The Cruel Sea

Should I tell Jackson what really happened? Should I confess to him my secret? 

The music from the ballroom wafted on the breeze as I breathed in the salty air, its sweet tang settling in the back of my throat. We stood alone on deck and took in the stars; the tiny pinpricks of light peaking through the swathe of darkness. It had been such a beautiful evening. Perfect. Dancing, laughing, singing, swaying in Jackson’s arms. It made the last time I was on a ship seem like a distant dream. A distant dream preceded by a nightmare.

~*~

Jackson knows nothing of the man I loved before him. The man who made my every day a living hell. Whose cruelty still marks my body and my soul. He knows nothing about what I endured. The humiliation. The brutality. Will he understand if I tell him everything? Will he understand if I tell him the truth about the night the man tumbled overboard and vanished into the inky ocean?

“Somebody, help me!” I remember screaming.

Eventually.

“No. Please. No,” I remember crying.

In public.

But behind closed doors, I secretly celebrated. The joy was almost painful, it was so acute. I didn’t feel sad about it. Not for minute. Not for a second. I mean, I wouldn’t have shoved him over the rail if I didn’t want him dead.

Sometimes I wonder how death claimed him. The man. Was he dragged into the frozen depths and sliced into tiny pieces by the ship’s giant propellers? Or did he scramble to the surface and bob in the great expanse of water until sharks despatched him in a bloodied frenzy?

These are the sweetest of musings.

Jackson never questions me about what happened that night. He never asks for details. He says with grief, he knows the score. He understands that sometimes, it’s easier to keep the pain hidden than it is to share it.

Dearest Jackson with his kind eyes and sweet smile. He saved me in so many ways. He brought brightness back into my bleak world.

~*~

I gaze up at him, the silvery glow of the moonlight illuminating his gentle face. For the first time I know love, and if I’m going to spend my life with this man, then he deserves the truth.

“Jackson,” I say. I notice the thump of my heart pounding against my chest. “There’s something I should tell you.”

Jackson smiles at me, “I know all I need to know.”

“But you don’t.” A quiver colours in my voice, as the beginnings of tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “I didn’t tell you everything…”

“About the man?” he says. “The one you killed?”

“What?” I breath out.

Jackson’s hands suddenly slam against my chest, and the force of his shove makes me stumble backwards.

“Jackson!” I cry, as I bash into the guardrail. The metal impacts across the middle of my back and I yelp in pain and shock.

He shoves me again, and this time my balance falters completely and I tumble over the side.

I somehow manage to grab one of the rails as I fall. But it’s cold and slippery from the spray of the sea and I struggle to hold on. My fingers ache with strain as my feet scramble wildly against the hull of the ship trying to find a hold.

“Help me! Please! What are you doing?”

“I’m doing to you what you did to my brother,” he says, coolly.

I hear myself gasp, and in that moment, I see his face switch from kind to cruel. They have the same sneer, Jackson and his brother. The same ugly, vile sneer.

“You don’t understand,” I say, as I plead for my life, hoping he has more compassion in his heart for me than I had for his brother. “I’m sorry, Jackson. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m not,” he says, and his foot comes down and stamps on my knuckles.

I watch his smirking face get smaller and smaller as I plummet. My arms flailing in front of me, grasping at the air. My screams lost on the wind.

The surface of the ocean is like concrete when I hit it, and the shock of the impact explodes the air from my lungs.

I disappear beneath the waves and the foamy wake of the ship.

 I’m kicking now, kicking and kicking. My hands reaching for the light as I struggle for air. I break the surface briefly and glimpse the stern ship as it disappears into the black night. I wave frantically, but a whirlpool of freezing water is sucking at my legs and dragging me down, and I know I can’t fight it.

Will Jackson raise the alarm, I think, as my lungs start to burn from craving breath. Will he feign panicked devastation while he secretly celebrates?

I know he will. That’s what I did.

I’m dying now, my mind is dimming; my heartbeat slowing. And as the darkness of the inky ocean pulls me into its depths and swallows me, I no longer need to wonder about the man’s death.

Because I’m living it, and in a moment, I will understand everything.

© Amy Hutton 2020

In the Fervour of the Moon

Rayna’s basket bumped against her knee as she walked along the rocky path. “Granny and her damn goodies, she grumbled, glancing angrily at the hamper with its jaunty gingham cover. She spied a run in her tights where the rough cane had snagged a thread, creating a ladder up the side of her leg, disappearing under the petticoat ruffles that hung beneath her red velvet skirt. “Great,” she thought as she traipsed deeper into the forest.

The fallen leaves crunched beneath her feet as the trees became denser, the shadows darker, and the air cooler. When she gazed upwards, only a tiny patch of sky was visible beyond the branches high above.

A rustling noise sounded from the undergrowth and she stopped and peered into the gloom.

“Who’s there?” she said, a quiver in her voice.

A deep growl rumbled in return and an enormous grey wolf stepped onto the path in front of her.

She stood perfectly still, as the beast slunk towards her, its huge paws padding silently on the dirt, its brilliant amber eyes locked on her face. Her heart began to pound, thundering against her ribcage, and she furtively looked around to see if she was still alone.

“Please,” Rayna cried, as Granny’s basket trembled in her hand. “Please… Please… Please hurry up I have an appointment in town at three.”

The wolf rose up on its hind legs, its powerful form towering over her. A rush of heat surged through Rayna’s body and she watched excitedly as her unconventional lover transformed.

In just moments, he stood before her, naked and human, thick muscles rippling and glistening with sweat from the exertion of the change; a brilliant smile spread across his impossibly handsome face.

“My what big… everything you have,” she said, as she shrugged off her cape, dropped her basket to the ground and practically sprinted towards him.

He reached out a hulking arm, encircling her neck and drawing her in, holding her against his bare torso. Their lips crashed together, hungry and urgent, all wetness and teeth as they savoured each other’s taste.  Fireworks exploded behind Rayna’s eyes, like a shower of brilliant stars falling from the heavens, His long fingers artfully unlaced her bodice, his kiss never faltering, his mouth never leaving hers, and as she wiggled her dress from her shoulders and let it fall to her feet, they tumbled to the ground in a tangled mass of limbs and dizzy passion.

***

Rayna bit into the sandwich that she pulled from her picnic basket. “Michael, you really need to get over this twisted Little Red Riding hood kink of yours.”

His teeth were already starting to change; razor sharp canines poking over his still puffy from kissing lips. “Maybe next time I can blow your house down,” he said, with a grin.

“As long as there’s blowing involved babe, I’m all for it.”

Michael threw his head back and howled.

***

Rayna sighed as she watched Michael lope into the cover of the trees, the early afternoon breeze ruffling his soft, grey fur. She called after him. “Until the next waning moon,” and a shiver of anticipation ran down her spine when he turned and snarled, his amber eyes glowing with promise against the darkness of the forest.

 

© Amy Hutton 2020

 

Sibling Rivalry

The bunny slippers hit the floor with a cheery squeak. Long, fuzzy ears bouncing merrily.

Brandon smirked. “What’s the matter, Alex? You’re always complaining your feet get cold. Happy birthday, baby bro.”  He watched as his little brother squirmed in his seat as his eyes flicked across the room towards his date

“Ha-ha, Brandon. You’re hilarious. And stop with the baby bit. I’m 24.”

Brandon picked up the offending gift and tugged on the whiskers, “I may be hilarious, but I’m also older and wiser, and I think they’re adorable. The colour matches your eyes, perfectly.”

“They’re pink.”

“I know.”

Alex sighed. “Can we go? We’re going to be late.”

Brandon tossed the slippers across the room with an exaggerated pout, “You’re not even going to try them on?” He turned to Alex’s date. “What do you think, Kristy?”

“I think they’re adorable, Alex” she said. “They’ll look cute on you!”

“There you go Alex. They’ll look cute on you.”

Alex glared. “Maybe later. Can we just leave? Please?”

Brandon shrugged, and gave the slippers one last squeak before heading out the door.

 

Brandon flopped in a drunken heap onto the sofa. “She’s nice,” he said, not being able to cover the slur in his voice. “I like her.”

“Yeah, she’s great,” Alex said. “Thanks for nearly blowing it for me by the way. Making me look like an idiot. With the slippers.”

“What are you talking about? She loved them. Chicks dig sensitive guys, and what says sensitive more than a pair of fluffy bunny slippers?”

“Well, maybe you should wear them.”

“Well, maybe I should. I’d make them look good.” He stretched out, trying to reach the slippers with his toes, instead losing his balance and rolling sideways onto the cushions.

“You’re drunk. Go to bed.”

Brandon staggered to his feet, “I’m drunk. I’m going to bed.” He waved over his shoulder as he swayed up the hall. “Happy birthday baby bro.”

 

The alarm jerked Brandon awake. He moaned, flashing to hazy memories of tequila shots and whiskey chasers. Reaching for a glass on his nightstand, he guzzled back some water, before lifting himself gingerly from the mattress, and slowly swinging his legs out of bed. His feet hit the floor with a surprising squeak. Puzzled, Brandon looked down and saw Alex’s bunny slippers looking merrily back at him. He wiggled his toes, and the ears flopped. He stared at them as his foggy brain took a moment to catch up. Why was he wearing Alex’s slippers? He rolled his eyes as he suddenly realised the gag. “Hilarious,” he said, as he reached down and grabbed the ears, giving them a good yank. Pain shot through his toes. “Ow. Shit! What the hell?” He gave it another try. “Motherffff…” Panicking, he grabbed the ears on the other foot and gave them a tug. “Ow! Man!” What’s going on? Why aren’t they coming off? It feels like…

 

He looked at his watch, it was just before ten, Alex would be at work. Grabbing his phone, he called his brother. It went straight to voicemail. He hung up and tried again.

“Hey, you’ve reached Alex, please leave your name and num…”

 Brandon hung up again and furiously texted one word. DEAD. His phone rang almost immediately.

“Good morning,” Alex’s voice said.

“Dude. Did you glue them to my feet?”

“I’m sorry, Brandon, what are we talking about?”

“The bunny slippers Alex. The Goddam bunny slippers.”

“Oh right. The slippers. Well you seemed to like them…so”

“So, you glued them? TO MY FEET?”

“They’ll come off. Just give them a good tug.”

“I tried that. If I want to keep any skin, that ain’t happening. What kind of glue did you use?”

“Um. Super glue.”

“Super glue? Alex.”

Alex was silent for a moment. “Maybe I didn’t think it through.”

“Maybe? Dude. I have a meeting in an hour. And I have rabbits glued to my feet!” The phone went quiet again, but this time Brandon could hear muffled laughter. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s kinda funny.”

“No. It really isn’t.”

“Brandon, you’ve been playing gags on me my whole life, and you embarrassed the hell out of me last night. I figured I owe you.”

Brandon bit his lip. He’d thump him later, but right now… “How do I get them off?”

“I guess you’ll have to go to the hardware store and get some acetone or something. You’ll figure it out,” Alex said, adding before hanging up, “You’re older and wiser, remember?”

 

Brandon stormed through the apartment, a chorus of squeaks accompanying him. He tossed everything out of the kitchen cupboards, hoping there might be something, anything that would shift the slippers. But there wasn’t. He went to the bathroom, put his feet in the tub and thought about soaking them off. But knowing his luck he’d just wind up with soggy slippers that squelched as well as squeaked. He tried one more time to heave them off his feet, but it hurt too damn much. Defeated, he threw himself on the sofa and fumed. Sure, he’d pulled some pretty bad jokes on his brother over the years. There was the Nair in his shampoo, the itching powder in his gym shorts, that time he sent him on a date with the old lady down the road. But this? Even he thought this was a gag too far.

He called his client to postpone their meeting, stating a family emergency. His brother had done something stupid, and Brandon had to sort it out. It wasn’t a lie.

He glared at his feet and moved his toes watching the whiskers move along with them. The way he saw it, he had two options, wait for Alex to get home and suffer the indignity of having his little brother rescue him, or drive into town and get something that will do the job, and suffer the indignity of wearing bunny slippers to a hardware store. Brandon decided on door number two.

 

Getting his jeans on over the slippers was far more difficult than he anticipated. “Damn these skinny jeans,” he growled, as he shimmied the tight denim over the fluffy noses. He pulled on a black t-shirt and plaid over-shirt, trying to maintain a least some level of cool. He squeaked down the hall and out the door onto the street, sliding into his car as quickly as humanly possible. He started the engine and gently put his fuzzy foot down, slowly navigating the short trip into town. The last thing he needed was to be pulled over.

Of course, there wasn’t a car space right outside the hardware store, that would be too much to ask, so he parked in the lot on the corner, took a deep breath and squeaked his way down the footpath.

“Look at his feet!” a little girl yelled. “Bunnies!”

“Don’t point at the strange man, darling,” Brandon heard the mother hiss as she rushed her daughter past.

He swung the door to the hardware store open and winced as a loud ding-dong ricocheted off the walls.

Mr. Jackson, who owned the store, looked up. “Brandon,” he said from behind the counter. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi Mr. Jackson. I had a bit of an, um, accident.”

The old man looked confused, “An accident?”

“In the shape of an idiot brother who glued these to my feet,” Brandon wiggled his toes. Bunny ears bouncing.

Mr. Jackson chortled. “From what I remember of you two growing up, you might have had it coming.”

“Yeah, yeah. He owed me. Blah blah.”

“I’d say this makes you square for the Nair in his shampoo, wouldn’t you? Come on, I’ve got something that’ll shift that glue.”

Brandon followed him up the aisle. Squeaking all the way.

 

He was sitting on the sofa, feet wrapped in soft, cotton socks, when Alex came home.

“I see you got it sorted,” Alex said, pointing at Brandon’s bunny-less feet.

“Yeah, no dramas,” Brandon lied. “Didn’t take much to get them off.” No way he was letting his brother know the day he really had, or that his feet were going to take a couple of weeks to fully recover. “You want a beer?” he asked, limping towards the kitchen.

“No thanks. I’ve got another date with Kristy. I just came home to change.”

 

Brandon was back on the sofa when his brother came out of his bedroom, buttoning up a crisp, white shirt.

“Anyway,” Alex said. “I was thinking. How about we call a truce? On the pranks, I mean.”

“Probably a good idea,” Brandon said, standing up. “Let’s put a stop to it here and now.” He saw Alex’s face break into a relieved smile.

“Great. Thanks Brandon.”

“You got it, little bro,” he said, slapping his brother hard on the back. “You go and enjoy your date. Tell Kristy I said, hi.”

 

As Alex walked out the door, Brandon wondered what the chances were that the kick me sign he just stuck to his brother’s back, would make it all the way to the restaurant. He figured he’d find out later. He grinned to himself and opened another beer.

@ Amy Hutton 2020

Panic

Panic: Noun. A sudden and overwhelming fear, which may or may not have a cause.

Five letters.

Panic: That feeling of utter dread when you know you’ve totally fucked up.

P-A-N-I-C.

Lydia scrawled the word out on a notepad, underlining it with angry, black scribble that ripped through the page, and continued determinedly onto the page below. She was currently experiencing an attack of the word, complete with sweaty palms, elevated heart rate and a loss of control over her breathing that saw her gulping at the air like a possessed guppy.

“Calm down, stupid. Don’t be such a moron. It’s no biggie. You screwed up the monthly report. So what? People make mistakes. And hey, if you get fired, well you don’t like this job anyway? You hate this stupid job. Fuck this job. Fuck everyone here. You should get up and walk out before they escort you out.”

She reached for her bag and attempted to shove her half-full mug of tea inside. Tepid, brown liquid splashed across the white leather, running down her arm, and dripping off her elbow.

“Shit. Idiot. IDIOT!”

She dropped the soggy bag to the floor and peered furtively over the top of her computer monitor towards the glass walled corner office and the meeting being held inside.

“Shit shit shit. Shit to everything.”

Suppressing the urge to run to the bathroom and puke, she instead closed her eyes and kneaded the sides of her temples in aggressive circles, causing the hair around her face to ball up in messy clumps.

“You alright, Lydia?”

Lydia jumped. Her lids sprung open to see the alarmed face of her co-worker Jeff.

“What? Oh yeah. Fine Jeff. Fine. Just spilled some tea. Like a moron. Ha ha.” She gave him a smile which she hoped looked reassuring and not like some crazed, maniacal clown.

Jeff’s eyebrows soared towards the ceiling. “Ohhh-kay,” he said, as he inched slowly away.

“Crazed maniacal clown it was then.”

The door to the corner office opened, and her manager’s head popped out.

“Oh shit. This is it.”

“Lydia, you got a minute,” her manager called, waving Lydia in.

“Sure,” Lydia sung out cheerfully. A little too cheerfully it happens, as all eyes swung in her direction. She smiled brightly about the room, quickly gathered up her scratched up pad and a pen and sauntered as casually as possible towards the office whistling “When the Saints.” Like a demented parrot.

“Ah Lydia, take a seat,” her boss said.

Lydia silently slid into the seat beside her manager.

“We just wanted to go over last month’s financial report with you…”

“Here we go Lydia, get ready for that dole queue.”

“…We found a discrepancy…”

“Told you, you shouldn’t spend all your money on clothes.”

“…In your role, you must ensure absolute accuracy, I can’t stress this enough…”

“At least when you become homeless, you’ll be chic homeless.”

“…But everyone makes mistakes. So, we wanted to go over it with you, and make sure you see where you went wrong. Okay?”

If Lydia’s life had a soundtrack, this is where the record scratch would have happened.

*Screeeeech*

“What?”

“Please make sure you double and triple check everything next month.”

“Um, yes.” Lydia spluttered. “Of course. I’m Sorry.”

“Excellent. Janet will run these numbers with you, so you can see where they went awry.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Is everything else alright?”

Lydia looked around the room at the expectant faces.

“Um. Yes?” she said, sounding more like she was asking a question than giving an answer.

“Good. Well, let us know if you need anything.”

Lydia walked back to her desk and dropped into her chair looking like a relieved stunned mullet. She stared at the notepad that was still in her hands, with its angry, black writing and furious, page-tearing scribble.

“Told you it was no biggie. Also, you should probably try to do better with that self-love stuff.”

Picking up her pen, she added in all caps;

IDIOT.

 

© Amy Hutton 2020

Baby, We Were Born to Run

Music boomed out of the speakers causing the wrapper from his lunchtime burger to bounce up and down on the dash where he’d tossed it. He hummed along, happily drumming out the beat on the steering wheel. The driver’s side window was down and the breeze was ruffling his light brown hair. It had grown so much over the last two weeks that it was starting to curl over his ears. He knew his old man would tell him it needed cutting, but Dean kind of liked it. A little longer. A little less military. More him. A little wild.

He hollered out the words of the song he knew so well; the song he must have listened to a thousand times…

“Sprung from cages on Highway 9
Chrome wheeled, fuel injected, and steppin’ out over the line
Ohhhhh
Baby this town rips the bones from your back
It’s a death trap, it’s a suicide rap
We gotta get out while we’re young
‘Cause tramps like us, baby, we were born to run.”

That’s how he felt. Like he was born to run. Run from everything. Everything he knew. Everything he was. Everything he was expected to be.

Just run. Him and Baby.

He let his fingers caress the leather of the seat beside him. “You hear that, Baby? You and me, we’re born to run, right?”

 

Dean Winchester loved the feeling he got when he drove his dad’s car. His car now. His Baby. She always made him feel special. Like she was created just for him. Crafted out of steel and leather just for Dean. To guide him down the rambling back highways of America. They took care of each other. Kept each other safe.

He wished they could keep driving. Him and Baby. Just go and keep on going. Stopping wherever they wanted. Dean could pick up work, make a few bucks, and then they’d move on. Since his brother, Sam had left to go to college, the thought of taking off and never looking back had crossed Dean’s mind more than once. No roots. No responsibilities. Just time. Freedom and time. He put his foot down and heard Baby’s engine growl as if that’s what she wanted as well.

“1, 2, 3, 4
The highway’s jammed with broken heroes
On a last chance power drive
Everybody’s out on the run tonight
But there’s no place left to hide.”

This was Dean’s last chance power drive. At least for now. The job was done. He had no excuse to stay on the road. “Maybe I can drag it out one more night,” he thought. “Stop in the next town. Have a few beers. Shoot some pool. Maybe meet a pretty girl. Knock boots…” A grin spread wide across his face. The pull of the highway lay before him. Beckoning him and Baby. Yeah. He could make the job last one more night.

“Tramps like us. Baby, we were born to run”

When he felt his phone ringing in his pocket, his heart sank.

 

Dean turned the radio down, wound up the window and pulled out his cell. He subconsciously sat up a little straighter as he flipped it open and said, “Dad?”

“Where are you?” he heard his father say on the other end.

“On the road, somewhere near…” he peered out the window. “I don’t know. A couple of hours out from you I guess.”

“Is the job done?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Well get your ass back here. We head out in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean said. “See you…” But his father hung up before Dean could finish.

 

Dean snapped his phone closed and tossed it onto the seat. Looking in the rear-view mirror, he ran his fingers through his hair and thought he better stop for a trim before he saw the old man.

As his good mood drained away, he watched the world going by. The one he never really felt a part of. There was no escaping the life. No place to hide. Not even for a night. He was stupid to think there could be.

He turned the music up.

Someday, girl, I don’t know when
We’re gonna get to that place
Where we really wanna go and we’ll walk in the sun
But ’til then, tramps like us
Baby, we were born to run

“Someday, Baby,” Dean said. “Someday.”

 

   © Amy Hutton 2020
   Story by Amy Hutton based on characters created by Eric Kripke.
   Lyrics: Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen
   You can read more of Amy's Supernatural fanfiction here