“You think someone cares about you?” She grabs the turkey in her hands, her polished fingernails sinking obscenely into the meat as she carries it over to the sink. “No one cares.”
The garbage disposal roars to life.
“No!” Sybil lunges forward, but Evelyn blocks her, cramming the turkey down into the drain. Meat and stuffing spray everywhere.
Sybil is hyperventilating, her body swaying as she staggers backward—low blood pressure, malnutrition, shock.
“Here.” I shove my glass of milk toward her. I’d only had half the glass, because I always leave some behind for Billy. “Drink this.”
Sybil takes it, flashing me a grateful look.
Evelyn knocks it out of her hand before she can drink a drop.
“Greedy pigs, the both of you,” she spits as the glass shatters on the floor, spilling milk everywhere. “Always wanting more and more and more! You think you deservemore?”
Hatred contorts my sister’s face.
“We deserve everything!” Billy yells. “We deserve to go outside and have friends and speak to people and—and—” She spins around, searching frantically until her scowling eyes spot the bowl of mashed potatoes.
“And we deservefood, you f-fucking bitch!”
She scoops a handful of mashed potatoes right out of the bowl and shoves it into her mouth.
Evelyn snatches the bowl out of Billy’s hands. I dart forward, grabbing Evelyn’s arm, sure she’s going to slam that bowl into my sister’s head or worse.
But Evelyn’s strong, and we are both so very, very weak.
She shoulders me so hard I sprawl on the floor.
What follows is a dance of destruction.
Sybil reaches for the stuffing—Evelyn smashes the dish on the floor.
Sybil grabs the cranberry sauce and tips it over her mouth—Evelyn snatches the porcelain gravy boat out of her hands and hurls it against the wall.
They circle the table like fighters in a ring, my sister laughing, her face smeared with food and her eyes bright with something I fear is far removed from sanity.
“Billy, stop!” I scramble to my feet and try to grab her arm, but she twists away.
“I can’t, Bash!” She’s giggling, stuffing a roll into her mouth even as Evelyn destroys the rest. Crumbs spray out between her lips. “I can’t!”
She turns those big green eyes on me, lashes studded with tears, a glob of cranberry sauce sliding down her cheek.
“I can’t stop,” she mumbles through a mouthful of bread as her giggling turns to sobs. “I don’t have a choice.”
She lunges for the table.
The fork is in her hand before I realize what’s happening.
The first jab catches her forearm. Blood wells up instantly in the neat row of puncture wounds.
“Billy, no!”
But she does it again, hitting her thigh this time. Then she drags the tines down her cheek, gouging four parallel lines into her face.
Evelyn has stopped destroying food.
She’s just standing there, watching, her expression one of morbid fascination. Like this truly was an experiment all along.
