Work Text:
It was pouring.
The rain instantly drenched everything it touched, leaving muddy puddles every few feet in the loose soil. It was not a cleansing rain, but one that brought all the festering, rotting things together in one place.
Sounds of distress were all around, seeping out through the roots and dirt, past the thudding of the drops as they smacked the ground.
Three men were on the ground, face down, fighting to keep out of puddles that were part rainwater, part blood, trying to keep from drowning. Their hands were bound behind them at the wrists.
Their captors stood over them, shouting, periodically beating them with the butt of a rifle, hitting kidneys, shoulders, arms. Occasionally one would use it to push a man’s head down into the dirt and water and hold it there.
Then one of the tormentors turned his weapon around, aiming it at the first of the three, just at the base of the skull. He fired.
The shot was a sharp crack and entered straight through the back of the head. What it left behind was not enough for loved ones to identify.
The puddles were more blood than rain now, mixed with bone and muscle.
The next shot came fast, and the second man was also executed.
The third man grunted in pain as the barrel of the gun pressed against his temple, pushing, grinding against the unyielding bone of his skull. On this, the aggressor lingered, enjoying the wait, as if it was personal. He pushed harder, and the third man let out a cry that turned into a gurgle as the sludge entered his mouth and poured into his lungs.
The gun went off.
^^^^^
Beth screamed. Even after she realized where she was, understood that she’d been dreaming, she continued to scream – deep, agonizing shrieks of fear intermixed with sobs. She sat up in bed, pressed her knuckles to her mouth, and continued.
It was only the internal rational voice that warned her a nearby neighbor might call the police that made her stop. Once she did, she rose on shaky legs and staggered to the bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time to retch violently.
The vomiting and the sobs were a horrendous mixture and she hovered over the bowl, tears and mucus and bile dripping from her.
When she opened her eyes she saw blood in the water. She shrieked again and rocked backwards, but the blood was gone. She flushed the toilet and sagged against the wall, grabbing a handful of toilet paper and wiping at her face and tongue with it.
His eyes…
The nurse in her noticed the injuries when she replayed the scene. She saw the results of strappado, the ropes, in the disfiguring dislocation of all the men’s shoulders. Heard the heavy breathing, the desperation to survive. She watched again as her husband struggled not to drown in his own blood and the blood of his comrades.
Abruptly, she lurched forward and vomited again.
It’s not real, it’s not real.
Except … maybe it was. Isolation, starvation, torture… She’d seen the results of this in some of the men she treated at Balboa Naval Hospital.
“Please,” she begged aloud, unable to stop weeping, “just let him be dead. God, let him just be dead.” It was better. She could bear dead. She couldn’t bear the thought of endless agony he could be enduring.
She buried her face in her hands and cried in the way that the deepest sorrow created: barely able to draw breath. She couldn’t stop.
I’ll drown in my tears, the way those men nearly drowned.
“Please … please, God! I can’t take it…”
She couldn’t take it? She couldn’t?! What a horrible, selfish, wretched thing to think. What a self-centered person she was.
She had to do something. She had to do something. Right. Now.
She scrambled to her feet, flushing the toilet again, and went to the closet to grab a suitcase. Frantically, she packed. Clothes went in without rhyme or reason. Four shirts, but no socks. Toothpaste without a toothbrush.
Where was she even going to go?
All she knew was she couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t. She had to find him.
Of course, that was the obvious answer, wasn’t it? She’d go get him. She was vaguely aware that her train of thought was irrational, but she didn’t care.
She rushed around the house, picking up random things, then staring at them and putting them back down. What would she need?
She darted into the kitchen and picked a knife from the butcher block. Would this work? She took a step with it, hesitated, and tried to concentrate.
The blade shone in the dim light from the moon and it was only then that she noted the clock read 0445.
She paused to lean on the counter, staring at the knife, moving it back and forth and observing the play across the blade. What would happen? What would happen if she…?
She touched the blade to her skin. It felt cold. She had to take action: would this action work?
His eyes flashed in her mind again. Not warm, gentle, loving, but wide, terrified, hopeless.
She pushed on the knife a little, stopping just before she broke the skin, hardly realizing she’d started sobbing again. If he was being beaten, wasn’t it only right that she also endured it? She couldn’t let him suffer alone.
Yes, that seemed the correct answer.
Isolation. Starvation.
Torture.
“Please, God, tell me what to do,” she whispered. She was desperate.
As if against her will, her fingers released the hilt, and the knife fell to the counter.
Coward.
She sank to the floor, the frantic need to move and act diminishing. She laid down, her cheek against the cold linoleum. It was uncomfortable.
You don’t need a bed. He doesn’t get one, you don’t either. From now on, you don’t get anything he doesn’t get.
Maybe tomorrow she’d get rid of all the food.
Beth closed her eyes and slipped into a restless sleep.
^^^^^
When she awoke it was nearly noon. She couldn’t make sense of what had happened the night before: the raving antics of a madwoman.
She left all the things where they were: the suitcase, the scattered belongings … the knife. When she looked at it, she didn’t feel anything anymore.
She was already a widow, albeit one with a little extra weight on her left hand, ring finger.
She started methodically to move. Her mind was still muddy, protecting her from the thoughts she’d had early that morning.
The only thing that was crystal clear was the nightmare.
She opened the refrigerator and pulled out the milk, eggs, butter. In the cupboard, sugar, vanilla extract, flour, baking powder.
She knew she was supposed to remove all the food from the house, but she couldn’t remember why.
For the next half hour she prepared the dessert, then lit a cigarette and sat on a stool in front of the oven while it baked. She was just empty now and it was such a relief.
The cake finished and she carefully tested it with a toothpick. Perfect.
She pulled it out, nearly forgetting to put on oven mitts. After she placed it on the counter, she experimented with touching a corner of the pan with the tip of her pinky. She held it there for a second, maybe two, and then examined the digit. Maybe it would blister.
She started to prepare frosting, adding caramel as an extra treat.
After the cake had cooled, she spread the frosting over the surface, slowly, deliberately. When she got a dab of frosting on the heel of her hand, she didn’t lick it off but ran it under the faucet.
She was remembering not to eat. That was good.
Then she sat on the couch and waited. She dozed for a few hours, coming in and out of consciousness.
At about 7, she returned to full awareness and went back into the kitchen. She got out the cake and put a single candle in it, lighting it with the lighter from the junk drawer.
She brought the cake to the table and sat in front of it, watching the thin candle quickly lose height.
“Happy birthday, Al,” she whispered, and blew out the candle.
She glanced down at the MIA bracelet that caught the evening light.
6-17-1967
In two days, it would be a year. In two days, she would trade her wedding ring for a black dress.
Beth Calavicci got up slowly, leaving the cake where it was, and went to bed.