Time and Time Again

It wasn’t unexpected. In fact, it was something she had known would come along, eventually. Not a desire; more of a fear. She’d made many attempts to delay, postpone, or even stop it, knowing as she did so that it wouldn’t work. His mind was set on self-destruction. He invited trouble every chance he got; dwelling on the past until it ate him alive.

Rhiannon knew she was living life for the seventy-third or maybe it was eighty-fourth time, yet it never seemed to get easier. And she gravitated toward the same person time and time again. True, they came in different shapes and sizes, different sexes even, however nothing made it simpler, easier to handle when the inevitable happened.

Not that all seventy-three or eighty-four had ended this way – only when she’d given in to the idea of marriage. She knew the concept was old-fashioned, particularly now that most attempts to be an individual were bordering on sedition. And, in most parts of the world, two people joining as one unit was unheard of; the benefit of the many was always to outweigh the benefit to the single person. Still… the idea continued to intrigue her and draw her in.

With a sigh, she inspected her shoulder to see how much space was left for yet one more tiny creature. Along her shoulder blade and skimming the top of her shoulder were a cluster of small shapes – black widows if you looked close enough – but which could have been stars if you didn’t look too carefully. Her left arm, under a black light only, was already a tangle of webs; each an extremely thin, nearly invisible strand that ran the length of her arm, twisting its way around until it reached her ring finger.

Born sometime in the past, as aren’t we all, Rhiannon could pass for thirty-one or thirty-two, although the grey at her temples made some guess a bit older. She would laugh and explain that her mother had been prematurely grey too when they pressed her for an age, sidestepping the question. Age was never something she gave much thought. She’d been many different ages; once living as a teenager and the next as woman of advanced years. The memory of in-between was vague – most of the time. If she needed to reassure herself on just how old she was, she could always open the heart shaped locket she kept close; she could feel it heavy between her breasts. The cold, silver weight carried within it all the memories she needed yet couldn’t maintain in her head – they would drive her mad.

Zachariah was cold now. His body moved through the stages of rigor as the garage’s structure aired out. It was times such as this she wished she smoked, could imagine herself a 1920’s femme fatale with a cigarette dangling from her lips as she contemplated the scene. Of course, 200 years ago it would have been a police cruiser with a fedora-topped detective sitting at the curb instead of a silent police pod, lights still flashing, hovering in the driveway. The detectives back then would have been conferring just far enough away that she couldn’t hear their words; now, even if she strained, she wouldn’t be able to hear their muffled words through their masked faces – although she knew what they were talking about. Her own mask hid the wry smile she wore as she observed their stern glances in her direction.

It was rather ironic he’d chosen to do it here. He had never liked the garage; he’d never liked the house. She wasn’t even sure he had ever liked her. Life had been one miserable moment after another. He was, by far, the worst one she had encountered, which was saying a lot given the number of partners she’d had. And, she was certain, the tattoo would be the most painful as well since the best spot was directly along her shoulder blade.

Zach had wooed her with sweet words and promises. She had found him to be unpolished yet charming, easy to laugh with and an easy person with whom to get comfortable. She’d been alone when they found one another and now she was alone again, although if she was honest, she’d been alone for much of the marriage. He was lost in his memories of what life had been and she had soon come to understand that regardless of their truth, his memories were gospel to him. Through their years together she had met many of the people he had told stories about and each time she grew a little more certain of his borderline personality disorder. He’d never been wrong. He’d never accepted responsibility for his actions – even now, she knew she would be put on the defensive by his friends and family over his death. Somehow, someway, someone would put a bug in the ears of the government and once again, she would be looked at as suspect rather than grieving widow. Her alibi was solid enough; she wasn’t worried – just annoyed.

Rhiannon looked at the house-like structure, knowing it would soon fade back to the standard grey block building now that Zach had died. Her strength only went so far toward keeping the illusion alive and if they decided he hadn’t committed suicide, that she’d had a hand in his death, they would remove her holograms sooner rather than later. It saddened her, the thought of all her work on this one disappearing. In the late 1980’s and early 1990’s she had studied architecture and design. She’d used that knowledge to construct this house and garage image, and she’d come to enjoy its nostalgic feel.

Sensing the time had come, Rhiannon stretched her body upright; she rolled her shoulders, forward first then back to loosen the tight muscles. The detectives shifted uneasily when they saw her movements. The silver between her breasts began to warm and her own heart beat faster as the locket began to vibrate in anticipation of her next move. Suspicion drifted toward her from the police as she took in a deep breath. Perhaps they could sense the change in temperature around her. Whatever the reason for their heightened attention, it simply reinforced her need to move. Doing her best to convey – what? sympathy? contrition? – she smiled beneath her mask, sending the emotion to her eyes as well in the hope that they would see it and be able to explain later when they were inevitably questioned by their superiors on how she had vanished.

With another glance at the fading home she’d built from imagination and desire, Rhiannon turned toward the ever-present horizon, wrapped her fingers around the heart shaped locket, and disappeared into her memories.