Resentment: A Psychological Thriller - 5. Episode 5

Having come from a large city, I had no idea how dark the world could get. It was as if the night had swallowed everything, save for the trees lining both sides of the road, and the asphalt unspooling before the car, made visible by the ghostly glow of the headlights. The sense of isolation, of being removed from civilization, was overwhelming, pressing in from all sides like the darkness itself.

Agamemnon was quiet. Every now and then I would look away from the window long enough to watch him out of the corner of my eye. His face glowed and his hands, both of which were quite large, gripped the steering wheel. I wanted to say something, anything to break the silence, but my tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth.

The sense of loneliness did not lessen when we reached the village center. There was not a soul walking about. The windows of shops and businesses were dark. The street lights flicked from green, to yellow, to red even though there wasn't another car anywhere in sight. Only the illumination of a silvery half crescent moon eluded to where the sandbank ended and the frothing waves of the Atlantic began.

The charming visage of Adermoor Cove had changed before my eyes.

Sand crunched beneath the tires as Agamemnon eased the car to a stop, then climbed out. I followed, fumbling clumsily with the door. He rooted around the trunk. After a moment he found something and handed it to me: a flashlight. He had one too.

Together, we headed towards the beach. It was a struggle to keep up. Agamemnon was long legged and walked quickly. I almost had to jog to keep up, hair flying in my face. The beams of our flashlights bounced over the sand. Jesus, why did I agree to do this? I wondered.

Oh well, it was too late to turn back.

Agamemnon came to a stop and began stripping off his clothes. In the dark it was impossible to see anything but the outline of his body. I kept my back turned, watching him from the corner of my eye. And yet, even in the dark, I could feel the inescapable weight of his eyes on me, see the gleam of his white, perfectly shaped teeth as he smiled.

"This is insane," I said before I could stop myself. I hugged myself, shivering.

"It won't hurt my feelings if you decide to wait in the car."

I frowned. I couldn't discern whether or not he was mocking me. Everything he said was a puzzle to be solved.

You've come this far, why stop now?

He was walking towards the water as if he didn't feel the cold night air. My eyes had adjusted enough I could see the broad shape of his back and the firmness of his buttocks. I'd seen enough of his body shape to know he'd been quite fit in his younger days. Even in his forties he retained a robust physique, only just now showing early signs of going soft in the middle.

I'm not sure if it was determination or madness that inspired me to follow him. The tide had picked up, the water stretching across the sand as if trying to take its claim of me.

At the touch of the icy water I sucked in a breath. This is madness.

I waded in after Agamemnon who was already being carried away by the tide. The chilly temperature of the water instantly stole the breath from my body. The waves lapped at me, trying to drag me back towards the beach. I could just see Agamemnon, his powerful arms cutting through the water with the air of a professional swimmer.

I sucked in a breath and swam after him, Agamemnon was several yards out and getting further away with each second. This is crazy.

"Agamemnon!" Salt water filled my mouth. I spat it out, shaking my head. I looked again just in time to see Agamemnon's head disappear beneath the water.

My heart seized. No, no, no this was just getting crazier. I swam towards the spot where I saw him go under. He had not appeared yet. I sucked in a breath and plunged into the dark depths of the ocean.

My muscles burned. It was impossible to see. I kept hoping he would reach out and grip my hand...or maybe the tide would carry him back to the ocean. But I couldn't just do nothing. What would Roxanne think when she found out Agamemnon and I had gone swimming in the middle of the night and her husband had drowned?

I felt something grab me. My first thought was a shark, like in Jaws, but then my panicked mind remembered sharks didn't have fingers. I grabbed a hold of Agamemnon, kicked towards the surface, and began pulling him towards the beach.

Agamemnon wasn't moving anymore. His body floated along with me, seemingly lifeless. There was nothing else I could do but focus on getting us back to the beach. At long last we washed up on the beach like whales. I shook violently, colder than I could ever remember being before. Every muscle in my body was on fire. It was only the sight of Agamemnon’s unmoving body that forced me to get onto my haunches and crawl towards him.

Seeing him so still reminded me of the summer after I graduated high school, when I had worked as a lifeguard. A young boy had drowned, his head submerged under the water for a whole two minutes. I was the one who had seen him and dove into the water. I recalled his mother had been there, begging my hysterically to do something. I had been trained in CPR. In the end I was able to revive him. I’d forgotten that moment up until now. I managed to resuscitate the boy. I only hoped I could do the same with Agamemnon.

“Come on,” I said. I rolled him onto his back. His arms flopped lifelessly into the sand. “Come on, goddamn you.” I curled my hand into a fist and began pounding on his chest in regular intervals. I pinched his nose in between my thumb and index finger, pumping air from my lungs into his mouth.

“This was your fucking idea,” I said, “don’t you die on me!”

The third time I breathed into his mouth he jerked upright, eyes wide and glittering. He rolled onto his hands and knees, coughing up salt water in a great stream. His chest heaved up and down. His breathing was unsteady, a rattling gasp. He looked at me, eyes wide and vulnerable. I stood up, went over to him, and held out my hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he took it. His grip was strong, his arms powerful. He almost pulled me down into the sand with him trying to get up. He said something that might have been a thank you but I wasn’t sure, and didn’t really care. I just wanted to find my clothes and get out of here.

Covered with sand, and with our clothes sticking to our skin, Agamemnon and I trekked back to the car. I asked if he would mind taking me back to the inn, to which he agreed. I was a little surprised when he asked if he could use my shower.

“I hate the feeling of having sand clinging to me,” he said. He looked embarrassed, as if he’d just shared some big secret.

I was exhausted and shaken. Between crashing my car into a deer and almost drowning this had easily been the strangest day of my life. Despite my exhaustion I couldn’t refuse Agamemnon. He’d been through a traumatizing experience, having almost died. What’s the harm in letting him take a quick shower? I asked myself.

“Sure,” I said. “Are you okay?”

He frowned. “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just drowned.”

“I’m alright.”

I didn’t know what to make of his response but didn’t have the energy or care to push further, so I climbed out of the car. Fortunately there was no one sitting at the desk inside. I couldn't imagine what anyone might think if they saw us in the current state we were in.

In the time of my absence the housekeeper had come by to clean up the room: the bed had been made and there were fresh towels and wash rags in the bathroom. Agamemnon looked around the room with mild interest. He turned away from the window. The corner of his lip twitched.

"Very charming," he said.

I shrugged. "I've stayed in worse."

"Have you?" He scanned my face intently. "Are you angry with me, Thomas?"

I felt my back straighten defensively. "What makes you think I'm angry?"

"You're one of those people whose every thought and emotion shows on their face. It's like looking through a window."

The part of me that hated confrontation with the people I liked and respected wanted to shrink back, but then I remembered the terror of swimming through dark ocean water, blind, searching for him. "What kind of man swims out in the ocean in the middle of the night like that?"

"Good question." His dark eyes twinkled with humor "I must admit it wasn't my finest moment. I have to remind myself I'm not in my twenties anymore." His head cocked curiously to the side. "Why did you come with me, then?"

I looked at the broad length of his shoulders, the shapely hands, dusted with dark strands of hair at the wrists. I wondered what it would be like to feel those hands caress the side of my face. "I wanted to impress you."

The smile he gave me was odd. Confident to the point of being arrogant and somehow knowing, as if the response I'd given was the one he had expected. "Well next time you need not try so hard. I'm already quite impressed with you. You saved my life after all. I'm indebted to you."

My face flushed. I nodded at the bathroom in hopes he didn't see it. "There's fresh towels in there."

He thanked me and walked into the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him. I was grateful for the momentary privacy. I sunk into the plush chair by the bed, buried my face in my eyes. I pictured the dark outline of his body, the peternatural glint of his eyes as he watched me pull off my clothes, the glimpse of his backside as he strolled casually towards the sea.

It's just wishful thinking, a small voice lectured in the back of my head. It wouldn't be the first time you've looked into things too much.

I thought of Louis, saw his angry face when I stood up with the small pocket knife in my hands, and heard the air hissing from his tires.

"Fuck," I whispered.

It hadn't always been that way between us; once upon a time things had been pretty good. And then in the end things had gotten bad and I wasn't quite sure how.

What I did, there's no going back. There's no fixing it - not with the restraining order.

"I was so stupid," I whispered to myself, "so fucking stupid."

I must have dozed off for a moment because the next thing I knew the door opened. Agamemnon stepped out with steam wafting out behind him; the towel was wrapped around his hips. Dark hair sprouted over his chest and legs. His nipples were dark. His belly was starting to show signs of turning into a gut but it was still defined.

"All yours," he said.

I dodged into the bathroom. I had to get away from him. Hopefully he would leave by the time I got out of the shower.

Unfortunately he wasn't. I was shocked when I came out of the bathroom to find him sitting on the edge of the bed, completely naked. He looked me over. I had scrambled into the bathroom so fast I'd forgotten to take clothes to change into.

His hand went to his sizable erection.

"What are you doing?" I did my best to sound angry but my arousal betrayed me.

He smiled, stood up, and hovered before me close enough I could feel the heat rolling off his body. His eyes traveled down the length of my front to the towel wrapped around my waist. His arousal was evident and so was mine.

Slowly he reached out. His fingers gripped the edge of the towel, brushing against my pubic hair. I swallowed, watched as he gently pulled the towel away from my waist and dropped it on the floor at my feet.

His eyes continued to explore my body greedily. "May I touch you, kiss you?"

"Yes," I said before I could stop myself.

He leaned down a little to kiss me. We were both cautious at first, testing the waters, but then Agamemnon became more confident and so did I. His hands explored my body, gripping the back of my body. His tongue explored the inside of my mouth with fervor. I could still taste the wine on his breath from dinner.

I ran my hands down the solid, hairy plain of his chest. His nipples were hard beneath my palms.

Somehow we ended up on the bed, me on the bottom and him on top. His lips sucked at my neck. They steadily traveled lower, following the same path his hands had. I wondered if Roxanne knew the truth about her husband, if she even suspected. A sense of shame welled up inside me at odds with the sensation of pleasure.

When he took me into his mouth I almost let go then and there. I gripped the blankets in my hand, forced myself to hold back for as long as I could. When I let go he made a sound, as if surprised.

He looked up at me, dark eyes gleaming. He wiped the back of his mouth with his wrist. "That was quite a bit."

I smiled, pleased with myself. "My turn."

Jude

A month after the day we stood atop the lighthouse, facing the ocean as we held each other, Duane and I called Dahlia and bought the place.

I know exactly what you are thinking, and you are right. You aren't the first person to tell me so. Even now, all these years later, I still go over everything in my head; it's like rolling marbles in a glass jar.

Despite what you might think, the idea did not warm on me immediately. That day on the lighthouse tower, Duane planted the seed of moving into Adermoor Cove in my head, but I had my doubts as to whether or not it would grow into anything beyond a fantasy.

After we returned to the mainland, things were perfectly normal. Or rather more normal than I expected them to be. We went back to our separate living spaces: him in his cozy one bedroom near the university, myself in a loft that was big enough to withstand my endless pacing.

For the first few weeks I did everything I could to stay busy, anything to distract myself from thinking about that strange and beautiful island. I listened to my audiobooks and podcasts as I hiked through the city. I met a group of friends from college to play board games and drink too much wine. It's not good to drink while taking medication, I know. But the point is, I was stable, and I wanted to dig my claws into that feeling of cohesion.

Duane came over on a rainy Friday evening with fried chicken from a mom-and-pop gig on campus. While I put everything on plates, he popped the cork from the wine bottle. The plan was to watch a movie while cuddling on the couch; instead we wound up sprawled haphazardly on the bed, both too exhausted from the week's adventures to bother putting up the leftovers for the night. He ran his fingers through my hair like he liked to do; I'd let my hair grow shaggy, so he was taking advantage of the opportunity. Like my beard, I would continue to let my hair grow until it made me itch, then I would cut it all off.

For now, I simply enjoyed the one-on-one attention.

That was until he popped the question.

"Have you thought about our discussion?" he asked.

"Discussion?" I purred. He'd begun to knead at my forehead, easing the pent up tension with circular motions. Also, my cheeks were warm and buzzing from the wine. But all good times must come to an end.

"The lighthouse."

At first I didn't know what the hell he was talking about, and I wasn't in the mood to ponder and analyze. Then it eased its way back into my mind. I'd tried not to think about it. It's much too soon. We should be taking this slow. "I don't know," I told him after a moment.

"I've been talking with Dahlia on the phone. She's not getting too many offers."

"Well fuck, I wonder why," I blurted stupidly before I could stop myself. "The place was a wreck." The moments the words left my mouth, I felt…guilty. The kind of guilt you feel after you've badmouthed a friend. In my mind's eyes I could see the stained wallpaper; I imagined rubbing my hands over the blemishes and smoothing them out with my touch.

"It needs work…a lot of work," he admitted. "A lot of love. The plumbing's jacked and some of the walls will have to be replaced, the wallpaper stripped and replaced. It won't be cheap. But it's a lighthouse. How many opportunities like this come up?" He spoke with enthusiasm, the same enthusiasm he often used when he was giving a lecture; and he was never happier than when he got the chance to show off how wise he was. When he continued, he spoke more softly. "I don't know what is about the island, about the lighthouse. But when we were there…I didn't just feel like I'd been there before, I felt like I belonged there, like if there was only one place I'd want to be, it would be there."

I knew what he meant. My mouth tried to form the words of agreement, but I clamped down on them.

That night, I dreamed I was back in Adermoor Cove, climbing the steps of the lighthouse. Somewhere above me a thousand voices sang in melodic harmony, encouraging me to reach the top. There were no words to their song, just a simple, "Ahhhh" sound. I wish I could try to describe what their voices sound like. Angelic comes to mind and yet that doesn’t even do the spell those voices wove justice.

At last, after what seemed like a lifetime of climbing, I reached the top of the tower. It was dark. Silver moonlight streamed through the glass, casting everything in a ghostly sheen. The lamp, which had once guided sailors through dark and stormy nights, was silent, had been dead for a long time; in the twenty-first century it was nothing more than a relic of the past. I had no interest in it.

What I was interested in was the door grafted into the wall. A door I was sure had not been there before, but was there now. In appearance there was nothing special about this door: made of solid looking wood, with a silver door handle. What made it special, other than the fact that it had materialized from some unknown place, was the white light seeping through the cracks, chasing away the darkness, and the angels that sang behind it, still calling to me. I’m coming, I thought desperately. Don’t leave me.

All I had to do was open the door and step inside. Then I would see the angels, be with them.

I walked towards the door. Dots of the light touched my skin, warm and soothing, like a lover’s touch. I wrapped my fingers around the doorknob and turned it.

The door was locked.

And then I woke up, sweating, my heart plummeting at the realization that I was back in my bedroom, back in Adermoor Cove, with Duane curled up next to me, snoring like a bull. I did not fall asleep for the rest of the night, but stared up at the ceiling, unable to shake the feeling of despair that had followed me from the dream world into the waking one.

I did not fall back asleep.

There was another dream, in which I stood in the lighthouse’s shadow just like that day on the island. Exact time of day, exact position. The only difference in the dream was it was a man that stood in the window, peering down at me, and not the wrinkled remains of Roxanne Lockhart.

These two dreams played out over the following week, in one variation or another, sometimes stitched together seamlessly like parts of a quilt: in this instance the shadow man would point at the tower, reminding me that there was a door there; a very special door in which the angels awaited me, and I had to find a way to unlock it. That’s when I would turn and begin the long ascent up the tower steps.

I slept like shit.

I paced endlessly, anything I could do to put all thoughts of Adermoor Cove, lighthouses, and even Duane off. I put my phone on Airplane mode. I locked my door when I was home. The fear of unraveling suffocated me. The more I tried not to think about things the more I thought about them, a cruel paradox.

I knew what I had to do. I’d always known.

So I picked up the phone and called Duane.

“I think we should buy the lighthouse,” I said, when he answered. It was close to evening, and despite my exhaustion, I did not want to fall back asleep. But what if keeping my feelings to myself was the very reason I wasn’t sleeping? The truth will set you free, as the saying goes.

This revelation was followed by a stunned silence on Duane’s end, and then, cautiously: “What made you change your mind?”

“I’ve been thinking about it all week.” My lungs swelled and I remembered to breathe, so I let the tension out with a long exhale; already I could feel my mind easing down from its frantic waltz. “I think it’s meant for us, too. How about I come over and we call Dahlia together?”

It was all too easy to make the purchase. Between the money I’d accrued in royalties and Duane’s savings we had enough to bargain with. And yet I couldn’t shake the fact we had just made a deal with the devil, also known as Dahlia. I don’t care how good her lemonade is.