But as I grab it, bittersweet memories of Mama teaching me to sew pillowcases come back to me.
The hardest thing is putting the thread in the needle. I’ll do that for you. The rest is easy. In and out, in and out. It’s nice to make things with our hands.
We didn’t have many moments like those. Mama was usually too tired.
I grab the needle and the single spool. I cut off a long piece of thread, slip it into the eye of the needle, like Mama taught me, andmake a knot at the end. Then I bring it to my wound, gritting my teeth.
In and out. In and out.
The first time I push the needle into my skin, it doesn’t hurt half as much as I’d expected. But the second hole I make hurts like a bastard.
Still, I grit my teeth and continue.In and out. In and out.
At last, I’ve finished, and I look down at my work.
It doesn’t look as nice as the pillowcase did, but it’ll do the trick. The bleeding has slowed to a trickle, and I feel a little less hazy than before.
I grab the bloody steak knife on the way out. I’m not sure why. I slip it into my pocket, unheeding as it cuts slightly into my thigh. Another cut won’t make the slightest difference.
I walk out the back door quietly and start walking again. This time, I know exactly where I’m going.
The lake.
It’s a long walk, and I know I’m heading closer to Astley and to danger. This is where Devil is, and Angel. The people who tried to kill me.
Ben tried to kill me too, though. I guess pretty much everyone I’ve met in my short, sad little life, wants me dead.
It’s an odd, sobering thought.
The only person who probably won’t try to slit my throat if he sees me is the Monster. But it would take a lot more than imminent death for me to return to him.
As I walk, I’m aware of the blood trickling slowly from my body. I wonder if I’ll make it to Astley Lake, or if I’ll die on the way.
I guess I’m bound to die somewhere. Might as well be on the way to the only place that feels like home.
After an hour of walking steadily, I see it in the distance. A blue expanse of cold, crystal-clear water. Smoke seems to rise above it in the quiet moonlight. Large weeping willows branch out, casting its waters in shadow.
In certain areas, the surface glimmers with the reflection of moonlight, a pale, haunting image. I sink to my knees on the stretch of grass that surrounds it. I should have come here right away. This place is so peaceful. I feel at home.
I lie down next to it, letting the waters lap at my body. It feels good against the bruises, against the burning stab wound in my stomach. I’m so tired. So very tired.
“Seraphina Connor.”
My eyes flit open and a pang of anxiety chokes me.
“Relax. I don’t want to harm you.”
I grunt with pain as I sit up, and search in the darkness for the person who knows my name.
A stranger appears in the moonlight, wearing a suit, his hair slicked back on his head. He’s clean-shaven and smells of soap and tobacco. As he sits down on the grass in front of me, making an odd picture with his crisp pants and vest, he appraises me with small green eyes.
“What do you want?” I breathe.
He shows me a card that I can barely make out in the darkness of the night.
Samuel Mattson, Federal Bureau of Investigations.
The FBI.
