The Seed

Dig a hole. Plant the seed. Bury with soil. Dig a hole. Plant the seed. Bury with soil.

I'm hunched over the flowerbed with dirt caked up to my elbows. The sun is harsh upon my back, and the ground is hard under my knees. It's been 179 days since I realized that the safest thing to do was to act exactly how you wanted me to. Even if it was the exact opposite of how I really felt.

Dig. Plant. Bury. Dig. Plant. Bury. I let go of any thoughts outside of this, and watch curiously at what comes up.

Memories of hiding in the flower bushes as a child pass slowly through my minds eye like a lily pad drifts across a pond. The way I'd stare at the white and pink petals when he came for me, and had his way with me. I'd just look at the flowers and disappear. So that's what I try to do now. I don't listen to the thoughts telling me to break my chains and run. I ignore the urge to scream for help over the hedges. I just plant seeds in our flower garden, occasionally stopping to take a sip of water or eat a granola bar.

Milo approaches me now and then, sniffing fervently at whatever happens to be in my hands. When he finds nothing of note, he licks my cheek before returning to lounge under the shade of the deck.

By the time I hear the familiar rumbling of your car's engine as it pulls into the garage, I'm watering the freshly packed soil and seeds beneath. I only got to a small portion of the backyard today, but I am proud of myself. The flowers will be beautiful when they bloom, I think.

I set down the water pail as you step out onto the back patio, hands in your pockets. Your face is unreadable. I feel a pinch of unease. "How'd it go?" I ask.

You stare at me for a beat, and then your face cracks open into a grin.

"They said I might be promoted," you say, opening your arms. Relief floods through me, and without thinking I go to you. It seems the normal thing to do when acting in celebration. Your arms wrap around my waist as mine find their way around your neck.

"I knew you could do it. Congratulations," I say. Finally you step back, cheeks flushed. "Couldn't have done it without those super pancakes."

I laugh shyly as I step back - and then I wince. Your focus shifts, missing nothing. You scan me as you ask, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing - just a little sun burn," I say dismissively.

"Bailey. What did I say about sunscreen?" you say, voice disapproving as you kneel to unlock my chains from the anchor on the patio. I make up some lame excuse that has you shaking your head. When you are done, you rise and gesture for me to go inside. I have no choice but to obey.

I step into the cool, dim house and pause while my eyes adjust. The space up here is so foreign to me, as I rarely see it. It is sparse and cold, at odds with the warmly appointed basement. You and milo follow close behind me, and I am ushered towards the basement door. The clanking sound of locks fills the room and then you hold the door open for me as I descend the stairs, holding my chains from dragging.

A half an hour later I am freshly showered and dressed in a large t shirt and sleep shorts. In a room down the hall, the washing machine chugs along full of my dirty gardening clothes. My long, wet hair dampens the back of my shirt slightly, causing it to cling to me.

I perch on the kitchen table in the basement, sipping a glass of iced tea that you gave to me. The strong smell of aloe drifts up from where you spread it across the backs of my legs, providing cool relief to the sunburn there. I watch you add garlic and onion to a heated pan and inhale the delicious aroma that follows.

Scratchy but comforting tunes play out of the retro table top radio in the corner of the room. You bought it for my birthday two months ago, and it is my favorite thing.

The aloe has dried to a stiff glaze by the time you bring two steaming plates over to the table. I hop off the table and into a regular seat. "This looks delicious, babe, thank you," I murmur as I pick up my fork and knife.

"You're welcome," you reply. It's only when I see your flushed cheeks and crinkled eyes that I realize what I've done - I called you 'babe', which I haven't done since before.

It feels right, though. I smile back at you.

When we both finish eating, I offer to wash while you dry the dishes.

Hands submersed in soapy water and focused on scrubbing away the crusted on chicken skin at the bottom of the pan, I almost don't notice when the radio switches from songs to news.

"...police are puzzled by the unexplained disappearance of a local woman, Elizabeth Bailey Woodworth. Sources say it may be linked to the series of murders they're calling the Candlewood Lake slayings-"

My fingers only pause for a fraction of a second - not long enough that anyone watching would even notice - and then I continue scrubbing as if I didn't hear a thing. You reach over casually and change the station. Soft, classic rock fills the silence, and you start to hum along.

I suddenly feel very irritated at the sound of your voice. I frown, rinsing the suds from my hands. That's odd, as I normally don't mind when you hum at all. As your hum rises in pitch, I feel my eye twitching, fighting the urge to scream at you to shut up. Woah, what has gotten in to me? I think.

When the dishes are done, I wander over to my bed in the corner of the room, sliding under the crisp sheets. I'm hoping I can sleep off whatever weirdness this is, this itching under my skin.

"We're not watching T.V. tonight?" you ask casually.

"Sorry, I am totally pooped from all the gardening today," I say, finishing the last word just before a gigantic yawn overtakes me. "watch tomorrow, though?"

When you don't immediately reply, I glance over toward you. You stand in the kitchen, hip propped against the counter there. The stance is so casual, so familiar that I almost believe it - but the tightness in your shoulders, and the sharpness in your smile cracks the illusion. You are on alert, assessing me.

Maybe I'm not as subtle as I think. The back of my throat dries out swiftly. memories of the flower beds float through my mind again, drifting, drifting...

"You know, you could sleep here... if you want," i say, searching quickly for a way to diffuse the charged air between us.

That does the trick. Tension evaporate and you stutter, surprised. "I- are you sure?" you ask, trying to act casual but I can see the hope in your eyes. You've never forced yourself on me. Not once. But I saw the way your gaze lingers on me when I walked out of the shower in just a towel, and I know you hope for more.

I smile and nod. "Just to sleep," I clarify. You nod, playing the gentleman. "Of course."

You dissapear upstairs breifly to change into your sleep clothes and when you return I have shut off all of the lights except for the lamp on the beside table and have snuggled myself under the covers.

I hear your footsteps as you creep down the stairs, and I pretend to be already asleep, my face to the wall. I suppress a shiver as the bed shifts under your weight. Maybe this was a bad idea, I think, feeling more wired than ever. There's a sharp click as you turn off the lamp, and then we are in the darkness.

I don't notice falling asleep. One moment I am staring at the wall, listening to your steady breathing. The next, I see flower petals fluttering across my vision in bright red, pink, white, and blue. I smell musty earth and wet mulch as my face is shoved to the ground. Terror fills me as I realize I am six years old again, in that nightmarish garden, and his big grown hands on me. There is no where to go, or hide -

I don't realize I am screaming until I hear you speak. "Hey, shhh," you murmur, hand smoothing up and down my back "Shhh. It's okay," you whisper. My screams dissolve into quiet tears that pour like waterfalls. I don't know how to stop them, so I don't. A distant part of me notes that you've never witnessed my nightmares until now.

You inch closer until I feel your arms wrap around me. The warmth is startling, but not in a bad way. "Is this okay, Bailey?" you whisper, and your voice is so quiet that I only hear it because your mouth is 6 inches from my ear. A new urge fills me - not to run, but to nestle closer; to burrow into your warmth and make a home there. Instead of answering, I simply wiggle closer until my head is on your chest.

"Stay with me?" I whisper. A moment later, I feel you kiss the top of my head. "Forever," you say roughly.

I don't want to think about the implications of this - of us. Of that one word, forever. So I listen to the thundering of your heart under my cheek, and let it lull me to sleep.