Here Lies Love

by Dan Thompson

  The troublesome thing about their lighthouse was that there was only one way in and out. She would have to enter via the front door, which meant keeping a close eye on what her father did next. She willed for the wind to drop slightly. The cold was making her shiver; goosebumps prickling on the back of her neck. Hours of waiting wouldn’t end well.

  Abbey looked around the kitchenette. She needed a sturdy, well-made object to use as a weapon. Arming herself was the smart course of action. The tin pots and pans she always neatly stacked on one of the sideboards all lay in the wash bucket in front of him. The second stool was nowhere to be seen either. She tiptoed to the other side of the window and peered in the other corner. The stool wasn’t there. She sighed and bit her lip a little too hard. A trickle of blood surprised her taste buds, which made her spit onto the ground.

  As she looked back up, her father had leant over the table, his arms folded and resting his head on top of them. If he was falling asleep, this would be the best chance for her to sneak in unnoticed. Abbey willed him to nod off, but with his head facing in the opposite direction, she couldn’t tell if his eyes were closed or not. It was a risk she would just have to take. Abbey counted slowly to ten, five times in her head to give him ample enough time to drift off.

  Abbey headed for the door.

  When she placed her hand against the smooth, cold metal doorknob, Abbey suddenly remembered the wooden latch on the other side. She had always bolted the door locked, even when her dad was in the lighthouse. It was safer that way in case intruders decided to try their chances and plunder any of their supplies. Abbey took a deep breath, allowing the salty air to reach her head. Gripping tightly, she carefully turned the knob. It squeaked somewhat, but turned nonetheless. She held her breath as it reached its full rotation and applied pressure.

  The door moved.

  It was open.

  Abbey slipped inside, careful to not allow the door to slam shut behind her. She was standing in what Abbey had always called ‘The Square’ because, quite frankly, that was what it was. An entrance hall of sorts, ‘The Square’ fed directly into the kitchenette. In this room, if that was what it was, Abbey couldn’t see her father. She was going in blind. A risk she couldn’t avoid.

  Abbey held herself tight against the wall, knowing she needed to pluck the courage to look into the kitchenette. With one hand, Abbey gathered her hair up into a bunch. She couldn’t afford to be spotted because the brightness of her hair gave her away. She gathered it neatly behind her. Her foot tapped nervously against the wooden floor. An eye began to twitch too.

  Pull yourself together.

  Abbey tentatively took a look. Her heart raced as she prepared to run and hide, but much to her relief, her father was still rested on the table. His head was still facing away from her. She couldn’t really guess if he had indeed drifted off, but she returned to hugging the wall. Its surface was cool against her palms, splayed over it like she could be at one with it. Her eyes were rooted to the cobwebs up in the corners of the ceiling. They swayed; nets to snare prey.

  Abbey inhaled. She was about to pounce, to snare her father in a trap she had been planning on her journey home. The colt had listened intently.

  Abbey slipped into the room on tiptoes, circling towards the wash bucket, never averting her gaze from her hunched father. One of the piles was leaning, stacked too precariously for her to attempt to take the largest pan. It would make too much noise and the clatter of metal upon metal would surely rouse her father. She opted, instead, to take a much smaller pan that had mould and something sticky growing inside. It was disgusting. Being careful, Abbey lifted the pan by its handle. It was sticky. Something was obviously growing on the underside of the handle and its texture made Abbey’s insides curdle.

  Creeping forward, as Abbey honed in all her senses, the overbearing smell of alcohol fanned in her face. It reminded her of Tristan’s concoction, but she pushed the sickening memories to the back of her head - she needed to be strong.

  As Abbey stood still, looming over her father, she could hear the soft whistling of his breathing. He was drunk. A sitting target, made easy by intoxication. Who knew what his poison of choice was. As far as Abbey recollected, he had never drank in front of her. What a sad, lonely, pathetic man he had become.

  She knew she didn’t really need to bother, but sticking to her plan, Abbey hauled the pan above her head, ready to bring it down. Her shadow on the wall caught her attention. It was a filled in outline of what she had become. Would he think she had transformed into a sad, lonely, pathetic young woman? Still, if she had, it was because of him.

  Abbey’s father slurred and stirred, smacking his lips together to make a vile, gluey swish. Abbey acted quickly, bringing the pan down hard. It hit him with a dull thud. He rolled off his stool and onto the wooden floor. He remained still.

  A dribble of blood slithered down his forehead, around his left eye and streaked his cheek. Looking down at him, Abbey could tell the time she’d been away hadn’t treated her father well either. Wrinkles clung to his thin, almost opaque skin and he had brittle facial hair, grey and red together; a shadow of the man she held in her memories of running near the waves, flying a crudely made kite. Her gran had been alive then. That memory, although held dear, locked in the time capsule of her heart, was all but a distant whisper in time. Abbey couldn’t remember how old she would have been - eight, nine maybe?

  But she was a wee girl no longer and he was a cantankerous sod, irascible too.

  Abbey dropped the pan where she stood and kicked herself into action. She had no idea how long her father would be out for. The drink could possibly help her.

  Using the darkened velveteen slack from his trousers, Abbey pulled and heaved her father, dragging him away from the blazing fire and into the corner where the stairs were. Two floors up and they would be in her old bedroom. She knew the ideal spot to tie him to. Sturdy, strong and utterly unescapable. It was only when she had lugged his entire body onto the steps had she realised that it was probably better to have carried him up his arms. Every step aloft caused his head to bash and loll. The thud, thud, thud was a nasty sound, but Abbey’s heedless reaction to it was shocking in itself. This is what it had come to.

  Despite the aching of her back, and a throbbing in her temples, she had hauled her father to her room without incident. Wasting no time, she flung herself to a side cupboard where she always kept some strips of rope that she had discovered washed up by the waves, and dreams of using it to climb out of her window to escape across the waves had persuaded her to store it for that momentous day.

  It was still there. Abbey couldn’t help but smile to herself for being so attentive. Her plan was faultless. The large pole in the centre of her room was a perfect place to tie him up. She wrapped the cord tightly, seeing his wrists turn white from the pressure. She had just enough for his wrists and feet, and with his back to the pole, he was stuck. Her prisoner.

  Abbey placed her hands on her hips, satisfied. She glanced around her old room. It was a strange and peculiar sensation. Somehow it wasn’t hers anymore, even though everything was still in its rightful place. Her father hadn’t touched a single thing. Her belongings were a distant material obsession she no longer cared for. Stefan had beaten that out of her.

  She rummaged inside her pillowcase just to see if her old photograph of her gran was still there. It was - her plump face looking out at her. She didn’t stare at it for long, worried her gran would think ill of her for what she was about to do. As she slipped the photograph back inside the case, something sharp pricked her skin.

  “Ouch,” she gasped, pulling out the long, thin object. It was one of her gran’s knitting needles. She stared down at it for some time. Its rich, creamy whiteness wasn’t pallid and very durable. It didn’t bend or curve easily. Abbey had forgotten about it. She hadn’t even realised that she had hidden it. It was always an item she thought weird and eerie - made of animal bones indeed. Butchery, that’s what it was.
/>   Butchery.

  Abbey placed a finger over the point and let it rest against the tip. With almost no weight whatsoever, blood stained the end bright red. This would make the perfect weapon to question her father; fitting too, since she always had a sneaking suspicion that he had killed her gran. The needle was more meaningful than a knife. A knife would be savage.

  A thunderclap pealed around the lighthouse like a thwack, a million handclaps. Abbey jolted and turned to the window. Lightning flared, radiating the blue haze with hues of yellow and ochre. It spooked her father too, suddenly cognisant, yet he quickly returned to a stupefied state. When she turned to face her father, needle clutched, rain clobbered the lighthouse. The buffeting above reminded her of the sound it made as she struck her father with the pan. The blood was now matted and congealed in his hair.

  Abbey crouched in front of him and blew lightly onto his face. They shot open. His pupils shrank and grew, trying to recognise the girl looming in front of them close up. Her father struggled to move, testing his restraints.

  “Abbey?” her father grumbled.

  Abbey sat back, cross-legged and stared blankly at him.

  “Abbey, is that you?”

  Abbey mumbled and hummed acknowledgment.

  “Abbey, what’s going on?”

  Another crash of thunder stiffened her father and the lightning lit up the confusion in his drunken face.

  “I’ve come home. Are you pleased to see me?”

  There was a hesitation before he stuttered. “Of course. I’m over the moon to see you!”

  Abbey burst forwards and stabbed the needle deep into the pole, inches away from her father’s face. He withered and sputtered.

  “Don’t play games with me. I can see through your lies.”

  “Ok, Ok. Go steady with that thing.” His eyes darted to the needle and back to her. The fear she was inflicting felt good. “I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again. I had no idea where Mr … Mr - what - Montgomery, that was it. Where Mr Montgomery took you?”

  Abbey charged again. “Stefan! His name was Stefan.”

  “Stefan, yes.”

  “You sold me to him for some lousy tokens.”

  “I did no such thing!” her father said with such an outburst it almost drowned out the clap of thunder.

  Abbey slapped him. “Lies! You’re an incorrigible liar. You can’t help it, can you? I’ll teach you to lie to me, daddy.” She wedged the needle free from the pole. “Where shall we start, hmmm? Maybe with your tongue for all the lies you sprout.”

  Poking the needle in between his lips, Abbey let it rest there as a firm threat. Her father breathed heavily and his nose hairs quivered as he did so.

  “Or maybe your heart, for all the pain you’ve caused me!” Abbey traced the outlines of his chest, making sure to add a little pressure. He wasn’t going to get out of this unharmed.

  “Her father shuffled his legs. “What do you want?”

  “What do I want? That’s funny,” Abbey chuckled sarcastically. “I want you to feel the pain. The pain I had to endure at the hands of that monster.”

  “Whatever he did wasn’t to do with me. I was here.”

  “Exactly! You were here. Where was my relief, my aid? A father should run to his abused daughter to offer any succour he can. Even if it kills him!” Abbey stabbed her father’s thigh and twisted the needle. He screamed uncontrollably, repeatedly bashing his head against the pole. “You think that hurts. You wait to see what I do next.”

  “No, no. Please, Abbey. I’m sorry.”

  She turned away and wiped the sweat from her brow. She was losing control. This was not how it was supposed to go.

  “Did you sell me?” she asked softly and turned back.

  He stared into her eyes for what felt like an eternity. “Yes.” He looked away.

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? We were struggling. More than ever.”

  “So, what? It was either you or me?”

  “I know how it looks. I’m not proud.”

  “Did you know what he would do to me?”

  “No! He told me you would be put to work. Cleaning his house, cooking his meals. That sort of thing.”

  Abbey shook her head. “Put me to work. He put to work alright.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry? You don’t even know what he did,” she roared, pushing her face into his. “He touched me, held me down. He,” her voice croaked, “He, he … robbed me of my innocence. Forced himself into me as if I was a plaything. It felt like … like he had thrust a hot poker inside me, hard, over and over again. He rammed harder and deeper as each second passed and all I wanted to do was die.”

  “Enough! I don’t want to hear any more.”

  “Why? Make you feel uncomfortable, does it? Make you feel guilty? Well, good, because it should. It wasn’t only me, you know. Other girls, older, younger than me. I was the only one to make it out alive. I watched him bury one of the girls in the ground. Rheanne. I knew her, she had been there longer than me and was already a mess, broken and dispirited.”

  “I said enough!” her father bellowed.

  Abbey didn’t hesitate to thrust the needle into her father’s other leg. She shoved and attacked over and over again. His screams of agony obscured the squelching sound of flesh, and Abbey screamed and cried along, releasing all the anger she could. A string of dribble fell off her chin and onto her hand. Bloodshed wasn’t pretty. Despite the aching of her limbs, a buzz overcame her and knocked her for six. She stared down at the needle tainted with blood. It glided off the end and was oozing to the floor, thick and warm. Abbey’s hands were shaking and the sight of her father’s legs was in fact sickening; butchery under a different name.

  She flung the needle against the mildewed wall and turned to the window. The rain tapped harder and the blue haze had transformed into an obscure shade of blue Abbey had never witnessed before. It gave clouds the rare chance of being outlined, large and foamy. Horses of hell galloping through the air with a chariot not too far behind. It was coming for her.

  Abbey caught her reflection in the window. Her father was breathing hard and crying in pain behind her, but she fazed it out. What had she become? She thought it would have been easy, straightforward. Her conscience was catching up with her and the voodoo that had corrupted her mind was abating.

  Stefan flashed in the window, his gaunt face and wicked grin mocking her. As she raised her hand to touch her face, Stefan mirrored her. His seed had indeed penetrated her being, infected her blood, her personality. Had she really turned into him - a murderer, an uncaring and hard-hearted slayer? As she stared deeper into his hollow eyes, the reflection coruscated, flashed between her own image and Stefan’s, his evil laugh fusing with the rain and thunder and waves outside.

  “No!” she screamed, attacking the window, making it crack and splinter; a cobweb, crazed effect imprinted on the glass.

  Abbey was deflated. Emotions were high, confused, unknowing whether to cry or scream or flee. But she couldn’t just leave her father all tied up. He needed medical attention, a poultice of medicine and herbs to aid his wounds - wounds that she had haphazardly inflicted. He had sold her into slavery, but she has lowered her integrity and moral imprint to his level. How would she be able to move forward in life knowing of all the awful crimes she had committed before?

  “What have I done?”

  “Untie me,” her father said, hushed and quiet.

  Abbey nodded. She ran to him and crouched down to untie his restraints. She struggled, having had tied them too tight. She yanked and pulled all to no avail. She had no choice but to use the needle to separate the strands. The blood spilled everywhere, messy and a plain reminder of the damage she had done. When the rope was loose, Abbey circled back to the front of her father and began to unfasten his legs. Her father arched forward and a chain slipped out of his shirt, clanging against the ring that was loosely threaded onto it.

  “What’s th
at?” she asked.

  “An old memento, a keepsake that is dear to me.”

  “Was it mum’s?”

  “It was. Here, take it. I guess she would have wanted you to have it.”

  Abbey slipped the bronzed chain from around her father’s neck. She never knew he wore it. Inspecting the ring, she noticed the metal was silvery - aluminium. Which meant it was precious; a token of extreme affection. It had a small stone in its cup. Green and a little stained. Abbey rubbed her thumb over the stone before wrapping the chain over her neck. It was weightless.

  Her neck jerked backwards. An arm around her throat suffocated her, squeezing the air from her lungs. Abbey tried to prise the arm off with both hands, scratching and pinching as hard and as aggressively as she could. The chain cut into her neck. Her eyes felt strange and tense. She needed to cough, but as she attempted to breathe, a wheezing crackle bubbled in her neck. Her feet too were on tiptoes, almost completely off the ground.

  Her father flung her forward and she heaved and choked on the rush of air that filled her lungs.

  As she spun round, all Abbey could see was a fist plummeting towards her, and then she could make out the spiral detailing of the wooden floor. What came next, microseconds after, was black.

  The smell of petrol stung the back of Abbey’s raw throat. Her head felt heavy and one side of her face felt bruised and swollen. She groaned. What had happened? When she opened her lazy eyes, the room was almost dark. The blue haze had gone. She tried to listen to the low whirr that always accompanied the artificial light source, but that too was missing. Was this a dream? She tilted her face to the window and saw a darkened blue sky. The colour was striking; dark still, but powerful enough to make a scene.