Forever Yours, Abel: A Folie à Deux Novella

by Cynthia A. Rodriguez

  She’s staring at the building before her and I wonder if she’s actually going to come inside, when she proceeds to take each step slowly.

  “I can always walk you home,” I tell her, nervous at the idea of her entering my shitty apartment.

  I’ve never had a guest before, figuring better safe than sorry.

  So what makes her so special? So different?

  She looks like your dead girlfriend.

  I close my eyes for a moment and shove inside, letting my bike hit the wall with a thud. She gasps and I open my eyes, looking at her as she notices my bloody hands.

  “I’m fine,” I reassure her.

  My apartment door is the first on the right, where my bike is now leaning. I unlock the door, the flimsy lock easily able to be picked by anyone who really wants to get inside. But when I reach for my bike, I see she’s already got it, wheeling it toward my door.

  The door across the hall opens and Abelia glances over, but I don’t need to. I know my nosey ass neighbors are wondering what the hell is with all the noise.

  “Come on,” I tell her, holding the door open, and she walks under my arm.

  I stare at the old lady across the hall who peers out. Her eyes narrow at the sight of Abelia entering my apartment.

  I want to flip this old bitch the bird but instead, I smile and shut the door behind us.

  There’s not a lot of furniture, and the exposed brick wall looks more like laziness on my landlord’s part than aesthetically pleasing. But I don’t give a shit. I like the place because there isn’t a lot of traffic and for the most part, people leave me the fuck alone.

  I have two chairs and a small table in the corner, near the kitchen area. I’d only have one chair if the person at the store hadn’t said they could only be sold as a set.

  There’s an old radio on the kitchen counter and a mattress on the floor in my bedroom.

  “I wasn’t expecting company,” I tell her lamely, my hand on the back of my neck as I look around.

  She looks soft and clean, except for the dirt on her knees. She stands out, and she doesn’t belong here.

  She doesn’t belong here with me.

  “We should clean your hand,” Abelia says, taking a step toward me.

  “I’m fine,” I assure her again. “This is nothing.”

  “Let me help you. It’s the least I can do.”

  I’m itching to get out of my own skin at the sound of her kindness, her presence making me uncomfortable in the only haven I have in this world.

  I want to ask her how long she plans on staying but I imagine that would hurt her feelings, and I’m trying really hard not to be a dickhead.

  Righteous redemption and all that good shit.

  I gesture toward the kitchen sink with a jerk of my head, and I don’t know what she plans to do because I don’t have shit but tap water and the soap I use to clean my dishes.

  I stand in front of her and she takes my hand into hers, leading me toward the sink.

  “I don’t have anything…”

  “I think soap and water will be fine,” she says, glancing up at me before inspecting the damage.

  Rough skin already pinkened by harsh chemicals. It hadn’t taken much to split the already taut knuckles.

  The soap stings as she cleans and I watch her work, the top of her head meeting the middle of my chest. She’s short. Dainty.

  I can’t see her breasts, but I can feel them against my arm.

  Her nearly white hair glistens under the shitty lights of my kitchen.

  I fall in love with the idea of seeing her hair whisper through the summer wind and I decide right then and there that I’ll do whatever it takes to see it for myself.

  Fucking idiot. You’ll probably never see her again.

  But I let myself fall into the idea of being her friend. Of trying really hard not to stare at her tits every time I see her. Of kicking anyone’s ass who tries to hurt her.

  Abelia doesn’t put out, I hear Ryan say in my head.

  “Why do you stare?” she asks as she reaches for the hand towel, dabbing at the sore skin. “I can feel your eyes, you know.”

  And now I feel like a fucking creep.

  “You look familiar to me,” I whisper, not sure what else to say.

  Like my dead girlfriend who murdered people as if it were her favorite pastime.

  “I guess you must’ve dreamed me, then.” She steps back. “Because I’ve never seen you before.”

  She looks adorable in my sweater with its too long sleeves that are damp from the water. I wonder why she didn’t pull them up.

  “You’ve never been bowling?” I ask.

  She takes another step away from me and runs her fingers against my countertop.

  “Not in years. I go to college an hour from here,” she tells me, and the melody of her tone forces my eyes to follow her.

  “College?” I ask, watching her fingers on the counter, watching her dirty knees under my sweater.

  “I want to be a doctor.”

  Well, shit.

  “How old are you?” It’s her turn to ask a question, I guess.

  “Twenty-nine,” I answer, before asking her the same.

  “Twenty-four.”

  “And you’re still in school?” I wonder out loud.

  “I started late,” she informs me.

  There isn’t much to the place, not much she can feign has caught her interest, so now she’s looking at me and I’m back to wanting to claw my way out of my body.

  “Why didn’t you want to go home?” I ask.

  “I didn’t want to bring what happened to me to a place I’ve always felt safe in. Plus, my parents would’ve asked too many questions.”

  “You don’t think they’ll be worried? Does anyone know where you are?” I blink, hoping I haven’t scared her.

  “Careful, Abel. You sound like a potential murderer.”

  You have no fucking idea, lady.

  I lean back against the sink and let her lead.

  “I grew up here. All my high school friends are still here. They’ll probably think I’m with one of them.” She shrugs and it’s a little tense, like she knows her plan isn’t completely foolproof.

  But I have neighbors who’d hear her scream, if anything.

  “And how did you end up here?” I take the cowardly way of asking how the fuck she ended up alone with those assholes in a cemetery.

  “I trusted the wrong people, I guess. I’m hoping I left that nasty habit with the dead.”

  This is where I don’t reassure her. I can’t. My past prevents me from it.

  Instead, I head toward my bedroom to grab her some clean clothes.

  I don’t know how long she’ll be here but at the very least, she can clean herself up.

  4

  Abelia

  I don’t want to tell him the truth.

  I don’t want to admit I’d been stupid and that I likely fell into the pattern of stupidity, ending up at his apartment.

  Aren’t doctors supposed to be smart?

  This man—Adam or Abel?—hadn’t been here when I left for college. And when I finally decided to come back to visit, it seemed everyone knew about the creepy guy who rarely speaks. The one who rides a bike everywhere and looks like he could play the villain in your favorite movie.

  Maybe it’s the eyebrows that can’t help but furrow when he speaks. Or the carelessness of his muddy brown hair.

  But those eyes, they’re the brightest things I’ve seen in a while.

  I’m rummaging through his medicine cabinet, the stack of clean clothes he handed me sitting on the counter before me.

  But I’m too focused on the anti-psychotic drugs staring back at me.

  There are pills for anxiety, even a mood stabilizer. I think back on my pharmaceutical course, which doesn’t give me nearly enough information. But I’d know these medications anywhere.

  And this is where I’ve chosen to go after nearly being raped.

  I close
the door to the medicine cabinet and stare back at my reflection in the mirror. That mild-mannered man on the other side of the door is capable of violence. I saw it.

  But it was aimed at my attackers.

  Besides, his neighbor saw me. If I go missing, they’ll recognize me.

  There’s something in his eyes. Something close to death that stares back at me.

  “I worry the skeletons in your closet are more alive than you are, Abel,” I whisper, pressing my fingers to my lips.

  A knock at the bathroom door startles me.

  “You okay in there?” he calls.

  “Yes,” I answer as I scramble to get dressed, ignoring the soreness of my knees.

  When I open the bathroom door, he’s so close to the door that I have to step back.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles as he turns and walks away.

  I don’t want to go home. I don’t want the questions and the pretending that I’m perfect and everything is okay.

  “Can I stay here?” I ask him.

  His back tenses for a moment. “You can have the bed. I’ll sleep out here on the floor.”

  5

  Abel

  I’m fucked.

  I wish I could call Dr. Brown and ask him what the fuck I’m supposed to do here. Kick her out? Pray I don’t have any nightmares?

  I haven’t been alone in the company of a woman in too long. And when I was, I wasn’t really alone.

  Rose had been here.

  Every step of the way, since I met her, Rose had been here.

  And now I don’t know what to do.

  It isn’t like I can find love with someone else.

  To love is to invite your demons into the living world and pray they play well with others. My demons have sharp bloody teeth, and they look for soft flesh to bite into.

  Abelia is all supple alabaster skin and I’m terrified for her.

  “I’m not tired yet,” she tells me, and then sits at the kitchen table. My gray sweatpants on her are rolled up so they don’t drag on the floor when she walks. And she sits with her feet tucked under her, like she’s at home.

  What the fuck is this?

  “I kinda am…” I trail off, staring at her. “But I can stay up for a little.”

  Because I like playing with fire and you’re the first thing to warm me in such a long time.

  “Can we share secrets?” she asks, and I wonder what the fuck she’s seen in my bathroom. “You look like you have a lot of them.”

  “Do you always badger people this way?” For a moment, her feelings are off the table. My pulse hammers as I wonder where the hell this conversation is going.

  “I’m a seeker of knowledge.” She looks so calm it’s unnerving. She reminds me of Dr. Brown in this way.

  “Because it’s power,” I tell her.

  “Because you make me curious,” she confesses, and it angers me.

  “I’m nobody. Ask anyone in this fucking town.” I gesture toward my front door, toward my neighbors who wonder about me and poke their heads out of their doors when they hear me coming or going.

  “Everybody is somebody,” she reasons.

  “Yeah? And who are you?” My rebuttal is met with silence. But only for a moment, of course.

  “I’m a pretender. And I get the feeling that you are, too.”

  Fuck, her response is a good one.

  “A secret for a secret?” she asks.

  I nod, unsure of what I can give her, but I have to admit, the feeling of my mask slipping makes me feel more human than I have in the last decade.

  “I wanted to become a doctor to overcome my fear of death. I figure if I inspect it closely, I could become more comfortable with it.” She smiles. “Most people want to save people. I just want to understand why we all die.”

  I nod and take a seat, trying to mull over which secret to share.

  “Your turn,” she reminds me.

  I look her square in the eye and tell her, “People die because of checks and balances.” It’s the simplest answer I can give. Good people die; bad people die. And if you’re lucky, you make it out in a way that feels more like relief than pain.

  “That’s not a secret,” she tells me.

  “A secret? I think everyone in this town knows I’m dangerous. They don’t know how or what it is about me, but they’re right.” I expect her to question it, but she sits there, not a shift of emotion in her eyes. Not a lick of fear.

  “I haven’t been back here in three years,” she says. “The last time I was here, I was dying.” She lifts her arms, shoves the sleeves up, and reveals two vertical scars—one on each wrist.

  “Were you that curious that you wanted to experience it yourself?” I ask.

  “I wanted to stop fearing it. To just get it over with,” she says, and I imagine how much paler her skin must’ve been, so close to death. I imagine her blood, foaming thick from her wrists.

  I wonder who saved her. I wonder if she was disappointed.

  “Don’t rush to it. It’s uneventful,” I tell her, not knowing how to handle seeing the harm she’s done to herself. In some ways, she’s so much like Rose.

  “Have you died before, Abel?”

  Every time she says my name, it’s like ice down my back. No one else has called me that in a long time. No one except Dr. Brown.

  “Parts of me have.” I sigh, scrubbing my hands over my face.

  “And the parts that haven’t, how are they now?” She leans forward, her brown eyes boring into me.

  “They’re wondering if you’re satisfying a morbid curiosity. Why are you here, Abelia?”

  “I can’t explain it,” she answers.

  She leans back and I have to be careful as my past and present collide once more. I’d try to save her. I’d try to love her. I’d give up my rage for her. My ghosts, too.

  I can feel the goddamn impending hope, blooming inside of me like some impious doom.

  She makes me think love could be a peaceful thing, until I remember.

  Once you fall madly in love, you’ll only ever love madly again.

  Basherte, something like a breeze reminds me.

  Abelia smiles.

  “Try?” I beg.

  The more of her presence I suck up like a sponge, the more I realize how starved I’ve been for this. Human interaction. Hope. Desire. Intrigue.

  “You seem a little dead to me,” she says, her eyes roaming over me before stopping to meet my gaze.

  “And you like that?” I ask, confused.

  “I do. I think you’re beautiful.”

  She smiles again, and I pray I only ever dream of brown eyes for the rest of my life.

  Cynthia hates writing her own bio. In her down-time, you can find her watching movies, ranging anywhere from classic to action flicks (she has a weakness for Marvel adaptations), and reading any novel she can get her hands on.

  She loves hearing from her readers! You can reach Cynthia at cynthia.a.rodriguez6@gmail.com.

  Also by Cynthia A. Rodriguez

  Crashing Souls

  Souls Collide (Crashing Souls #2)

  The Sound of Serendipity

  EVOL

  Folie à Deux

  Teófila’s Guide to Saving the Sun

  Hate Me