Baby Vamp

A children's picture book. I don't know how it ends.

Pages 1 and 2

Mr and Mrs Grindelwald had been very happily married for five years, and had decided to have a child. Peter Grindelwald was a graphic designer, and had agreed to work from home and look after the baby. Maria Grindelwald was a financier, who wanted to return to work. Their savings were in order, the mortgage was paid off, and Mr Grindelwald’s parents were waiting in the wings, expectantly clutching knitted booties and toy fire engines.

The Grindelwald’s were very organised in everything they did, as you can probably tell. They were happy when they knew things were going well. Mr Grindelwald, especially, did not cope well with surprises.

(Illustration; Mr and Mrs Grindelwald must be prominent. They are exceptionally normal, cuddly parental people. Peter Grindelwald is balding, with brown hair, and Maria Grindelwald has shoulder-length blonde hair. They look comforting. They are happy together, perhaps holding hands or cuddling on a sofa. If the elder Mr and Mrs Grindelwald are in the picture, they look very grandparent-ey – grey/white hair, friendly, comforting. All very much ‘normal’ and comforting and parent-y. Those are the key words. Perhaps there can be a roaring log fire or something. For some reason, I’m picturing Christmas).

Pages 3 and 4

Mr and Mrs Grindelwald were thrilled when they found out that they were expecting a baby. They decorated the nursery in yellow, since they didn’t know if they were having a boy or a girl. They wanted to be surprised for once, just a little bit. The curtains had little ducks on them.

They thought up names; Todd Michael Grindelwald for a boy, and Tina Michelle Grindelwald for a girl. Like everything else in their lives, the pregnancy went exactly as planned. Until, that is, the baby was born, when they got a much bigger surprise than they’d expected.

(Illustration: Mr and Mrs Grindelwald decorating the nursery. Yellow walls, border with ducks on it. Cream curtains with ducks on. Pine cot with carved ducks. Laminate flooring, with a duck rug. Big cuddly duck in the cot, lots of little duck toys scattered around. Put in one of those pull along duckie toys, like the ones in Shadow Hearts, only not attacking. Mobile with ducks on it. One lonely penguin toy sitting on a pine rocking chair in the corner. Maria Grindelwald should appear to be about six months pregnant – she’s painting the walls with a roller. Underneath the new yellow paint, the walls are white. Peter Grindelwald can be carrying things – a new can of paint, or the dish thing that goes with the roller.

I like ducks.)

Pages 5 and 6

Todd Michael Grindelwald was born at 3:53pm on the 14th of September. Mr and Mrs Grindelwald didn’t notice how strange he was right away. They counted his little fingers and toes and told each other that he was the most beautiful intelligent child who’d ever been born.

Then they noticed that his skin was slightly green. And that he’d been born with two pointy little teeth in his mouth.

“Oh dear,” said Mrs Grindelwald, when Peter noticed this. “I never told you about my father, did I Peter? He’s a vampire, and it looks like Todd inherited it.”

(Illustration: Maria and Peter Grindelwald in hospital just after the birth. Maria is in a hospital bed, holding baby Todd, who is fast asleep. You can see just see his little fangs. He is wrapped in a little yellow cuddle blanket - with ducks on it - and has thick dark hair which is just peeking out from under the hood. His skin, as mentioned, has a slight green tinge.

Peter Grindelwald is standing by the bed and seems worried and slightly shocked, Maria seems tired but happy. They’re both looking at baby Todd.)

Pages 7 and 8

Over the next few months, Peter and Maria Grindelwald learned to look after their new baby. Or, at least, Maria did.

He slept quite a lot for the first week or two. After that, there was no rest. Todd’s favourite time of day was 3am, when he usually decided it was time for a sing-song.

Maria was the one who got up to fetch Todd in the night. She was the one who bathed him and fed him, along with, sometimes, help from the older Mr and Mrs Grindelwald, who, after the initial shock, decided that they rather liked their little grandson, vampire or not.

Todd didn’t drink blood yet. He was too little. He wasn’t afraid of sunlight or garlic either. But still, Peter Grindelwald was deathly afraid of those little teeth. He did all the cleaning, all the cooking, all the shopping, every single chore possible – except the ones that involved touching the baby.

(Illustration: Baby Todd in the kitchen, in a high chair, being spoon fed by Maria while the elder Mr and Mrs Grindelwald hover supportively. Mrs Grindelwald is waving a fluffy duck, while Mr Grindelwald is holding the chair of baby food. Baby Todd is waving his arms and looks utterly delighted. Peter Grindelwald can be seen through the open doorway, pushing a vacuum cleaner and staring at Todd with a terrified expression).

Pages 9 and 10

When baby Todd was six months old, Maria Grindelwald went back to work. As the front door closed behind her, Peter and baby Todd exchanged an uneasy glance.

“Asabu?” asked baby Todd earnestly.

(Illustration: Peter and Todd Grindelwald by the front door. Through the window, you can see the back of Maria as she walks down the path towards her car. Todd is sitting on the floor, looking up at Peter with an innocent questioning kind of expression. Peter looks terrified.)

Pages 11 and 12

Left all alone with his son, Peter tried his best. Still too terrified of those fangs to get close to him, he made some unique arrangements to care for baby Todd. He came up with quite an ingenious way of changing nappies for instance, and as for feeding, he’d simply strap the baby into the highchair. Then he used an extra long spoon to shovel the baby food into Todd’s mouth. Todd thought it was a wonderful game.

(Illustration: Todd in his highchair in the kitchen. There are dishes piled up in the sink. Peter is feeding Todd with a long spoon, made of one spoon strapped to a long dowel rod. His expression is such that he looks as if he is attempting to defuse a bomb via correspondence course. Todd thinks the entire thing is hilarious.)

Pages 13 and 14

The first three or four months weren’t so bad. The house and the baby were cared for, and Peter Grindelwald hadn’t received any nasty bites. Todd could have done with a few more cuddles, but his mother took care of that after work, and he seemed to be developing quite well. His first word was ‘duck’, closely followed by ‘mama!’, all filmed for posterity by Peter Grindelwald. They seemed to be making it work.

The problems came when Todd began to crawl.

Peter had begun to relax around Todd’s teeth, but now his fears were redoubled. Before, he could put the baby down somewhere and be reasonably certain that he’d still be there when he came back. Now Todd could follow him, and Peter was very worried.

(Illustration: Peter and Todd in the hallway. Peter is on the other side of a baby gate, holding a toy duck which is tied to the end of a broom. He’s trying to get Todd to take it. Todd is crawling towards the gate looking a little bit hurt and rejected. His hair is a little longer now, but otherwise he looks the same. His baby-gro is green and has ducks on it.)

Pages 15 and 16

Todd hadn’t realised that his father didn’t like him before then. Maria hadn’t been certain either. Until one weekend, when it all came to a head.

Peter walked into Todd’s nursery to find him in the process of happily beheading his fluffy ducks. He’d crawled over to them and begun tearing them apart, spraying fluff everywhere. As Peter looked at him, Todd giggled happily. “Iddiba ducks!” he announced.

“MARIA!” Peter yelled down the stairs.

(Illustration: Todd is sitting in a pile of fluff and ducks, crowing and generally having the time of his life. Peter is in the doorway yelling down the stairs for his wife. The penguin is fine.

Todd’s skin is a slightly darker green than before.)

Pages 17 and 18

“Peter, what is it?” Maria asked, as she arrived panting in the room. She’d run up the stairs.

Peter pointed at the ducks.

“Is the baby all right?!” she asked, confused.

“He’s fine,” Peter replied. “The ducks aren’t.”

“Oh, thank god!” Maria said, reaching for Todd.

Todd held his arms up to her, with a happy cry of “mama!”.

(Illustration: Maria cuddling Todd, who is looking over her shoulder and waving his arms at Peter. There are bits of ducks all over the floor. Peter looks upset.)

Pages 19 and 20

Maria turned to Peter. “Hold the baby while I fetch the dust pan and brush to sweep up the ducks.” She looked at Todd. “Naughty baby!”

“Iddiba ducks,” said Todd indignantly.

Maria held Todd out to Peter. He took the baby gingerly, and Maria went downstairs.

“Now let’s make this clear, young man,” he said, looking at his son.

“Mish mich?”

“No biting.”

Todd gnashed his little teeth and giggled.

“Maria!”

(Illustration: Maria holding Todd. Todd has turned his face away from her, and has an indignant huffy expression. He is not naughty. Iddiba ducks.

I have no idea what that means, but he does.

Todd could have his arms folded. Maria is wagging a finger at him.)

Pages 19 and 20

Maria came back into the room to see Peter holding Todd at arms length. Todd was giggling and waving his arms, trying to touch his father’s face.

“Peter, what are you doing?!” she asked, shocked.

“He’s trying to bite me!”

“He isn’t, Peter! He just wants to be hugged by his father.”

Maria took the baby from her husband. Todd cried “mamama!” and snuggled into her shoulder.

“Peter, we can’t go on like this.”

“Adema,” agreed Todd.

Peter looked defeated. “We can’t,” he agreed, finally. “What can we do?”

(Illustration: Peter is holding Todd away from him, at arms length. Todd is almost vertical in the air, waving his arms and trying desperately to reach his father’s face. Maria is in the doorway.)

Nothing changed for a few days. Maria had to go to work, and so Peter and Todd muddled along as best they could. Until Thursday morning.

Todd was crawling around in the hallway playing with his toys, while Peter sat behind a childproof gate, making sure he didn’t poison himself. Suddenly, the letterbox opened.

“Hello? Hello? Let me in!”

(Illustration: Todd in hallway, looking up at letterbox. Peter is sitting on the stairs, which are fastened with a gate at the bottom.)

The King and the Teacup

Below are the fragments of a story that I had in my mind one day when I woke up. It seemed like it would be interesting if it were coherent.

***

“I once had a room that resonated alternately with the King’s watch, a teacup, and the boardroom at Werther’s International. The most interesting thing happened on its birthday – it used to listen to half a teacup.”

“What was the other half?”

*

Her mind fogged, and the original room came into view.

“The headboard was different. It was more delicate.”

“I know the one! Great headboard!”

“Fantastic headboard!”

“And that teddy was by the vase.”

*

A story about a wizard who spies on the King, and a young girl who tries to get close to the King. A young King who needs to recall the way his room was for an ancestor in order to communicate with him and get his help? Advice? Against some kind of evil.

It’s perfectly normal to spy on the King. The wizard is benevolent.

Simon Jones is Dead

Simon Jones is dead.

I don’t entirely understand why this is my problem, but here I am anyway. Exiled to this backwater town, in Wales of all places. A town where nothing has ever happened or will ever happen – until now.

It’s supposed to be a punishment, I think. I managed to piss off the chief once too often, and he sent me out here till he cools off. He knows how much I hate not being in on the action.

Well, now I’m right in the thick of it. Small mercies.

I’m given an assistant. A local boy, far younger than I’d like, obviously moving up the ranks by dint of there being no one above him. It’s the same everywhere – not enough experienced coppers – but here, it’s especially exaggerated. The boy briefs me in the car, as I try to make sense of the signs. What the hell does “Fford Ymlaen ae Gau” mean? I shrug and drive down it anyway. The boy doesn’t notice, concentrating on the files as he is. I think this is his first case, and he’s as nervous as a tight-rope walker without a safety net.

“The only two people in the house were the sister and the daughter of the deceased,” the boy says. I think I may have gotten us hopelessly lost.

“Names?”

“Ceri and Angharad Jones.”

“Any motives?”

“Well, the daughter will inherit everything if he dies. Unless she murdered him, of course.”

“What about the aunt?”

“She’s not named in the deceased’s Will.” He says. I must learn what his name is. “It seems that her brother supported her. With him dead, she’s reliant on Angharad.”

"Do they get along?”

“Ceri and Angharad?”

I roll my eyes.

“I don’t know.”

“What’s your name, lad?”

“Ioan.”

“Yo-ann?”

“Ioan.”

“YowAN?”

He gives up on correcting my pronunciation. Instead, he asks to drive. We swap places, and I read the case files as he attempts to get us to the crime scene.

A thought occurs to me as I flick through the notes.

“Eye-o-ban?”

“Yes?”

He responded. Therefore, my pronunciation is close enough.

“They do speak English, don’t they?”

“Angharad was educated in England.”

“That’s the daughter, right? What about the aunt?”

“Oh, she’s never left the village.”

I groan inwardly.

“She speaks English about as well as I do,” the boy adds. I cheer up. “Are you finished checking those case files?” He asks. “We’re here.”

I groan again.

*

I’m briefed properly before meeting the suspects.

Simon Jones is – was - an eccentric millionaire. A self-made man, although I’m not entirely sure what his business was. Something Welsh. Salt mines, maybe.

Anyway, Jones retired at a fairly young age – forty-six according to the information I’m given. His wife was much younger – in her early twenties at the time they married, when he was thirty-seven and his business was flourishing. English, too. Not in the picture anymore.

I gather from the files that she divorced him, shortly after the birth of Angharad, and ran away back to London. Since she claimed custody of Angharad at the time, she got half of his fortune. Then, when Angharad became a troublesome teenager, she shipped her back, and headed on to Paris.

Reading over my shoulder, the boy comments, “Ast. It’s not really surprising that Simon hated the English after that.”

“Oh?”

“Never left Wales again. Didn’t even speak English anymore. Simply refused to.”

“The female Joneses don’t have such strong feelings, do they?”

“With all due respect sir, relax. They both speak English. Even if they didn’t, I could translate.”

I make a non-committal sound. I’m not conducting a homicide investigation in a language I don’t understand, thank you very much.

I continue reading. After the divorce, when the deceased became, more or less, a recluse, his sister, Ceri, moved in to take care of him. Before then, she’d been a school teacher, but after moving in, she retired as well. All her bills were paid by her generous brother. She was currently fifty-six, a few years younger than the deceased – sixty-three at the time of death – with no discernable source of income, following the death of her brother. She wasn’t named in his Will, which left everything to his daughter. It seemed she’d have to rely on Angharad’s generosity, or struggle through the years until she got her pension. That is, unless Angharad was shown to have murdered her father, in which case his entire fortune went to his next of kin – Ceri.

Angharad, although now twenty-six, still lived at home. She travelled widely, much as her mother had, but, as far as I could gather, stopped in every so often, to check up on her father. Possibly to see how much longer he had before she had access to the entire fortune, rather than the generous amounts of pocket money that daddy doled out regularly. Angharad was the sole benefactor of the Will, which didn’t lead to a motive. After all, all she had to do was wait until her father died of his own accord.

Now for the man himself. Simon Jones, although only sixty-three, wasn’t in the best of health. In fact, it would be more accurate to say that the man, following years of alcoholism and saturated fat, would soon have died of his own accord. He’d already suffered two strokes, according to the notes. In fact, it was a miracle that he was alive at all. But, alive he was, and spending the remainder of his days tucked up in his bed, strapped to various machines.

Despite his ill health, his doctor was of the opinion that he shouldn’t have died just yet. Although in pain, the man was still relatively alert, still somewhat talkative. Weak, but not dead yet.

This opened up another theory. Perhaps the man’s sister or daughter had taken pity on him.

*

I examine the crime scene before meeting the suspects. The dead man is still in his bed.

I take in the room. It’s expensively yet simply decorated. There are bookcases, although none of the titles are in a language I can understand. A chair with red cushions on it. The bed of course, made up with blue sheets and pillows, with a darker blue bedspread. A simple red carpet.

I approach the bed, and the cadaver that fills it. The dead man is frowning, as if he’d been in the middle of a tricky logic problem when he died. He is lying on his back.

I’ve never really been one for forensics. People are much more interesting, and easier to puzzle out. It’s far easier just to come up with a theory, and lean on people until one of them breaks.

The boy, on the other hand is on his knees examining the carpet. With a pair of tweezers. I admire his dedication.

He straightens up – it’s probably occurred to him by now that the carpet won’t help much, other than by proving what we already know – that all the suspects have entered the room in the past. Instead, he examines the dead man, tweezers still in hand. After a minute he smiles, and pulls out an evidence bag.

“What’ve you found there, Ivan?”

“Ioan. There’re blue fibres on the dead man’s lips. Possible instrument of death?”

“Well done, lad. Well, that’s enough investigating for me. Let’s go ask questions.”

He looks disappointed.

*

We meet with the aunt first. Her lilting Welsh accent is interesting, but I’m still very grateful that the interview is conducted in English.

That doesn’t mean I’m going to be nice to her.

“Kerry,” I begin. “Where were you last night, before your brother was found dead?”

“I was...I was in the parlour. Playing cards with the cook.”

Of course they have a cook.

I make a note of this. “Where you there all evening?” I ask.

“Yes. It’s...it’s a regular thing. We play every Thursday night.”

We talk a little more, but her alibi seems to be water-tight. The officer on the scene interviewed all the servants in the house the night before, when the death was discovered, and the alibi works out.

Perhaps it’s time to talk to the other Jones female.

*

Angharad is far more fashionably dressed than her aunt. While both have a certain elegance, Angharad’s is accentuated with a large number of glittering accessories. Her accent differs too, probably as a result of her English upbringing.

She smiles at the boy, giving him a Look from under her eyelashes. He blushes.

So that’s how it’s going to be, is it?

She has no alibi for the night before. Claims she was in her room all night, reading. That doesn’t quite gel with what one of the maids mentioned, about seeing her in the corridor outside her father’s room.

I mention this, and her face freezes, then melts. A tear begins to meander its way down her cheek. The boy leans forward, probably wanting to comfort her. From an aesthetic viewpoint, this may be her finest moment of the day.

“I did go to see him,” she admits. “He’s in so much pain these days.”

Her eyes gaze at me, at the lad, large and pleading, exaggerated by the tears that are flowing more freely now. She hides her face in her hands, as if overcome.

“I sat with him, for a while, holding his hand. We didn’t speak. Then I said...I said...”

She sobs for a minute. I wait for her to start speaking again.

"I said...papa, are you in very much pain? And he nodded. And – and I said, I asked him, papa, is there anything I can do?”

“What did he say?” asks the lad. He is enthralled, both by her story, and by the way the sunlight glimmers on the tears highlighting her face.

“He said just one word.” She whispers.

“What was that?”

I hope the lad stops talking soon. In my experience, it’s always better to let them fill any silences.

“Yes. He said ‘yes’.”

The lad is silent now. Good lad. The girl recovers herself.

“And I...I picked up the pillow from the bed. He closed his eyes...”

This case may be easier than I expected.

“...and then I put the pillow back and ran out of the room.”

She looks up at us again, pleading for understand with every inch of her rather shapely body.

“I couldn’t kill my father.”

*

“We’ve found some evidence of foul play,” I say. We’ve gone back to the aunt now. She looks stricken, then bursts into tears.

“Poor Simon,” I make out, amidst her wails.

“We have evidence that your niece killed him.”

I’m bluffing, of course, but it’s worth a try.

“Angharad?” She says, turning her tear-stained face towards us. “Angharad wouldn’t kill Simon!”

Yeah, lady, that’s what she said.

“I wasn’t with the cook all night,” she says, through her sobs. “I went to see Simon.”

Well, this is getting interesting.

“He’s in so much pain.” She buries her head in her hands again. “I can’t bear to see him like that. So, I picked up the cushion from the chair, and I held it above his face. He opened his eyes, and looked at me. And he whispered ‘fy chwaer i’...and that’s when I did it. I killed him. I killed my brother. I killed Simon Jones.”

***

Let's talk about the problems with this story.

Ceri didn't kill Simon. Angharad did. The hint is in the last words they attribute to him - Ceri has him speaking Welsh. Angharad doesn't specify a language, but we know it's not Welsh, because Welsh doesn't have a word for yes. However, my build-up isn't strong enough for the reader to suspect that Ceri's lying. That's why I didn't bother to finish it.

Still Life in Butterflies

Once upon a time there was darkness, and flashing lights, and music, and a boy staring at a girl like he never had before.

She spoke to him a lot that evening. He was the DJ. That means a free-pass to talk to pretty much everyone, without coming across as creepy.

She stayed there because there was cheap drinks and old familiar songs.

Everyone else was creepy. He'd have been creepy, if he'd come on any stronger.

At the end of the evening, she went and gave him a hug to say goodbye.

He wasn't the most attractive person she'd ever seen, but he was sweet, and nice, and she had a feeling that he had a thing for her.

He thought she fancied him. DJ is a pussy-magnet kind of job.

As she turned to leave, he asked "Can I take you out for a drink sometime?"

She replied "I live in Birmingham."

"Bugger."

In the Chinese opposite, she decided it was worth a try. She borrowed a piece of paper and a pen, and sent her friend over with her name and number.

*

There were endless text conversations. He told her that he was shy. She couldn't see it.

Two months of texts. He slept with three people, she slept with one and felt guilty about it.

He told her he didn't like slutty girls. She asked if eight people was slutty, afraid that he'd think that it was. He told her that he was up to nineteen. This was before the other three.

She felt dwarfed.

She was used to being adored, to being the one considered a catch.

So was he.

*

She came back to the city on a Friday, to the same club. He didn't watch her as much that night, but when he saw her he smiled so much that she wondered if it hurt.

*

Certain bits of conversation stood out.

"If you don't love me, you know, that's your problem."

"I don't need to love myself - I have other people for that."

*

They spent the day together that Sunday. They wandered around the city centre. Held hands for a while. There were no butterflies.

She wanted to look around the Entertainer. He left her there and went to buy speakers.

She waited, bored. Called her best friend, her ex, the one she'd slept with at the new year. She didn't tell him what was wrong, or even that anything was. He guessed it from her voice.

Sent the DJ a text, telling him to call her when he wanted her to come back.

She considered calling her other friend, and asking her to come and pick her up, but rejected the idea. Yes, he knew that she was in a strange city, and had just abandoned her there. But was that really bad, or just thoughtless?

They saw a film. At the cinema, for a few seconds, he stood close together, so close she could feel electricity under her skin. She fell back when it became too much.

Watching the film, she whispered in his ear. His hand touched her face, as if he were going to kiss her.

*

She texted more than he did. She was more talkative, and checked her phone more often. She was afraid that if they didn't talk, he'd forget her.

*

She went home with him. She told him she wanted to wait to sleep with him, and made it clear that it wouldn't happen that weekend. She agreed to stay in the city for a few more days.

They watched another movie, curled up together on the sofa.

Halfway through, she asked "you know that thing you're thinking about now? How long have you been thinking that?"

He said "what am I thinking about?"

She kissed him twice, softly. "That".

She turned back to the film. There was silence for a minute. She could feel his confusion, his lack of grasp on the situation.

Eventually, he asked "why did you do that?"

"Because I wanted to."

They started kissing again. There were no butterflies or electricity. It was nice. It was comfortable.

*

Talking on the phone later that week, miles apart, she told him one of the reasons - there were many - that she wanted to wait.

She told him that, when he touched her, she wondered if he was comparing her to the crowd. Out of cruelty, she told him that his touch disgusted her.

She said she knew that it was her problem, that she needed to either get over it or leave.

It would have helped if, in every conversation, he hadn't talked about some girl who was hitting on him, or a stalker, or some best friend who loved him.

He told her that she should think of it as maybe being the last, not being a member of a crowd.

She told him that that would make it hurt more.

*

Before then, he'd texted her, out of the blue;

"Take my hand and we can fly."

"What if I fall?"

"Then I will catch you."

She typed out a reply, but she didn't send it. She saved it, and told him it existed, and planned to show it to him someday.

"Do you promise? Because I think I might be falling already."

*

Later, she told him that when she'd wanted to look around the Entertainer, she'd wanted to look around it with him. She used the random products there as a springboard for conversation. She told him it had been a douchebag move to abandon her for speakers.

He apologised.

His apologies were never an expression of regret. He used them like magic tokens, as if merely saying the words would make everything better, would take away the other party's right to be upset.

*

He started asking if she loved him. Not directly.

He'd say things like "that's why you love me."

Or, "you love me really."

She'd reply with "no, I don't."

Depending on what they'd been discussing, she'd add "Sometimes, I don't even like you that much."

He'd say "yeah, you do."

*

He worked two full-time jobs, one in the day time and one at night.

The next day, when they woke up, they didn't kiss each other at first, due to morning breath. Then they decided that that didn't matter.

She didn't mind being left alone. She was anti-social, and enjoyed exploring the area. She liked watching TV, and knitting, and generally enjoying the quiet.

Before he came home, she cleaned. She did the washing up, wiped down surfaces, made the bed, and vacuumed. She wanted his home to be nice for him. She wanted to be a good guest.

He brought her flowers, and cake, which he couldn't eat. He brought her bread, and he couldn't eat that either.

He made her pancakes for breakfast.

She fell asleep on the sofa one night, waiting for him to come home.

He didn't wake her when he opened the door. That was odd. She never stayed asleep once there was someone else awake in the room.

He picked her up and carried her to bed. He told her he couldn't bear to leave her there.

*

A week after she'd told him that he disgusted her, he got drunk.

He told one of his friends about her, and the friend convinced him to break up with her over text.

Earlier that day, they'd been texting. She asked if he'd eaten today. He replied with "eaten today." She asked if it was something substantial. He'd replied "something substantial."

She wrote "<3 you".  He replied with "Really?!"

She wrote "yes.  I heart lots of things, you included."

After she received that text, she started calling him.  He was not getting off that easy.

He texted that he was still in a club, and she wouldn't be able to hear him.  She told him to go somewhere quiet.

He said he'd text her when he got home.

She waited.  She didn't cry, although she did post "can't cry hard enough" to her facebook status.  That was the song she'd listened to through her last break-up.  She went through the motions of what she knew she should do.

They talked, for four hours straight.  He told her that she'd really upset him with that comment.

He said other things.  He said that she made him feel stupid, and she asked him how.  She wanted to know exactly what she was saying or doing to make him feel that way.  He couldn't pinpoint it.

He told her she was a tease, for kissing him that way and not sleeping with him.  She pointed out that she'd told him from the start that they wouldn't have sex.  She thought, but didn't say, that if he didn't believe her, that was his problem.

He said he hated the way she critiqued movies and books, constantly, analysing them into their constituent parts.  He pointed out that, although it might not seem like much to her, Twilight represented three months of his life, the time he'd spent reading it.

She didn't see why you couldn't appreciate something both as a whole, and as the sum of its parts.

*

Later, just before the end, she asked him, if he saw a magic trick that he really enjoyed, would he rather find out how it was done, or would that ruin it?

He told her it would ruin it.

That was the answer she'd expected.

She hadn't realised before that some people would rather not know, would take more from the experience if the mystery remained.  Once she knew those people existed, she'd realised he must be one of them.

*

He told her that he'd never stared at anyone like that before.  That he'd never asked a customer for her phone number before.

She pointed out that much of their relationship was based on luck.

He said "fate."

She said "only if it works out."

*

They made up eventually.

She went to see him the next week.

They slept together, then, accidentally, organically.

She'd asked him to be tested, that first weekend.  He hadn't.  He hadn't had time.

He believed he didn't have to, since he'd only slept with one person without using a condom. 

She got tested, to be fair.

She wondered, later, if he knew she asked all her partners to be tested - except for virgins - or if he assumed she was just asking him.

It wasn't that great.

At one point, he told her, as if he were informing her, that women couldn't expect orgasms every time.

She didn't laugh in his face.

She wondered if he'd gotten that idea from the same place that told him it was perfectly acceptable to put his hands over his ears and start singing when she tried to discuss contraception in depth.

*

The day after the drunken argument, she'd asked him if they were okay.  He pretended that he'd forgotten what she was talking about.  She felt as if she'd been kicked in the ribs.

*

The day after they'd slept together, he told her that he was going to run her a bath, with bath bombs,and bubbles, and special things.

She told him that she didn't want a bath, she didn't feel like it.  He went instead.

That morning, he'd made pancakes again.  He ate on the sofa.  She told him she was going back to bed.  She had to say "okay?" twice, before he responded.  She was making sure he was all right with people eating in other rooms.

Later, he'd told her that he'd wanted them to have breakfast together.  She wondered why he couldn't have joined her.

*

He'd told her, once, that one of his exes had aborted his child, without telling him beforehand.  He felt betrayed.

This seemed at odds with his idea that all he had to do was use condoms, and not think about any other contraceptive.

*

Since that night, she couldn't take a joke.  He'd criticised her, while drunk, for not realising that he was simply quoting part of her texts, and not really answering.  She had noticed, but had assumed he was being cute.  She hadn't realised he was lying.

She wondered if he'd tell her something serious - like that he was cheating on her - by disguising it as something she'd take as a joke.  She took everything he said seriously.  Like when she asked if he knew anyone who was pregnant, and he told her that he could get someone pregnant tonight.

*

She went and slept on the sofa one night, unable to fall asleep next to him.  She wanted to be held, to hug something while she slept.  He didn't, although he had that first night.  She felt lonely, reminding herself not to hug him.  She felt resentful, that she kept giving her affection and wasn't getting any, even in her sleep.

He woke up around 6am, and kissed her on the cheek.

She was awake.  She'd woken up the instant he'd opened the door.

She wondered why he left her there.

*

He cooked for her.  She suggested adding lemon to the roast potatoes, and he shooed her out of the kitchen, making the comparison that you wouldn't walk into a kitchen at a restaurant and demand that they make things to your specifications.

She told him "I just wanted to join in."

They talked as he cooked.  She became more enthusiastic, talking about things she'd read.  Then her face closed up, and she stopped.

He asked her what was wrong.

"Sorry," she said, "I just realised," and she quoted, "I was going on about boring shit that no one cared about."

She sat on the sofa, with her back to him.  She felt the tears on her face.

She didn't make a sound.  Her shoulders didn't move.

He'd seen her sob before, but he'd never seen tears.  She didn't cry that way very often.

He came and held her, and apologised.  He couldn't remember saying that.  He'd been drunk.

She leaned against him as they ate.  He moved away, annoyed that she was in the way.

*

A week later, back home, she got an IUD fitted.  She hadn't planned it - it had been a spur of the moment decision, while discussing other methods with a nurse.  That was a Friday.

She was going to see him on Monday, and that wasn't planned either.  She had been intending to visit her friend, in Aberdeen, but had changed her plans at the last minute, when he'd asked her to.

He was jealous.

He'd told her that his past girlfriends had cheated on him, but he'd never once committed adultery.  She believed him.

*

While drunk, he'd told her that he'd never love her.

Later, he revealed that despite his myriad friends, he was only really close to two or three people.  She hadn't noticed that.  She didn't realise how closed in he was until he mentioned that.  He seemed so extroverted.

Of course, that was the last conversation they'd had.

*

He called her after work that Friday she got the IUD.  It was 3am.  When they lost connection, she turned her phone off, wanting nothing else than to go back to sleep.

She'd never done that before.  She'd always stayed awake for him, talking for as long as possible.

She decided to pretend that her phone had turned itself off.  It had been known to do that, when it was on charge.


*

He went out drinking again, the Saturday after she got the coil fitted.  She received three texts that night.

"babes call me am not too drubk xxx"

The other two talked about missing her, thinking about her all the time, and chicken biriyani.

*

The IUD made her bleed, faster than she normally would.  She was in pain.  She felt woozy.  And she'd always been a bit of a hypochondriac.

She left work on the Sunday afternoon, and walked down to the nearby hospital.  When she asked the receptionists about it, they told her to go to A&E.

Afterwards, on the way out, she called him.  She hadn't been intending to, and she told him that.  She just wanted affection.

*

She arrived at his flat around 6pm the next day, just as he was preparing for his second job of the day.  He opened the door and turned back to cooking.  She let herself fall onto the sofa and lay down.  She still felt terrible.

He didn't kiss her, even when she asked.  He accused her of looking at him a certain way, as if berating him for having to work.  She told him that that wasn't what the look meant at all - if anything, it meant "where's my kiss?".

She texted him when he was on his way to work.

"so you're disgusted by me because of something I had to do to protect myself because you won't.  Classy."

It was later established that he'd assumed she had flu.  She asked him if it wasn't an obvious connection, to assume that she felt bad for the same reason Monday as she had on Sunday.


*

When he came home, she woke up as soon as he opened the door.  She hugged him as he got into bed.  He asked her to move, since she was too warm.  She realised that she was, so warm that she felt sick.

"I'm sorry my discomfort is inconveniencing you."

They talked a little.

She'd told him that, once again, they couldn't have sex. She was still bleeding.  She didn't tell him that she expected it to stop by Wednesday or Thursday, but she did say that, although he didn't have to wear condoms, she'd still prefer if he did for a little while.  She didn't tell him that she was worried about his piercing catching on the strings, or residual blood.  He didn't ask.

*

She'd written him a letter, one night after another argument, answering his question - why was she with him?  It wasn't a love letter.  It was a like letter.

When he'd received it, he'd given it to his best friend to read.  He'd said that he couldn't read her handwriting.

She told him that that was personal, and that he must have known that.  That her feelings were not his to share.

He apologised, but not in a way that suggested he was sorry.

She told him that she hated him, not in an entirely serious way.  Later, she told him she didn't hate him - she regretted him.

He asked "are we okay?", in a voice which displayed emotion, for the first time in ages.

She said "probably.  As long as you stay the fuck away from my diaries."

*

Later, when she asked if he'd called on Friday, still pretending to have forgotten, he told her that she'd hung on him.  She told him that she never would, and they must have just gotten cut off.  It had happened before, after all, the connection being bad at some points on his way home.  He didn't believe her.

*

Tuesday, he had an evening free.

They went to the shopping centre first.

In the car, she tried to be cheerful, tried to make conversation.  It didn't work.  He replied, but he didn't smile at her.  He still hadn't kissed her.

She stopped trying, and they sat in silence.

He'd already told her that he didn't want her with him while he bought a mac.  He was going to use his student card, and would have to lie, since he'd graduated the year before.  So, when they got there, she walked off.

She got lost, a little.  She didn't know her way around, didn't know where anything interesting was.  She kept walking around the same things, over and over.

She hated being abandoned in strange places.  It was different when he was at work, when she had a home to return to.  Being dropped in a strange shopping centre was weird.

She ignored his call when it came, making him wait.  She was buying a hot chocolate upstairs.

They went to see a film.  She didn't talk in the car.  He asked her what was wrong, why she was in a mood.  She said she wasn't, she was just tired.

Throughout the film, the pains continued.  She creased up every few minutes.  Halfway through, she texted "don't worry, I'll be back" and left.  She went to throw up.  She couldn't respond to texts for twenty minutes or so.

When she checked them, she found that he was in the car outside.  He was leaving.  He'd assumed that she'd just abandoned him, and had gone to call her friend to pick her up.  He was prepared to abandon her there, in the middle of nowhere, in pain.

She told him that she was ill,and he went back inside.  He asked her to join him.

She did, but she couldn't enjoy the end of the film.  It still hurt.

Afterwards, she had trouble standing up.  The world was spinning, and her muscles ached.

Later, she'd wonder whether she might have overdosed slightly on the paracetamol she'd been taking for the pain.  He helped her to the car.

Driving home, she asked him "do you really want to be in a relationship with anyone right now?"

He replied "honestly?  No."

She said that she'd suspected he'd say that.

He asked her why she'd asked the question, then, when she knew she wouldn't like the answer.

His query didn't make sense to her. Some questions - like that one - are more important when the answer is negative.  It's not about what people want to hear.

They talked about other things.  He claimed she'd been in a mood all evening.  She pointed out that she was just tired, and was behaving in pretty much the same way he always did.  That wasn't to make a point - that was just coincidental.

Eventually, she was forced to point out that she hadn't actually done anything wrong, in being ill or in being tired.

She wondered, but didn't say, How much pain do I have to be in before it stops being about you?

At home, they talked as he made cheesecake.

She told him she could leave if he wanted her to.

He didn't answer.

She said it again.

He replied "so leave."

She asked if he wanted her to.

He didn't reply.

She pushed him more.  Eventually, he told her that he wanted her to leave.

She was going to call her friend, but she wasn't sure whether her voice would crack or not.  She sent a text instead.

They had half an hour.

He kept cooking.  She gathered her belongings.  She made him find the letter, and set fire to it.

He told her that she couldn't burn it in the flat, that she'd have to go outside.  She did.

Outside, she noticed that only the edges had burnt.  She put the flames out against the concrete floor.

She ran downstairs and then back up, just to kill time, and hid the letter in her pocket.  She had to knock to get back in.

She hid the letter behind his bedroom door, when she went in to double check whether she'd left anything there.  She had, in fact, left a pile of condoms in his drawer, but she didn't feel like claiming those.

She asked him if he was surprised that she'd hadn't cried.  He said "no.  If you'd cried, that would mean that you'd loved me."

They hugged, twice times, before she left.

His breath changed slightly, and he sounded like he might cry.

He busied himself with CDs.

She walked over.  She said, "I don't hate you.  I don't dislike you.  I don't think you're a bad person.  And I don't regret you.  I think you've been lying to me [about never loving me], and I think you're wrong, but I don't hate you."

She waited a second.  "Wendy should have texted then."

"Why?"

"Because that would have made a real neat end to my speech."

Her phone buzzed with a text then.

She walked over, and read it.  She picked up her bags.

He'd followed her, and she hugged him again.

"You've got ten seconds," she said, as she let go.

"To what?"

"To change your mind."

They looked at each other as the door swung closed between them.

*

She didn't cry.  She hasn't yet.

He was right.  They were wrong for each other, and they were both trying so hard that they made each other miserable.

She was so busy trying to make it work that she'd forgotten to ask herself whether she really wanted it to or not.

*

Somewhere, somehow, nothing happened but darkness, and flashing lights, and music, and a boy staring at a girl like he never had before.  And that's where it ended.

I don't know if that's better or not.

- slipping right through your hands, she's a -

Once upon a time there was a witch. The magic had made her hideous, but it also made her beautiful.

Young men came for her, seeking to use her glamoured looks in the way in which one normally uses young women. She let them come, enticing them and later using their blood and lights for her spells.

One day, for reasons best known to herself, the wicked witch did not let a certain young man approach her. Instead, she unveiled herself of her magicks, letting him see her true form, and giving him the option to escape.

He did, of course, and she let him.

When he was an old man (and she still young, by the standards of witches) he wondered why she'd chosen him, and what would have happened if he'd entered her lair willingly, without needing to be fooled as the others had. If he'd made the other choice.

Of course, there is no way of knowing.

The Shape

This was my attempt at writing in a style reminiscent of Stephen King.

***

There is a drawing on the tile in front of me. A long oval, fatter at the bottom than the top, with a circle in the middle. There is other graffiti around it, but this stands out to me. This is special. It must be a message.

It is drawn in red, while the other drawings are in other colours. Orange, blue, black...no other red patterns. This is significant.

I finish washing my hands and leave the bathroom. Outside, it is quiet. I come here now, at this time of day, when I know it will be quiet, when there will be few people around.

The girl in the black shirt walks past, carrying a cloth. She works here. She is not wearing her necktie today. That is part of her uniform too. I wonder if her boss was angry?

She’s not looking at me. She’s looking at the floor, under the tables to see if they need sweeping.

I was going to eat, but I am too busy thinking to be hungry. I leave.

There is a tree outside, near the front door. A silver birch. I reach up and take a leaf. The leaf is oval, fatter at one end than the other. On the way home, I collect leaves, hundreds of leaves, stuffing them into my pockets. When I get home, I put them in my room and go out again. More leaves. The meaning will become clear when I have enough leaves.

It is night now. I can’t go out at night. Those are the rules. I know the rules.

I sleep surrounded by the crunch of leaves. Meaning comes to me in my dreams, but I forget it on waking. Nonetheless, I know it is not leaves. Something else, not leaves.

I walk out, in the watery early-morning sunlight. A bottle glints at me from the gutter, oval in shape, fatter at one end than the other. I pick it up, the weight of the glass heavy and pleasing in my hand. It fits into the pocket of my long coat. I pick up another that lies nearby. I find more, take them home, come out for me. Empty bottles in different colours.

When I get it right, something will happen.

I go back to the place, to the symbol. The bottom half is missing, along with the graffiti below it. I go home and smash the bottles. When I wake up, the marks are on my back. It is a sign that I am on the right track.

It is hard to walk across the room, to find my shoes. I put on my white shirt and it becomes red. My long coat hides it. I put my hands in the pockets and touch more glass.

I go back to the place again, sure that there will be another sign now I am on the right track. The symbol is smudged now, the red blurred. Like flames.

I see the wet floor sign in the corner, a flattened oval in shape, fatter at the bottom than at the top. I take a lighter from my pocket and hold it to one of the holes in the plastic. It does not catch immediately, and when it does, it does not flare up like the symbol promised. I leave, worried that I have done wrong.

I do not go home that night. It is okay to be out in the dark on this night. This night is okay. Tomorrow and yesterday are always okay, but today never is. Except this one.

I do not go back to the symbol for a week. I am frightened that I have been displeasing.

When I gain the courage to go back, the symbol has changed. It is as fresh and bright as it was on the day when it first appeared.

I leave the bathroom again. Outside, the girl in the black shirt walks past me again, this time with her necktie on. It forms an oval shape below her neck, fatter at one end than the other. I read out and grab it, touch it, try to take it. She tries to make a noise, I think, but I put a hand over her mouth. I pull on the tie until she stops moving. They come and find me, afterwards, but it is okay. The symbol, the tie, is red now, like it should be.

The Day the Coffin Opened

I come to the graveyard every week, same time, same coffin. I come to see her.

Her coffin is above ground, a grey sort of opaque, with nothing but her name and dates on it. There’s no markings to show what she meant to people, like on so many other graves around here. Just me, here, every single week.

She was my age, twenty-five. And she will stay my age until the day I die, quite probably.

*

Years pass, five of them. I continue to visit every week. A few other people express an interest in me, but I am always busy, and eventually they leave me alone. I finish my studies and my training and begin working as a doctor. I could not save her, but perhaps the ability to save others will help me to feel better.

The population of the graveyard does not change dramatically. It is very expensive to be interred here.

*

Ten years pass and very little changes. I help to design a new coffin, one that works faster, and is much smaller and far less bulky than the one she is interred in. If we’d had these fifteen years ago, perhaps –

No.

I am still alone.

*

Another fifteen years pass. My hair is grey now, only a little of the darkness left. Salt and pepper. My parents die, as do hers. I sometimes think about retirement, but there is always another life to save, someone else to help. Their voices keep me from hearing the lack of hers.

Sometimes, I forget her face. I can see it now, as the coffin becomes clearer, if I squint hard enough. My eyes are not what they used to be. I can see her hair, shorter than it used to be, but that will change. Her skin is taut and soft on her face, like mine used to be, before the ravages of time.

Between times, I forget what she looked like. Or I confuse what she looked like then with what she looks like now, her pale face and shorn hair inside the coffin.

She is a aunt now. Her sister has children . I try not to think of the life we would have had.

*

Twenty years pass. I am there on the day when the coffin opens.

My hair is white now, and thinner than it used to be. My back is hunched, and sometimes movement hurts me. I wear glasses constantly now, and I am always cold.

I look at the roof of the coffin as she is gently urged into wakefulness. The machinery and wires are obvious, far cruder than the ones I have helped to build since she was interred. If only I’d been more focused, perhaps it might not have taken so long to rebuild her after the accident.

She looks at me, after her long sleep of death. I wonder what dreams she has had.

Her eyes do not recognise me. She addresses me by the name on my name-tag, Dr Haldeman. She asks me what year it is.

“3083,” I tell her. Fifty years after she was first interred.

She tells me that she used to know a Haldeman. She still doesn’t recognise me.

I look down at the liver spots on my wrinkled, arthritic hands and start to cry.

She Will Be Loved

A story loosely inspired by the song She Will Be Loved by Maroon 5, and originally posted on my livejournal.

She's out there. Right now. Watching me, through the windows.

I can't see her. The windows are closed and locked, the curtains drawn. There's no gap through which someone could peer. Yet, I know she's watching me. She's out there, in the rain.

I want to go to bed, and sleep. I'm so tired, but I'm too terrified to move from this sofa. If I move, she'll get me. If my head isn't covered by the blankets, she'll get me. If I make a noise, she'll get me.

Doesn't every child know how that works?

She doesn't leave, not when I'm alone. No one else can see her. I think she retreats when someone else is around, because then I can't see her either. But when I'm alone...

A tap on the window, audible despite the susurrus of the rain, makes my skin break out in a cold sweat.

*

I'd known her for years, that girl with the broken smile. Since she was fourteen, when she started at the high school where I worked.

She was teased a lot, like most of the kids who visited me. Unattractive, at least on the surface. She was overweight. Not enough to be obese, but enough that it was the first thing you noticed about her. I'd seen enough kids growing their awkward phases to suspect that it was merely puppy fat. No one ever believes that explanation until it melts away, when they're fifteen or sixteen. Generally, it's not even as noticable to other people as it is to them - but, in her case, the excess weight rested on her face. In the slight double chin, the puffy cheeks. The full lips merely looked swollen, rather than impactful, as they became when her body lengthened, and she became beautiful. Her eyes were hidden, partly by the cheeks and partly by the thick glasses she wore. After those years, could anyone blame her for not realising that she was beautiful, once she was?

She saw me a lot over those years. Every week, or two weeks. I'd sit here with a notepad. The kids always thought I was writing notes. Really, I just doodled. Prompted them sometimes, to think back on something they'd said. Puzzle out whatever was bugging them.

Hattie - that was her name - well, Hattie's problems were simple, and easy to figure out, but no less painful for that. She came from a broken home. They were pretty rare when I was growing up - first latchkey kid on my block got teased something awful - but they're more common now. And there were so many other things to tease Hattie about.

It was Hattie's father who'd left, coming back every fortnight or so to treat her to an ice cream cone, or a trip to the zoo, or whatever. She told me about that. How he'd started missing visits, becoming bored with her. How, by the time she started coming to see me, the visits had tailed off altogether. How'd she desperatly missed him.

Hattie wanted approval, like every teenager. And, more specifically, she wanted approval from her father. A girl's father is usually her template for men in general, and as far as Hattie was concerned, men left. You didn't give them what they wanted, they left. Heck, even if you did give them what they wanted, they left. Just not as quickly. Hattie always convinced herself that it was something in her that drove them away. That if she could somehow be better, more perfect, then maybe, next time, the time she finally managed it, they'd stay. Maybe if she was perfect, she'd be worth a man sticking around for.

That's what I gathered from her talks with me. It took her a while to open up to me. I'm an attractive man, despite my age. In fact, I'd say my age distinguishes me from the schoolboys here. I keep myself in good shape. Hattie was obviously very attracted to me. And, more than that, she wanted my approval as well, like she did that of most other males, in lieu of her absent father's.

*

A malicious smile, shining through the darkness.

I don't mind spending every day out on your corner in the pouring rain.

*

It was shortly after her sixteenth birthday that things changed. She changed, more than anything. She didn't realise - she noticed the changes, of course, but didn't associate them with a positive affect on her appearance. They did though.

At first, Hattie thought they were kidding. That they were playing a prank on her, setting her up to be the butt of the joke, like they always did. Once she realised that that wasn't it, that they really did like her as she was now...well, the results were unavoidable.

She didn't tell me about the first, though I knew anyway. It was there, in the smile that crept up on her when she thought no one was looking. The way she hugged her knees to herself and rocked on her seat. The way she seemed so eager for our sessions to end, when before she'd pray that the time would crawl. The way she applied make-up with increasing skill, making the most of those lips of hers. Blow-job lips they were, and you could see that now that the puppy fat was gone. They could see it now, rather. I'd always seen the woman inside the girl she had been. But then, I had experience in these matters.

It didn't take too long for her to grow bored with that first one. She complained that he only seemed to be interested in one thing, and that she didn't feel happy any more. More mundane than anything. Hattie didn't understand the concept of her pleasure being the point of anything, and how could one expect that teenage boy to pay anything more than lip service to the idea? Many of them probably claim that they give pleasure to their partners, real or fictitious. Many of them probably mean it, and probably do want their girls to enjoy it. But when the girls themselves don't yet know what that entails, and when they've been brought up - as most are - to believe that only slutty girls take pleasure from it, can one really blame them for being giving? Some of them fake it, or believe that the merest flutter is the real thing, and so the boys never learn. No, what Hattie needed was a real man.

"It's not always rainbows and butterflies," I told her. Real advice, which I knew she'd ignore. When she did, casting this boy aside for another who'd shown an interest, the rumours started. And she came to me again. She didn't tell me about this either, not explicitly, but, really, does she think no one else does? She wasn't the only student I counselled, and Hattie was the hottest source of gossip - at least for that month.

She wanted to talk that time, but didn't. She'd come to it, in time. Right then, I think it was necessary for her to internalise the pain.

"Hattie," I told her, holding the door open as she left. "My door's always open. You can come any time you want."

*

My sister arrives. My wife left long ago, unable to live with the gossip surrounding us. I freeze when I hear the door open, and it takes all of my courage to peek out from under the blanket. I suspect that it's her, Amelia, but for a second, I think maybe it isn't. Though, of course, I know that Hattie never comes inside.

Amelia sighs as she sits down on the sofa next to me. "John..."

She rests her hand on my shoulder, but doesn't say anything else. I can live with her disapproval as long as she returns every so often, to scare the ghosts away. I relax a little. Amelia stands up, and walks over to the curtains, drawing them apart enough to look through them. Under her arm, I see Hattie, outside, soaked with rain, wet hair plastered to her face.

*

Hattie, angry at the rumours, embraced them. After the second, there was another, then another. It angered me, though, of course I couldn't show it. What kind of psychiatrist would I be then? But still; I was always there to help her, and yet she always belonged to someone else.

She was seventeen, the first time. It began softly, subtly as these things do. She flirted, experimenting with this new ability of hers. Wearing shorter skirts, growing her hair longer. Lower bust lines. All for my benefit, of course. She'd play with her glasses, as she talked, taking them off, puting them back on, angling her face to show the best angles.

She was seventeen the first time a boy tired of her before she left him. Her tears smudged her carefully applied eyeliner, even as she desperately avoided talking about what was really bothering her.

"Sometimes, I get so insecure..."

She pulled her sleeve over her hand to wipe her face, a gesture that made her look smaller and more childlike than she was. She'd kept some of her larger clothes, and I suspect that they were purely to contrast with her new size.

I leaned across and kissed her. She'd hinted enough.

She pulled away a little at first. Nerves. Maybe not able to believe that this was really happening.

"Hattie," I murmured between kisses. "I want to make you feel beautiful."

She didn't resist after that, not more than a token amount. The affair continued for seven months. Until Hattie's eighteenth birthday. Until the day my wife found out.

*

Amelia draws the curtains again. I am frozen. She holds me until I warm up, until I unfreeze.

I wonder why she's not soaked, having just come in from the rain? I ask her.

"What rain?" She replies.

It's always raining. My clothes always have a residual dampness. My shoes slosh as I walk, even brand new pairs. I can never be fully dry, ever again, even indoors. Nor can Hattie.

*

It's another student who discovers us. A young girl, a freshman. This would have been her first appointment, had she not been too eager and arrived too early. I think, afterwards, that I should have insisted that a lock be put on the door. Hindsight is always 20/20.

The girl goes to a teacher, and tells her what she's seen. The teacher, a friend of the family, calls my wife before the headmaster.

I'm lucky that Hattie cannot be identified, they tell me. A statement from her, or even her mother learning of our affair would result in a charge against me for stuatory rape. As it is, I will probably be asked to step down quietly. No fuss, no mess. Except from my wife.

She demands to know who it was, if she is the first, how old she is, how long it's been going on - nothing I intend to answer. My silence angers her more, until she storms out into the night.

There is a school dance that evening, that I know Hattie will attend. Although the girls will whisper in corners and exclude her from their groups, the boys won't, taking it in turns to garner her attention. Hattie will be the belle of the ball.

The other students assume I am there as a chaperone, and are not surprised when I take Hattie to one side. We go outside.

"We were caught." I tell her.

She raises her head, her now well-defined chin jutting out, strong and determined. "So what happens now?"

"Nothing, if you keep your mouth shut."

She laughs then. "Like I'd ever tell anyone that I fucked you."

I am angered. "Why did you?"

"Fuck you? I was bored. And you seemed desperate."

I grab her then, smash my mouth against hers, crushing the familiar parts of her body with my hands. She slaps me. I hit her back.

Her nose is bleeding, and her eyes fill with tears. She sobs, reverting to type, looking as unattractive then as she did at thirteen, at fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, when I was the one she relied on to catch her every time she fell.

She's still a kid, in so many ways. So petty. It's no wonder she felt the need to lash out at me, to be so crude and insulting when she thought we might be in trouble.

She ran away from me. I got a lift home with another teacher, rather than walk back through the school to the parking lot.

The police tell me that she didn't return to the dance. I'd left my keys in the car - I hadn't expected to be there long.

They dragged my car up from the bottom of the lake a week later, Hattie still inside it.

*

I don't remember the last time I left the house. I don't attend the gym religiously, as I once did. I've stopped dying my hair. It doesn't matter because I never look in the mirror any more. Sometimes, I see her there, looking at me over my shoulder.

She said goodbye, but I know now that goodbye means nothing at all.