A New Start

The honeymoon was over. They stayed at the beach house Joseph had taken them for a few days, and then lingered even longer.

Rosa Sharon would pace around the living room. Joseph would leave for long walks and not say where he was going. He said visions led him, like he said they led him to her on the day that was supposed to be her wedding day.

One morning Rosa Sharon stood at the kitchen sink. Her hands were submerged in lukewarm water. She was scrubbing the black leggings she bought at the mall. The fabric was cheap.

She looked out the window. Joseph was on the deck. He was staring at the ocean. He hadn’t moved in an hour. No walk today.

The pipes groaned. A deep, hacking mechanical cough that vibrated through the sink.

-Damn it, she whispered.

She twisted the handle. The water sputtered. It made a noise but nothing came out. Then thick, crimson liquid pulsed out.

Rosa yanked her hands back. She stared at the water.

She shut the tap. The pipes coughed one last time and went silent.

She wiped her hands on her shirt. She walked to the screen door and pushed it open.

-Joseph.

He didn't seem to hear her.

-Joseph, the water is doing it again.

-It’s old pipes, Rosa, he said. Rust.

-It’s thick, Joseph. It coagulates.

He turned then. He looked like he hadn't slept since they fled the altar.

-I have a migraine, he said.

-You always have a migraine lately.

The visions.

She stepped onto the deck.

-You said you knew the owners, she said. You said they were away. Long away.

-I did.

-Who are they, Joseph? What did they do here?

He looked back at the ocean.

-I don't know.

-You found the key, she said. Under the planter. You walked right to it.

-I saw it, he said.

-A vision, she said dismissively.

He tapped the side of his head.

-I saw the key. I saw the door opening. I saw us safe. That’s all.

The man who stole her from her wedding. The stranger. He didn't have a plan. He had hallucinations.

-I’m checking the main line, she said.

-Don’t go down there.

-We need water, Joseph. Clean water.

-Leave it, he said.

She ignored him. She went back inside. The smell was worse now.

She opened the door to the basement. She flipped the switch to chase the darkness away. A single yellow bulb lit up.

She walked down. The stairs creaked. The boiler sat in the corner, rusting. The pipes ran along the ceiling. She followed the main line. It ran past the boiler. It ran past the support beams.

It ran into a wall.

Rosa frowned. She tapped it. It was plywood, painted hastily to match the concrete.

She hooked her fingers under the edge of the wood. It was loose.

She pulled. The plywood gave way. It swung open like a door.

Rosa covered her mouth.

Formaldehyde and decay. Stainless steel tables bolted to the floor. Grooves cut into the concrete, stained dark brown, leading to a central drain. Shelves lined the back wall, stocked with jars of cloudy fluid and metal tools. Hooks hung from the ceiling.

Mortuary tools. Embalming fluid.

The pipes overhead rattled. A drop of red water leaked from a joint and hit the steel table with a wet plink.

Rosa backed away.

She turned and bolted to the stairs. She burst into the kitchen.

Joseph was standing there. He had the duffel bag in his hand.

-We have to go, he said.

-You knew, she gasped.

-I didn't. I swear.

-It’s a slaughterhouse, Joseph! There are tables. Drains!

-I know what it smells like now, he said. I can taste it.

He grabbed her arm. His grip was hard.

-The bus, he said.

-What?

-Route 101. It’s coming. I see it.

-I’m not going anywhere with you. You’re crazy.

-Room 112, he said. His eyes were wide, unblinking. A double room. Paid for. Safe.

-There is no safe!

-There is. I see it. The wall is gone. The money is there.

-Money?

-The courier never showed. It’s waiting for us.

The pipes hacked a cough again. The kitchen faucet blasted open on its own. Red filth sprayed into the sink, overflowing onto the floor.

Rosa looked at the blood spreading across the linoleum. She looked at Joseph. The stranger. The seer. The schizophrenic.

-Run.