Rebecca Mahoney Fanfiction Draft 2

Days of Heaven (1978) Directed by Terrence Malick

The Golden Hour

In the exhale of day, they swam together in the caramel light. Soon dusk would evade them; a day closer to a freedom which was now tangible like silk cords tugging at their fingertips. Entwined they lay  tracing each other's palms and fingerprints; restless wheat tossing ever-lengthening shadows across their noiseless bodies. Overhead a kestrel soared, its haunting call encircling the farm.

Abby fingered a crack in her right boot, the leather parched and worn like the ground beneath it.

"I'll get new pairs now.

Linda too.

Matchin' gloves.

From the city an' such."

Bill said nothing, his brow furrowed as he pulled seeds from the ears of wheat between his legs. The eruption of chattering sandpipers on the bank eventually broke the silence. Bill rose and brushed the soil off his trousers. It had been a dry Summer in the Panhandle.

"This hole's gon' take all night if we don' crack it now.

I'm damned if we'll hang 'round for me to get caught with a spade in ma' hands." 

The golden hour had been a period of reflection before. Smooth waves of light flowed like river currents along their thoughts and soliloques. To marry or not to marry? To murder or not to murder? Sunset had almost escaped their desperate grasp, leaving in her wake a trail of flickering counterparts. Above their darkening heads, a silhouetted flock of birds flew in formation towards the farmhouse. 

Abby spoke.

"Do you think he'd like it if we let him lay there with his crops a lil' longer?"

Over Bill's shoulder the Farmer lay still and lifeless, his remains crudely rolled in the parlour rug. Suffocation had done no favours for the Farmer's postmortem appearance; trademark bruising to his neck and dull bloodshot eyes pointed to his untimely departure. Bill shuddered and turned to face Abby, her own complexion ashen. He pressed her face against his shoulder and they stood together, listening to eachother breath.

"We needa' finish what we started. Linda's gon' start to worry soon enough."

Nodding, Abby stepped back from their embrace and picked up one of the spades. She raised the handle above her head and plunged the face into the earth. Crisp and thirsty, the soil cleanly parted and she heaved the spadeful away behind her. Again and again, Abby repeated this until her bloodless arms gave up. They dug in silence, the velvet night encasing their fear and racing heartbeats.

Crunch.

Bill broke the silence.

"Where are we goin' from here? 

I'm sick o' the dirt, Abby.

New York? 

Back to Chicago?

Or California, Abby. 

By the goldmines!

We could swim in the ocean and live in a little house near the beach."

Soil crunched beneath them and the pile of earth at their feet grew in time with the rhythmic slicing of their efforts. Abby had not yet replied to Bill's question, the air between them thick with tension and the unknown. A cloud passed over the Autumn moon and they were blanketed in still darkness. Still they continued to dig. 

"The hole's wider than we need, Abby. Dig deeper, now."

Crunch.

"Who cares where we go from here, Billy.

Nobody's gonna' notice, 

Not here,

Not anywhere we've been.

You're sick of the dirt?

I'm sick of being invisible."

Crunch.

Abby dug faster now, flinging soil over her shoulder. Streams of earth sprayed ear upon ear of corn and still they dug. Gentle rustling of the undergrowth sounded like children's whispers and gave the impression of company where there was none. The cloud passed and the full moon, resplendent in its wholeness, lit the fields on fire from its throne in the centre of the sky.  Bill stopped and lifted his head to bask in the moon rays. Still reeling from the outburst, he snapped at Abby, who was running her spade along the walls of the Farmer's shallow grave.

"I care where we go from 'ere, Missy.

You might not and nobody else ain't givin' two dicky-birds 

But I do.

You ain't invisible to me."

Crunch.

A cold bead of sweat rolled down Bill's temple as he shoveled the last of the soil from the hole. Straight lines and a perfect rectangle, much like the crops that the farmer had toiled over before his sickness set in. Shaking, he straightened and met Abby's eyes. Her eyes, usually liquid and amber, were cold and dark. 

"Why say it now?

Am I only visible when it suits you to be able to see me?

I want a life now.

Not gonna' chase fortunes forever, am I?

Look where that's got us!"

Abby gestured at the Farmer, lumpy and conspicuous in his woven coffin. The moon burned accusingly above them, fiery torches of corn jittered in the silence. 

"I am worth more than a checker on your board, Bill."

A thread snapped between them. Unspoken frustration and pain had been stockpiling for months, hibernating in Winter, awakening with the Texan Summer heat. He slapped her. Hard and cold. Abby's hand rushed to her cheek and she clenched her jaw, trembling with indignation and betrayal. 

Bill turned on his heel and started to drag the Farmer to his final resting place. In the solemn procession to his grave, Abby began to cry. Hot, salty tears, one after the other, slid down her face and dropped onto her skirts. Suddenly this wasn't the perfect outcome. Abby wanted to go back to Chicago. The silk cords of freedom were slackening as the tangerine dawn and the first birds stirred. 

Crunch.

With the concave face of the spade, Abby had summoned the last of her strength and swung it cleanly into the back of Bill's skull while he was bent over the Farmer in his grave. He fell silently, turning in surprise as he fell.  Life left his eyes instantly and a quiet moan escaped his lips. 

Abby, still weeping, moved the earth back over the men. Spadeful after spadeful, the soil was loose and dry filling the gaps where the men lay. A kestrel cried overhead and the last evidence of Bill and the Farmer disappeared into the ground. Abby walked back to the Farmhouse, her back turned to where the two men rested. In the caramel light, the Farmer and Bill lay behind her in a shallow grave, the perfect width.