Winmor.

I am convinced that it is impossible for humans to truly love anything.

That sounds horrible. Let me rephrase: I believe that we are capable of loving the ideas of things. We fall in love with the versions of people in our heads. We fall in love with the image of a vacation, the concept of a certain occupation or place or, clothing item, or whatever. We fall and fall and fall into that perfect, magical feeling until reality smacks the notion clean out of our heads. And it dissipates. What it leaves behind is surely not something I can call love anymore.

I was infatuated with this place before I came here. After much debate (begging, on my part) we packed our life up and moved in the late summer. I brought my husband and my books, I brought paintings to decorate the cabin. Sundresses for the summer and downy coats for the cold.

But I was only in love with the idea of this place, of Winmor Lake. As I stand here, staring over its glassy, frozen sheen, I can still see the image of me stretched out over the wildflowers, toes wiggling towards the heavens, sun kissed, with insects like glints of gold in the summer breeze.

It is a far cry from reality.

So is everything else that I have ever dreamed about my life.

*

“Elaine!” Spencer is calling me from downstairs. I flinch, but remain seated. It’s a bit early for our quarrel today, and I am not quite ready yet. But my husband’s temper is not a thing I can reschedule, so I stay staring at the early frost for a moment more before I force myself to leave. I know I will suffer more by making him wait, but I take these small freedoms when I can.

“The damn pipes burst again.” the worlds are squeezed out between Spencer’s perfect, straight teeth. Stale rage from the night before, I think. He slams a wrench down onto the granite island as I walk into the kitchen. I lift my chin high, swallow down my unease.

“What would you have me do about it?” I say.

This is the problem. As much as a suffer by Spencer’s hand, I cannot resist retaliation. It’s a quality I once recall him liking – even loving – about me. But the love is over.

I’m not sure why I do this. I suspect it is simply in my nature. Or perhaps some part of me believes my refusal to change, as he has, ensures that the love will return.

Spencer’s eyes grow colder. He walks over to me and traces the bruise that runs along my collarbone, fingers as delicate as butterfly wings. He’d thrown a book at me last night. It had been like war.

“Why are you so horrible?” he asks softly. I am too slow to move away from him. He clamps down into my shoulder, nails digging into the blackened tissue. Spencer does not bother to make new wounds. He is a man that builds upon what is already there: an opportunist. I used to think that part of him was attractively smart, before it was turned against me.

I gasp and wretch violently away from him, shoving hard against his chest.

“I only asked a question.” I say, blinking.

“It’s your fault we are stuck on the godforsaken mountain.” He tells me, jabbing a finger at my chest. “You take pleasure in undermining me. Don’t you dare shake your head at me, I know you do.”

Spencer used to make me feel like a child. Playful, innocent, in need of the occasional scolding. It’s somewhat comforting that hasn’t really changed since Winmor. I am so girlish, so thoroughly rebuked with his violent outbursts about our living conditions. Sometimes the whole scene is so ironic I get dangerously close to giggling.

I snatch the wrench from the counter and lift it over my head.

“I should expect my husband to know how to fix the pipes, should I not?” I shout, baring my teeth at him. Spencer looks animalistic with rage. I hate this so much. I hate him so much. But this is a game of opportunity, and we both play it. We have high stakes. For example, this time I expect I will hurt him good. Revenge plays seductively at the edges of my fury-laden thoughts.

Spencer lunges for me. He grabs my arm as I swing down, swatting the wrench away before it can land a blow. He slams me against the cabinets, shaking me. His face is plastered with a red, open-mouthed scream that fills the air between us, dulling my senses.

Ah, I should have known. This is not a battle for me to win.

I am floating. Because of our fighting, I’ve almost fallen in love with the feeling of being outside my body. I kick at him desperately, but the knee to my gut steals nearly all my strength. I’ve really done it this time. He doesn’t even give me time to curl into a defensive ball; I have expended that liberty. His hand is buried in the mess of my hair, and at he takes sloppy blows at my face, my breasts, my stomach, everywhere he can. Finally, he stops, and I am sobbing. He looks at me, breaths like heavy, hot wind. I hear him swipe a tired hand over his beard in exasperation, as if he doesn’t know what to do. I suspect he doesn’t. He bends, and I feel his lips press against my scalp.

“You cannot do that. You have to stop that, or I will end up killing you, Elaine.” He gives my shoulder a firm shake, like a comfort, like a reassurance, something you do to emphasize your point. “You have to stop.”

He walks away without another word.

*

I spend hours in the bathroom examining myself. There’s not much tending you can do to bruises and mild scraps. So I turn in the mirror and count them, I take inventory. This one will need watching, this might be broken, this one is an interesting color. I suspect I’m not fully sane anymore, here at Winmor.

I should never have gone up against him like that. Perhaps, subconsciously, I wanted to die?

I sigh, meeting my own eyes in the mirror. If only they looked more hallowed. As desolate as my soul felt. But they were bright and quick, the eyes of an animal who is alert, who is preyed upon. That scares me very much.

I go down to fix the sink, relieved to find Spencer has taken the truck into Tobberton. He always gets better after going into town. Talking to people other than me, other men, seems to reset his mood.

You have to stop or I’m going to kill you, Elaine.

How close had he come? How true was that? A panicked voice tells me that I shouldn’t stick around to find out. I should run.

It is the clearest thought I’ve had in weeks. I shake it out of my head and set to work.

After an hour, I turn the faucet. It sputters a bit, then runs smoothly, no leak in sight. Repairing it was a far easier task than Spencer had made it out to be. Briefly, I am giddy with this one, small victory. I have had so little of them since moving here.

You have to stop or I am going to kill you, Elaine.

My smile falters at his words, so forcefully etched into my mind. I want them gone. They make me think of running, an impossibility. It’s the middle of winter, I think, working to convince myself. There is no way off the mountain until the snow has melted. I don’t know anyone in town. All I have is my books and the lake. I glance out at it, staring past the welling tears in my eyes. The snow is bright and endless beyond the mud of the drive. The lake itself is set like a silver coin at the foot of the pine forest.

You have to stop,

I shudder. I collapse.

Or I am going to kill you.

There is nothing in the world that can save me. I am hopeless - a husk of a soul, not a shred of me left. I will never leave him. I cannot. I cannot.

Elaine.

I inhale a sob, quieting. Elaine.

I frown. The voice calling my name inside my head isn’t my own.

I look back out the window, past the trees. There is a spire of smoke in the distance, cutting the blue of the sky like a dull blade. It should not be there.

Elaine.

I turn and rush out to the porch. It’s still there, floating lazily up from the trees.

In that moment, I remember something. Advice we had come by one evening, right after signing off our old house. The move was official, and we had been celebrating. I had forgotten about it even before I set foot in the cabin.

“Winmor keeps the promise of magic, that place.” He’d said. A man with a thick peppered beard we had chanced upon outside the bar. Spencer, ever the flatterer, had already got him talking before barely two sips into his beer. My body had not borne a single bruise from him yet, and his hands trailed lovingly at my waist. “Moving there? Its bad luck for some. People tend to disappear. Can’t be knowin’ for sure if it’s a good place they end up in.” The man takes a drag of his cigar, and blows the smoke out into the rain, where it is smothered.

“And what do you think?” I ask, slurring slightly. I’d been too much in my wine that evening.

The man smiles slowly, pondering. “I think it’s good, for those who need it. A place that keeps magic.”

A place that keeps magic.

I am grabbing my coat and mittens before I can mull it over. They are red, last year’s Christmas gift from Spencer. How I’d loved him. How I’d loved him and the idea of being here with him, only to watch that fantasy sour before my eyes.

Winmor had always just made sense. I would have loved it just knowing the name alone, or by pictures. I had loved it that way for years before coming. It was secluded, mountainous, simple. It kept the promise of magic. It was perfectly deserving of my love, simply because of that.

Spencer had almost made me believe this place was the reason for his corruption. Because he could not share in that love. He’d very nearly ruined it for me.

I burst into the garage and untie Barley. He barks happily to see me; Spencer forbade him from the house. It no longer matters. I have a destination, and I am leaving.

“We’re getting out of here.” I tell him, rubbing his ears. I pull on my boots and set off into the snow, walking at first, then sprinting across the white wastes. I’m smiling so big that it hurts.

Elaine.

“I’m coming!” I shout. Barley streaks along side me, carving the snow like a little tawny knife.

I reach the ice, like fine crystal beneath my feet. I do not slow. I am running to an ideal again, I realize. But it's something new, something entirely unknown. It'll be better than any previous fantasy I've ever had: better than my husband and our supposed love, better than the image of me by the lake in summer. I believe this, knowing nothing. But I can feel that it's true.

I am convinced I will never return to Winmor. The places and people of my life will not keep me.

I cannot be kept.

In this moment, I am in love with everything that is real.