Helen

She seemed almost nervous, which was highly out of character for her. For the past two hours, she had paced the small cottage, frequently peeking out of the tiny window facing the sea.

They never spoke much—or at all, really—but he was convinced he knew her well. One who lives in close proximity to another person for two years cannot help but learn a few things about their neighbor.

When he first met her, he was disappointed. He hadn't expected his task to be easy but he had hoped that he would have a partner he could pass the time with and trust.

She never smiled. She preferred to spend time in her room, and if she decided to spend an hour or two in the living room, she read. He caught her listening to music sometimes, humming under her breath. He could have sworn he even saw her body sway as if to dance along.

She didn't trust him, so therefore he couldn't trust her. She watched him with a fixed stare sometimes. It felt like she was waiting to catch him doing something. It frustrated him as much as it made him anxious.

She was frustratingly calm and methodical in all she did. Every other day she walked the long beach to feed Helen, somber but energized with purpose. On her off days, the days when it was his turn to walk on the cold and windy shore, she stood on the sand and watched him. He could feel her eyes on his back until he disappeared into the cave.

She was a mystery he felt desperate to solve. She bit her nails. She had a temper. She had a healthy appetite. She ran on the beach for exercise, no matter how cold it was. She wore the same two sweaters all week, and the only form-fitting garment she owned was a worn pair of jeans.

He'd dismissed her easily the first day he met her, deciding she wasn't his type. He wasn't sure if her looks grew on him or he just missed female companionship, but his opinion of her changed within a few months. Now he longed for her with a passion he'd only heard about in movies and songs. He watched her mournfully, wishing the two of them were anywhere except the miserable island they would have to live on for another two years.

Sometimes it felt like they were the last two people on earth, though he knew they weren't. They lived on the edge of the world with only Helen's awful presence for companionship.

Still, it was easy for him to forget about the outside world. It was her task to get into the small boat and paddle her way to the mainland. She met with a man once a week; he brought her various supplies and food. She made their requests—for example, he asked for a new pair of boots last time she went—and normally they were granted. When he asked for a TV, she came back with a box of out-of-date magazines. Cell phones were out of the question. They had a radio they could use to contact someone, but only for emergencies.

She asked him once if he wanted to go in her place or switch off like they did with Helen. She said it was good to get a change in scenery. He told her no, and she didn't ask him again or press the issue. He figured she knew why he couldn't go; he wouldn't have the strength to row back.

Temptation and longing were the only things he felt anymore. Occasionally he was angry. He felt lied to, betrayed by their employers. He told her that one night. She said nothing. He didn't know how she felt about their situation. She was as still and quiet as the air around them.

When they'd first come to the island, he thought this would be one of the easiest jobs he'd ever had. He would spend four years on a beautiful sunny island and get to listen to the sea as he fell asleep. Now he hated the awful sound of the waves churning, the dreadful slap and crash of water running over rocks and sand. He couldn't stand the smell of salt or the coarse sand that seemed to coat everything around them. And it was never sunny. It was always cold and overcast.

She never complained, but he sensed she loathed it all as much as he did.

This night was different. He could feel the tension humming through her body. She hadn't touched her food or run off to her room. She stood near the window for a long time, peering out into the dusk.

Eventually he had to speak.

"What's wrong?"

Her eyes met his, and the expression in them was almost wild. He realized she wasn't just tense or restless—she was afraid.

"What was Helen like when you visited her yesterday?"

Ah, it was about their charge. She must have been especially unsettling today. It wasn't the first time.

"Normal. For her."

Her brunette hair was messy, which made her seem even more scared than she already was. "Did she say anything to you?"

He sat up from his reclined position on the sofa and put his book on the table. "What happened?"

Her eyes turned back to the window. Darkness had just fully settled in the sky. He could hear the wind push against the weakened and tired cottage.

"It's nothing," she whispered, more to herself than to him.

"If you—"

"It's nothing," she repeated more firmly. She regarded him for a moment, then climbed the stairs up to her room.

That night, he heard her having nightmares. It wasn't the first time, but they never said anything about it to each other. He kept thinking about the creature down the beach and shivered. If something happened, he had to know. Tomorrow was his day. He wasn't going to just walk into that cave when Helen was in a mood.

He woke up late. The sun was too far in the sky, and he could smell the coffee she'd made. Usually it was his job to make coffee, even if she made it better.

He came into the living room and saw her looking out of the window again, wrapped up in her other sweater. He preferred this one—creamy white and smooth. When he fantasized about her, she wore only this sweater.

"Good morning. Sorry I slept late."

She looked at him but remained silent.

He prepared his coffee and tried to settle his nerves. Her anxiety was contagious, and he could feel that whatever had been on her mind the night before was still there.

"Is it still raining?" he asked her, though he could hear the drops relentlessly pounding on the roof.

She ignored him. "I don't think you should go alone today."

He sat in his chair and assessed her. Her face was incredibly pale, paler than normal, and her expression was haunted. Ordinarily nothing got to her. Whatever happened must have been pretty bad.

Helen. Helen was their responsibility, their burden, their albatross. In a sick way, she was their child.

Helen's appearance resembled that of a typical twenty year old woman's. She was a science experiment gone wrong, literally, and they'd been hired to guard her for four years. She'd been transported there by plane and had nearly taken the plane down. She killed a few men during the journey.

Helen had special abilities, of course. Frightening abilities. No one understood them. It was beyond mind control or telekinesis, beyond seeing the future or reading someone's thoughts. She had been bred to be a weapon and they had succeeded on that front. Her only flaw was she could not be controlled.

So they had to do away with her, but they couldn't kill her. She wouldn't allow it and the doctors were morbidly curious. They wanted to see what would happen after a few years. Would she mature like an average human? Perhaps they could reason with her. It couldn't hurt, right? It wouldn't be all for nothing.

They flew her to the edge of the world, to the tiniest and most isolated, lonely island they could find and shoved her into a cave. They locked her in with shackles and rocks, knowing full well that one day this would not be enough to contain her. Then they hired people to watch her for four years (why they picked four years for the contract was beyond him) and forgot about their dirty little secret. Last he heard, they were in the lab trying to do it again.

In his mind, they should have destroyed her when they had the chance. Now it was too late. She threatened them. Got into their minds.

He assumed she liked living in the cave for now because he was fairly certain she could escape.

Helen liked watching him when he came to feed her. She would put down her book and shake her shackles a bit to casually remind him that she was dangerous. Yet he'd sit and chat with her a while about nonsense. Strange that Helen could look like a typical woman until you talked with her a bit. Until you looked into her eyes. Then you could sense the rottenness inside, the evil that men with too much time and money and dreadful curiosity had formed.

"Are you sorry they made you?" he asked her one day.

She looked over at him, her eyes glowing almost red. "Why would you ask that?"

"Aren't you lonely? Bored?"

Helen smiled. "I don't feel loneliness or boredom."

"Don't you want to be free?"

He was asking dangerous questions. His partner on the island would kill him. He had to know.

Helen leaned forward. Her lips were curved into a mocking smile that set him on edge. "Don't you?"

"I will be. You won't."

"That's where you're wrong." Helen laughed and straightened the hospital gown she wore—the doctors had given her plenty of those, and they were her only forms of clothing.

The woman stuck in this hellhole with him once asked her if she wanted more clothes. This was one of the stories she ever shared with him during the past two years. It had bothered her.

"She said she didn't need clothes. She liked the hospital gown."

"Did you ask her why?" he asked.

She'd rubbed her arms roughly as if she was trying to rub away the memory. "She said she liked it because it reminded her of what she was and where she came from. She said she wants the doctors to recognize her when she returns."

He supposed Helen spoke more to his partner. She'd said as much during one visit. She pouted and almost looked exactly like his niece.

"Where is Emily?"

He went still. It wasn't like Helen to show any interest in them. "It's not her day."

"I spoke to her. I told her I wanted her to come."

"Yesterday?"

Helen didn't respond; she just glared at him. That's when he realized that she probably meant spoke with her mind. He'd wanted to ask Emily about it, but she was sleeping when he got back. He honestly wanted to forget all about it so he forcefully put it out of his mind.

Now he wondered as he thought over her words—that he shouldn't go alone—if Helen was speaking to her.

"Neither of us are going anywhere unless you tell me what happened yesterday."

She sighed and came to sit beside him. She was close and warm and smelled so good that he lost all sense for a moment.

"I think she's planning something."

Her words caught his attention. "Why do you say that?"

"There were a bunch of dead birds in the cave. Blood smeared everywhere. She was laughing when she saw me walk in. And then she said—she said that she would be free soon and that we could all be together. She told me she watches us here. Watches us. And you know what? I believe her."

He didn't know what to say. "How?"

"I don't know how she does it. I just know she can. Can't you feel her eyes sometimes?"

"Helen is trapped. She has nowhere to go."

"For now. I was thinking about it last night. What if she's been pretending to be trapped all this time?"

He shook his head. Not possible.

"Hear me out. We always wondered how they managed to capture her, how they were able to lock her up. What if she let them? Maybe because she has big plans."

"Emily," he said slowly. "What plans? She's been here since she was created. She's always had the strength to leave. Why would she deliberately stay in that cave?"

She bit at a nail. "I just have this eerie feeling. The dead birds were a message, I think. I think she wants me to know how easily she can get to us. To me."

He shivered. He felt a little sick to his stomach. She wouldn't be telling him all of this unless she really thought she had to. "Well, what do you want to do about it?"

"Kill her," she responded simply. Her expression was resolute. "We can't leave the island. She is our responsibility."

He took her hand; she let him. "We can't. Our contract—"

"I don't care if we lose money."

"Emily. It would all be for nothing. Let's just let them know that Helen is being extra creepy and maybe they'll send reinforcements."

Her eyes burned into his. "You want to wait?"

"I think that's the most reasonable course of action, yes."

She ripped her hand from his and stood. She stared at him for a moment before saying, "If Helen escapes and kills us, and if she is able to get free and hurt others, it will all be on you."

______________________

He went to Helen.

He saw the blood Emily mentioned, but the birds' carcasses were gone. Helen practically purred in her corner, an old book in her hands. She ignored him as he put a pail of cool water as close as he dared. He put the basket of food beside it.

"Anything else you need?"

Helen glanced at him, then returned her attention to her book. She looked nearly peaceful there, but he knew better.

He backed out of the cave and let out the air he didn't know he'd been holding. He nearly choked on the salty air as he dropped to his knees. He felt queasy relief. Part of him had expected to walk into her cave and find her missing, or worse, waiting for him. She was thankfully still chained up, still somewhat less lethal than he knew she could be.

Emily was waiting for him. He could see her distant figure as he made his way through the sand. He felt sorry that she was upset, that Helen—as always—was between them.

She remained standing in the same spot as he passed her. He wanted to touch her as he walked by and he wanted to alleviate her fears and get her to talk to him. Really talk to him. He wanted too much, however, so he couldn't act on any of it.

How he wanted. His want was stronger than hunger, thirst, or any other urge he felt. Porn wasn't enough. Pictures of his ex-girlfriend weren't enough. Something about this entire experience made him feel acutely male, and so the need grew and grew until it became unbearable.

He waited for her for a while but she stayed out in the cold afternoon. She returned when he started dinner. She took her meal with her to her room and didn't come out until the next morning.

Yet the yearning he felt for her swelled and swelled and he wasn't sure what to do about it.

___________

A week passed uneventfully. It seemed they were settling back into the monotony of their mission.

She didn't speak about Helen's behavior, and he didn't ask her if she was okay. He assumed Helen was behaving herself so he told himself to forget about the unpleasantness.

He let himself focus on Emily, instead. He watched her walk around the cottage, bite her nails, listen to music, wash dishes. He willed the desire to go away. It wouldn't help him here. She would never want him back.

What would happen to them when their next two years were up? How would they be able to return to the world, knowing what they did? Where would she go next? Where was she from? All the questions he was dying to ask simmered in his chest.

One night, he tried.

"I've been thinking a lot about the end of our contract."

She looked up from the fire she'd just started.

"I want to lie low after this. Go back home, maybe. Visit my parents. I haven't talked to them in forever."

Emily poured wine into two glasses and offered one to him. He hoped this was a good sign. Still, she said nothing.

"I have a brother. Last I talked to him, he was expecting his third kid. I'd like to see them." He leaned back on the sofa and lifted his legs up. His hands crossed over his chest, and he couldn't help but feel a touch of amusement. It was like he was seeing a therapist. "I was a shitty brother. An even shittier son."

She sipped her wine.

"What about you?" he asked after a pause.

"What about me?"

"Anything to look forward to?"

She swallowed half her glass. "Yes. Not being on this island is enough to look forward to."

"But I mean—"

"I know what you mean." She poured herself more wine.

"I don't understand how you never feel the urge to talk. Don't you get lonely? Bored?"

His stomach turned a little when he realized he'd once asked Helen those very same questions.

"I'm not sure what you want me to say," Emily sighed. "I'm tired. I'm cold. I have sand everywhere. I just want to sit here and drink wine. As a matter of fact, I want to get drunk."

He sat up. "Drunk sounds excellent, actually." He jumped up and grabbed his bottle of whiskey. "If I'm going to get drunk, I want it to be on the good stuff."

She wrinkled her nose.

"Not a fan?"

"Of whiskey? No."

"Vodka?"

"Not really."

"Scotch?"

She almost smiled. "I like wine and beer."

He poured her a glass of whiskey. "Drink up. This will get you perfectly hammered."

She looked at the glass for a moment, then quickly picked it up and tossed the whiskey back. She coughed when she finished swallowing it. "That is so disgusting."

He shrugged with a grin. "According to you."

"Where do your parents live?"

"New York."

She handed him her glass; he poured her more. "I'd love to be in New York right now. My fiancé lives in Brooklyn."

He was stunned. "Fiancé?"

She downed the glass he gave her. "Yup. You seem surprised."

"I am. He is okay with this endeavor?"

"He's the one who suggested it to me. He figured I'd be good at it. I'm quiet out in the real world, too."

"Do you guys ever talk?"

She shrugged and sat beside him. "He writes me letters. Sometimes I write back."

He felt the heat of her body. Her soft sweater grazed his arm and electrified his skin. He shuddered a little at the sensation as thousands of goosebumps spread over his body.

"Only sometimes?"

"I'm angry with him," she confessed. "I knew what I was getting into when I signed on for this, and so did he. He should have talked me out of it."

"Maybe he was respecting your choices or something." He started drinking whiskey from the bottle. "I thought independent women like you liked that."

She looked at him sideways. "You thought wrong."

He tried to ignore how beautiful she looked in the fire's glow. He pretended like he didn't want to reach over and smother her lips with his, like he didn't want to drive his body inside hers. It was slowly driving him crazy. If he was smart, he would have stopped drinking and gone to bed. But he wasn't smart; he was tired and frustrated and turned on. He was provoked, and he wanted to provoke her right back.

"Does he know you're angry?"

"It doesn't matter." She took off her sweater. He avoided looking at her, terrified he'd see her in her white t-shirt, that she might not be wearing a bra, that he might see through it and stop thinking and just lose his mind. "I hold myself responsible, too."

He cleared his throat. "Do you regret taking this position?"

"I didn't have much of a choice. Do you regret it?"

"Sometimes."

She went back to drinking wine. He knew she had to be drunk, but she was holding herself pretty well. It was only when she looked at him that he saw how glittery her eyes were.

"Do you think Helen will get better?"

He was confused. How had the conversation turned to the one thing he didn't want to discuss?

"I... have no idea. I'm not a doctor. I don't even know what they did to her to make her the way she is. I'm her warden, just like you."

"I think she'll always be awful," she went on. "I think she'll get free one day and there'll be hell to pay. We'll all have to answer for our sins."

"Our sins?"

She smiled only with her red lips. "Our sins, yes. You don't think we'd be partly to blame for this original sin?"