The Crimson Thorn

Eleanor sat at the edge of the bed, the room draped in shadows. The hum of the heater was the only sound, a dull vibration that felt like a pulse outside of her body. She stared at the bottle of pills in her hand, her thumb tracing the ridges of the cap. The clock on the wall ticked louder with each passing second, as though, mocking her indecision. The house around her was silent, cavernous. William had left for another "business meeting" hours ago, and she didn’t expect him back until morning—if at all. She didn’t ask where he went anymore. The last time she did, his response had come in the form of a sharp silence that cut deeper than words. She sighed, placing the bottle on the nightstand. Her reflection caught her eye in the mirror across the room. The woman staring back at her was a stranger—her face hollow, her skin pale, her eyes carrying the weight of years spent as an afterthought. The 'What Ifs' invading her thoughts every now and then. More often than not. Eleanor had once been full of life, her laughter filling the same halls that now echoed with her isolation. She had believed in love, in partnership, in the promises William had made so easily and broken even faster. 'What if whilst in my isolation, my husband is, at this very moment in the arms of another beautiful, younger woman' It wasn’t just his distance or the women—those interchangeable, empty shells that cycled in and out of his life like ghosts. It was something else, something darker, that gnawed at the edges of her sanity. She had always known William was powerful, ruthless in his business dealings, but the whispers—the things she’d seen and heard—had grown impossible to ignore. There had been a photograph tucked away in his office drawer. A woman with blonde hair and a bright smile, the kind of smile Eleanor had forgotten how to wear. Weeks later, she’d overheard a phone call. William’s voice, low and controlled, saying something about loose ends and ensuring discretion. The blonde woman was never mentioned again. 'What if... my husband does more than just sleep with them-" Eleanor wanted to believe she was overthinking, that the paranoia was a symptom of her loneliness. But deep down, she knew better. Her hands trembled as she picked up the envelope from the nightstand. Inside was the letter she had written weeks ago, To William... Each word, carefully chosen. A part of her hoped that, in death, she might finally be seen. But the other part—the one that had spent years screaming into the void of her marriage—knew better. William would grieve just enough to save face. Then he would move on, as he always did. The river was only a fifteen-minute drive from the house. She chose it for its quietness, the way it swallowed the light whole. She didn’t want anyone to find her—not until it was too late. The night air bit at her skin as she stood on the bridge, the wind tugging at her coat. Below her, the water was dark, unyielding. It churned and hissed against the rocks, an indifferent witness to the lives it consumed. Eleanor closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She thought of the roses in her garden, their petals, soft and crimson. She thought of her mother’s voice, the lullabies that had carried her to sleep as a child. And then she thought of William—the man who had once been her sanctuary, now the architect of her despair. “Eleanor.” The voice sliced through the cold, and she startled, her foot slipping on the slick surface of the bridge. She turned, her heart pounding, to see a man standing a few feet away. He was young, maybe in his early thirties, with a lean build and eyes that seemed too soft for someone interrupting such a moment. His hands were raised slightly, a gesture of peace. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice low. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” Eleanor’s breath came in short, sharp bursts. “Who are you?” “My name’s Caleb,” he said. “I—” He hesitated, his gaze flickering to the edge of the bridge. “I was just passing by. I saw you, and… Are you okay?” The lie was clumsy, but Eleanor was too shaken to question it. She glanced back at the water, the pull of it still strong but now tangled with the intrusion of this stranger. “I’m fine,” she said, her voice brittle. “You don’t look fine,” Caleb said gently. “And I’ve seen that look before.” “What look?” she snapped, her anger a mask for the rawness underneath. “The one that says you don’t think you matter,” he said simply. Eleanor froze, her throat tightening. She wrapped her arms around herself, the cold seeping into her bones. “I don’t need your help,” she said. “Maybe not,” Caleb replied. “But you shouldn’t be out here alone.” He stepped closer, his movements slow and deliberate. “Let me take you somewhere warm. Just for a little while. You don’t have to talk, and I won’t ask questions.” Eleanor wanted to tell him to leave, to mind his own business. But the weight of her loneliness was suffocating, and his presence—however unwelcome—was a lifeline. “Fine,” she muttered. Caleb nodded, his expression unreadable. He led her to a small café a few blocks away, its warm light spilling onto the sidewalk. Inside, the air smelled of coffee and cinnamon, and the soft hum of conversation filled the space. They sat in a corner booth, a steaming cup of tea placed in front of her. Caleb sipped his coffee in silence, giving her space to breathe. “Why did you stop me?” she asked finally, her voice barely above a whisper. Caleb set his cup down, his gaze meeting hers. “Because I’ve been where you are,” he said. “And I know how easy it is to believe there’s no way out.” Eleanor studied him, searching for cracks in his calm exterior. There was something about him—something she couldn’t quite place. “What happened to you?” she asked. Caleb hesitated, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. “I lost someone,” he said finally. “Someone who meant everything to me.” Eleanor nodded, the weight of his words settling between them. She didn’t ask for details, and he didn’t offer them. By the time they left the café, the moon had risen, casting a pale glow over the streets. Caleb walked her to her car, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Thank you,” she said as she unlocked the door. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “But if you ever feel like talking, I’m around.” He handed her a small card with his number scribbled on it. She took it without a word, sliding it into her coat pocket. As she drove home, the bridge loomed in her rearview mirror, a reminder of what she had almost done—and the stranger who had stopped her. ** Cliffhanger for the next chapter: Eleanor walks into her house to find William sitting in the living room, his tie loosened and a glass of whiskey in his hand. He looks at her with a slow, calculating smile. “You’re late,” he says. She freezes, her hand tightening on the doorknob, he wasn't supposed to be back till the morrow. For the first time, she realizes how carefully William has been watching her.