Available Darkness Season 2

Large Marge the Sailing Barge!” Then she was 8, going to see a sneak preview of “E.T.” with her parents. They didn’t get home until two in the morning because of the flat tire after the movie, but it was an awesome night, anyway.
    Nine years old and terrified of riding the bus, Marge was intimidated by the other kids who always made fun of her. Mom gave her a small stone heart, and told her that whenever the heart was inside her pocket, she was never alone. For four years the stone never left her pocket, until one day when Marge lost it at the park and couldn’t stop crying.
    Graduation from Duke, meeting Jack, getting married. And then the birth of Bobby, followed by hundreds of happy memories of a loving family.

    Unlike the others Abigail fed on, Marge was mostly happy. Her memories swirled through Abigail’s head, making her feel warm and pleasant, erasing many of the darker memories she’d been gathering over the year.
    A sudden gunshot — and intense pain splintering inside her gut — interrupted the flow and cut her connection to Marge.
    Abigail’s eyes blinked back to the bedroom, staring at Jack, gun in hand. She looked down, saw the hole in her stomach, and involuntarily whimpered at the blood pouring out from inside it.
    Jack fired again.
    The second bullet slammed into Abigail’s chest and threw her back to the headboard where she lay still beside Marge’s burnt body.
    “What did you do?!” Jack screamed as he ran toward her, gun still aimed.
    Pain pounded through Abigail’s body, reminding her of the agony she’d felt when shot a year before, back when she died in the motel parking lot. Before John saved her with his curse.
    She looked up at Jack, seeing him through the filter of Marge’s memories. He was a good husband. Kind, caring, loving. He’d worked so hard to provide for their family. Marge truly loved him, even if they weren’t as intimate as they once were. Jack was her everything. To see him in so much pain cut like a knife in Abigail’s heart.
    “I’m sorry,” Abigail said through tears and torrents of pain, wanting, in the current of Marge’s memories and feelings, to reach out and console him. But she was frozen, dying from the gunshot. Though John said she was nearly invincible, nearly wasn’t completely . And this time her angel wasn’t there to save the day.
    This time, death was permanent.
    Abigail couldn’t move her limbs. Her eyes drifted in and out of focus as Jack kneeled beside his wife, mouth agape, unable to fathom what could have possibly happened to his sweet Margie.
    “What are you?” he trembled, holding his wife’s ashen remains, glaring at Abigail. “What kind of monster are you?”
    Abigail continued crying, “I’m sorry,” she said, fresh blood pouring from her mouth.
    She said, “I’m so sorry, Jack.”
    When Abigail said his name, Jack’s eyes narrowed on hers, grief and shock igniting a fire in them.
    “Fuck you!” he said, dropping his gun, jumping over his wife’s body, and attacking Abigail with his bare hands.
    His hands found her neck, and, in turn, ended his life, and extended hers.
    Abigail fed again — this time with happy memories crushed beneath the agony of a man finding his son and wife dead, killed by a monstrous girl.
    Jack’s darkness festered inside her own, killing the brief moments of joy she’d experienced in Marge’s memories, salting her wounds with misery and death.

    * * * *

CHAPTER 3 — Hannah

    Arbor Falls, California

    The picnic looked like a postcard.
    Their basket spilled out from its spot centered on the blanket, which lay on a bed of deep green grass a dozen yards from a glassy lake, nestled at the base of two smallish mountains. Greg said it was his favorite spot in all of California, if not the world.
    Hannah looked out at the gorgeous landscape, and then to the gluttonous spread, smiling. She was tipsy, if not entirely drunk. They were each responsible for preparing what they thought the other wanted, and while there was some overlap, mostly with the skewers — melon, ham, mozzarella, cherry tomatoes, and artichokes — and sandwiches, with both sliced muffalettas made by Greg and tea sandwiches from Hannah, there were also small plates of fresh sushi, piles of finger fruits, though only cherries and grapes remained, and a copious amount of Hannah’s homemade sangria.
    “More sangria, my lady?” Greg asked, proffering the large carafe in the nook of his arm as if it were a wine