Page 12 of Come Back To Me
Too bad it’s taking so long to take effect. I wrap my arms around myself, my body shivering. It’s freezing in here. It’s probably the broken window. My heart beats harder in my chest. That cop is supposed to come by to fix it. I didn’t want him to, but he kept insisting anyway. He was only trying to help, but I don’t need him here on the day Gareth finally decides to rise from the dirt. Or after.
Will he look like himself? Will he . . . I suck in a sharp breath, not wanting to think about the alternative. It doesn’t matter how he comes back, as long as he’s here with me again.
Hours pass as I clean, rearrange furniture and bake random desserts from boxes I’ve had in the cabinets for a while. Gareth always pestered me about why I keep buying cake and cookie mix if I’m never going to make it.
I kept thinking I was going to. But I’d get off work exhausted, see the store on the way home, and decide buying dessert would be better. I should have tried harder, maybe gotten more sleep rather than staying up late reading or watching movies once or twice a week. It made me want to do less after getting home the next day. I should have been a better husband, and then maybe . . . maybe I would’ve been enough.
I look at the cracks in some of the coffee cups taking up extra space in the cabinets. I had trouble letting go of useless things. I grew attachments to everything. I grew one for him too, but he might’ve felt trapped surrounded by all my junk. Taking down one cup leads me to pulling three more flawed dishes off the shelf. I toss them all in the trashcan and then walk around thehouse, getting rid of everything else like them—anything beyond fixing.
It takes way too long before night falls. I make myself dinner while turning on some music to drown out all the house sounds that keep giving me false hope. Chicken skilletini. Taking my bowl to my room, I sit in my bed and turn on my TV. I flip through ten different movies before finally hitting play on something. With my food only half gone, the plate grows heavy in my hands and nearly slips out of my fingers as I start to doze.
I shake myself awake, then I get up and walk to the kitchen and set the bowl in the sink. Bushes shake outside the window, and I bring myself closer to the misted glass. Damn stray cats. They’re big fans of jumping out at the right moment to scare the crap out of me. I wash my dish and as I’m shutting off the water, a long groan comes from outside.
I stand up straight, skin prickling the longer I look out the window and don’t see anything. What was that? I don’t bother calling out for Gareth this time. I really don’t feel like being left unanswered again. It struck me hard in the chest earlier. If he comes, I’ll just wait until he lets me know he’s here. He can call for me or even sneak in beside me under the covers. Or join me in the shower, stepping behind me while he offers to wash my back like he used to.
My breaths stick in the back of my throat when the bushes shake again and branches snap next. Is someone out there? My heart gallops and I place my hand on the window. It feels so heavy when I try to pull it away, so I keep it where it is and slowly lift up the window. A gust of wind hits me in the face, along with the smell of burning wood.
“Hello?” I say.
The only thing greeting me back is the hooting owl in the tree behind the house. I sigh, and as I’m about to slide the window down, another groan cuts through the air.
Blood rushes into my face and the muscles in my chest tighten. “Anyone out there?” My voice cracks. “A lost little cat perhaps?” As if there are so many cats who walk around groaning.
Minutes pass and nothing. No more sounds come and I’m growing too cold standing in front of the half-open window. I’m also struggling to stay upright and on my feet. I want to wait for him. To see if he’ll only come if I’m awake. Or maybe he forgot where the spare key was last night and his eyes haven’t readjusted to the sunlight yet.
So many insane ideas roll through my head as I keep myself busy around the house to fight sleep. I give up at three a.m. My body is dragging and I can’t stop rubbing my eyes. I’ll give it until tomorrow and then I’ll do the ritual again. One more day before giving it another try. I’ll offer more blood if I have to—even more of myself.
“Come back to me,” I say, looking back at the picture of us on the wall behind the kitchen table. “Bring him back to me. Take whatever you want. Take all of me if you must. Just bring him back.”
Seven
Riley
Half asleep, I stumble to the kitchen, and when the sleep is fully blinked from my eyes, a sight unfolds in front of me that I’d never thought I’d see again. Looking back at me, Gareth smiles with his teeth. “Morning, sleepyhead.”
My breaths catch. “Hey.”
“Rest okay?” He shuffles a few inches to the side, opening the oven to pull out a pan of golden biscuits.
I rub at my eyes, blinking them wider. He’s really here. It’s him. He was always more of a morning person, waking up before me and bringing me breakfast in bed. “Yeah. I think so.”
The chair scrapes against the floor as I pull it out, and I lower myself onto it, scooting closer to the table.
“Good. Because you’ll never rest that well again.”
“What?” I say taken back, peering up at the back of his head. Slowly turning around his eyes turn black and his smile isdripping with venom, teeth black. His hair is soaked in blood, the skin hangs from his face, and maggots crawl out of the food he has plated in his hand.
“I said, you’ll never rest that well again. Not peacefully at least.”
He steps closer, left eye popping out of the socket and oozing something yellow. The putrid smell has my nose curling, and when I try to get up, he slams me back down. His fingers wrap around my neck and he says, “It’s almost time.”
“Almost time,” I repeat without meaning to.
“Soon,” he grits out. “Very, very soon.”
I sit up in my dark room, eyes flashing open and heart threatening to escape my chest. Cold sensations crawl inside me, and I press my back to the headboard, clenching my fists around the sheets. “It wasn’t real . . . it was a dream.”
I reach for the lamp, my arm going still as music starts playing. “With You,” by Ill Niño blares from the speakers of the record player in the living room.
