The Effect to the Cause

I came with them in their baggage. 

Through the dim slit, I see the place. Terraced, white-marbled, castle on a hillside, just like she likes it. We dreamed of it together, only with different characters playing the parts.

A jingle of keys and crackling gravel. Whistle of wind after a long day of rain. What I used to hear, at least, and what I imagine now.

The dead hear in memoriam. The dead see in shadow. The dead do feel, and remember, and love, and hate.

They carry me, clinging, with them tonight into their marriage nest. There is nothing new here for them. I know now that they were doing each other long before she did me with that ax.

"Hunter Becomes the Hunted"

How clever journalists are. Brains in their mouths, like mine after the blow.

The latch click. The giggle as the keys drop. Some whispers, sweet nothings, worth nothing, mean nothing. I swipe the keys into the bushes. I imagine harsh words splattering into the mud with them. Prick, thorns. Splatter, mud. This night has just begun.

"Unpack. I'll pull the car around."

He closes the door after him against the chill. Jenny turns to the business of putting away  his and hers in the shelves and drawers provided. The simple pleasure of vacationing, knowing the length of time you'll stay and acting accordingly. I am near her, close enough to touch. Shiver, Jenny. The cold is not the wind. Remember, he closed the door?

She crosses to the window and pulls back the curtain. Closed. The perplexed twitch. The narrow suspicion. She checks the door. Closed. She turns and stands, listening. She brushes the thought aside. How many times did she brush it aside before snuffing my life?

I will not be ignored any longer. I touch her eyes.

Her breath catches in her throat, but she holds. I whisper an idea so soft it is only felt on the back of her brain, an inch from the location of the blade in mine. But this is surgical. This is natural, silent death.

I'm coming for you.

She pushes the thought out and it floats heavy to the floor. She shakes her head and frowns. There is a fragment lodged like shrapnel, growing steadily inward as the flesh closes around it. 

I am the effect to the cause.

A knock on the door. She jumps and returns from our thoughts. It's him.

"Well, ma'am. Lovely evening for a brisk ride. Would you care to join me?"

"My, all by ourselves, and in this tiny thing? I'll catch my death of cold!"

If only.

"Don't worry yourself, young lady. I'll keep you mighty warm."

His coat around our shoulders. The blanket, the boots, the little packets of intent in his pockets (how unromantic the necessities are) and the arm in arm in arm...

I am the third wheel in the back. I push my glasses higher on the bridge of my nose. Wait, guys, I forgot my wallet.

They look back upon my exit.

"Hey..."

He leaps out. We sit still in the front seat as he and I circle, gladiators scrutinizing weaknesses. He is a slave to his passions, but that is not his weakness. He is weak because he views this slavery as a strength.

Thanks, guys, I got what I needed. We can go now.

Satisfied of his safety, he closes the door and climbs in the driver's seat. We kiss, long. The car is old and the bench seats spacious. His fingers wander to her leg.

I take hold of their brains and bash them together.

He pulls back and looks at her. They share a tinge of fear, suspicious of the cold but recognizing it. Perhaps I've been too subtle. This is my first time, after all.

A nervous chuckle.

"Um, let's drive up to the overlook. It's turning clear out. We can take the top off."

"It'll be too cold," she says, petulant. 

He revs the engine too many times and we crunch along, out the gate, up the narrow dirt road to the overlook. His right hand will not stay away. She does not want it to, but we do. She pushes it away.

"Watch it, fox. Don't be getting ideas."

"Well, now, I've got quite a few already, young lady. You're the one who got into my car."

Aw, come on guys, get a room.

The drive is short. The brake is set, the lights die. We move to the back. Before long, the top is off. 

I fiddle with things in the front seat. I am the bored kid with his teenage sibling and her date. I roll the window down, but we don't hear. It just gets colder.

I turn and watch them, silently. I lock the doors.

We stop kissing.

"Did you hear that?"

"No, stop stalling." 

"It's cold."

"It won't be for long."

No. It will be.

I release the brake.

"Something's wrong!"

Yes. It is, deeply.

The creep turns into a gentle roll. He fumbles with his pants. How silly, when he could reach for the locks. I hold them down anyway, and perhaps he senses this and only wants to die with his pants on. I can't blame him. I watch us struggle, cry out, the clothes tumble and everything is weightless (how do you like it now?) It flashes across her mind, hot lightning mirrored in reeling clouds, and I see it in our eyes:

We're coming for us.

The lunge, the plunge, the fall, oh God, the fall.

I imagine a creaking silence.

Gravity does not rule me now, so I float beside the jagged window and watch. He is gone, assigned, perhaps, to an effect elsewhere. He never got his pants on, more's the pity. I can't see what good a butt-naked ghost will prove to be. Lacks gravitas. But I don't make those calls.

She is still here, broken in places. Black trickles from her skull, over her eyes, down to the tears. Consciousness ebbs and flows, waves of hot breath against the glass. She will live a life of sorts. 

Her phone hovers in front of her face, but we can't move our arms, so I dial it slowly. 9... 1... 1. I check her pulse. Each wave pushes the terror inward, deeper, increases the fog.

And we write it slowly on the windshield:

I'M HERE.