I make the mistake of following her gaze. Somewhere in that wet flesh cave, I spot something that might be intestines. Or a kidney. Whatdoesa liver look like?
Haven does nothing as I turn and puke up Mom’s dry turkey and the two beers I drank.
A broken, bubbling exhale draws my attention. For a dreadful second, I think it’s Ezra.
But it’s Mom.
She’s still propped up against the wall where she fell, her Chanel suit drenched in blood. Her eyes are open, fixed on Haven with an expression of pure horror.
“You killed him,” she whispers, pink foam bubbling out the corners of her mouth. “You killed my baby.”
Haven doesn’t seem to hear her—she’s too busy gazing at Ezra’s guts.
I wish I had the strength to pull her away, but all I can do is stare at my mother.
At the woman who watched and didnothing.
If there’s one thing I’m sure about, it’s that those days are over.
When the police arrive, Sharon won’t be quiet. She’ll tell the cops exactly what happened—or at least, her version. That Ezrawas threatening suicide, that Haven killed him. She might even blame Richard’s death on my girlfriend, because that’ll be easier than admitting her son killed the father who’d been abusing him for years.
The woman who never used to say a wordwilltalk. The mother who always looked the other way when evil acts were being committed will come forward and ruin my life…just like she ruined Ezra’s.
I’ve never been more certain of anything in my fucking life.
I reach behind me and pick up the knife.
Mom’s eyes widen when I crawl closer. “Baby,” she mumbles.
The knife vibrates in my hands when I press the on button.
She lets out another wet gurgle.
“Hey, Mom?” Sharon’s eyes flutter wider, her nostrils flaring as she struggles to focus on me. “When you get to hell, tell Richie to go fuck himself.”
I drag the humming blade across her throat.
She tries to gasp, but it comes out wet and shredded, like the scraps of a Thanksgiving meal going down the garbage disposal.
Blood pours over my hand in hot, pulsing bursts as the knife’s teeth chatter through skin and muscle. She stares at me, mouth working soundlessly, her whole body shivering with each judder of the blades…
And then she’s gone.
I sit there, knife in hand, leg screaming, surrounded by the bodies of my family.
“Happy Thanksgiving, fuckers,” I say, suppressing the demented urge to start laughing.
I set the carving knife down on the edge of the table, breathing hard. Whatever Mom paid for this thing, it was worth it.
Efficient. Easy to use.
10/10 would recommend.
I turn to Haven.
Her knees are drawn up, her arms wrapped around herself, and she’s rocking herself side to side. Her lips are moving, but there’s no sound coming out.
“Heavenly?” I touch her face, leaving bloody fingerprints on her cheek. “Baby, we have to go.”
