Jesse swears, removing his grip instantly. “I knew you weren’t angling your arm right. She stabbed you with those scissors on the floor, didn’t she?”
“Just a tiny bit,” I pant. I steadfastly avoid looking at the blood. The last thing I need is to faint in front of him.
“My dad has supplies inside. Come on, I’ll bandage you up.”
Before I can stop myself, I back away. Jesse’s reputation is nothing compared to his father’s. Ward’s resident mortician is the monster story parents use to scare kids into doing their homework and eating their veggies.
The long black hearse comes to the Talbot house to collect its due. Listen, learn, or next time, it will come foryou.
Like hell am I going anywhere near Mr. Talbot’s lair.
Jesse’s gaze hardens. “He’s not home.”
“It doesn’t matter. I can’t go inside with you. We can’t be alone.”
Jesse spreads his arms wide, encompassing the whole of the street. “Take a look around, Mansour. We’re alone right now.”
“No, the kids—”
—are gone. Everyone’s gone.
How long have we been the only two standing in the street? Mentally slapping myself for letting him distract me, I break into a sprint toward my house. Jesse calls after me, but he doesn’t try to follow.
Good. Jesse is significantly taller and stronger than anyone the thing has possessed. In my current condition, I have no faith in my ability to fend him off. He’s an asshole, but he doesn’t deserve to get stuck with a murder charge.
I close the front door behind me, bolting the lock. “Baba?” I call.
The house stays silent. Still at the university, then.
Releasing a sigh of relief, I wander into the kitchen and wash my hands. Water tinted red swirls into the drain. I don’t feel any cleaner. I’m not sure I’ll ever feel clean again.
I fill a glass of water from the tap. Only after I’ve had three refills do I finally breathe. My shoulders slump, and I bring a hand to my face.
So much for my tallies.
When I feel confident that I can move without sinking into a ball on the kitchen floor, I sprinkle some Comet inside the sink and double check I’ve locked the front door.
Every day after school, my system goes on high alert for the sound of a car pulling up or a key jingling in the lock. I’ve been paranoid about running into Baba every time I leave my room. If he meanders in for asnack or goes to find his glasses while I’m down here … the thought sends a shiver through me. Baba is a pacifist by nature. He’s never so much as slapped my wrist.
To see his eyes burn orange, to smell the rot on his skin. It would be more than I could bear.
So I stay away, and I pretend it doesn’t sting that he hasn’t noticed.
After taking stock of my injuries, I come to the unfortunate conclusion that I’ve developed all the classic symptoms of being a giant baby.
Sure, every bone in my body hurts and my clothes are ruined, but it isn’t as though my organs are spilling onto the ground or anything.
Lifting my shirt over my head is a no go. My arm protests any movement. I grab a pair of scissors and the first-aid kit from the medicine cabinet, where I’ve been a frequent flier for the last few weeks. If Baba wonders why our dusty first-aid kit is suddenly well-stocked, he doesn’t let on.
I settle on the couch, arranging a few throw pillows on the carpet in case the sight of blood gets the better of me. Baba’s twenty pairs of glasses clutter the coffee table and TV stand, tossed around haphazardly so at least one is always within reach. I push them to the corner and set up my tools.
Some nineties show plays on the first channel I flip to. Loud and abrasive, good for pushing out my thoughts. I force myself to focus on the canned laugh track instead of the moist, heavy fabric sticking to my right arm.
The scissors glide through the seams at my shoulder. Bracing myself, I peel off the sleeve. The squelch of the blood-heavy fabric makes me queasy, and I rush to drop the sleeve in an empty grocery bag. Red spots spatter the plastic.
The sight of my blood smeared over the logo of my favorite grocery store disorients me. It prods at the iron fist clamped around my chest,threatening to loosen it. I don’t know what would happen if my chest loosened enough for me draw in a full breath of air. I might use it to start screaming, and I doubt I’d ever stop.
I drag my hair over my right shoulder and off my overheating neck, trying to regulate my body’s temperature. Our house has the insulation of tissue paper. Usually that means I spend every winter sporting a runny nose and wearing holes in the big toe of my socks, but at this precise moment, I couldn’t be more grateful for the chill. My body always reacts to stress by turning into a furnace—the weeks after Mama died, I could only sleep while curled beneath an open window—but I thought it would stop eventually.
