Writing Exercise #9

Since I watched Harper's Island this weekend, we're jumping back into that universe for this week's exercise. Honestly, I'm debating polishing this up a little bit and publishing it as a ficlet! It wound up being double the size of the other exercises (though still shorter than my typical one-shot stories, hence "ficlet"). Oops!

As before, the following vignette spoils the end. Click the jump at your own risk. Also, I am aware that this reads as a little disjointed. It's intentional.


Prompt: speak
Fandom: Harper’s Island (set post-series)
Character(s): Abby Mills, Jimmy Mance

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“Abby, if you don’t start talking, they’re going to send a shrink up here.”

So? Let them send a shrink. Threats wouldn’t make her start talking any more than the doctors’ stern instructions and Jimmy’s begging had. She would speak when she was good and ready to speak, thank you very much.

Besides, it wasn’t like talking would change anything. No matter how much she talked, everyone would still be dead. No matter how much she talked, it wouldn’t change the fact that she’d killed her best friend. “You did what you had to, Ms. Mills,” the detectives had said when she’d explained what had happened.

Like that made it right.

And talking couldn’t change her tainted memories. How long had Henry been in love with her? All their lives? Or did it start when they were teenagers?

When she called him at two in the morning after a night out, did he relish the sound of her voice on the phone? Was he really proud of her the day she got her first byline and he celebrated by surprising her at her apartment with champagne, or did he have an ulterior motive? All those times he wrapped her in a hug, whether to comfort her or congratulate her or just greet her, how much did he cherish the contact?

She’d never once read more into those hugs, the arms slung around her shoulders, the phone calls. Never once. Of course, she’d loved him, too. Like a big brother.

How was that for irony?

“Abby, please.”

The pleading tone of Jimmy’s voice made Abby’s stomach lurch. This hadn’t been easy on him, either. He’d gone through just as much hell as she had, if not more. With tears welling in her eyes, she reached out, grabbed Jimmy’s hand, and squeezed.

But she didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak.

Honestly, she was afraid to start talking. Afraid to give voice to the thoughts running through her head, afraid that the sheer act of opening her mouth would bring forth a river of tears that would never stop.

Jimmy squeezed her hand back and brushed her hair out of her eyes with his free hand. She met his gaze and frowned at what she saw. He looked drawn, his cheeks pale, dark circles under his eyes. Bandages and steri-strips crisscrossed the cuts and burns on his face. Abby felt the tears spill over as she reached her hand up to caress his cheek.

“What is it, Abby?” Jimmy asked, taking her probing hand in his.

“I’m sorry.”

Her voice was hoarse, which was to be expected after days of disuse. Jimmy looked as surprised as she felt, though for different reasons. Jimmy was clearly shocked that she’d spoken, but she was just surprised the torrent of tears hadn’t come. “For what?”

She shook her head. How could she explain how guilty she felt? How could she tell him that Henry had done all of this for her, to make good on the wish of a nine-year-old girl? How could she tell him that all of his friends were dead because of her?

Jimmy had asked, of course. He’d asked what Henry had said to her, asked what they’d done while they were in the house. Abby guessed he was trying to figure out if Henry hurt her, physically. As far as she could tell, he hadn’t. Yeah, he’d gotten a little rough with her a couple of times, but the worst physical damage had been the slice down her palm, which she’d inflicted on herself.

That was when she’d clammed up, when she realized she would have to tell Jimmy why Henry had done all of this. Of course, Jimmy had no idea why she’d stopped talking, and so he tried constantly to get her to speak.

He’d tried asking her questions, he’d tried telling her jokes, he’d tried just babbling at her until he tired of the sound of his own voice. And now he was back to begging her to say something, even just one word so her doctors wouldn’t send for a psych consult.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, Abby.”

He had no idea how wrong he was. She had plenty to be sorry for. She was sorry for being the root cause of everything, sorry she’d spent the last seven years pissed at her father, sorry for cutting so many people out of her life, sorry she’d never noticed a change in Henry, sorry she’d never noticed just how much attention he paid to her.

“Abby, look at me.” When her eyes flicked to his, he tightened his grip on her hand. “Silence never solved a thing. Secrecy tears people apart. I know you think talking won’t change anything, and you’re right. It won’t. But wouldn’t it be nice just to let everything out?”

Her eyes widened as it dawned on her that he had a point. A release would be nice. Maybe then her thoughts would stop swirling and tumbling over each other. Maybe then she could breathe without feeling guilty that she was still breathing. She nodded, gripped his hand tightly, took a deep breath, and began to speak.