by BC Furtney
Epilogue
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Day 1
That morning, there was no fire in the air. They watched the sunrise over the lake, side-by-side on the small dock, bare feet dangling in the water. She’d spent a long time in the shower when they arrived, emerging in nothing but a towel. He stole glances at her as they savored their surroundings, partly enamored, partly worried, noting her blood-soaked arm bandages, saying nothing. She never met his gaze, just sat at peace, squinting into the sun, relishing the warm glow on her face. They sat like that for a long time, until she lifted her feet out of the water and stood, holding her hand out for his. They walked back up the grassy hill to the house and lay down on the plush bed, falling asleep almost immediately. It was dark when she woke. He was still sleeping soundly, and she was glad for him. Her stomach was killing her, so she quietly went to the bathroom. She closed the door and vomited blood.
Day 2
Unable to hide it any longer, she confessed how much pain she was in, but flatly refused medical attention. They raided the kitchen for something she might be able to keep down, and after some debate, ended up driving to the local general store to buy oatmeal. Apple Cinnamon was her favorite. He never knew that. She ate a bowl and he ate two, sitting on the porch, star-gazing. Country stars were nothing like city stars, but they didn’t discuss it too much, preferring to exist in the moment and forget all that came before. There was a TV in the house, but they didn’t want to know and not only unplugged it, but stashed it in a closet as well. They roamed the five-acre property just before dawn, armed only with flashlights, and a streaking deer startled them both more than they cared to admit. They watched the sunrise from a hilltop overlooking the valley. She put her head on his shoulder, saying nothing.
Day 3
She stayed away. He woke from his second good sleep in as many days to find her gone. He searched the house, the grounds, drove the roads, but she was nowhere in sight. He went to the lake to think, ended up laughing. If she didn’t want to be found, he’d never see her again. He wandered aimlessly for a couple hours, occasionally checking when something rustled a tree and finally crawling back into bed, drifting to sleep the moment his head hit the pillows. He was plagued by vivid nightmares, bleak sprawling detached narratives that had him thrashing in cold sweats, always one scream away from bolting upright in bed. Despite the horrors, he slept through the night. In the morning, a familiar sensation lifted his subconscious dread and he began to excite in a different way, his pulse throbbing. He woke as he came, looking down to find her sucking him softly. She left the house afterward.
Day 4
She spent half the day locked in the bathroom with her briefcase of pills, and he gave her the space. After all, he wasn’t her father, wasn’t her anything, no matter how badly he wanted to be. He knew wishful thinking when he was the one doing the imagining, and he didn’t do it as much anymore. He knew she’d ask him when the time was right, realized that their whole stay, and every poignant moment they’d shared, was only leading to the inevitable conclusion neither of them could escape. She didn’t want to be there anymore, but had faked it long enough to make it comfortable, if not easy. He didn’t blame her. Didn’t say the words either, though he’d spent many a night weighing the consequences. She knew anyway, saw it in his eyes. She’d always known. It was part of their charm. She wanted to swim in the lake when she finally emerged, and they swam throughout the night, into morning.
Day 5
He woke on his side, and the first thing he saw was the gun on her pillow. He sat up, looked around, but she wasn’t there. He threw back the sheets and went to the window, saw her standing on the dock in the sun. She was unwrapping her arms, letting the stained bandages blow away, carried by the day’s light breeze. She’d always loved the lake, talked about it, dreamed about it, before she even knew it was there. It was always the thing waiting for her on the other side. He felt good about being able to deliver her to it, about standing with her at the end. She turned and looked up, saw him watching from the window, smiled. What a set-up. She was good. That image would stay with him forever, seared in his memory, as powerful as the first and last time he saw it. He could step to that window and get a smile from her anytime he needed it. And he needed it more than he’d ever admit.
Table of Contents
Epilogue