While playing that game that Bobby came up with in the desolate recreation room, Austin and I talked. The windows were open enough to supply us with a much-needed breeze and the isolation helped calm our nerves.

There are so many questions that I want to ask her. So much that I want to know, but sadly there's so little time, so I can only ask a little today and save the rest for tomorrow.

"Why are you so nice to me even after all of the bad things that I've done," I ask plain and simple.

She tries to sigh, but I guess her brain wants her to chuckle also. Our eyes meet, "I like to think that I'm a kind soul."

"Okay, but why is that," I pry for a deeper meaning.

"I just am." She sets a card down and shrugs while casually twisting her lips. I guess that she can feel the awkward tension because she gives me a small smile and continues speaking with it on her face, "I'm good at holding secrets and I have a boat load, honey."

"What are they?" I bite my lower lip once I notice that I'm practically drilling her. Lowering my head in shame, I speak in a small voice, "You don't have to answer."

She takes my cards after a short pause, so I lift my head to see what she's doing. She shuffles them in hers before setting them all down on the deck. She puts her left hand on top of the table with her right hand resting flatly on it, our eyes gazing into the other person's.

"I'm not shy when it comes to you and Annabelle. Ask me anything."

I look down at her hands in thought. Nothing really good comes to mind, so I just blurt out the first thing to pop up, making sure to look at her.

"Have you ever been married?" Her smile starts to fade, so I speak again, "Again, you don't have to answer."

She forces another smile and I wish that she didn't have to do that, but instead of complaining, I let her speak.

March 10th, 1912

I reside in Memphis, Tennessee, and my birth name is Austina Elizabeth Langley, but I tied the knot with my beloved, Thomas Edison. His mother named him after the famous man when she developed a fascination with him mainly because of his work.

I often sit and wonder what the real Thomas Edison is like. Only good things come to mind because at nineteen that's all that you wish for: Good things.

He's expected from work at any moment now and I've prepared dinner like I always do. I have the stew in a pot, simmering on top of the counter so when he gets here I can prepare him a bowl as well, but in the meantime, chores await me.

I always start with the kitchen to prepare myself for the ungodly-smelling bathrooms. I believe that good smells will stick longer than bad smells if they're inhaled before the other.

It always takes me thirteen minutes or so to freshen up the house and by then he's walking through the front door in his business suit with his chestnut-colored hair falling to his shoulders. I set his bowl of vegetable stew in front of his usual seat.

As the head of the house, he sits at the end of the table nearest the exit and he made me never put a chair across from him as he believes that it'll make him look bad.

He sits down without a hello, which isn't abnormal for him. I'm not hungry tonight, so I just sit to his left as usual. I have a surprise for him and I don't exactly know how to tell him or when to do so, since he's always easy to anger.

I fiddle with my long white apron over my dark blue dress. Usually, I have residue from cooking still on my clothes, but after being beaten five times in one week, I learned to always clean them before he arrives.

He begins eating and as the spoon scrapes against the dish, I can't help but feel a tingle in my stomach. He knows that I hate that sound, but every time I mention it, he'll beat me some more, so I learned to endure it.

He clears his throat obnoxiously, causing me to instinctively look in his direction. He's grimacing from disgust while waving his spoon near my face, "It's dirty."

My heart feels like it'd dropped to the pit of my stomach when I realize my fate and I'm too tired to beg for mercy, so I just sit in my seat with my eyes stuck to the dripping spoon.

He swiftly drops the spoon and just as it lands on the floor to his left, I fall out of my seat on my left from his strong slap. He's forty-nine and much bulkier than I. I hold my burning right cheek in my right hand while supporting my upper body with my left forearm, keeping sure to watch his every move.

He stands up and knocks over my chair as he nears closer. My chest rises and falls at a rapid pace just as my eyes begin to well with tears. He kneels to my level and stares at me with disgust on his face similar to a slave owner to his livestock.

"Clean those dishes and pour me another bowl." He reaches his right hand towards me and I flinch, causing his anger to refuel.

For ten minutes straight he goes on a violent rampage. Knocking over fine china and chairs, chasing me throughout the house. When I get to our shared bedroom, I shut and lock the door.

Backing up slowly while staring at the door in anticipation. My dress is ripped here and there, causing my legs to be on vague display. I assume my face is bruised heavily because it's throbbing.

Bang, bang, bang!

My feet freeze in place as he practically drives his fist against the door. I always lock the door when I'm able to get away and he always gets in, so I guess he's grown used to my predictable actions.

"Open this door," he speaks calmly and I'm almost tempted to do so, but I have to remind myself of how he is.

"No," I holler like a temper tantrum-throwing child. "I'm not opening this door until I know for certain that you won't hit me."

He releases one final bang in the air by slamming his fist against the door, before proceeding to walk away.

His departing footsteps thaw out my feet and they expeditiously bring me to the door. I press my ear to it and listen to the rustling and grunting coming from the other end. He hates doing just about anything productive, so I know that this can't be good.

I move my head just in time and unknowingly preserve my life. This mad man is driving a claw hammer through the door.

I run towards the bed, not knowing where to go since panic is making it hard for me to think. He pushes the door open after thrashing the knob off with the flat end of the hammer, then stares at me disappointingly.

He lets out a matching sigh as he takes one step in. I watch him swing the hammer by his side with his eyes still on me. My hands are gripping the draping end of the blanket and my legs want to give way at any given moment.

"Thomas--" I speak in a small, quavery voice from fear, then flinches again when he aims to throw the hammer in my direction.

He chuckles at my expense like this is a game to him, then drops the hammer to the floor by his right foot. It sends off a booming, then crackling sound into the air as it hits the wood floor.

I watch nervously as he begins taking off his suit jacket before tossing it on the floor. I know where this is going, so I look around for something to defend myself, but all that I can see is his hammer.

His eyes follow mine and in a flash, he appears in front of me with his hands squeezed around my neck. I place my hands on his wrists and attempt to release his tight grasp.

I can see the short-lived sympathy in his irises after I let out a weak whimper, and he calmly takes his hands from around my sore flesh. While looking into his now cold eyes, I massage the main areas that hurt. He begins to speak, "Get on the bed."

I hesitantly shake my head, so he picks me up bridal style and tosses me onto the bed. With my knees to my chest and my hands providing me with balance by pressing against the bedding behind me, I watch him frantically tug the rest of his clothing off.

I look at the window, then at him. He's clad in nothing, but men's undergarments and even though this isn't new to me, I still can't help but blush. His stomach is protruding and his chest hairs are grey.

The lust in his eyes scares me, so I try to scoot off of the bed. He grips my ankles with his thick, sweaty hands and I instinctively, yet rapidly swing my legs. I only stop when my shoes make hard contact with his face, causing him to tumble backward with a crash.

I quickly get off of the bed and run past him on my way to the hammer. I pick it up in both hands as it's heavier than I'm used to and I drag it towards his unconscious body. I stand over him with one foot on either side.

Voices in my head won't leave me alone. One is telling me to finish him and run away, the other is telling me to drop it and wait for him to die on his own.

Before I can pick one, his eyes open up and meet mine. It takes him maybe ten seconds to realize what's going on, and by then his eyes are bulging. He's squeezing his chest with both hands and gasping for air.

Minutes pass with me still towering over him before he finally stops moving and his eyes stare blankly at me.