Next Wednesday
Emily knew the precise moment
that Ben returned, she felt him in her scars. She watched him carry some things
to the house, heard the door close; she smiled when she heard him call out that
Santa was here. He did that once before, in early December, insisting that she
accept the gift he held out, not wanting her to wait until Christmas to use the
mittens he knew she needed.
She went toward her door now,
wondered what he had brought, and then heard Megan’s voice below. Oh no, he
probably brought something for her. She scuttled back to her nest by the window
and stared outside, was still staring fifteen minutes later when she saw them
walk down the street, Ben shouldering a shovel, his other hand knotted with
Megan’s.
She touched the skin on her
arms, lightly at first, making it tingle. The image of Ben with Megan
multiplied across her mind in broken mirrors, a repugnant picture that
reflected her own self-loathing. She scratched at her scabs, felt the pricks of
pain force away the ticklish sensations. She closed her eyes.
When she opened them she saw a
figure standing at her door.
“Who–?” she started, but the
figment waned to less than a shadow. Still, though, there was something at her
door.
She rose slowly and held her
hand out.
Its face was more womanly now,
friendly, motherly. Yes, she knew this face. Its pearly white skin so shocking
against the ruby lips, the stringy hair a match to her own. Her mother.
She stretched her fingers
toward the face. The hallucination faded then sharpened. The eyes began to
blaze. She drew her hands back to her own face. What’s wrong with me? The delusion grieved Emily; all around her fluttered
a longing.
And a deadly fear.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.