But his absence makes me realize just how on my own I am. For all the loneliness I’ve experienced in my nearly twenty-one years of life, I’ve never actually been on my own. Until I was fourteen, I was with Mama and the Beast. Then I moved in with the Monster for a month. Afterward, I lived with Ben, until the moment I was captured by Devil, and my new life began.
As I let my mind travel far away, I finish putting away the inventory, then spend the next few hours standing behind the cash register, smiling vaguely at the three people who come in.Two drivers who stop by for gas and a snack on their way to one of the bigger towns in the Catskills region. A person who lives in our tiny village, and who’s doing her grocery shopping. Shopping, for her, means a few bags of chips and some shelf-stable prepackaged meals. Even for those who have a car, driving to the biggest town, an hour away, is always carefully considered. The price of gas means you’re spending a lot of money before you’ve even begun to shop.
“Alright, it’s your break,” grunts Bill Henson, his eyes still glued to his computer screen, and I grab my thin coat and bag and head toward the diner for lunch.
The lady behind the counter is a fascinating creature. I’ve never seen such red hair before. It’s a vibrant, bottle color that’s matched by her bright red lips and long acrylic nails. Her name is Wendy, and like Bill, she’s grown used to my muteness and my lunch order.
“Burger and black coffee!” she calls to the cook, and a moment later, she’s placing the large plate with the greasy burger and even greasier fries in front of me.
Then she pours me a cup of coffee from the heavy coffeepot she keeps on the counter. I drink it down, wincing at the bitter dregs. She’s given me the end of the pot, but the hot liquid still clears my mind, helping me to concentrate. There’s nothing to concentrate on, but it still feels good to emerge just a bit from the constant haze that surrounds me.
I’m not very hungry, though. I never am. I order this meal out of habit and because it’s expected of me. I have a thirty-minute break and nothing else to do. So I nibble on the side of a greasy fry, my stomach churning as I force a few of them down. It’s not just that it’s expected of me. It’s the survival instinct that’s still got its claws in me. If I don’t get at least a few fries in me today, I will lose more pounds, and I can’t afford that, if I want to live. I know just how scary I look these days.
I choke down four fries and manage two bites of the burger, then push the plate away. Wendy doesn’t even look surprised, like she did in the beginning. Now she simply shrugs and takes it back to the kitchen.
I take advantage of her turned back to study her. I never pictured any Wendy looking like her. My heart always clenches when I think of the childhood story that first got me dreaming of a Peter Pan to come save me. I ascribed that role to Damien, and when he discovered how much I loved that story, he had a mural painted of Peter Pan in his apartment. I spent hours there, gazing at that painting, imagining myself to be one of the silhouettes flying in the sky. Damien was the other one.
Peter Pan and Wendy.
Only Peter Pan turned out to love a blonde girl with curves, and Wendy is a fake redhead in a diner. As for me, I’m not even part of the story.
I sigh, raising my eyes toward the large clock that hangs over the door. The small needle is nearly at 1 p.m., and the long one is nearing the hour. It takes me exactly one minute and forty-five seconds to return to the gas station, and the shift starts in two minutes. I can leave.
Leaving a few crumpled bills on the counter, I gather my things and head out. I’m already retreating further into my numbness, my thoughts turning with a passive sort of acceptance toward the afternoon that awaits me: rearranging items in aisles for hours on end, in a stupid attempt to look busy, and ringing up the very occasional customer.
There may be warning signs, but I don’t see them. In these past eight months, I’ve sunken into a sort of bored acceptance. I hurry toward the gas station, hugging my coat around me, doing my best to fend off the freezing drizzle that seems to reach my very heart.
I open the door, listening to the familiar jingle, and headtoward the front register. I glance around, looking for Bill, who’s usually there waiting to punch me back in, but he’s nowhere to be found. He’s probably out back, or in the bathroom.
Still, I should probably let him know I’m here. Bracing myself for the goosebumps that pebble my skin every time my eyes cross his sleazy ones, I walk toward his office. As I enter it, I stumble on something large and nearly fall. Weird. Did I really leave inventory lying around? That’s not like me. There’s so little to do around here, I usually jump at the chance to put away new stock.
I train my eyes toward the floor, and that’s when I see it.
The crumpled form of a man on the floor. His head is bald and shiny. He’s small and thick, and I have a sinking feeling as I flip him so that he’s on his back.
His eyes are turned toward the ceiling, glassy, unseeing. He looks mostly normal except for the thin trickle of red bubbling from his mouth and the oozing wound on the top of his head. I look down and notice his chest is damp. The finger I touch him gingerly with comes back to me bright red.Blood.
I guess Bill Henson is dead. I feel an odd, detached sort of sensation when I take him in. It would be easy to retreat back into my usual numbness, except for one thing.
One thing that makes my breath catch and my body thrill.
The mark that I suddenly see on his head, under the puddle of blood that’s formed there.
A face etched out with a knife, two horns, a pitchfork… the Devil.
Well, fuck.
9
Damien
Earlier that day.
“Pretty sure it’s her. Haven’t spotted her yet, but I think it’s her.”
Vincent’s words echo in my mind as I drive into the tiny town my possession has chosen for her new life. It’s a pretty good hiding place, I must say. Nestled away in the mountains, the cell network spotty at best, the internet connection non-existent. It’s not by any large highway, so the people who stop here must not do so on purpose, and their one desire is probably to find their way back out, as soon as possible.
In short, it’s the kind of place someone with a secret might feel safe in. Except my pet will never be safe from me.
