The Affair

Chapter 22.2

He stumbles into the bedroom, muttering a frantic noise—half-word, half whimper. His gun searches the room with the flashlight's beam. Gasping, he retreats against a wall, eyes taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.

It's a child's bedroom, but not his daughter's. The walls are painted a gentle pink, sitting above panels of white wood trim instead of Zoe's solid pale evergreen. His heel hits hard against the glossy wood floor where carpet should be. Wall stickers are scattered across the walls: a beautiful castle, various Disney princesses, and other whimsical creatures. A tall bookshelf stacked with animal plushies stands along the back wall, next to a window shielded by sheer white curtains.

"What is happening..." he questions, taking it all in.

There's a small sob behind him. He yelps at the sound, spinning and pointing the gun at a twin-size bed. But a girl's there—a young girl with brown hair—sitting on a bare mattress, back angled from the sparkly silver headboard, legs folded to her chest. She's crying. Small, innocent noises as she trembles against her knees.

William drops his aim immediately, hiding the gun behind him. He clicks off the flashlight and pockets it, the lamp in the corner doing well to comfort the space with a warm tone.

"I'm dreaming..." he thinks. He looks around one more time, still stuck in the wrong place. "Or going crazy."

The doorknob turns, and the little girl lifts her head. A woman enters carrying a glass of amber liquid. She's gorgeous—brunette, mid-thirties, curvy, yet in shape—but with exhausted eyes. William stiffens as she steps in, utterly lost for words.

"Mommy, please..." the little girl cries. She shifts onto her knees, clasping her hands together. "Please give him back. I don't need my blanket and pillow, mommy. I need him. I need Fal—."

"Enough, Micaela!" the mother rasps, slamming down the glass onto the nightstand. "God, I can't deal with you and that fucking thing. Grow up!"

William squirms against the wall. Something about how the mother scolds her daughter not sitting well in his gut. His lips tremble, mouthing a silent plea for the woman to ease off the girl.

The girl sniffles, hugging herself. "But... Daddy—"

The woman's hand pops hard across the little girl's cheek. The sound lingers in the room like a cave echo. He's across the room three strides.

"Hey! You can't do that!" he shouts, reaching out. His fingers curl, meaning to grab her arm and pull her away. But he grabs nothing, staggering off balance without the counterweight he expected.

The mother is unfazed, treating him like a ghost in the room.

"Do. Not. Say. That name. Again..." the mother hisses, each word distinct and vicious like a controlled demolition.

William stares at his hand. "It went right through her..." his mind rambles, fingers vibrating with nervous energy. The gun is still heavy in his other hand, something physical and real to keep him from floating off. He slaps his forehead twice, but he doesn't wake up.

The child hiccups a sob, one shaky hand rubbing her cheek as it blooms red. She shrinks against the bed's headboard. The woman stands there for a breath, frozen in the wake of her violence. When she does move it's only to snatch her drink from the nightstand. She throws it down in a single, anxious drink.

Against the wall, William watches the woman pace along the bed's edge. Each inhale is stiff, thin, and short, as if through a straw. Her exhales come uneven.

"It's a toy, Micaela..." the woman mutters. Her thumb rises to her lips, the edge of her fingernail grinding between her teeth. "It's just a stupid toy. It isn't real, okay? There's nothing special about it." She turns, then points to the bookshelf full of plushies. "Look... you have plenty others. Pick one..."