Terry dropped to his hands and knees, coughing up a wad of dark—almost black—fluids. It spattered the floor before him. He tried to speak, but a mouthful of thick blood prevented the words from making it past his lips.
Angela kicked him in the ribs, where the knife had punched through flesh and cartilage, and flipped him over, onto his back. At the ceiling, he stared, his eyes starting to glaze over.
“You were never a good husband to me.” She brought the knife to her side and stepped over him, placing a foot on each side of his body. She dropped to her knees, planting her bottom on his punctured midsection. “And an even worse father. Where were you during his doctor’s appointments?”
He spat out a word that sounded like working, but it came out wet and unintelligible.
“Where were you during the countless hours of therapy?”
This time Terry kept quiet.
“Where were you, Terry? You were supposed to be there for me. For us.”
He grunted a word that might have been sorry, but a burst of scarlet sputtering over his lips was the only thing she could make out for certain.
“You were never there. Never there for me, never there for our boy. You abandoned us.”
He didn’t deny her account.
“Then you made us go on that stupid fucking show. For what? To repair us? To fix us? Our marriage isn’t one of your stupid cars. You can’t just turn a wrench and expect us to be okay, fine-fucking-dandy.” She closed her eyes, breathed, and inhaled the metallic odor overruling the air. “There’s no fixing us Terry. There’s no fixing me. I’m the one who’s damaged. I am the one who’s broken… I’m… I’m…”
Angela raised the knife over her head and, without giving it much thought, buried the blade in the base of her husband’s neck. Terry spasmed many times over the next sixty seconds—spastically at first, then intermittently—and then his body went stiff as a log, his flesh taking on frigid temperatures.
She sat on top of him for what seemed like the length of a long dream, ignoring the burn in her quads and staring through the awning window, at the moon, and wondering what lay beyond the stars. She imagined a sea with a pirate ship getting dragged beneath the black surface by massive tentacles. A house in the middle of some cosmic existence called the Everywhere. The skulking shadow of a boy she used to know. An endless, blue-lit room with wandering souls, most of them grotesque and previously savaged.
Before she could shove the blade in her own neck, ending her pathetic excuse of an existence, the night was filled with a cacophony of sirens and anxious voices. Just when the suicidal thoughts occurred and started to make sense, she felt hands grabbing her wrists and loud, commanding voices screaming in her ear. She resisted as much as she could, but all her energy had been spent on butchering her husband, and she was easily overpowered. It wasn’t long before the men in uniform dragged her from the shed, toward Trenton Road where red and blue lights bounced off neighboring houses and bushes, filling the night with kaleidoscopic visuals she’d never forget.
EPILOGUE
(DREAMS MAY VARY)
From behind the doors of the capacious room where Angela Shepard sat at a long cafeteria-style table, staring at the wall and doing little else, Barry Harrison and a tall man with glasses, holding a clipboard, observed. Barry turned to the studious man, a doctor at the facility Angela had called home for the last ten months, the place where she had prepared for her trial and talked about her feelings and attempted to make sense out of what exactly happened.
“Think she’s ready?” Barry asked the tall man, whose clip-on name tag read Daniel Stevens M.D.
Stevens seemed to consider the point. “As ready as she’ll ever be.”
“I hope she talks to me.” Barry studied the woman who sat as still as a plush doll on a rocking chair. “I hope she accepts my offer.”
The doctor didn’t seem too keen on any of this, and he rotated toward Barry as if he intended to tell him so. “For the record, Mr. Harrison, I believe this is counterproductive to Angela’s recovery. But, in saying that, I understand Dr. Rondo and the rest of the state board’s decision to sign off on your waiver. I just wanted to interject my opinion before you proceed.”
Barry waved his hand limply in the air. “Save it, kid. Just get me up to speed. What’s she like? Coherent? Hopped up on crazy pills?”
Stevens paused, seeming unsure if he should answer. “Yes. Very coherent. She likes to talk. Although… she doesn’t make much sense sometimes. She believes… well, very strange things.”
“I bet.” Barry checked his folder, making sure the proper paperwork and waivers were in order. “All right, let me in.”
Stevens opened the door and gestured the television producer inside. Angela’s head barely moved at the sound of the opening door. Stevens led Barry across the room, which was naked except for the long tables positioned throughout and a small tree staged in each corner, something Barry thought was used to calm the facility’s patients and guests.
As he wandered across the meeting room, he studied Angela’s face. She looked unwell and twenty years older than she had appeared on Let’s Switch Houses! He could only imagine the volume of drugs they were pumping her with, and then wondered if that would somehow impact the signing of the legal documents he’d brought. Is she even legally allowed to sign this under the influence? He shook the thought away, claiming that was what the studio paid their lawyers for.
Barry took the seat across from her.
Stevens cleared his throat. “Angela,” he said gruffly. “Miss Shepard?”
She perked up on the second request. “Yes?”
“You have a visitor.”
“Oh?” She looked across from her. Seconds passed before a smile broke across her face. “Oh, Barry…”
“Hi, Angela. Long time.”
“Barry…” she said thoughtfully.
He looked up at Stevens who towered over them. “Is she okay?”
Stevens shrugged. “Define ‘okay.’”
“Is she…” He twirled his finger in the air next to his temple, and then pointed to the ceiling.
“High?”
“Yes.”
“She’s been given a light sedative to prevent one of her infamous episodes.”
“Damn.” He squinted. “Violent?”
“Extremely.”
“Should her lawyer be present?”
“Probably.”
Barry sighed. He felt his forehead grow hot. “Do me a favor. Please call him and tell him to get his ass down here. I don’t feel like doing this twice.”
“I’ll see what can be arranged.” He turned to Angela. “You and Mr. Harrison catch up, okay? I’ll be right back. There are two guards just outside the room if either of you… need assistance. They’re watching. Listening.”
Barry didn’t like the doctor implying anyone other than he could be in some danger, but he decided to let the comment slip. As soon as Stevens left the room, Barry rotated back to Angela and began sorting through the paperwork in his folder.
“How have you been, hon?” he asked.
She tilted her head and raised her hands above the table, showing off her collection of chains. “How the fuck do you think?”
“Yeah.” He glanced around the room. “Not too cozy, I must say.”
“I’m not crazy, you know?” She bit her lip. “They would have never made the switch, Barry. They would have never made it. Terry was wrong. They lied to him. Ester Moore lied to him.” She leaned over the table. “You told me about Ester Moore. Who was she, Barry? What did she look like?”