Tanner
Never in my life have I felt so wretched.
I’m slumped down in a chair at Hahnville’s only café, nursing a cup of coffee. I’ve been here for an hour. Bailey is set to arrive any minute, but I wanted the time to prepare myself before she shows up. Just the fact that she’s agreed to meet me here sends my heart racing.
What am I supposed to tell her? The truth is unbelievable, but I don’t have any other explanation. My memories of the past few days are spotty and fractured. The pieces I do recall are cloudy and dream-like. The only thing I’m sure of is that I hurt Bailey, and that is unforgivable.
Leaning my head back and closing my eyes, I try desperately to clear my foggy mind. My whole body aches. The blackened flesh around my left eye is still swollen and has now curdled toward a greenish tinge. The angry bruises that ring my neck aren’t faring much better. I know I look like shit. People have been shooting me curious glances all weekend, and I wonder if they suspect that I might have done something terrible to my girlfriend.
I sigh and take a sip of my coffee. It’s long since gone cold, but I barely taste it as I swallow a mouthful. All I can think about is Bailey.
Speak of the devil.
The door to the café opens, and there she is, hesitating on the threshold as she scans the tables until her eyes fall on me.
I look away quickly. I can’t bear to see the disgust that I know must be on Bailey’s face as she catches sight of me. It isn’t until I hear the chair across from me scrape against the floor that I dare to meet her gaze.
“Tanner?” she asks quietly, as though she needs confirmation that it’s really me. Her voice is small and tentative, her eyes heavy with trepidation.
“Yeah,” I croak out in reply. Whatever caused the bruising on my neck did a number on my voice as well.
Her small body sags with relief at my words.
Guilt swirls in my gut as I watch her carefully. She’s clearly had a hard time the last few days. Dark smudges beneath her eyes tell me that she hasn’t been sleeping well, and her skin is pale and waxy as though she’s been ill. Her hair, usually brushed and glossy, is knotted in a messy bun on top of her head. She’s wearing old clothes and a pair of flip flops that are comically large on her.
But the worst part is her right arm. Bandages wrap tightly around her hand and wrist. Her exposed knuckles are puffy and bruised. Even though I can’t remember it, I’m suddenly sure that I did that to her.
“Oh god,” I breathe. My eyes are glued to her injured arm. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so, so sorry.”
Bailey shakes her head. “Do you remember?” she asks.
I close my eyes in an attempt to hold back the tears that collect there. “I don’t,” I whisper. “But it was me, wasn’t it?”
“Not exactly,” she replies. Surprise floods through me as I feel the fingers of her uninjured hand intertwine with mine.
My eyes snap open. “What do you mean?”
She bites her lip, clearly unsure of where to start. Finally, she posits, “What do you know about demons?”
“Demons?” I repeat.
“Do you remember the stories we used to tell as kids?” she continues, pushing forward in spite of my confusion. “About the swamp being haunted?”
I nod. Even though we hadn’t grown up together, I’m pretty sure that we both had gotten the same tired ghost stories passed around in the hallways about such places around our hometowns.
“I know this sounds crazy, but what if the stories are true?” Her tone is fervent, and her eyes shine with a hot certainty. “Not the witches and stuff. But there is something there, and I think…” She draws in a deep, steadying breath. “I think it’s a demon.”
“Amos,” I murmur. I’m not entirely sure where the name comes from, but it pops out from my subconscious amidst a cloud of dread.
“Oh my god,” Bailey gasps. Fear flashes across her face. “That’s the name Miss Penny would say all the time. Amos…Asmodeus. What if they’re the same thing?”
I really don’t understand what she’s talking about. My head begins to pound at the mention of the names. Blood pulses painfully behind my left eye. All I want to do is bury my head in my hands and feel sorry for myself, but I also know this is my one chance to make it right with Bailey. I’m not going to fuck it up.
“You said it wasn’t exactly me,” I press, changing the subject. “What does that even mean?”
Bailey scrutinizes me for a long moment. Just when my patience is about to snap, she blurts out, “I think the demon was possessing you.”
Time stops.
Part of me wants to laugh in her face. Here I am, sitting across from the woman I so clearly battered, hoping for any explanation that will absolve me of my sins. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t demons. No, I wouldn’t use that as a cop-out. Even though I don’t remember them, I’ve always prided myself in being the type of person who takes responsibility for my actions.
But even as I struggle to rationalize Bailey’s words, bitter understanding congeals in my gut. Somewhere, deep underneath reason and sanity, I know that what she’s saying is true.
An image of a cruel, pointed grin flashes through my mind, and I wince.
“Are you okay?” Bailey asks, her tone laced with concern.
I nod through the sudden pain. Blinking away the horrible image, I request, “Tell me what happened.” When Bailey hesitates, I beg, “Please, I need to know. Please.”
Agony weaves through her features before she bows her head, shielding her expression from my questioning gaze. My stomach turns. What is so bad that she doesn’t even want to face me?
“I… I don’t know all of it,” she begins. “Only what happened on Friday. I got home from my shift at the Wilsons’, but you weren’t there. When I realized that you probably hadn’t been home since the day before, I was really worried. I hoped you might have called or texted, but there was nothing, and you weren’t even answering your phone. While I was waiting to hear back from you, I fell asleep.”
She pauses, and I know her well enough to conclude that she’s trying to hold back her tears.
“Did I come home?” I probe, urging her to continue.
She nods, and when she speaks again, her voice sounds haunted. “You were just standing there in the doorway, watching me sleep. It was… creepy. I knew something wasn’t right. And you looked terrible, Tanner. Like, somebody had beaten you up or something.”
“This?” I ask, gesturing to my black eye.
“No.” She still doesn’t meet my gaze. “That came later.” She lets out an unsteady breath before resuming her narrative. “There were bruises on your neck. It looked like… like somebody had tried to strangle you. But you wouldn’t tell me who did it. You weren’t making any sense; it was like you were a different person. It wasn’t you.”
Thunder rolls through my head. Fragments of quasi-memories flash across my mind. Sunlight in the bedroom. Bailey sprawled on the bed, fear in her eyes. Oh god. What had I done to her?
Bailey pushes forward. “You… said some things. And I told you I thought we should get out of town. You didn’t like that. You pushed me down onto the bed and you… you tried to….”
Her voice drifts off into silence between us. Shame wells inside me as bile rises in my throat. I don’t want to hear anymore. I don’t want to know.
“I got away.” The words do little to quench my self-loathing. “I… I bit you, and then punched you. That’s how you got the black eye, I guess.”
It certainly does explain some things, though I still have no idea where the bruises on my neck came from. Desperately desiring to steer the conversation away from what I came dangerously close to doing, I ask, “Your hand… is it broken?”
“Just sprained,” she informs me. It’s a small mercy, but not enough to chip away at my devastating guilt. She catches my hand again, and I drag my eyes up to meet hers. Her expression is fierce, protective. “We need to get out of here, Tanner. This thing is destroying us.”
Rage surges through me, and I struggle to tamp it down. I don’t even know why I’m so angry at the suggestion of leaving town. “One more day,” I counter. It’s the only compromise I can think of. Hopefully, it’s enough to swallow down the rabid emotions that threaten to consume me. “Just one more day, and the house will be done.”
“It isn’t worth it, Tanner,” she argues. “The money isn’t worth our lives.”
“I’m so close.” I hate the pleading edge in my voice. I sound like an addict asking for one more fix before I quit. And yet I continue to wheedle, “All I need to do is repair one thing in the kitchen. The guys can take care of the rest. Just give me tomorrow. Please, Bailey. One more day?”
Arguments flit across her face as she struggles to counter my request. But then she sags down in her chair, the fight leaving her. “Fine,” she capitulates. “One more day, but then I’m leaving–with or without you.
The thought of her abandoning me here to the mercy of the thing in the swamp is unbearable.
“I promise.” I lift her uninjured hand to my mouth and press my lips gently against the soft skin of her palm. She sighs at the attention, her eyelids fluttering closed.
I lean in to kiss her, longing to feel her body melt against mine. But she stands abruptly before I can move closer, breaking our proximity.
Clearing her throat awkwardly, she says, “I have to go. Call me as soon as you’re done tomorrow.”
“I will,” I swear to her. My nerves burn with desire for her, but I know I have to let her go. Part of her is still afraid of me, even if she believes that I was possessed by a demon at the time I’d hurt her.
Regret wells in me as I watch her retreat. I should have apologized to her. I should have told her I love her. But it’s too late now.
I sit for a while after Bailey leaves.
One more day.
All I need to do is fix the drywall in the kitchen, and then Jose can guide the crew through the rest. I’ll tell Jack that I have to leave town for a family emergency. We can do it. We can get away from this.
I drop some cash on the table and exit the café. I grimace as I step out into the cloying afternoon heat, a stark contrast to the crisp air conditioning I’ve just left. Even in spite of the oppressive weather, I can’t help but feel hopeful for the future.
But as I pass by the wide glazed windows of the storefront, I catch a glimpse of my reflection.
Amos smirks back at me from the glass.
“No!” I groan, clapping my hands to my temples as pain rips through my head. I can feel him in there, clawing at the shadows of my mind while his laugh scuttles around inside my skull.
When I collapse onto the sunbaked concrete of the sidewalk, the silence comes as a sweet relief.
One more day.
Can I last that long?