You Were My New Dream
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“Now, Miss Lucy, you’ve been left to your own devices,” Mr. Hunter said, and he chuckled. “I’ll be back before you know it.” He patted Lucy’s cheek. “You just stay here. Don’t leave the saloon.”
Lucy’s heart thumped. She didn’t know what to do. She’d been left to her own devices for so long that she had no idea how to respond.
“I’ll be back before you know it,” Hunter said again, and he walked out the door.
Lucy blinked hard and forced her trembling hands to still. She hadn’t been left to her own devices in a saloon in the middle of nowhere—not since she was a child—but here she was again. Alone.
There was no one watching over her. No one to make sure she didn’t run off and die. No one to make sure she didn’t kill herself like she’d tried to do when she was younger.
Having no one watching over her was terrifying, but at the same time exhilarating.
She picked up the bottle of whiskey and poured a glass. She didn’t have a lot to drink, so she poured it over ice in a whiskey glass. The whiskey burned as it went down her throat, but it didn’t matter.
She’d been left to her own devices in a saloon in the middle of nowhere, and this is what she wanted—what she needed—to do. She poured another shot, drank it down, and then poured another one.
“What do you want?” she asked the whiskey bottle. “What do you want me to do?”
She poured herself another drink and stared out the window and wondered what happened next.
“I don’t know,” she muttered, and then laughed softly. “Well, I guess I do know.”
She poured herself another glass of whiskey and drank it down and poured another one.
“I’ll make sure I don’t die,” she repeated, and then she laughed again. “I’ll make sure I don’t kill myself.”
She looked out the window, and the sun was setting. She knew very well what happened next—she’d seen it many times before—but none of it mattered.
Nothing mattered but that she wasn’t dead, and none of it mattered except that she had decided not to die because it was what people did after they found themselves alone in a saloon in the middle of nowhere and drank whiskey every night until they were dead.
Lucy poured herself another drink, and then another, and as she drank more whiskey, her mind drifted to thoughts of Brockton Hunter and Mr. Hunter’s return and what would happen if he returned to find Lucy here drinking a bottle of whiskey by herself.
She’d have to tell him about the job, but what if he refused to take her back? What if he refused to hire her? What if he threw her out? What if he threw her out before he even saw her?
He’d thrown her out once before—for asking about her father’s death, but that hadn’t been fair because she hadn’t known what to ask about when she’d walked into the office, and she hadn’t known what to do with her big, puffy eyes when he’d asked her what happened that night—she’d been so nervous about telling him she was her father’s daughter that she couldn’t even speak.
He’d thrown her out because he was mad at her for asking about the dead man’s name. And he’d thrown her out because he thought she might be dumb enough to ask about the dead man’s name again when he wasn’t expecting it.
And maybe he’d been right about that because now she was drinking whiskey every night, just like he said she did—and for some reason, it made her feel better about drinking whiskey every night rather than asking about Brockton Hunter’s death the next time Mr. Hunter returned home from his trip or whenever he was ready to return home from his trip for whatever reason he went away for.
She poured herself another glass of whiskey and sighed as she stared at the bottle, wishing suddenly that there was more in it than there was. She wanted more whiskey so badly that she reached for the bottle again, but when she pulled out a canteen for more whiskey, there wasn’t any left.
Shame washed over her as Hunter walked in the door only moments later, and his blue eyes twinkled with amusement as he glanced at the empty bottle on the table beside her chair. There was more whiskey in the canteen on the floor beside her chair.
She poured herself a glass of whiskey and almost knocked it over when Mr. Hunter put his hand over hers, stopping her from pouring any more whiskey into the glass on the table beside her chair.
“You don’t need any more of this stuff,” he said with a grin as he lifted the canteen and poured more whiskey into his glass. “You’ll eat something,” he said as he set his glass back on the table beside his chair and handed Lucy his canteen. “And then you’ll sleep for a long time.”
“You don’t need anymore,” Lucy said as he took the canteen from her hand and put it back on the floor beside his chair. “You already had some.”
“I’m not drunk,” he said as he picked up his whiskey glass and took a sip of it.
“No,” Lucy replied as she picked up a glass and took a sip of hers. “You’re not.”
“I am,” he said as he laughed and then he set his glass back down on the table beside his chair. “And so are you.”
“No,” Lucy said as she took a long swallow of her own glass of whiskey. The second glass went down easier than she expected because of how much she had drank the night before—her throat felt like it was swallowing itself up, but she didn’t care because she had just poured herself another glass of whiskey and now all that mattered was that she wasn’t dead. “I’m not.”
He took another sip from his glass and then set it down on the table beside his chair.
“It’s not forever,” he said as he looked at her with a grin, “and you know that.”
Lucy had no idea how much time went by before Mr. Hunter finally got through to me. She didn’t know how many nights passed before Mr. Hunter finally returned home and found Lucy in the saloon drinking a bottle of whiskey by herself every night until she was dead, but when Mr. Hunter finally returned home, Lucy was dead drunk every single night until she finally died.
***
Lucy sat so still in her chair as Mr. Hunter strolled toward her with a grin on his face that she could have been a ghost sitting in a chair beside Brockton Hunter’s desk in his office, and Brockton himself couldn’t have noticed that Lucy wasn’t really there at all.
He sat in his chair across from Lucy, had a smile on his face as if he were talking to a good friend who had just returned home after being away for a long time, but Lucy knew better because she’d been drinking whiskey every night for years with Mr. Hunter and knew by now that he never smiled at anyone unless he was talking to someone who could help him make money.
“You’re looking well tonight,” he said as he set down his whiskey glass on his desk beside his typewriter and reached across his desk to take her hand in his and squeeze it gently. “And you don’t look as if you’re dead anymore.”
She couldn’t have cared less what Brockton Hunter thought about her or how she looked or how she acted around him anymore because all she wanted was to be dead. She was so tired of being alive, of being alive and not knowing how to die.
While Brockton Hunter sat staring at her with a grin on his face, Lucy took another long swallow from her glass of whiskey to make herself forget about how much time went by before Mr. Hunter finally got through to me. “I’m dead,” she told him again as she nodded slowly because she couldn’t recall what else to say to him. “I died.”
“Of course you did,” Brockton replied with a chuckle as he picked up his whiskey glass and took another sip of it. “You were dead before you even came back here.”
Lucy studied him for a moment, wondering if he would notice if she pushed him over the desk and strangled him with his own necktie or if he even cared if she killed him or not.
She had killed one man before when he wasn’t looking, but then again, there were many things about that man she didn’t remember until the night before Mr. Hunter’s return home when Mr. Hunter told her that there was no way for her to remember that night because it wasn’t real—that it didn’t happen because Lucy had been drugged by the man who was there that night to kill her.
Mr. Hunter had never said what the man looked like, but Lucy did have one clear memory of that night: the man’s eyes were blue; cold blue eyes that could have been mistaken for green or gray eyes depending on what the light was like around him, and they burned like hellfire when they looked at her.
“I’m still dead,” Lucy said as she shook her head slowly because she wanted to be dead but didn’t want to die anymore—not when Brockton Hunter was around. “I’m still in hell.”
“No,” Brockton replied as he shook his head slowly from side to side, “you’re not.”
“Yes,” Lucy said as she nodded slowly because he wasn’t lying this time and it was such a relief to know that he wasn’t going to lie to her again about how he felt about her or about how he felt about anything else because it meant that he would never lie again about anything. “I am.”
“No you’re not,” he said as his face turned serious, “and you know why.”
Lucy didn’t have to ask why because she knew why: Mr. Hunter loved her and cared for her and would do anything for her—and she loved him for that because she hadn’t felt loved since her husband died years ago, not even by the children she’d raised and sent away from home when they reached their teenage years.
“You’re not dead at all,” Brockton said as he leaned forward in his chair to look at her with a grin on his face. “I never thought you were dead—not even when you weren’t here with me for a while.”
Lucy studied his face for a moment in silence before she exhaled softly, wondering how many times he had told himself that Lucy wasn’t dead and not believed himself before he finally allowed himself to believe that she wasn’t dead at all.
“I killed a man tonight,” she told him as she studied him in silence, wondering if he was going to tell her everything about how long it had been since he’d killed someone before deciding that he wouldn’t because he wouldn’t want her to know how empty life could be without killing someone every now and then; but then again, maybe she would have liked a little more excitement for her life even though it might have been inconvenient at times. “But I didn’t kill him.”
Brockton had an odd expression on his face as if something didn’t make sense to him as he studied her for a moment in silence before sitting back in his chair and taking another sip of his whiskey.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” he finally said as he set down his whiskey glass again on the desk beside his typewriter and leaned forward in his chair. “Why wouldn’t you kill someone? You’ve killed three men so far this year alone.”
Lucy regarded him with a blank look on her face, wondering why he hadn’t told her that he’d killed three men instead of telling her that he had killed one man when she couldn’t remember it at all. “I didn’t kill them,” she replied as she shook her head slowly. “I’m not like you.”
“Don’t be so sure about that,” Brockton replied with a grin as he started typing some more on his typewriter, not bothering to look at the paper as it caught fire around him. “You’re not like me but you’re not completely different from me either.”
Lucy didn’t respond for a moment as she considered what Brockton had just said. “You’re saying—”
“That you’re special,” Brockton said as he gave her a crooked grin as if everything was going according to plan, but Lucy didn’t know how long he had known that about her and what exactly he was trying to say about himself and his feelings for her by telling her that. “You are special to me, Lucy. You know that, don’t you?”
Lucy remained silent for a moment because she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not when he looked so serious; but then again, when had Brockton ever joked about anything? “You’re serious?” she finally asked because it was hard to tell sometimes with him.
“It would be in your best interest if I was serious,” Brockton replied in a serious voice when he turned his back to her and started typing some more on his typewriter. “But since I’m not, you don’t have to believe me because I’m still going to say the same thing again when I’m not being serious. I think you’re special and I think you’re wonderful.”
Lucy’s heart fluttered as she stared at him, trying to imagine what life would be like if it were true, but she couldn’t see herself with him because of what happened between them—and the way Brockton had acted afterward—and because of what she felt for him; but as Brockton turned his back to her and started typing some more on his typewriter, Lucy thought about the things he was saying and wondered if maybe they were true; but then again, maybe she was just imagining things because it wasn’t like him to say such nice things about anyone—not even himself—so why would he say them about her?
“I’m going to bed,” Lucy finally said after thinking about what Brockton was saying for a while and wondering if it was true or if it was just something he wanted for himself. “It’s late and I need my sleep.”
“I’m going too,” Brockton replied with a crooked grin. “You don’t need sleep, but I do.”
Lucy waited for him to tell her that he was joking; but when he didn’t say anything else after taking another sip of whiskey, she turned around in her chair and left the room. She stopped at the door and turned back to look at him for a moment before leaving the room and going upstairs.
As she reached the top of the stairs, Lucy stopped for a moment and listened for a moment; and as she heard the sound of a door closing upstairs, she smiled. Yes, she thought as she went into her room and closed the door behind her, Brockton is talking about me and he’s the one who wants me more than anything else—and that’s why I can’t let him go now that I know he’s after me with everything he has.
The End