He Came For Her Again

I was feeding the chickens when the town's entrance was disturbed by the roar of a car engine. I recognized that sound, but I didn't stop feeding the clucking beasts. Instead, I kept throwing corn at them.

The footsteps were a whisper away before they eventually thundered before me.

A woman's voice cut through the silence first, soft and almost cloying. "Are you sure this is the place, Charles? It's so remote."

I raised my head. Sure enough, a man was standing outside my house. He was slender, dressed in a dark gray coat with the sleeves' metal buttons gleaming under the sun.

He had a pair of gold-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, and his face betrayed no emotion.

That man was none other than Charles Lawson, my late sister's husband.

However, there was a woman decidedly not his wife standing near him. Her skin was flawless and almost see-through. Her lips were crimson and plump, while a cream colored cashmere coat draped itself over her body.

She topped the outfit off with nude pumps on her dainty feet.

Her pumps' heels sank into the squelching soil. The woman frowned in distaste, as if she'd stepped on something foul instead of mud.

That was Rachel Greene, Charles' true love.

Charles asked, "Are you Helen Shayman?" His voice was deeper than I'd imagined, and he had a matter-of-fact attitude backing him up. He possessed the air of someone who thought he had the right to my attention.

"Yes."

"Where's your sister?"

I dusted the corn crumbs off my hand and rose to my feet. Charles was a head taller than I was, so I had to arch my head just to look at him. "Dead," I answered.

A momentary pause halted the air, only to be broken by Rachel's chuckle.

She nudged Charles softly with her elbow and spoke loud enough for me to hear. "I told you she wouldn't come home without a fight."

Charles frowned, not out of sorrow, but impatience. "I don't have time for a bit, Helen. Rachel needs that marrow transplant ASAP, and your sister's the best match. Get her here. Now. I'm taking her back."

"And I'm telling you, she's dead."

Rachel stepped forth and tilted her head at me. There was sympathy in her eyes, much like how nobles would sympathize with serfs.

"This must be a misunderstanding, sister." She was now talking to me as if I were a child who needed the truth coaxed out of her. "She's throwing a tantrum. We understand why she came home, but someone's life is at stake here. This is no time for her antics. Please, tell her."

"What did you just call me?"

"My sister." She blinked. "Your sister's my best friend, and that also makes you my sister."

This woman had the gall to call herself my sister's best friend? I nearly laughed at her audacity.

This woman slept with her best friend's husband. This woman turned her best friend's husband on her. This woman accepted a donation of her supposed best friend's kidney as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

The sight of her healthy, lively face reminded me of something. My sister called me three months ago, but she gasped sharply mid-call and told me it was just her toppling over a glass.

That wasn't a glass, but I only found out after the fact. It was Charles. He had slammed a phone in my sister's face, all because she refused to sign the blood transfusion contract for Rachel.