Well, there’s one thing we have in common: complete and utter disdain for the newer-model Mrs. Marchetti.
“I must attend to Madame,” she says quietly, standing. “As I was saying… Anything you want from either of their room is yours, Dove.”
I smile at her. “Thanks, Melinda.”
Back in the carriage house, I change into pajamas and then nuke some leftover Thai takeout for dinner.
I really should learn to cook someday.
Once the Pad Thai is warmed up, I sit cross-legged on the couch with the bowl in my lap and Lark’s diary in my free hand. I pack away my guilt and page back a few entries from her gushy recount of losing her virginity to the same fucking man I’m marrying.
Dear Boo,
I just want it to stop. Sometimes, it comes out of nowhere. I’m happy, and I’m fine, and everything is normal, and then IT comes. Like a shadow or a dark cloud moving across my thoughts.
I HATE IT.
I hate how it grabs onto me and doesn’t let go. I hate how fucking crazy it makes me feel.
I don’t even know what’s real or not when it gets bad. I don’t know who I can trust.
I don’t know who Iam.
I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth as a cold shiver ripples down my spine.
What the fuck.
I know Lark had some issues, like me. But it waswayless. She got anxious sometimes, or got mild seasonal depression. She could be a touch scatterbrained. But she took meds for the anxiety, and it was never that bad, from what I recall.
This paints another picture.
Why didn’t I know she felt like this? Why didn’t she ever tell me?
My heart twists.Maybe she did, and I forgot.
My eyes drop back to the page.
Sometimes I wake up screaming. I’m so scared of what’s inside me.
I’m so scared of it taking over.
I just want it to stop. Please.
The wind starts to blow a little more angrily outside. Another chill ripples down my spine, and before I can stop myself, my eyes flick to the door, checking to make sure it’s locked.
It’s like the lingering anxious sensation you get after pausing an especially freaky part of a horror movie. You’re back in “the real world”, but the terror you just felt through the screen lingers, making you wonder if that chainsaw murder might be hiding inyourcloset, too.
I close the book shakily.
What thefuck.
How have I not remembered how bad Lark’s mental health was? Like, at all? Or is it not a memory thing, but a her thing? Was she just really good at masking this side of her, and hiding all this shit that she was apparently dealing with?
My insides knot as I set the Pad Thai I no longer have any stomach for on the coffee table, along with the diary.
I’m so scared of what’s inside me.
I’m so scared of it taking over.
