Ruthless Creatures by J.T. Geissinger

When I’m at my wits’ end, I stand in the middle of the
living room, looking around at the wreckage, wondering what
I’ve missed.
Then my gaze falls on the picture above the fireplace.
I should have started there first.
The painting is one I made as a gift for David’s birthday
one year. He loved this particular spot in an alpine meadow
overlooking Lake Tahoe called Chickadee Ridge. In the winter
and spring, you can go there with a handful of birdseed, and
the little birdies will fly right over and perch on your
outstretched hand to feed. It’s a beautiful, magical place, and
the painting reflects its quiet majesty.
Of all the landscapes I ever painted when we were
together, this one was David’s favorite.
I say to the painting, “You scheming piece of shit.”
A wife. And kids.
And I almost married him.
How I wish now that he would’ve fallen off the side of the
mountain like I thought he did and smashed his lying head in.
I know that sometime soon, I’ll need intensive therapy to
unravel this. Probably lots of it. Probably for the rest of my
life. But right now, I’m in a weird kind of Neverland. The
“real” world doesn’t exist.
Finding David—Damon—has become my only reality.
I take the painting from the wall and lay it facedown on the
floor. I remove the wooden backing board, exposing the frame
and the back of the canvas…
And the single word scrawled in David’s handwriting on
the bottom edge.
Panama.
He didn’t have to write more. He knew I’d know where to
go with only that.