for day 14 of Inktober for Writers, here’s some Bedelia/Chiyoh, based on the prompt ‘haunted.’
no warnings apply, 700 words, rated G. on ao3 here.
They do most of their talking in the darkness.
The heavy blackout blinds covering Bedelia's floor to ceiling windows don't let in a single iota of light; it's only the red numbers of her alarm clock, floating in a sea of blackness the consistency of tar, that gives the room some semblance of shape and form, that keeps it from simply being a void of darkness.
Chiyoh is resting on the bed beside her, motionless. Even in the stillness and silence of the room, her breathing is nearly impossible to hear, could easily be mistaken for some other kind of sound, one of the idiosyncrasies that all houses possess in varying ways, like creaking floorboards or windows that groan in the wind. It's only her body heat soaking into the mattress that betrays her existence at all.
Perhaps if she got cold enough, if her body heat became low enough, she would simply blink out of existence.
“Your home is haunted,” Chiyoh says into the blackness, her voice soft and measured, the words always carefully chosen, no room for spontaneity.
Bedelia wonders how long she’s been pondering over those words, how long it took her to choose them to split the post-coital silence with.
“I wasn’t aware that you believed in ghosts,” Bedelia replies, rolling onto her side, the silk sheet bunching and shifting along the line of her hips.
Chiyoh’s laugh is a very strange thing, unpracticed and quiet, like she’s still trying to form it, mold one that suits her.
“I don’t. Even if they did exist, memories haunt us with far more efficiency than any specter ever could.”
“Yes,” Bedelia says simply. She doesn’t need to ask what kind of memories Chiyoh is referring to; there’s only other person who has so thoroughly invaded the corners and open spaces of her home, whose presence has left remnants as clearly as if they had branded their signature there, on walls and floors instead of skin. Some days, Bedelia turns a corner, walks down a hallway, enters a room, and expects to find him there, standing in her path, holding a glass of wine or perhaps a knife, eyes darkened, the veneer of respectability permanently wiped away.
Although that is more of a defensive mechanism, her mind preparing her for the inevitable final encounter, than it is a series of memories.
“Some nights, I dream about setting the house alight,” she says, speaking into the part of the darkness that Chiyoh inhabits. “Pouring gasoline from room to room. Spreading it heaviest in the rooms that he carved out space in. Stepping out the front door, tossing a book of matches in and watching as the sky turns orange, as the remnants of him turn into curlicues of ash and smoke.” It’s a reoccurring dream of hers. It seems to appear most often around the times that some article or newspaper column about him catches her eye, when some intrepid reporter does a where are they now piece about prominent serial killers.
If he sees the pieces, she’s sure that he’s offended to be included right alongside the offal of humanity.
When Chiyoh does not respond, Bedelia slowly stretches out her hand until she brushes against the warm, firm skin of Chiyoh’s thigh. Responsive, powerful muscles flutter underneath her fingertips.
“Do you believe that it would accomplish anything?” she asks, her curiosity piqued by Chiyoh’s silence. “Or would it simply create yet another ash heap?”
“I believe that the fire would be magnificent to see,” Chiyoh answers, resting one of her hands, calloused on the fingertips and the palm, on top of Bedelia’s. “It would attract a crowd. But I do not believe it would end the haunting.” As she rolls onto her side to face Bedelia, Bedelia’s palm skims across her stomach and comes to rest on her other hip. “Hannibal has haunted me my entire life. I don’t believe there is a way to get rid of him. I believe the only thing to do is to accept that he will always be there, always in the next room over. Waiting in the darkest corners.”
Bedelia sighs deeply and slides across the space, until their legs twine together, until Chiyoh’s body heat becomes her own.
“That,” she murmurs, leaning in until she can feel Chiyoh’s breath against her cheek, “is precisely what I’m afraid of.”
