The Messy Months [EDITING]

September - 3

"So let me get this straight." The women on the other end of the line shuffled some papers, her lips smacking together. Marcy could hear some sort of muffled chewing and checked the clock again. It was just before noon. She didn't think they'd pick up during lunch hours.

"Someone has been sending you stalker photos of your dead boyfriend—but you burned them all so there's no proof they even exist. Then someone—possibly the same person—broke into your apartment and gave you a box addressed to you with a, uh,"—there was a shuffling of papers—"'mocking smiley' on it. But when you went back it wasn't there any longer. Is that correct?"

Marcy pursed her lips together, looking at Trym. He had his head stuck in a book, his finger sliding across the page as he read. "Um. Yeah."

"I'm sorry sweetie, but I just don't think we can help you."

"Y-you can't?"

Trym's head snapped up, and he gestured for the phone. She held up a finger, indicating she needed another moment.

"No, we can't. You see, there's not enough information here for us to start an investigation. But if you came down to the station and told us in person, then maybe we could get a better feel for the situation." The woman's tone had taken on one of babyish simplicity. "How does that sound? Maybe we could send an escort."

"Oh my gosh, you think I'm crazy, don't you? You think I'm making this up!"

Trym snatched the phone for her and began talking into it quickly. "I'm sorry, ma'am. She's been a little on edge lately. No, no, she's not on meds. Yes, I've seen what she's talking about. Well, I saw the box, but—" Pause. "Oh." Pause. "Wow. Oh wow. Okay. No, I don't want to hear more. Thank you for your time." Trym pulled the phone from his ear and Marcy's eyes grew wide. Instantly, she knew what had happened.

The lady had told him about her history. The lady said something about Donald.

Her Donald...

Trym set his phone down, and turned back to his book. While he had his back to her, Marcy considered making a getaway upstairs. But she was tired of running and quite relieved. It felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She hadn't been the one to break the news to him.

Finally, Trym turned. "What should we order tonight? What usually cheers you up?"

When Marcy didn't say anything, he set his book down on the end of his bed. "Pizza? We could get the good kind that delivers." He started walking toward the stairs, and Marcy felt the words—the right words—starting to come.

"He died at the beginning of summer last year. He was mugged and it went wrong. The police say—they told me—"

Trym froze. He spoke with his back to her. Again. "Stop. You didn't want to tell me and I don't want to know."

Marcy took a deep breath, centering herself. It was easier to talk to the back of his head anyway. "The police say he defended himself when he should've just let the guy do what he wanted. But Donald, he would do anything for the ones he loved. I—I was sick, and he was getting medicine for me. He was out there because I... I needed him to be."

Marcy lowered her head, wiping at her cheeks so Trym's neck couldn't see her snotty nose and red eyes. She hated crying, especially in front of people. She felt her mental and emotional train take a plunging dive.

"I-I couldn't tell you because it's a hard thing to admit. I didn't want you to think I was crazy. Because when I tried to tell people about the photos, they said I was. Especially because of my attacks. You know, in the first month, I couldn't even go to the grocery store without breaking down? I'd see milk and I'd think of him. I'd see bread and I'd think of him. I didn't even want to go to college without him. Because he wanted to major in English. And that apartment—it's so close to the one we picked out. And his mother hasn't talked to me since I moved out, even though I try to call every few weeks. And—and—"