The Palace Crumbles

Abigail

"The girl?" You blink, feigning innocence, but I noticed the way your expression fell when I said the words. It was a split second, but it was there. I may not remember things, but I'm not clueless.
"The girl I hurt." I tap my foot, stiffening when the voice of the conductor begins to ring through the train car. Everyone around us starts to stand, gathering their passports in order to get across the border. I rustle around my bag for my own- no, no, it's not mine. It's someone else's, someone that the old me slaughtered with no mercy. The thought makes me shiver. "You know exactly who I'm talking about."
I stand, leaving no room for protest. You wordlessly follow me into the line, clutching your own fake passport tightly. We move slowly, the line shifting little by little towards the front of the train. The conductor repeats his rules, stating that we can leave our bags behind as we are not transferring trains. We'll hop right back on once we make it past border patrol.
I cram to memorize my information once more as we wait in line, expecting someone to grill me. Even if we're in another country, my name is still well-known; I'm probably one of the most well-known killers across the world at this point. For someone so dangerous that I would even hurt a young girl, or someone that claims I loved him...it scares me that those things could be festering inside of me.
I tune into everyone else's conversations to avoid talking to you. Surprisingly enough, no one is staring at us; no one is whispering my real name and tugging on the sleeve of the nearest policeman. People glance over me, like I'm just anyone else.
They don't know what these hands have done.
A man behind a counter asks me for my passport, and I give it to him. He examines the picture, then me, looking back and forth a few times. I immediately begin to sweat- he knows, he knows- but I try my best to keep my composure.
"Name and date of birth?" He asks.
"Joseph Curran. August 17, 1970." It passes my lips easily, a stark contrast to how I actually feel inside. Still, he hesitates.
"May I search your bag?"
"Oh, it- it's still on the train. They told us we could leave it." I swallow.
"You, sir." He points towards you, and you step closer. "Are you with him?"
"No, sir," you reply smoothly, shaking your head.
"Did they search your bags at the train station?"
"Yes, sir, they did." It's a complete lie, but I nearly believe you with how convincing it sounds. The agent nods, satisfied, and hands me my passport back with a nod.
"You need to update your passport photo," he tells me. "It almost doesn't look like you."
"Right, yes. I've been meaning to. Rhinoplasty." I gesture vaguely to my face, and the agent nods with a slightly more understanding expression. He ushers me along, and for appearances I walk away without waiting for you. After all of that, it makes sense to keep up your lie. That, and being around you gives me mixed feelings.
I want to hate you. You've lied to my face so many times, and I can't even tell if what I know now is the truth. This could be another elaborate ploy. No matter what, it doesn't look good for you, as you've kept another massive part of my story from me. Something tells me that we wouldn't be who we are now without that girl, the way your hunched over her, weeping...I can't stand being kept in the dark.
But every time I look at you, there's a primal love. It's instinctual, something that has always been there. I can't get rid of it. It's one of the main reasons I want to get my memory back: I want to love you again. Fiercely. Truly.
My heart is still beating from the exchange with the guard when I collapse into my seat on the train. I slip my passport back into my bag and take a large gulp of lukewarm bottled water. The taste of plastic lingers in my mouth.
You sit back down next to me.
"I was scared to tell you about her," you say quietly. "I didn't want to."
"Why?"
"You...you took her from me. And I wanted another chance to keep her memory to myself." You sigh. "I wanted some alone time with her, without you there to take her from me again. If you never remembered, then...then she would be mine. I could honor her the way I wanted to."
"How did I take her from you?"
"Abigail. Her name was Abigail." You say it with reverence.
"Abigail." It feels natural. "How did I take Abigail from you?"
"You killed her," you say in a soft whisper. "But you took her from me long before that."
You tell the story in the simplest terms that you can, lest someone hears, but your voice is so soft that even I have to strain to hear. No one is going to be listening in, especially not with the noise of the train. I let you continue, though. It feels like a story that should be told quietly.
I helped Abigail, but I didn't. I thought I was helping her. I kept her alone in my house, letting the world think she was dead. I stole her blood and painted a crime scene with it. I stole her ear and shoved it down your throat. I kept her for you, and when you betrayed me I mercilessly took that reward away.
You tell me about the baby. About the man with the pigs, about his sister, and about how you nearly became a father. I took that child away, too. You tell me about how you did become a father, for a short amount of time- but it was never enough. You were a husband to someone who cared, and yet it was never enough. I made sure of that. I took everything from you.
We are toxic. I am toxic.
"I would be better off dead," I say. It's only after it's out that I realize I interrupted you- you were in the middle of a sentence. I was too focused on my own self hatred to notice. "This world would be better without me in it. You would be better."
"The world would maybe be more populated without you in it," you reply, "but it would definitely be uglier. You find beauty in such small things, in sophistications that most people don't even think of. You add gold to a dull world." You lean closer. "And that second part is wrong. I would be exponentially worse without you."
"Even after all I did?"
"I wouldn't be myself. I'd be suffering, hidden, harboring disgusting feelings for so long that it would eventually make me off myself." You close your eyes. "I wouldn't be free. I'd be dead."
"It's a miracle that you're alive now, it seems."
"Well, that's another thing you made sure of." You sigh. "You could never bring yourself to kill me. Never. You tried and tried, but you wouldn't let it happen. You knew better."
"I knew you were the only person I could ever have. And so I stole every chance you had to get away."
"We are the only people made for each other. We can't have anyone else because they don't understand. They'll never understand."
"When you..." I hesitate, deciding whether to tell you this. "When you said her name- Abigail- it made me feel something. An instinctual sensation that I can't describe."
"Paternity, maybe?"
"I think I loved her." I shake my head. "I know I loved her."
"I don't know if you did. You used her."
"I tried." My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. "I really did."
"How would you know? You can't remember," you snap at me, brow furrowing in annoyance.
"I just...I need to believe that there was at least some good part of me. That I was not the epitome of evil."
"You're not. I can't describe it to you. It'll never be easy for you to understand as an outsider." You instinctively reach to move your hair back, forgetting about the buzz cut. You run your fingertips over the scar on your forehead instead. "I can't tell you what happened to Abigail in the months you kept her, because I don't know. Only you know that- and even then, you don't know anymore. So you can believe whatever you want to believe, and it'll be true."
I imagine the girl from my earlier vision, painting her features as best I can from the fleeting memory. We're in a bedroom, and the window outside shows that it's well past sunset. She's laying under the covers, and I stand in the doorway, watching.
"Are you alright?" I ask her. She raises her head off the pillow and nods, her face unreadable. I enter the room.
"I'm fine," she says weakly. "Tired."
There is something massive that she is holding back. Cautiously, I lower myself onto the mattress and reach for her, holding her close in my arms. She leans in, shuddering with tears.
"It's going to be okay," I tell her. "I'm right here."
It's then that I realize that I love her.
I blink, and the scene is gone. It disappears as quickly as she did.
"Then I was good to her," I finally say to you. "I was her safety, before I was her greatest danger."
You nod, satisfied, and lean your head back against the seat. "You good if I try to rest?" You ask, and I agree. It would be good for you anyway, after such a long few days.
I watch you settle in, admiring the way you look when you abandon all appearances. I'm about to do the same when I feel the overwhelming stress of someone else's eyes on me, which sends a chill through my body. I examine the people around us, and no one seems to be paying close attention. I then, however, catch sight of a woman wearing all black whose head is turned towards us. She quickly averts her gaze once she sees me notice her.
The small glimpse I got of her expression was disheartening- she looked terrified.