The scene comes at me in pieces, my mind trying to pull what I’m seeing together in some kind of semblance of reality.

Curtains drawn.

A sliver of sunlight leads to the bed.

A battery-operated candle flickers on the nightstand.

Two figures are on the bed, side by side; the beam of light from the window illuminates a hand. It’s small. A woman’s? A child’s?

“Regina? Amy?” I say, reaching behind me to flick on the lights, but my fingers can’t find a switch anywhere. Gun still out, I reach for the curtain and yank it open.

I gasp and suck in the foul air and nearly fall to my knees.

I see a series of pulleys and wires coming from the ceiling.

What is this? What did he do to them?

My hip scrapes a wire and the woman farthest from me moves. I lose my breath immediately, and at the same time I feel a tinge of relief.

“Are you okay?” I ask. My voice is a whisper.

Her face is hidden.

The other woman, the larger of the two, stares at me with a single eye.

A dead, lifeless one. My gun feels heavy. I nearly drop it on the floor as I steady myself.

I lean down, prod her gently. She’s gone. I do the same with the other, moving the white sheet that covers most of her.

I’ve found Amy. Or what used to be her. She’s desiccated and shiny, like a preserved mummy in a curiosity shop. Her hair is a wig. In fact, I notice several now on the dresser. Her limbs, neck and arms are strapped with fabric that holds industrial-sized cup hooks. The lines that run from her body to the ceiling are a means to move her.

Amy’s body is a puppet.

A doll.

The grotesqueness of the scene overtakes me. No matter what I’ve seen or done has never been this horrific.

A bizarre game played by one.

I can’t breathe. I can’t look. My brain is trying to make sense of it all.

As I spin around to leave, I see a folded slip of paper in Regina’s hand. It’s against procedure, I know. I take it.

I’m a ping-pong ball in the hallway, disoriented, revulsed, nearly staggering as I hurry out the door. I’m stronger than this. I say it over and over to myself. And yet, I slump on the porch. Now I’m a marionette.

The air in my lungs is purged of the vile scent of the bedroom, but my mouth still tastes the scene.

The paper remains in my hand. Actually, there are two of them. In pristine condition; treasured souvenirs of their life together, I think, as I unfold the first one.

It’s not a cherished memento at all.