by Tim Meyer
Terry dropped to his hands and knees, coughing up a wad of dark—almost black—fluids. It spattered the floor before him. He tried to speak, but a mouthful of thick blood prevented the words from making it past his lips.
Angela kicked him in the ribs, where the knife had punched through flesh and cartilage, and flipped him over, onto his back. At the ceiling, he stared, his eyes starting to glaze over.
“You were never a good husband to me.” She brought the knife to her side and stepped over him, placing a foot on each side of his body. She dropped to her knees, planting her bottom on his punctured midsection. “And an even worse father. Where were you during his doctor's appointments?”
He spat out a word that sounded like working, but it came out wet and unintelligible.
“Where were you during the countless hours of therapy?”
This time Terry kept quiet.
“Where were you, Terry? You were supposed to be there for me. For us.”
He grunted a word that might have been sorry, but a burst of scarlet sputtering over his lips was the only thing she could make out for certain.
“You were never there. Never there for me, never there for our boy. You abandoned us.”
He didn't deny her account.
“Then you made us go on that stupid fucking show. For what? To repair us? To fix us? Our marriage isn't one of your stupid cars. You can't just turn a wrench and expect us to be okay, fine-fucking-dandy.” She closed her eyes, breathed, and inhaled the metallic odor overruling the air. “There's no fixing us Terry. There's no fixing me. I'm the one who's damaged. I am the one who's broken... I'm... I'm...”
Angela raised the knife over her head and, without giving it much thought, buried the blade in the base of her husband's neck. Terry spasmed many times over the next sixty seconds—spastically at first, then intermittently—and then his body went stiff as a log, his flesh taking on frigid temperatures.
She sat on top of him for what seemed like the length of a long dream, ignoring the burn in her quads and staring through the awning window, at the moon, and wondering what lay beyond the stars. She imagined a sea with a pirate ship getting dragged beneath the black surface by massive tentacles. A house in the middle of some cosmic existence called the Everywhere. The skulking shadow of a boy she used to know. An endless, blue-lit room with wandering souls, most of them grotesque and previously savaged.
Before she could shove the blade in her own neck, ending her pathetic excuse of an existence, the night was filled with a cacophony of sirens and anxious voices. Just when the suicidal thoughts occurred and started to make sense, she felt hands grabbing her wrists and loud, commanding voices screaming in her ear. She resisted as much as she could, but all her energy had been spent on butchering her husband, and she was easily overpowered. It wasn't long before the men in uniform dragged her from the shed, toward Trenton Road where red and blue lights bounced off neighboring houses and bushes, filling the night with kaleidoscopic visuals she'd never forget.
EPILOGUE
(DREAMS MAY VARY)
10 months later...
From behind the doors of the capacious room where Angela Shepard sat at a long cafeteria-style table, staring at the wall and doing little else, Barry Harrison and a tall man with glasses, holding a clipboard, observed. Barry turned to the studious man, a doctor at the facility Angela had called home for the last ten months, the place where she had prepared for her trial and talked about her feelings and attempted to make sense out of what exactly happened.
“Think she's ready?” Barry asked the tall man, whose clip-on name tag read Daniel Stevens M.D.
Stevens seemed to consider the point. “As ready as she'll ever be.”
“I hope she talks to me.” Barry studied the woman who sat as still as a plush doll on a rocking chair. “I hope she accepts my offer.”
The doctor didn't seem too keen on any of this, and he rotated toward Barry as if he intended to tell him so. “For the record, Mr. Harrison, I believe this is counterproductive to Angela's recovery. But, in saying that, I understand Dr. Rondo and the rest of the state board's decision to sign off on your waiver. I just wanted to interject my opinion before you proceed.”
Barry waved his hand limply in the air. “Save it, kid. Just get me up to speed. What's she like? Coherent? Hopped up on crazy pills?”
Stevens paused, seeming unsure if he should answer. “Yes. Very coherent. She likes to talk. Although... she doesn't make much sense sometimes. She believes... well, very strange things.”
“I bet.” Barry checked his folder, making sure the proper paperwork and waivers were in order. “All right, let me in.”
Stevens opened the door and gestured the television producer inside. Angela's head barely moved at the sound of the opening door. Stevens led Barry across the room, which was naked except for the long tables positioned throughout and a small tree staged in each corner, something Barry thought was used to calm the facility's patients and guests.
As he wandered across the meeting room, he studied Angela's face. She looked unwell and twenty years older than she had appeared on Let's Switch Houses! He could only imagine the volume of drugs they were pumping her with, and then wondered if that would somehow impact the signing of the legal documents he'd brought. Is she even legally allowed to sign this under the influence? He shook the thought away, claiming that was what the studio paid their lawyers for.
Barry took the seat across from her.
Stevens cleared his throat. “Angela,” he said gruffly. “Miss Shepard?”
She perked up on the second request. “Yes?”
“You have a visitor.”
“Oh?” She looked across from her. Seconds passed before a smile broke across her face. “Oh, Barry...”
“Hi, Angela. Long time.”
“Barry...” she said thoughtfully.
He looked up at Stevens who towered over them. “Is she okay?”
Stevens shrugged. “Define 'okay.'”
“Is she...” He twirled his finger in the air next to his temple, and then pointed to the ceiling.
“High?”
“Yes.”
“She's been given a light sedative to prevent one of her infamous episodes.”
“Damn.” He squinted. “Violent?”
“Extremely.”
“Should her lawyer be present?”
“Probably.”
Barry sighed. He felt his forehead grow hot. “Do me a favor. Please call him and tell him to get his ass down here. I don't feel like doing this twice.”
“I'll see what can be arranged.” He turned to Angela. “You and Mr. Harrison catch up, okay? I'll be right back. There are two guards just outside the room if either of you... need assistance. They're watching. Listening.”
Barry didn't like the doctor implying anyone other than he could be in some danger, but he decided to let the comment slip. As soon as Stevens left the room, Barry rotated back to Angela and began sorting through the paperwork in his folder.
“How have you been, hon?” he asked.
She tilted her head and raised her hands above the table, showing off her collection of chains. “How the fuck do you think?”
“Yeah.” He glanced around the room. “Not too cozy, I must say.”
“I'm not crazy, you know?” She bit her lip. “They would have never made the switch, Barry. They would have never made it. Terry was wrong. They lied to him. Ester Moore lied to him.” She leaned over the table. “You told me about Ester Moore. Who was she, Barry? What did she look like?”
He sat there, frozen. Ice water filled his veins, and a creeping chill cascaded down his spine. “I don't know, Angela. I just read about it online.”
“Don't fucking lie to me, Barry.”
He leaned back in his seat and looked back at the door. Shadows belonging to the guards moved behind the door's frosted window.
“Listen,” he said, folding his hands on the table. “I hate to rush things along, but I really
don't have much time. Your lawyer will be here soon and I doubt he'll let me have a word once he's here. So we have to be quick.”
She nodded. “What is it you want with me, Barry? Haven't you ruined my life enough?”
Barry jerked his head as if she'd slapped him. “Ruined your life?”
“You set us up, didn't you? You made us swap houses with that woman.”
Barry shook his head. “No, no. I didn't make you switch houses with anyone. That was your choice. I just presented you with an offer, just like I'm doing today.”
She eyed the paperwork on the stretch of table between them.
Contracts. Lots of them.
“What is this?”
“I want to produce a new show. Starring you.”
Her face remained unchanged. “What do you mean?”
“Well,” he said, shifting in his seat, nervous energy pulsing through him. “I know you missed most of the entire season of Let's Switch Houses!, you know, being in here and such. But let me tell you—it was a huge hit, Angela. Big time. Ratings were through the roof, one of the best seasons we ever had.”
She stared at him blankly.
“Anyway, I think a large part of the success was because of... well, you. And what happened. Current events. What you did—”
“Because I killed my husband and Rosalyn Jeffries?” Her eyebrows flared.
“Yes, partly because of that.”
Her eyes slimmed so he could see nothing of her pupils. “Because of what I did with my son?”
Barry nodded slowly. “Yes. The public was very interested in your confession. Obsessed is probably a better word. It's the question that calls to them, you know.”
Puzzled, her mouth fell to one side of her face. “What question?”
“Well... the why. Why did she do it?”
“I told them why.”
“Yes, but that's not really the truth. The whole truth anyway. I think there's another reason why you gave away your son to a couple of complete strangers.”
Tears populated in the corners of her eyes. She brushed her nose with the back of her hand. “Because... I... I couldn't deal anymore.”
“That answer doesn't satisfy the public.” He shuffled around the papers before him, and then dug through his breast pocket for a pen. “Plus, there was the search for William. The one your parents headed.”
“The search?”
“Oh yes. They reopened the investigation and everything. For a while, it seemed like everyone in America was looking for your son. It was quite the hunt. I'm surprised your lawyer didn't fill you in. The doctors?”
“They don't talk about anything but my feelings and the case,” she replied listlessly, tears streaming down her face. “Doesn't matter what they do. They'll never find him.”
He glanced up from the papers. “No, they never did. In fact, they gave up after a few months. Trail went cold. Actually, the trail was never really warm to begin with. There are a few groups out there, real fans of the show, who still search.”
“How is he?”
The question took him by surprise. “How is who?” he asked cautiously.
“My other William.”
Barry's eyes slid back and forth. “What other William?”
She eyed him closely. “The one I gave birth to six weeks ago.”
His eyes shot open. “Ohhhh. Yes. That. I almost forgot. The doctors did mention that to me.”
“How is he? Where is he? Is he with family? No one will talk to me about it.”
Barry folded his hands again, set them back down on the table. He sighed deeply, like a parent ready to dole out a severe punishment. “I know this is hard to hear, though, I suspect it's not the first time you've been told, buuuuuut... there was no other William.”
Scoffing, she shook her head. “No, that's not possible.”
“I'm afraid it is,” Barry said. “I hate to say this, but you were never pregnant.”
“No, I was. I was pregnant. I gave birth to another William. I remember it very clearly. The delivery went very well. No problems. Unlike the first time.”
“It's all part of your psychosis, I'm afraid. You never had a second child. That day when you killed your husband and Rosalyn Jeffries, the authorities found pregnancy tests all over the bathroom. Thirty-seven I think the number was. All of them used. All of them showing negative results.”
“Terry saw it. He made me take it. He showed me the results. They were positive.”
“You're wrong, Angela.”
“No, we were supposed to switch. The old William for the new. That was what Terry said; it was his idea. Ester Moore got to him. He killed Rosalyn Jeffries, Barry. Terry killed her because she was trying to help me—”
“Angela, your husband wasn't at Rosalyn's house that day. Only you were. He was at work. There were witnesses. Your DNA was all over the house. The mug of tea she gave you was all the evidence they needed.”
“No, he admitted it, Barry. He told me he did it.”
“You made it up, Angie. You made it all up in your head. You snapped after you saw the first episode of Switch! The guilt of what you did with your son was too much. You snapped, killed Rosalyn Jeffries, killed your husband, and here we are. I suspect if you weren't chained to the floor, you'd probably kill me too.”
“No...”
“I'm sorry. It's true. Every word of it.”
Catatonically, she stared at the man across from her. Her lips wriggled, unable to help produce any sounds.
“I know this is tough. I know your mental state of mind is fragile. So, let's get to it. I want you to tell your story. To America. I've gotten permission from both state and federal officials to let us film portions of the trial. We also secured permission from the board of doctors at this facility, and they are giving us full access to you. Twenty-four-seven surveillance. All we need, Angie, is you. You can set the truth straight. I know you have a story to tell. About why you did what you did. To William. To your husband. About what happened in your house after the show. I know you have a story burning you up so badly you can't sleep, can't think, can't eat. I know you need to purge. I know you need it, Angela, so...” He extends the pen in her direction. “...sign this. Please. We can help you with your trial, help you plead insanity. The studio has the best lawyers on the planet. Sign with us. We can help you get through this nightmare.”
She accepted the pen. “They'll really listen to what I have to say?”
Dollar signs flashing before his eyes, he nodded. “Every word, sweetheart.”
“Even if it sounds crazy?”
“Especially if it sounds crazy.”
As she put the ink to paper, her face developed a spreading smile.
* * *
After she signed her life away, she glanced up at the ceiling. There was a small hole cut in the plasterboard, no bigger than a golf ball. She swore she saw an eyeball there, human flesh around the blinking orb.
She closed her own eyes, counted to ten, and opened them again, just like her team of doctors instructed.
The hole remained, but the eye was gone.
EPILOGUE II
(FAMILY MATTERS)
2 MONTHS LATER...
“Ma-me,” the boy said, removing his eye from the hole in the bathroom wall.
“Honey?” a voice called from somewhere close. “Honey, where are you?”
“Ma-me.” The boy looked at the hole with little emotion. There was a moment of hesitation where he thought he might return his eye to the hole to see what it would show this time around. “Ma-me.”
“Honey?” The voice was behind him now. Footsteps knocked on the wooden floor of the hallway.
The boy turned.
A figure stood in the doorway, shoulder resting against the door jamb. “There you are, mister.”
The boy looked back at the hole.
“What is that?” his mother asked. “Looks like this house needs a few repairs, huh?”
Mother had a peek inside the wall. S
he smiled. “Well, this house is just full of surprises. Isn't it?” She winked.
“Ma-me.”
“Yes, mommy will have this patched up in no time.”
More footsteps, the trampling kind, sounded up the stairs and down the hall. An out-of-breath woman appeared in the doorway, holding her chest and swallowing air. “Sweet Lord!” she said. “I'm so glad you found him.”
Mommy patted her son on the head, kissed his cheek. “Yes. He's quite the wanderer. You never know where he'll end up next.”
The woman in the doorway smiled. As she regulated her breathing, she rifled through her purse, removing a whole stack of stapled paperwork.
“Well, we must hurry. We have three more houses to hit before noon. I think the next—”
“That won't be necessary.”
“Ma'am?”
“We're going to put in an offer on this one.”
The real estate woman shot her an odd glance, and then surveyed the walls, their filthy condition. “Are you sure?” she asked, with a forced, fading smile.
“I've never been more certain about anything in my life.”
With her smile completely gone, the woman set her house-hunting itinerary down on the sink. “Mrs. Wilson,” she said, averting her eyes and pulling at her lower lip with her teeth.
“Please,” Mommy said, grinning, “call me, Abbie.”
“Abbie,” the woman said, manufacturing a smirk. “This house... it has a little bit of a history, as I'm sure you know.”
Grinning, Abbie nodded. “I know it well.”
“Then, I must insist—why are you so keen on purchasing this home?” She winced as if the answer might inflict pain. “I can't even get people to drop by during an open house. I've tried everything. Cupcakes. Gift card giveaways. I even offered coupons for free massages. Nothing works. And then here you come, calling me out of nowhere, asking to see 44 Trenton Road in Red River, and—I'm just a little baffled, that's all, Miss Wilson—I mean, Abbie.”