All the Dangerous Things

by Stacy Willingham

One year of opening my eyes to find myself in another room, another building, without any recollection of when I got there or how I arrived.

A spot with no significance, really, other than the fact that my eyes seem to like it here.

Damn i already like the writing

Comfort is a luxury I can no longer afford, and routine … well. I haven’t had that in a long time, either.

Then I see a woman wearing a T-shirt that says Bundy. Dahmer. Gacy. Berkowitz.

What thr fuck is wring with people

feel the familiar swell of bile in my throat, warm and sharp, and force myself to look away.

None of them can. The murderers on the T-shirts are the villains; the uniformed men in back, the heroes. Mason is the victim … and I’m not really sure where that leaves me.

The truth is, people love violence—from a distance, that is. Anyone who disagrees is either in denial or hiding something.

“It’s not a story,” I say. “It’s my life.”

Hell yeah

Because, like those people on the plane, someone out there has a secret. Someone, somewhere, knows the truth.

“Your eyes were open.”

Crazy theory in my head rn

Maybe not my body, but my soul, and somehow, that feels worse.

This is all that’s left.

They can’t imagine. There is no way to imagine it until you’re right in the thick of it, living it, and by then, it’s too late.

The violence has come for you, too.

necklace hidden beneath my shirt.

Give my husband a menacing snarl for leaving him, leaving us. Instead, he licks Ben’s fingers.

Today. Day three hundred and sixty-five. One full year since our final day with Mason.

It started as a desperate need to stay awake in case Mason came back. Someone had taken my baby, after all. Someone had taken him from me, and I had slept through it all.

I was changed. Something had snapped

Somethhing has changed within me someething is not the same

“How does it look?” I interrupt, anger building in my chest. “Please, tell me.”

“You, standing up and doing that in front of some sick audience the day before the anniversary. It doesn’t look normal.”

“They have nothing,” I continue. “They have no one, Ben. Whoever did this is still out there. Whoever took him…”

Why you don’t want to find him.”

“Don’t you ever accuse me of not caring. You have no idea what this has been like for me. He was my son, too.”

“He is your son, too.”

“He could still be alive,” I say, feeling the tears well in my eyes again. “We could still find him—” “Isabelle, he’s not alive. He’s not.” “He could be—” “He’s not.”

Damn

Losing a child makes you lose a lot of things. Your rationality, your mind.

“I wanted you to know that I’m seeing someone.”

What the sus

What used to be so tender, full of longing and love, now feels like a punishment: something swathed in pity, like a lukewarm smile tossed across the room when someone you used to love catches you hanging out without them.

Then I dip my hand beneath my shirt, finding my necklace, and clutch the ring—Ben’s ring—that dangles from a chain fastened tightly around my throat.

Not even to make it out stronger—just to make it out alive.

I stopped, suddenly realizing that I was rambling. That Ben was looking at me, smiling, trying to stifle a laugh.

Awwww

A warmness that came from the inside. A contentment I hadn’t felt in years.

I realize that he isn’t keeping tabs on me because he cares. He’s keeping tabs because he’s angry.

others believe her intrusion into an open investigation may come with consequences.

Intrusion? thats her baby

and this was a part of him that I could hold on to.

To wonder where it could have possibly gone, the same way I looked into his eyes and searched for the feelings for me I knew he no longer had.

“Nothin’ about grief makes sense.” He shook his head. “Not for any of us.”

Mom still dresses us in coordinating outfits, even when we’re sleeping. Like we come in a set: life-sized nesting dolls.

Like she’s mine to protect. Like without her, I’m hollow.

She’s always watching, always listening. Always absorbing life like a sponge, silent and porous and malleable in our hands.

“It’s not your fault,” he says instead, downing the last of the tawny liquid at the bottom of his glass. “You know that, right?”

That no matter what we do, no matter how hard we try, we’re doing it all wrong. That every little thing is our fault; that we’re unfit, unworthy. That our shortcomings are the cause of every scream and tear and trembling lip.

My white nightgown sticking to my ankles, my calves, my thighs. The water moving higher and higher until it poured down my throat.

He should look familiar. He should be somebody I know. I know everyone in this neighborhood. They’re all right here, right in front of me.

They’re everywhere, it seems. Our neighbors, coworkers. Friends.

For him, it’s personal.

I can’t tell if it’s genuine yet, if he really doesn’t know, or if he’s just good at faking. I’d like to find out.

Just tll me alrady

I had come to think of him as a library book, entering my life on rented time. Something that I could enjoy for a few hours, curled up and comfortable, devouring as much of him as possible before our time was up. And because he wasn’t mine, I couldn’t scribble in the margins or write my name on the spine; I couldn’t leave my mark on him in any discernable way.

“They get divorced?” he asks, his voice clipped. We’re getting personal now, the mood veering quickly from easy small talk to something deeper. Neither of us is looking at the other. “No,” I say, letting the silence stretch out for a beat too long. Then I turn toward him and take a deep breath. “She died.”