The Brit

“Rose!”

I startle, blinking my eyes open. Esther’s face is a picture of raw disgust as she swipes her hand out, knocking the blade to the carpet. I stare down at it. Blank. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t take the blade either. She just turns and walks out, and I stare at the bedroom door for long after she’s slammed it, until I feel the blood dripping from my arm onto the carpet. I look down, watching as the plush fibers soak up the thick red blobs.

Lost.

Flashbacks assault me, my hands coming to my head, trying to squash them. I can’t. As long as I’m living, breathing, I’ll never escape them. The boatyard was a mass grave.

Visions.

The blood. The destruction. The sounds. Danny’s face before I lost my grip.

I drag myself to my feet and wander aimlessly through the silent mansion. I find Esther in the kitchen loading the dishwasher. She pauses. Looks at my arm. Then calmly goes to the cupboard and pulls the first aid box down. I take a seat at the island and rest my arm on the counter.

Empty.

She works silently, wrapping my arm carefully with steady hands. And when she’s done, she looks up at me, her palm cupping my cheek. I know what she’s going to say, and I absolutely cannot bear hearing it. So I start to subtly shake my head. It’s been three days. I’ve sat in his mansion like a zombie for three days, waiting for him to walk through the doors. He hasn’t, and with each minute that passes, my hopes are slowly dying.

“You need to prepare for the worst,” she says gently, and my head shakes increase.

“He’s strong,” I reply, adamant. “He’ll come back to me.”

She breathes in, swallowing, and starts to pack away the first aid box. I hate that she’s so clearly humoring me. Where’s her faith?

“He will be back, Esther,” I reiterate, ignoring the part of my brain that’s telling me to be real. That’s telling me I am alone.

I hear the door to the mansion close, and I jump down from my stool and run to the main entrance. When I spot Brad leading someone towards Danny’s office, I can’t stop myself from following. The door is closed when I get there, but I don’t knock. I walk in and find Brad with a man I don’t recognize. They both look at me, both in pity.

“Who are you?” I demand. I’ve never seen him around here before.

He pulls a badge out and flashes it at me, and I withdraw. “Spittle. FBI. If you wouldn’t mind giving us some privacy.”

“She can stay.” Brad says, catching sight of my bandaged arm before throwing me a look of pure filth. It doesn’t affect me. He walks to the drinks cabinet and pours two glasses of Scotch.

“As you wish.” The man, Spittle, takes a seat at Danny’s desk, and Brad hands him one of the drinks.

“Do I need one of those?” I ask, motioning to the glasses held at their lips.

Spittle falters, setting his glass on the desk. “A body was dragged out of the cove earlier this morning,” he says matter of factly, glancing at me.

The ground disappears from beneath my feet, and I reach for a nearby cupboard, clinging on for dear life. Spittle returns his attention onto Brad. “I knew Danny. But I need someone to formally identify the body.”

A ragged sob rips my body in two, along with my world, and I fall to my knees. Spittle doesn’t even look at me. But Brad does. And the wobble of his lip only makes it all the more real. I knew Danny. That’s what he said. Spittle has already identified him.

“I’ll do it,” Brad replies, his voice shaky. He knocks back the whole of his drink and slams his empty down, his grip of the glass sending his knuckles white. He’s angry. He’s sad. He’s lost. “I’ll do it,” he breathes, glancing across to me on the floor. I can’t see him through my tears. But I know he’s crying too. “Unless you want to,” he adds coldly.

My head feels like it could explode. I don’t know what happens now, where I’ll go, how I’ll survive. But I do know one thing. I can’t see Danny like that. Never.

I jump up and run out of the office. Dead. He’s dead. I see nothing as I race through the mansion, except the memories of him circling my mind. I don’t hear a sound except him calling my name. I smell nothing but sea and driftwood and Danny.

I charge up the stairs, down the corridor, and into my room, slamming the door behind me. I find the blade on the floor. Pick it up. Rest it on my arm. And I slash repeatedly, over and over, screaming my way through it.