Hangman's Bride

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She had written and re-written the letter to her sister a number of times, but none of the drafts had adequately conveyed the urgency of the situation in words appropriate for prying eyes. A collection of crumpled parchment balls sat to one side of her work space in the sitting room; she'd have to feed those to the incinerator before he came home.

He. Thomas. The name whose repetitions had once filled her with such doe-eyed bliss now made her want to retch. Of course, the man she had married – charismatic, bold – was still there, buried under the landslide of his larger-than-life reputation, which had only grown and solidified over the years. You see, Thomas was better known to those in the community and beyond as...

...Well, a pirate, for a lack of more polite terminology. He was notorious among international waters as Hangman the Nefarious and his countless enemies in the port town cowered in fear when he arrived announced. Although his visits were few and far between, and the townsfolk would boast and scoff behind his back, they knew he would eventually come to collect his due.

The enemy of my enemy is my...

...doting husband.

Admittedly, their relationship had begun as one of proximity and of convenience. Never one to shy aware from her past – no matter how sordid – she openly acknowledged the unconventional circumstances surrounding their initial encounter. She'd been the indentured servant of a lecherous barkeep and his wife, and Thomas was to be her one-way ticket to freedom...or something like it. Call her an opportunist; call her a gold digger – she called herself an entrepreneur with a knack for self-preservation.

Of course, she had known all along that he was prone to capricious bouts of whimsy. But in the beginning, it had been exciting. He was wild, unpredictable. Yes, all along something inside her knew; something had ignited by that spark. But she never spoke out. She never feared for her own well-being.

She never imagined that someday...she'd be next.

Instinctively, her stomach tightened and her eyes were pulled, as if magnetized, to the far corner of the room. The open parlor with its high, chandeliered ceilings felt suddenly and asphyxiatingly tight. She stared at the closet door with its fresh coat of mauve paint and its freshly changed lock, and a nagging sensation cloyed at her throat.

She wasn't naive. Even as a young girl, she possessed a certain prescience beyond her years. She was keenly aware that she wasn't Thomas's first, and she readily accepted the possibility that she wouldn't be his last.

What had become of the others? She had wisely and intentionally never asked.

Thomas didn't come home often, but when he did he changed that damned lock. It had become his obsession, since well before their union. It had, in fact, served as a governing principle in their nuptials. He said that it was for her own good, and that she was never never, under any circumstance, so much as touch the ornate brass knob that stood out from the rest of the room's gilded furnishings like a sore thumb. If he detected the slightest smudge upon microscopic inspection, there would be a hellish price to pay.

And why was that? What exactly what lay beyond that locked door? The door with the lock that Thomas had determined would remain forever engaged.

Her mind resolved to confirm what her heart already knew. In a moment of bravado, she pushed back from the vanity table and stood tall, billows of tulle cascading to brush the tips of her boots.

She may well be the next victim, but at least he would know that she died knowing.   

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