the cops and the medical examiner inevitably started to gossip about what could have driven your husband to such a fate. How easily they laughed amongst themselves at the idea that your touch was cursed, had poisoned his mind, wrapped it in bramble, until there had been no other recourse. But this.
Instead of the usual indignation, you felt a sharp pain in your chest as you looked down at your hands. It must be true, you thought, monster, monster, monster.
As they left with Adrian's body in a bag, the sheriff, Larry, very tiredly and with little sincerity gave his condolences. Larry had been the best man at your father's wedding. He had always dismissed the gossip about you around town as just that, gossip. Fodder for bored housewives. Until his best friend became a casualty.
When they were gone, you went back up to Adrian's study with cleaning supplies and bleach. You scrubbed and scrubbed at the floors until your fingers were ragged and torn, bleach burning in the wounds you'd opened during your earlier tantrum. You sniffled and cried, mostly silently, occasionally whimpering.
The blood stain stayed. Stubborn, it had soaked into the grain of the wood. No product would lift it. Tired and angry, you left Adrian's study, locking the door behind you.
You were still cold. You managed to start a fire in the bedroom, but no matter how it raged, you still shivered. You slipped between the sheets of your bed, closed your eyes, but sleep wouldn't come.
After nearly an hour of this, chills began to spread across your skin. The ghost of fingers, ice cold, danced on your arms.
When you blinked your eyes open, turned your head towards the touch, Adrian was beside you looking exactly how he'd looked when you last saw him. Whole. Alive.
Your breath caught and you reached out your hand to touch his face. His skin was like ice. He was dead, you knew this. Had seen it with your own eyes. Had spent the night soaking up his blood. And yet, he was in bed beside you.
This house had always been strange. It had played tricks on you from the moment you moved in. You would think you saw something that wasn't there. You'd catch a reflection in the mirror that didn't quite belong. You'd swore you left a candle stick or a remote on one table and find it weeks later in a different room, one you rarely frequented. Adrian had always said you were imagining things, but you'd never been quite so sure.
Now here was the proof. Not that there was anyone left to prove it to. Adrian had been your one and only companion.
"You're stillâŚhere?" You murmured in awe, stroking fingers through his hair.
He seemed amused as he watched you, "My love," he said softly, "where else would I go?"
PRESENT DAY
Strange Young Girls was playing softly through Robby's speakers as he drove into the small coastal town. It was a gray, foggy day in mid November, the chill from the ocean almost startling. Nonetheless, Robby cracked a window so he could smell the brine and sea salt.
Despite the circumstances under which he was here, so far north and away from the Pitt, he was happy to be here. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen the ocean. He wasn't quite sure how cold a winter could get this far north, but he found the prospect exciting.
The snow would fall and it would cleanse him of all the blood on his hands. He felt sure that it would quiet all the self loathing that was so loud in his head. He ran a hand over his face as he pulled into the parking lot of a diner. Gloria had said he needed to see a therapist while he was here.
Robby recalled the shouting match with her in the family room, regretted it immensely. He knew it was Dana and Jack who had gone to her expressing concern which could have only meant that he was even more fucked up than he thought. If they were resorting to conspiring with their shared enemy.
It had been a week ago when she had tried to gently convince him to take some time off.
"Nobody thinks any less of you. PittFest would have been difficult for anyone. And with all of the⌠Well, it was a supremely awful day for you. Nobody blames you for taking it hard, but you're spiraling. And you cannot do it in this hospital."
He knew what was being implied. Adamson. Jake. Leah. Frank. Everyone he'd failed as Chief of the ED that day. But he was doing fine, it was behind himâ
"You're shouting at residents and patients and nurses all day long. We cannot have this combative behaviorâ"
Ridiculous. Combative behavior. He was not combative. He was teaching and sometimes that required tough love. The patients too. And a hospital administrator wouldn't understand thatâ
"Many of the doctors and nurses have signed a petition saying that if your attitude doesn't improve immediately, they'll look for work elsewhere. Do you understand, Robby? And these are people who were very unwilling to talk to me, they have so much empathy for you, they like having you lead, they don't want it to come to thisâ"
What petition? NoâWhat fucking petition? He had snatched it from Gloria's hand, looked over it with a shake of his head and a humorless laugh, You've gotta be fucking kidding me.
"Robby," Gloria had said sincerely, and he looked up from the paper with a clenched jaw and fury in his eyes, "I want you leading this department. No one else. I know we don't agree on much, but I think we can agree on that. So I need you to take a break. Three months, minimum," Robby had scoffed at this, but Gloria went on, "documented therapy sessions while you're away. Orâ" she said over his grumbling, "âOrâwe get psych down here and get you admitted for a 72 hour hold."
This was insane, a prank. It didn't make any fucking sense. Lord knew he had been fucking holding it together for weeks nowâhadn't he?
"And I could have dismissed all of this, really, if it weren't for Abbot and Evans."
Robby had felt himself stiffen then. He knew Jack and Dana were concerned about him. They had been more direct about it at first, until he had basically told them both to back the fuck off. He knew he had scared Jack in particular, more than once, when it had gotten harder and harder to convince him to come down from the roof.
He would never jump, he told himself, he just liked to imagine what it'd be like. He thought the seconds when you were free falling, before it all ended, must be really liberating. He thought your mind likely went blank just before. Those few seconds of nothingness. What he wouldn't give for that.
But he would never do it. He thought they knew that, thought they were all on the same page about that, he was just working through some shit. Like he always was. He'd come out on the other side. Like he always did.
And so the other stuff pissed him off, but knowing that Jack and Dana didn't trust him anymore? In the moment it stung. And so he lashed out, started shouting so loudly at Gloria that Jack and Ahmad opened the door, tried to deescalate. In the end, Robby had grumbled a rough don't touch me to Abbot when he'd laid a hand against his shoulder and stormed out of the ER.
Jack had tried calling and texting since, as had Dana, apologizing, wanting to check in if he was alright. With a week having passed since, he felt mostly just embarrassed about the scene he'd created. He'd started drafting an apology e-mail to Gloria several times, but in the end he'd only been able to manage a one word "sorry" text. She had replied simply, "Water under the bridge. See you in three months."
But he still couldn't face Jack or Dana. Jack had been texting more frequently, seemingly unbothered by his lack of response. Robby suspected they were mostly wellness checks, to see that his phone was on and charged and able to receive messages as that suggested he was still alive. Jack was the reason he had driven up to Maine to begin with. He'd mentioned he had a friend, another veteran and former combat medic, who was helping Cumberland County Hospital earn trauma center status. Jack had said pointedly that they needed an experienced consult to prepare for the on-site evaluation.
And so Robby had made a phone call or two, because while he knew he was supposed to be resting, if he didn't have some sort of purpose or plan, he would go batshit within a month or less. He could handle a once a week consult or the occasional extra drop in for an hour or two. Anything that would make him feel like this whole thing wasn't a waste of time. In exchange for his expertise, he'd see one of their psychologists who would document their sessions for when he went back to Pittsburgh.
So now he drove into the small, coastal community he'd be staying at, about a thirty to forty minute drive from the trauma center. He figured having the hospital a reasonable distance away would be good for him. If he was too close, he'd be stopping in all the time, be tempted to take control of the whole operation. Soon enough he'd be picking up shifts. And nobody would be happy about that.
He turned off the car after parking at the diner. Fishing out his phone, he saw a text from Jack.
Heard you're headed to Maine. I think you'll like it up there. Would be nice to hear your voice whenever you're up for a call.
Robby felt the same dread in the pit of his stomach that he had since he'd stormed out of the ER last week. He wanted to talk to Jack, wanted to hear him absolve him as he always did, but he was still full of shame. Robby rubbed at his beard and pocketed his phone before getting out of his car.
The diner was quiet, only one or two customers. There was a sign at the front that directed him to seat himself, so he slid into a corner booth and began sifting through the menu. A few moments later, a pretty young waitress stopped by his table.
A nameplate pinned to her apron read Tessa. She had long, curly red hair in two braids and a pretty smile as she pulled out a notepad, "Howdy, stranger. Can I get you something to drink?"
"Just coffee, thanks." He said, returning her smile. But he was tired from the drive, so he was sure it didn't match hers in enthusiasm.
"Haven't seen you here before," she said, "you passing through?"
"Uh," he sighed, "something like that. I'll be staying here for a couple of months for⌠work."
"Oh, how exciting. A new face around here, that's a rarity. What sort of work?"
Robby was quickly growing tired of the small talk, especially before he had even gotten his coffee. So when he paused, she seemed to misinterpret the reason and jumped back in before he could say anything, "Oh, you don't have to tell me, I was just making conversation. You staying at the Inn down the road?"
"No, actually, I booked an Airbnb that looked like it was on the cliff side overlooking the ocean? The description said it was some sort of historical building."
He watched as the waitress's entire demeanor changed. The smile fell from her face and her posture became stiff, "The, um," she cleared her throat, "the big stone house on the cliff? With the spires?"
Robby hadn't looked at the listing too thoroughly, but he did recall that the home seemed built in the gothic style and could recall some spires, "Yeah, I think so."
The waitress paled considerably and then shook her head. Robby thought he heard her mumble under her breath âfucking crazy bitchâ and then she looked back up at him, "Look, misterâŚ"
"You can call me Robby."
"Robby. This town is⌠centuries old. So you can imagine the kind of horrific shit that's happened here, that maybe still⌠lurks around corners." She swallowed, "You will never feel a stronger sense of⌠unease, of evil than you will in that house with that woman." She shook her head rapidly, "Just my advice as someone who's lived here my whole life. Cut your losses and get a room at the Inn. You don't wanna stay in that house."
Robby watched her for a few moments, eyebrows knitting together as he tried to figure out if she was joking. But that was real fear in her face.
He opened and closed his mouth, trying to decide how to respond, "Does the town believe that the⌠house is haunted or something?"
"It's not what we believe," she said quickly, "it's what we know. At least five people have died in that house since it was built, including myâŚ" her lower lip wobbled for a moment, "including my boyfriend. He killed himself in that house last year."
Robby frowned, "Well I'm⌠very sorry to hear that."
"Thank you," she said misty eyed, "I just, um. I don't want to see someone else end up like him. If you value your life, stay far away from there. I'll go get your coffee."
She scurried off before he had a chance to respond, which was just as well because he seemed to be on the verge of informing her that he did not value his life, which was part of the reason why he was here. It didn't seem like an appropriate thing to say to someone who had lost their partner to recent suicide.
It also didn't seem like the time to say that he didn't believe in ghosts. Or whatever sort of evil entity they thought had attached itself to that house. But then, he also remembered that she had mentioned a woman. The woman who lived in the house, had arranged his booking, you. So was it you who they thought was⌠killing people? Or somehow forcing people to take their own lives in your home? Did they think you were a witch? You seemed perfectly normal when you had messaged back and forth about the listing.
He dismissed it all as small town gossip, ate his steak and eggs and drank his coffee before climbing back into his car to head for the lone house on the edge of the cliff.
The house was fairly separate from the rest of the community. A long driveway led up to the front of the house and any other resident was no less than a mile away. Certainly, with the sound of the ocean crashing against the cliff side, it was remote enough that no one would hear it if someone were to scream in distress. Robby immediately shook of the thought as soon as it had came, reminded himself again that it was just some silly town lore. Nonsense.
He decided he would greet you first before bringing all his things inside. When the two of you had chatted in the app, you had said you'd be around all day today whenever he was ready to check in. To just ring the doorbell and you'd welcome him in.
So that's what he did, rang the doorbell and stuffed his hands in his pockets as he waited, rocking back and forth on his heels. When a minute or two passed and he didn't hear any indication that someone was inside, he rang it once more. Still nothing, so he reached out his fist to knockâ and the door swung open at his touch, creaking loudly as it did. He winced at the sound, made a mental note to himself to offer to grease the hinges for you.
"Hello?" He called out into the dark foyer, the minimal light coming from the large windows at the top of the main staircase. His voice bounced of the walls, but he didn't hear a response. At least, not a verbal one. After a moment of silence had passed, he heard a loud banging coming from upstairs.
Robby did not believe in ghosts, but he did believe in breaking and entering and as the steady banging continued, he became more and more apprehensive. He thought about leaving, trying to contact you through the app, but then he thought you might be inside. And if you were inside while strange men were ransacking your house.
His only impression of you had been from messaging back and forth about the listing and his conversation with Tessa. He hadn't looked very closely at your bio on the site and he knew you hadn't posted a picture of yourself. All he knew was you had an affinity for very old buildings and now that this town thought maybe you were a demon or a witch who lived by herself on the edge of town.
Without realizing it, he had already created an image of you in his mind as this older, helpless, withering woman whom the town had left to rot. And he felt a little protective of you because of it. So he couldn't leave thinking he was abandoning you to intruders.
There was an umbrella stand by the door and he grabbed one, held it upside down so as to use the wooden handle as a makeshift weapon, "Hello?" he tried calling again, louder this time, but still no response. The banging continued.
He followed the noise up the stairs, cursed the wood that groaned beneath his shoes as he ascended. The house was certainly⌠eerie. There was an energy to it that he couldn't quite explain, but that his body seemed to immediately react to, the hairs rising on the back of his neck. Something was off here.
The banging grew louder as he approached the room at the end of the hall, umbrella raised behind him like a bat, ready to swing.
When he pushed the door open, the banging became so loud he nearly flinched. But there was someone in a hazmat suit at the fireplace, head up the chimney and repeatedly banging a long metal tool against it. The source of the noise. Robby visibly deflated, lowering the umbrella. This obviously was not the violent robbery he thought it was.
He tried to announce his presence, more than once and progressively more loudly each time, but the person in the chimney did not seem to notice him. So finally, he reached a hand out to gently tap them on the backâ
The person whirled, banging their head against the wall of the chimney, cursing muffled by the mask they were wearing. As they dropped the tool they were using in surprise, an avalanche of soot came rushing out of the chimney and on top of them.
Robby backed away, an elbow covering his mouth and nose as the dust settled. The chimney sweep started coughing then, pulling off their mask and hood to revealâ a woman who had to be no older than her 30s. As she pulled the hazmat suit down further, rubbing at the spot on her head he knew she had whacked on the chimney, he noticed a simple golden chain hung around her neck, adorned with a crucifix and a ring on each side of the cross. She removed headphones from her ears, draping them around her neck, and when she did, he thought he heard classic rock blaring through them.
"Jesus ChristâYou scared the shit out of me. You can't fucking sneak up on someone like that."
"Iâsorry, I tried basically shouting a bunch of times, you didn't hear me."
"Yeah, sorry," She sighed, pointing at the headphones, "noise cancelling. I should've taken them off, but I didn't realize you'd get here so early. Robby, right?"
Robby tilted his head just slightly as he looked her over, mildly confused, "Are youâAre you the⌠caretaker or something?"
She frowned and then gave a short laugh, "Uh, no. This is my house, it's just me. We spoke on Airbnb, remember?" And then she said your name as if it were her own and Robby nearly shook his head in disbelief.
"It'sâYou'reâ?" But if it was you in front of him, you were so young. It didn't compute in his mind, how you could be living alone in this house. The way Tessa spoken about you. The way you had rambled so animatedly about the architecture of the house. The rings, very obviously a wedding band and an engagement ring, that hung from your necklace. But you were alone. How? And it was you that the town feared? Whispered of witchcraft and demons?
You ran a forearm over your sweaty forehead, "You seem surprised, what were you expecting?" But you smirked knowingly, as if you knew what he'd been expecting. You just wanted to hear him say it.
He felt the beginnings of a flush creep up his neck and rubbed at his sternum, as if to dispel it, "NoâI justâI stopped for coffee on my way in and Iâ"
Your face fell just barely and your eyes darted to the floor as you nodded, "Who'd you run into?"
As the adrenaline was beginning to vacate him entirely after he had thought he was walking into a break in, he realized that although he had never once before even entertained the idea of the paranormal, he had for just a moment, allowed the town gossip to color his perspective. The gloomy weather, the creepy house, the opened door, the unexplained noises, the alleged deaths that had occurred here. All of it had led him to paint a caricature of you, of this place, in his mind that he hadn't interrogated nearly enough. And he was embarrassed. Mortified, really.
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, "ItâIt doesn't matterâ"
You nodded, "It was Tessa, wasn't it? She told you if you came here you'd die?"
That was exactly what she had said, but Robby shook his head, "No, really, it was silly. All of it. Just town gossip, I'mâI didn't believe it, I justâthe door was open when I got here and it was dark and coldâ"
"And it got to you," you said, and your eyes glazed over. You weren't really looking at him anymore, "the house. Made you feel something you couldn't quite explain?"
Robby felt that inexplicable chill at the base of his neck again, "It's ridiculous," he said quietly.
You blinked, slowly surfacing from whatever trance you had briefly been under, "Right. Ridiculous." You cleared your throat and began pulling the hazmat suit off, "Sorry about the mess. No one's cleaned this chimney in probably half a century."
"You hit your head pretty hard in there, maybe I should look you overâ"
You shook your head, "Thank you, but I'm alright. I hit my head all the time, my husband used to say my skull was a magnet for hard objects."
You smiled at the recollection, so Robby gave a small smile in return, but then raised his eyebrows, "Used to?"
"Oh," you said, sounding surprised. Fully out of the hazmat suit, you began walking down the hallway, Robby trailing after you, "Tessa didn't tell you?"
"Tell me what?"
You slowed to a stop and turned back to face him, "My husband⌠committed suicide in this house. Nine months ago."
Robby frowned, "I'mâGod, I'm so sorry."
You shook your head, dismissing his condolences, but your hand flew up to your chest to toy with the rings and crucifix hanging from the chain around your neck, "You seem⌠Confused."
Robby exhaled, "Well, I just⌠Tessa said her boyfriend killed himself in this house last year. Just seems like an awful lot of violence in this place in a short time."
Your lips twitched up in a smile that was cold and humorless, "I suppose that is how Tessa would see it."
"Sorry?"
You sighed, "Look, I don't want to drag you into my drama. I know you're here on sabbatical from your very tiring and I'm sure meaningful job as an emergency physician. There's no real need for you toâI don't want to ruin your time here. Everyone hates me around here, but they don't need to hate you just because you're living here. I can just show you to your room and we can be glorified housemates for three months, it doesn't have to be anything more than that."
Robby wondered to himself what it was about you that had him feeling a bit protective. Maybe he didn't like the way you seemed to be grieving and alone in this fortress. No husband, no family, just you and this house that you talked about like it was an old friend. Your only friend. And outside, the town warned everyone away. Talked about you like some sort of pariah. It didn't seem fair. In fact, it seemed cruel.
"If I'm going to be here for three months, it might be nice to get to know each other."
You eyed him curiously for a moment, "A lot of the reason it's been so easy for everyone who lives here to⌠make a villain out of me is because they find me unsettling. I'm like a badly socialized dog."
Robby shrugged and thought of Jack's unanswered text in his phone, "That's okay, I'm a shit friend too."
You laughed nervously and looked down at your feet. He supposed you probably just thought he was being nice, but he meant it. He wanted to be friends. It'd be nice to have just one person who didn't know the extent of his failures for the next few months.
Eventually, you cleared your throat, "My husband was having an affair with Tessa when he killed himself. They're the same person, my husband and her⌠boyfriend."
For a moment, Robby himself felt as if it were him who had been betrayed. He couldn't imagine the conflicting emotions you must have felt. Your husband was dead and you'd obviously loved him, but he had also betrayed you. You'd be justified in being angry with him, but it was difficult to hold a grudge against someone you loved when they were dead.
"I'm sorry," he said softly, "that sounds awful."
Again, you laughed nervously and shrugged, but it wasn't lost on him when your eyes grew glassy, "It's okay, I, umâI knew. Before heâI knew about them. Had made my peace with it," you shook your head, and then twisted open the doorknob to your right, "Anyway, this is your room."
You pushed open the door to reveal a large bedroom with a king sized canopy bed set against the far side wall. There were thin, white drapes pinned up around it. He remembered seeing it on the listing and thinking it was a bit much, but you had told him that it was fine with you to make any adjustments to the room he wanted as he'd be there for a while.
There were full bookshelves lining the walls the didn't have windows and a desk nestled between two of those bookshelves. The view from the windows looked over the cliff side and to the ocean, an armchair set up next to them. It was this view and the seat by it that had really sold him on the booking. He hated the beach in the summers, but he had always loved the sound and smell of the ocean on the rare occasion he was close enough to one to enjoy it.
"The sheets are clean, I'll strip the bed and swap them out at the end of every week."
"Oh, you don't have to do that, I can do it myself if you tell me where to find clean sheets."
You looked up at him curiously, but then shrugged, "The linen closet's across the hall. There's also a laundry basket in there where you can dump your dirty sheets."
He nodded, "thank you."
You cleared your throat, "Okay, well, I'll leave you to it. Let me know if you need anything."
With you gone, he stretched out in the armchair by the windows, much like a cat, but perhaps with a bit more creaks and groans of protest from his tired joints as he settled. It was cold in the house, but still he cracked one of the windows so he could listen to the tides.
As he let his mind go blank, he saw you beginning to walk towards the edge of the cliff. It startled him for a moment and he leaned forward in his chair to get a better look at you. You were talking animatedly, arms waving in the wind, but there was no one else nearby.
He frowned, leaned closer to the glass of the window, breath clouding the glass. You were still talking, getting very close to the edge now. He supposed it wasn't all that odd, someone talking to themselves on a walk alone.
Besides, you must've been so used to being alone, you didn't realize how strange it might look to an outsider. You had said people found you unsettling, and watching you like this he supposed he could see that.
You stopped at the edge of the cliff and his hands gripped the arms of the chair. Surely, you wouldn't jump. You hadn't seemed suicidal when he talked to you. And why bring a stranger into your home if you were just planning to off yourself as soon as he got here?
He watched as you opened your arms wide and lifted your face to the sky. The sea breeze blew your hair behind you in billowing waves. Robby didn't have any artistic talents, but he was an admirer of it, books and paintings and poetry. And he thought the image of you standing at the edge of the world, head thrown back as you looked up at the heavens looked like an artist's masterpiece that belonged in a museum somewhere. He could even see the title card next to it: Fallen Angel Contemplates Death At Heaven's Gate.
The moment passed. You lowered your arms and looked out to the sea for few more moments before wrapping your arms around yourself and walking away. Robby relaxed back in his seat seeing you move away from the edge.
He couldn't remember the last time his curiosity had piqued like this, when meeting someone new. Day in and day out in the ER he met new people, but his insatiable need to know and to understand almost invariably ended with the medical these days. It had to, if he wanted to protect his sanity. He used to allow himself to get to know his patients more, feel more. But he had been burned by that too many times.
He was tired of learning people, hearing about them through their loved ones, learning to love them too just a little bit, only to watch them slip through his fingers later. So he'd simply stopped. Did his best to turn it off, if for nothing else than for survival.
But then he had found it made him a worse doctor and teacher. Jack and Dana no longer trusted him. His residents were afraid of him instead of revering him. And he was starting to think he couldn't do the job anymore without it untethering his very soul.
You, though. You seemed to be a particularly risk free mystery. You wouldn't bleed out on a gurney in front of him, his hands slick with your blood as he pushed and pushed on your chest, bargained with God himself if only your heart would start again.
He almost shuddered at the thought, that one day your vacant eyes could be staring back up at him. No, it wouldn't be like that with you. He wasn't at the hospital. You weren't injured, physically anyway. He was beginning to think much like him that your affliction was entirely internal. But still, maybe he could help.
He watched you round the corner of the house until you were out of sight and looked down at his hands, calloused, freckled, beginning to wrinkle. Maybe there was still some healing left in these hands after all.
The thin layer of frost that covered the ground crunched beneath your boots as you walked through the cemetery. Your first stop, as always, were your parents. Even with the weather, you sank to sitting in front of their graves. You placed the few lily of the valleys you had brought, wrapped together at their stems with twine, on your mother's gravestone. Her favorite.
You swapped them with the long dead ones you had brought last month, or the month before, you couldn't recall. It had been more difficult for you to visit, now, since Adrian. The whispering and the gossip had started up again, something you thought you had mostly left behind in young adulthood. It had helped, marrying Adrian. Everyone found Adrian charming and no one would bad mouth his wife, at least not in public. No, the whispers had mostly receded behind closed doors after that.
But now that he was gone they were loud and incessant. You felt their stares boring holes into your back, still heard their whispers echoing long after you'd left, whether it be the grocery store or the bar or the hardware store.
You pulled your gloves from your hands, pressed your bare palms to the cold stone of each of your parents' gravestones. The cold bit into your skin and you leaned into the pain and bent your head, "I miss you," you whispered.
Then, inhaling deeply, the cold air shocking your lungs, you stood again, pulled your gloves back on each hand before walking in the direction of Adrian's grave.
Part of the reason Adrian married you and not Tessa, you had always thought, was his fascination with your tragic past. He had never said it, but he had always had an almost scientific curiosity for the melancholic. And you were positively overflowing with melancholia from the time all three of you were children.
You stopped in front of his gravestone, ran your gloved hand over the epitaph:
Earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal. -Thomas Moore
Then you sank to the ground and felt the cold from the frozen earth leech into your body. You only saw and heard Adrian when you were at the house, most commonly in the bedroom you used to share. He slept in your bed most nights, his frigid arms wrapped around your body. You were always cold now, despite how many fires you burned, because Adrian was always close by.
But here, you were alone. Your eyes repeatedly roamed over his name and epitaph and you brought a hand up to your neck, tugging your necklace up and out of your shirt. You held your crucifix and rings tightly in your hand as you murmured several Hail Marys under your breath until your eyes burned and your lips chapped with the cold.
You didn't believe much in God or Jesus anymore, not since your parents had passed. But Adrian had and so you continued to attend Sunday mass with him. When people stared and whispered, he slid his warm hand into yours and squeezed gently. And then you could breathe again. You found the reading of the Bible verses, the chanting in Latin, the group prayers, all to be almost meditative. When you couldn't quiet your mind, it was prayer you turned to, murmured repetitions over and over until you couldn't think of anything else.
On your worst days, Adrian would occasionally find you by the fire, rosary beads clutched tightly in your hands like a lifeline as tears streamed down your cheeks as your hoarse voice rambled on and on. He would pull you into his lap and cover your hands with his own, recite the prayers with you. His warmth and solidness soothing you until your breathing leveled and your heart rate slowed.
It was difficult these days to find comfort in prayer with him gone. But still, you recited them anyway at his grave. It was what he would have wanted. And from the very beginning, all you had ever wanted was what Adrian wanted.
The rumors of the curse began as whispers in a second grade classroom, passed from child to child like a fairytale after your cat had gotten hit by a car. It was your second cat, but fifth pet after a series of cannibalistic hamsters that had given you nightmares. Your parents had gotten you the first cat in the hopes that a less fragile animal wouldn't croak on you. But that cat, adopted from the local shelter, had a bad heart. You woke up one morning to find the cat stiff and cold at the foot of your bed. You were inconsolable as your father dug a grave for him, clutched his dead body wrapped in your baby blanket to your chest. Your mother had to gently pry him from your arms when it came time to bury him.
The second cat, you thought you'd have better luck with. In fact, you had loved and cared for the animal for a whole year before he slipped through your legs as you were leaving one morning for the bus. Oblivious to your shouting, the cat darted straight into the road and you watched as oncoming traffic splattered him onto the pavement. Your mother had, again, to pry his mangled and bloodied body from your arms when she found you in the street with him. The driver swearing over and over that she hadn't seen the cat.
At first, the talk of the curse amongst your classmates was strictly in regards to animals and pets. Which, as an eight year old, still hurt just as bad. But when the kids put together that you had also been given up for adoption at the age of three, that your parents weren't your parents by blood, the story began to grow teeth. They began to workshop horrific deaths for your biological parents: there was a house fire, a car accident, a plane crash, a mugging.
You didn't remember your biological parents very much at all, but you were relatively certain that they had still been alive when you were adopted. At least, that was what your adoptive parents had always told you and you never questioned it.
But all of the curse talk came to a head when you were ten years old. The only two people in class who would befriend you were Tessa and Adrian. Tessa, moreso because Adrian had taken a liking to you and she did whatever Adrian wanted. The two of you had always had that in common. Once, Adrian had held your hand in the courtyard during recess. You could still remember the way your cheeks burned at everyone's attention, but Adrian had acted like he didn't notice. On his walk home from school that day, he fell into an uncovered manhole and broke both of his legs.
You had been devastated about it and the teasing had been relentless. So relentless, you had run out of the school sobbing, ran all the way home without stopping, and when your mom, very distraught by your sudden entrance and wailing, tried to console you, you had only screamed louder that she shouldn't touch you. That you were going to hurt her.
It took her a long time to get you to give her permission to come into your bedroom and let you explain what had happened.
She had looked at you with kind, sympathetic eyes and said, "Can I lie down next to you?"
You had reluctantly agreed, provided she didn't touch you. Lying down in your twin bed beside you, she propped herself on an elbow as she looked you over, "Kids can be very cruel," she said softly, "but it doesn't make any of it true."
You hiccuped, "But Adrian did get hurt. And so did the animalsâ"
"Were you there when Adrian got hurt?"
You pushed out your lower lip stubbornly, "No, butâ"
"Did you push him in the manhole?"
"Noâ"
"Well then, how could it be your fault?"
You had wiped the snot from your nose in frustration, "The other kids saidâ"
"You held his hand. You showed him friendship and care and love." She shook her head, "These are all facts. Undeniably true. Don't let them twist your kindness, baby."
You had inhaled shakily, fresh tears pouring down your cheeks before you whispered, "I'm scared that I'll hurt you and daddy."
She shook her head, "I'm not scared," when she reached for your small hand, you pulled away at first, but she was firm, gestured again for your hand. It trembled as you placed it in hers. She pressed it to her own cheek, burrowed closer to you until your noses touched. Instantly, you had relaxed against her, "I could never be afraid of you, my sweet girl."
For the most part, the whispers from the kids died down as the years passed and there was no further incident. Your parents offered to get you another pet, but you refused, too afraid to test fate.
You were nineteen when their light aircraft headed to Martha's Vineyard crashed just off the coast of the island. Their bodies were fished from the ocean, unrecognizable, and flown back to you. This time, you weren't just devastated, you were furious.
Larry, your godfather, started drunkenly swearing in the bar after the funeral that he actually always knew that something was wrong with you, that he had tried to stop your father from adopting you. He rambled on about how he would make sure no one else ever darkened your doorstep, that it would become his personal mission to see you alone forever. No one else had been bold enough to say as much to you to your face, but now that all your classmates were grown, the childhood mythology had warped into a monster you could no longer tame. Your mother was no longer here to help. And you were exhausted. You didn't want to fight it anymore.
If the town wanted to believe you were an evil witch sent to destroy whoever had the misfortune of loving you, then so be it. You'd become her. You had picked up his beer bottle and flung it as hard as you could against the wall behind him. Shattered glass ricocheted from the wall and foamy, amber liquid dripped to the ground. You didn't flinch, but you would always remember that Larry had.
"Well, you better be careful, Larry," you sneered, "they say that hatred is a more powerful emotion than love, and none of you have ever seen what happens when I loathe someone."
Adrian had had to defuse that situation, forcefully tugging you from the room as you glared daggers at Larry like a bad dog. You remembered Tessa stepping in as Adrian had forced you to leave the room. You picked up bits and pieces of what she had said, "âŚout of lineâŚparents are deadâŚsome respectâŚdecencyâŚ"
Adrian and Tessa were always doing that, defending you when no one else would. Now you thought maybe the only reason Tessa had done that for so many years was because Adrian loved you.
You hadn't lied when you told your new visitor that you had made your peace with them having an affair behind your back. You and Adrian had gotten married quickly after your parents died, when you just desperately wanted not to be alone. It wasn't a surprise to you when it came to light that he was sleeping with Tessa a few years into your marriage. Your tendency towards the melancholia was a great muse for his novels, but you imagined it quickly became tiring as did your general misanthropy.
Tessa was everything you weren't: kind, joyful, lovely. When Adrian kissed her, you imagined she tasted sweet where you had tasted of rot and decay.
You understood it. You tolerated it. You never acknowledged that you knew about it. It was easier for everyone that way. And you didn't hate Tessa for it either. After she had trailed after Adrian your entire lives only to not be chosen, you figured she deserved it, a taste of what it felt like to be loved by him.
But you knew she blamed you for what Adrian did, in the end. Free of his influence, she had come to believe everything the whole town had been saying for decades. In her grief, she needed someone to hate and this you understood intimately. If it needed to be you, that was alright. You'd take comfort in the fact that it would keep her afloat and not drag her down the same path as Adrian.
Because the truth was, you had loved Tessa once, too. And you could still see the way she had stood toe to toe with Larry the day of your parents' funeral. Larry, the sheriff of this town, being told off by a scrappy nineteen year old girl with freckles and pigtails. She had hugged you tightly after and said he was just a grumpy old man who didn't know what he was talking about. Whatever her motivations had been, Adrian or otherwise, it had comforted you in a moment when you didn't think it had been possible to be comforted. You would never forget that kindness, even if she had grown to regret it.
On top of this, you still had Adrian in your bed every night. Even if it wasn't quite the same, it seemed that you had won the prize of Adrian eternal. You knew that Tessa would do anything to have even this version of him, even if it meant staining her soul. Even if it meant becoming something monstrous. But she never could, not the way you could. She would find someone else to marry, someone else to build a life with. Someone more suitable for her rosy disposition than her dead childhood sweetheart. For you, though, it made perfect sense. After all, what better companion for Death's right hand than the ghost of her brokenhearted lover?
By the time you finished praying at Adrian's grave, your whole body quivered in an attempt to warm. You rose to standing and once again pulled the glove from your hand. You pressed your fingers first to your lips and then to the top of your husband's gravestone before you whispered, "See you at home."
Robby was becoming accustomed to the quirks of the house. He had begun to write them off as just the sort of thing that came with a 150 year old home. The strange noises at night, the way the doors sometimes opened by themselves while he was sleeping, the inexplicable chill that remained deep in his bones despite the fire he burned in his room whenever he was there. And then there was the pacing and the hushed talking at all hours of the night come from the room next to his. Your room.
He began sleeping with earplugs, but the cold was difficult on his joints after a while.
But he hadn't seen you, really since the first day he'd gotten here. Every morning he woke up, the house was quiet and you were already gone. However, you always made sure to leave breakfast, still warm in a pan on the top of the stove with a note to help himself and leave the dishes for you. But it was the most well fed he'd been in months, so he always made sure to leave a clean kitchen.
He had gone to Cumberland County Hospital twice since his arrival. Once, to get a tour of the new trauma center and meet everybody. The second time, for therapy.
And when his therapist had just asked generally how he was feeling, Robby, without putting much thought into it, had launched into talking about you and the house and the town and how they talked about you. How unfair and horrible he found it all.
His therapist had nodded along, but tilted his head a bit as Robby finished his ranting, "Right, but how are you feeling?"
Robby had inhaled deeply and shook his head slightly, "Yeah, fine."
"So, being back in a hospital, you're not having any feelings about that?"
Robby laughed, "Are you kidding, it's like breathing being here. I'm good."
"Okay," He nodded, "So this woman you're staying withâ"
"I'm notâstaying with her, I'm just⌠Staying at her house."
"Right. You said she lost her husband recently?" Robby nodded. "You seem eager to help her through the grieving process, but you still won't talk about your own grief."
Robby had stared dumbly for a moment or two before scoffing, "Grief about what? My job?"
"Grieving your mentor. Your stepson's girlfriend. The potential loss of your relationship with your stepson. The hundreds of patients you've lost that you can't seem to let go of."
Robby rested his elbows on his legs, clasped his hands together tightly and leaned his mouth against them. He focused on stilling his leg, which had been bouncing up and down without his permission.
"I'm just wondering, with this woman, if you are repeatingâŚprevious patterns."
"What patterns?"
His therapist looked at him like he was disappointed, like he knew Robby was seeing the pattern and was refusing to acknowledge it, "You move from patient to patient, never processing the losses. Instead of processing what's brought you to this town in the first place, you're already trying to diagnose a new problem."
Robby ran a hand over the back of his neck, "If your spouse committed suicide and your entire community said it was your fault, wouldn't you want someone in your corner?"
His therapist sighed deeply, "You have to put your own oxygen mask on first, Robby."
But Robby was of the belief that he could multitask. He was going to therapy. There was no reason he shouldn't be able to work on himself while simultaneously untangling the mystery of you.
So when he came downstairs Sunday morning to the sound of bacon sizzling in a pan, he was pretty excited to have finally caught you before you left. He rounded the corner into the kitchen, bay windows spilling molten gold light across the room, but when his eyes landed on you, he started.
You stared blankly ahead, eyes glazed over and lips parted slightly, one hand tightly gripping the cast iron that you were cooking bacon in. He wasn't sure how long you'd been standing there like that, but he could tell it was now your skin that was starting to sizzle.
"Heyâfuckâhey!"
His shouting seemed to finally cut through your trance and first you looked to him in surprise before finally reacting and tearing your hand off the pan, "Fuck! Jesus Christ!"
"Okay," Robby immediately shifted to doctor and guided you over to the sink, "It's okay, put it under the water, under theâthere you go."
You winced when the lukewarm water cascaded over your burnt skin and he thought he saw the slightest tremor of your lip, "M'sorry, I'm so fucking stupid."
"No you're not," he said quickly, "happens all the time. What were you thinking about?"
Your eyes darted up to his, hand still under the water, but you looked away quickly and shook your head, "I don'tâI don't know. Nothing. I, um, I haven't been sleeping well. Think I'm just tired."
Robby watched you carefully, noted your avoidance and your dismissiveness. You didn't know him and you didn't trust him and that was fine. It was smart, even, to protect yourself. God knew you had no reason to trust anyone, least of all a stranger.
When you started to pull your hand from the water, he gently grasped your wrist and pulled it back under, "You burned it pretty good, you should leave it under the water for another minute or so."
You jumped subtly from his touch and he released you, pretended not to notice, "What's keeping you up at night? If you don't mind me asking."
Finally, you cracked a small smile, "Are you trying to diagnose me?"
He shook his head, "I can hear you sometimes, at night, pacing. Talking to yourself."
There was a flicker of something in your eye and then you seemed to look past him, eyes glazing over again like they did when you burnt your hand.
Robby turned to look behind him, to see what you were looking at, but there was nothing there. He turned his attention back to you, softly uttered your name, and slowly your eyes trailed back to his. Your eyes still looked empty, cold, even as they met his.
The way the light in your eyes seemed to dim, triggered by something he couldn't see, it made the already cold room chillier still. The hairs on the back of his neck stood once again. He was starting to get used to that.
When he spoke again, he sounded a little breathless even to his own ears, "What're you looking at?"
You blinked and then you were back with him, and you shook your head self deprecatingly, "Sorry, have I been keeping you up? I've been living alone for so long I forget sometimes that I'm even talking out loud."
Robby tilted his head a little, narrowed his eyes at you. You had completely ignored his question and he wasn't sure if it was because it genuinely hadn't registered to you or if you just didn't want to answer his question.
"No," he said slowly, "no, I don't mind it." His eyes trailed down to your hand, still under the running water. Assuming you didn't have gauze on hand, he'd have to go upstairs to grab his first aid kit. He also had some samples of antibacterial ointment in there that could be useful.
"I find it kinda soothing, actually. Hearing you around the house. I'm used to being on my own too. It's nice not to be, for once."
You smiled and pulled your hand out of the water, "That's nice of you to say. I'll try and be quieter."
On instinct, he went to reach for your hand, to pat it dry and take another look at it, but when he did you startled so badly your back hit the part if the fridge that jutted past the counters.
"Sorry," he said immediately, frowning, "Let me go get my first aid kit."
"You like him," Adrian's voice in your ear after Robby had left the room nearly made you shudder and you were immediately compounded with guilt both from his assertion and your reaction to him.
You shook your head, cradling your injured hand to your chest, "I'm just⌠lonely."
"How could you be lonely when you have me?" Before you could reply, defend yourself, he kept going, "And anyway, you know you can't ever have him."
He bent down in front of you so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. Eyes that used to hold warmth, but no longer. He wasn't quite himself, now. But you supposed dying could do that to a person. "You can never touch him without wondering if he'll end up just like me."
"I know," you said quietly and averted his gaze, "I won't."
Just then, there was a light tapping at the bay window and when you looked toward sound you saw Circe, flapping her inky black wings. A smile spread across your face at the sight of the crow, perhaps your only living friend in this town. Walking over to the window, you opened it with your uninjured hand and reached your arm out to her. Chirping all the way, she hopped onto your arm.
"You hungry, baby?" You cooed as you walked over to the fridge, Circe hopping up your arm until she was at your shoulder.
You had found Circe alone in a tropical storm one day a few months ago, had taken her in when the wind batted her around, disorienting her. You'd stayed by her side and fed her and watered her until the storm passed. You thought that was that, but then she started leaving shiny things on your windowsill. Coins and stray pieces of metal or copper. She always kept her distance when she did this, perched on a branch or a fence several yards away. So you started leaving food out for her again. But one day, you had forgotten and she had sat on your windowsill patiently knocking her beak against the glass until you let her in.
Now, she spent sometimes hours with you, even after you'd fed her, just chirping on your shoulder. Or if you were working, she'd perch herself on your desk, try and get your attention, much like a needy cat. She really was your only living friend it felt like.
You were feeding her some raw hamburger with your uninjured hand when Robby walked back into the room, startled to a stop at the sight of the large bird on your shoulder.
He blinked a few times, placed his first aid kit on the counter several feet away from you, "IâŚdidn't know you had a⌠bird?"
"Oh, no, she's wild. She's just friendly." You looked at her fondly out of the corner of your eye as she plucked the remaining raw meat from your hand, "Crows are incredibly intelligent. I call her Circe."
He seemed not quite sure what to do with the information, the image of you with your burned hand lame at your side and looking lovingly at the bird while it devoured the meat from your hand. Eventually, he laughed nervously and rubbed a hand over his beard, "Is that⌠safe?"
You turned your attention back to him, tilting your head slightly, "I can send her back outside if she makes you uncomfortable."
"I don't, um," He laughed nervously again and you watched the lovely pink flush that crawled up his neck, felt your own body heat in response and was shocked at the feeling, one you hadn't experienced maybe in years now, "I don't wanna tell you how to live in your own home."
You made your way back to the sink, Circe still cooing in your ear as you thoroughly washed your hands and then made your way back to the still opened window, "You live here too, now." You said as Circe took her cue to hop off your arm and back into the sky, "I won't be offended if you don't want a wild animal in the house. I'll feed her outside from now on."
He was still staring at you when you closed the window and turned back to him. He was very attentive, you were beginning to realize. Maybe it was the doctor thing. You couldn't remember a time when Adrian had ever watched you this closely, as if he were learning you, committing every mannerism and movement to memory, "What?"
"Nothing," He said, shaking his head and finally looking away from you. He instead unzipped the first aid bag on the counter next to him, "I have some gauze for your hand and antibacterial ointment. You can put it on yourself if you don't want me to touch you, but I'd like to at least talk you through it, if that's alright."
You nodded and stepped closer to him as he laid his supplies out on the counter, "You can say it, you know."
"Say what?"
"That you find me unsettling. It won't hurt my feelings."
Robby didn't seem startled by the statement, but he took his time responding, "You don't need a lot," he said softly, pushing the antibacterial ointment towards you, "probably about the size of a dime."
He watched you apply the ointment for a few moments in silence before speaking again, "I don't find you unsettling, I find youâŚ" he trailed off, for a moment, seemingly trying to find the correct word, "puzzling." He settled on, finally, "But I really enjoy a good puzzle."
He gestured for you to begin wrapping your hand gently, told you not to wrap it too tightly and watched carefully as you continued.
"There's nothing to solve." You said as you finished, perhaps a bit more coldly than you intended and you felt his eyes dart to your face.
"I didn't mean toâ"
"I know you didn't," you said quickly, "it's just that it would probably be better for you if you left it alone. I'm just a thirty something year old grieving widow trying to restore a centuries old house who sometimes seeks companionship in a wild crow. There's nothing else to it."
He bit his lip, clearly fighting a smile, "You don't see how any of that could be⌠intriguing?"
You wanted to change the subject. You hated talking about yourself, hated that he was hell bent on learning you. He had no idea what he would find if he dusted the cobwebs off, the monster he'd come face to face with. It was bad enough he'd probably hear from everyone in the community sooner rather than later. You didn't need him finding out that maybe they were right after all. That laying your hands on someone, loving them, only ever ended in destruction and despair. That everything you touched became desolate and wrought with ruin. You just wanted this small bit of companionship, of peace, no matter how fraudulent, for a little while longer.
Nervously, you brought a hand up to your chest and fiddled with your crucifix. And then, jogging your memory, you looked at your watch, "Shit."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm going to be late for church," you ran around the kitchen, making sure the stove was off, grabbing your bag and keys, "Sorry about breakfast."
"WellâHang onâLet me come with you."
You froze in the doorway, "Are you? You practice?"
"What? Christianity?" He grabbed his coat, already began pulling on his boots, "No, I'm Jewish. I don't really practice that either, though."
"So⌠Why would you�"
He shrugged, "I don't know, why do you go?"
You blinked, "Excuse me?"
"Well, I just mean, you don't strike me as the religious type. I can usually spot them."
Well, perfect. He seemed to already be well on his way to putting your puzzle pieces together. Fantastic. You sighed heavily, "No, I'm agnostic, it's justâMy husband was very devout and it's just part of my routine nowâAre you coming?"
You hurried out of the house, Robby following close behind you.
"Besides, it does everyone some good to see me walk into the House of God every week and not burst into flames."
Robby huffed a quiet laugh next to you at that, but you didn't have the heart to explain that you weren't joking. You really did think the town waited with bated breath, hoping against hope that maybe you finally would burst into flames. Finally rid them of the blight of your presence.
But really, you thought some of them would be bored if that were to happen. If you were to finally disappear. Some of them, like Larry, Tessa, and Adrian's parents, truly down to their bones, detested you. The others, well, you were entertainment for wine moms at book club every month and what would they talk about when you were gone?
You were close to ten minutes late to mass when you pulled the creaky doors open, spilling light into the shadowy chapel.
Dipping your fingers in the holy water by the door, you made the sign of the cross as you entered, ignored the whispers as you slid into a pew towards the back and Robby followed suit. You always tried to get here early since Adrian had passed, otherwise, everyone seemed to notice you.
You felt their stares like claws at your face, but you knelt in the pew and immediately pulled out your rosary and draped them over your hands. You clasped them together to stop the shaking and bent your head, launching into Hail Marys muttered under your breath until you couldn't feel their stares or hear their whispers. Until the only thing you were aware of was the Deacon reading the gospel and Robby's warm body next to yours.
But the peace you felt was short lived. Moments after the communion procession had concluded and you were back, kneeling in your pew, Robby still sitting back next to you, the Priest began speaking.
As Robby watched you praying, red rosary beads spilling over your hands like pomegranate seeds, he thought he could feel your desperation in the words uttered beneath your breath. Save me. They seemed to say. Save me save me save me.
He was no stranger to the power of prayer or even, the unlikelihood of someone who didn't even believe in God still turning to beg for help. For deliverance. In fact, he found he had to turn away from you at times throughout the service for fear of being thrown back into that makeshift morgue, cowering on the ground with the Shema on his lips and Magen David clutched so tightly in his hand he was surprised the metal hadn't cut him open.
Maybe he was just projecting, maybe his therapist was right, that he simply wanted another problem to solve. Maybe you were just fine and healing in a healthy way, despite what information he had so far indicating otherwise.
The despondent detachment leading to injury, the aversion to touch, the pacing and talking to yourself at strange hours, the lack of sleep, the fucking wild animal you cared for with more affection it seemed than you had ever shown yourself. They added up to a picture that was beginning to frighten him, one that he worried he'd drown himself in again if he wasn't careful. If he was unable to save you.
He was still pondering this, eyes glued to the blood red jewels of your rosary, when he noticed your body stiffen. With a few blinks, he registered the authoritarian voice at the front of the room.
"âŚhas become a hazard to the community. The church, we've prayed on this with the sheriff, and we've decided to bring it to the town, to all of you, for a vote at the end of the week. We hope to see you all thereâ"
"You can't do this." Your voice came broken and echoing at the back of the church and in one smooth movement, everyone at the front turned back towards where the two of you sat.
Robby got the feeling he had missed some very important context at the beginning of this speech, but clearly now was not the time to ask.
"You can voice your concerns at the end of the week at the town meetingâ"
"Oh, fuck that, we all know how everyone's going to vote," You said with vitriol, finally rising off your knees and to standing, ignoring the gasps that reverberated at your cursing, "I have building permits registered with the Countyâ"
"Which I have had revoked," A man with a thick mustache stood and turned to face you. Judging by his stance and the gun at his beltâwhich Robby thought was fucking absurd to have in a place of worshipâthis was the sheriff, "That house is a danger to everyone in this community and I refuse to ID another body there."
You laughed coldly, "I'm the only body left, Larry, and I'm sure you would rejoice to find me dead inside."
Larry shook his head, "It's not just you," and Robby was alarmed when Larry's eyes fell to him, still sitting in the pew, "I won't let you take another man to an early grave. Not on my watch."
This was insane. So insane, in fact, Robby was beginning to think he was being pranked. Surely this whole town did not actually believe you were some sort of murderer.
But when Robby looked at you, you seemed unsurprised by the accusation. "That house is the only piece of Adrian I have leftâ"
You were cut off by an older woman rising to her feet, an older man rising with her and attempting to restrain her as she hurled unadulterated scorn in your direction, "Don't you ever utter my son's name again! You're a vile and disgusting woman and I only wish I had pushed Adrian harder to divorce you."
Your chin wobbled slightly at the venom in your mother-in-law's voice, but you steeled your face and turned your attention back to Larry, "I won't leave the house. So if you want to destroy it, you'll have to do it with me inside."
There was a rise in the volume of the whispers, no doubt trying to ascertain if you were serious, as you and Larry stared each other down.
"I have no problem with that," Larry said finally, and the whispers quieted, hanging on his every word, "I say we let the witch burn."
Robby was stunned by this behavior, these brazen threats to conspire to murder you. This was outrageous. You had joked about bursting into flame upon coming to the altar, but it was these people who needed to repent. To desperately ask God for forgiveness. It was unacceptable, the way they were treating you. It seemed to transcend harmless town gossip and lore and had morphed into an honest to God witch hunt.
There was a commotion at Larry's words and finally, when Robby turned back to look at you, he saw real fear in your eyes. And as the Priest tried to quiet everyone, you grabbed your things and ran from the church.
Robby followed after you, stumbling out into the cold drizzle that was somewhere between rain and sleet. But by the time he reached the sidewalk, you had disappeared, fully engulfed in the mist.
Magnificent writing â¤ď¸
