Never Go There by Rebecca Tinnelly Read Online (FREE)
Read Never Go There by Rebecca Tinnelly full novel online for free here.
The metal is cold, her arms aching from the weight as she lifts it.
In the window she sees herself, her hands gripping the object, her fingers in a claw. The moon seeps into the tableau from the black sky outside and obscures her features in the process, her face lost to the bright round orb. If she stepped forwards or back, she would see herself clearly, see the twist of her lips, the arch of her eyebrows, the tremble of her shoulders as she readies her arms.
If the other woman looked up, looked up right now, she would see their reflection in the single-glazed window.
But she doesn’t.
The other woman stares, instead, at a Polaroid, held in her thin-fingered hands, her right thumb stroking the face of the man in the white-framed square.
‘Thank you,’ the other woman mutters, almost under her breath, and it’s not clear if she’s talking to her or to the man in the picture. ‘For giving me this, thank you.’ Her voice cracks at the end, on those difficult words.
One hard hit should be enough to knock the woman clean out.
She holds her breath.
She is ready, calm.
The other woman, the woman in front with the picture in her hands, moans. The sound is low, filled with longing, regret, her thumb still stroking that face.
Her arms reach their summit, hands high above her head, wiry muscles taut, ready.
The thud of her heart in her chest is so strong she’s sure the other woman can hear it.
Her fingers tighten around the object in her hands, her pulse beating against the cold metal, beating out the rhythm of those words. The sides of her mouth turn down, her face setting in a foul grimace.
A distant gunshot rings from the bleak hills outside, from lampers out hunting, the sound making the other woman lift her eyes to the window. Her gaze lands on their reflection.
The other woman’s mouth freezes in an O.
The first thump is clean, no mess, only noise.
The blood comes with the second sharp blow, the face in the Polaroid now marked with a red spatter.
Her hands lift and pound, lift and pound, opening the other woman’s head like a crushed, boiled egg.
If she looks up she would see her reflection. She would see eyes wild, open and blue, her mouth a clenched mass of teeth, dripping with spit.
But instead she looks down, at the head that’s no longer a head, her hands covered in the other’s blood, the man in the photograph smiling through the dark liquid.
Her original plan, the idea of a clean death, is rendered obsolete. The idea that any of this could be clean is a bad joke.
She can still make out his face, that face that’s been ceaselessly haunting her. She draws her arms up then back down, again and again and again until the Polaroid drowns in the other woman’s blood.