Silence rusts between us.
If I wait a few minutes, my heart rate might slow, and I’ll think logically. But fuck, my heart just pumps wilder.
Things tick in my head, the quiet too loud and ear-splitting in my head.
I stand up, slither close, and trap her against the wall with my arms. Like she’s a little lost lamb and I’m the big bad wolf.
Here are all those tight furry shadows where I’ve been dying to go.
I was right about her ears. Another hole she can’t close, hidden and beautiful. Framed in her soft sunshine brain hair.
Her eyes just pin on the other side of the broom cupboard.
I don’t fucking exist.
That deep spiking need for Amy, returns. The ache is there, making me want to hurt her, making me want to return her to hate.
Anything but not existing.
I look into her eyes. The pain in her irises shine brighter than the rest of her in the half darkness.
‘What made you so scared of the dark, Amy? I remember it the other way round. I was scared — not you.’
I wish you could burn your own memories. Decide which you remember and which are lost in chaos.
‘You know, every time you remember something, your mind changes it. Just a little. Your best and your worst memories . . . they’re your biggest lies.’
The way she looks now, sad and broken, her eyes are gone to whatever place inside the lost world of her own mind.
‘Elizabeth loved the stars,’ she murmurs. ‘Remember what she said to me? When night comes, when it gets dark, if I’m not there to hold your hand, it’s because I’m up there in the sky, shining bright as a star to fight off any monsters in your cupboard or under your bed.’
Feels like a gun pressed to the back of my head.
Pull the trigger.
End it all.
‘Yeah . . .’
My head feels like there’s a typhoon of noise and sharp glass spinning inside it. Cutting me up. Endless blood. No end to pain.
She says, ‘You know that thing, that goes bump in the night . . . ? That’s what you are to me. And now I have nobody to hold my hand or protect me.’
She’s gulping for air now. Her nostrils flare, and she’s fighting back tears. I can see the blood pulsing in her neck. The colour has drained from her rosy face. She looks undone.
My heart hurts enough to poison the pleasure of dominating her.
‘What got you hurt so bad?’ I say.
She looks down at her ballet shoes. She taps them on the floor. Pitter patter. Pitter Patter. Tears drop silently onto them.
‘You can blackmail me, you can threaten me, you can force me to fix my damage — but my hurt is nothing to do with you.’
‘I’m making it my damn business,’ I rasp.
I touch the tip of my finger to her chin, tilt her head up. A bolt of heat hits my finger. I suck in a breath. I lock my eyes on hers. Those long eyelashes flutter. Christ, she’s stunning in the light of pain.
She shoves against my shoulders. I don’t budge an inch. She’s so fucking beautiful, I want her to win.
I step to the side and grant her escape.
‘I’m not done with you yet,’ I tell her.
Amy runs out of the closet.
I call out to her, ‘I’ll meet you back here with some poetry then.’
I stand alone in the dim light, under the scrutiny of the broken cross.
Hell, I’m not about caring what’s wrong. Nobody is gonna trick me into feeling Christlike. Purify my soul.
I prove to the world I’m a monster, every single damn day I draw breath.
We live and we die and anything else is just delusion. What I am is a rotten-hearted bastard, and I can’t change, and I can’t stop, and that’s all I’ll ever be.
If all this is true, then why do I feel like I’m the lowest form of a goddamn human being to walk this godforsaken Earth?
What would a monster NOT do?
23
YOU
When I wake up in the morning, I feel like Dorothy. A tornado has swooped me up and thrown me into another world.
This very evening . . . I’m going out for drinks with Shepherd.
I get out of bed. It feels like my floor turns to water underneath my bare feet. It’s probably best if I stick to orange juice, tonight.
I check my room throughout the day. Each check, I have to cling on to the walls as I work my way through the routine.
It’s not good enough. I’ll check again in a moment.
I’m like a cat on hot bricks.
I know I need to summon up all my courage to survive this date. Yet again, I question if it’s a date. He never actually asked me out. It’s more of a do or die situation, I tell myself. This is his bizarre and unconventional therapy to put the pieces in my head back together again.
I start preparing for it early. Preparing to go out means checking everything. Checking again. Then once more because I only started it at one minute past the hour. Then again because it takes two minutes’ less time than it should have done.
I want to cry.
I go to my bedroom and unpeel. My dress sleeps on my bed, waiting for me. I don’t possess anything that looks young and wild, or doesn’t hide me in a pile of shapeless fabric.
In the end, I found a pink dress. It was a birthday gift Elizabeth made for me on my sixteenth birthday. It was too sentimental to give up. It’s made from taffeta, lace, and other materials I can’t figure out. It’s layered at the bottom like
