10/21/10.
“Sandra Carmichael. Two nine-year-old boys found her head in a park, right at the top of the slide.” Her stomach shudders violently, a sob ripping past her throat. I turn my eyes back up to her, seeing her face yet not processing any of her features. “Their mothers reached out to me after the trial, and I still call them every so often to check in. Both kids were extremely traumatized, as you can imagine.” I cock my head. “Canyou imagine?”
I don't wait for her to answer and write the next date below it.
11/13/16.
“One of the boys, Lewis, killed himself on the day he and Jacob found Sandra, six years later. Jacob, on the other hand, is a drug addict, living on the streets. I paid for a few rounds of rehab to help him, but he keeps leaving. He’s got hepatitis C and is refusing treatment for that, too. He told his mom he prefers to die on the streets with heroin in his veins than live a sober life remembering Sandra Carmichael’s head on the top of the slide.”
“Stop,” she squeaks desperately.
“Just one more,” I whisper as I write another date over her left hip.
There are so many more I could stain into her skin, but I feel her reckless energy mounting, and I’m on limited time before she snaps.
06/17/08.
“Margaret Lever,” I say quietly. “The public hasn’t treated her well. On this fateful day, she sent her little boy away to his grandmother’s so she could invite over a mystery man for dinner. She wouldn’t tell anyone who it was, of course, only that he was married and needed to keep his identity a secret until he was ready to leave his wife. Regardless, themedia painted her as a homewrecker, a whore, and a terrible mother. A couple of days later, a woman found her remains in a garbage bag outside of a domestic violence shelter. No one knows why that location, but it led to many assuming her ex-husband was abusive toward her. That speculation has been a dark cloud hanging over his head, and I hear he’s a recluse because of it.”
“Enough,” she spits, her voice wobbling. “I’ll scream, and I don’t fucking care if you kill me, Dread. You’re done.”
While I’m tempted to test that threat, Reverie has proven time and time again that she has a spine of steel, even if it’s not always in her best interest.
However, what truly stops me is the dark place my head is quickly spiraling to. It's been a long time since I've lost myself in that abyss, and I'd rather not pay it a visit tonight.
My thoughts are quiet as I grab the cap and slide it back on the marker before tossing it to the floor. Then, I move the phone back to my right hand so I can pan the camera over her stained body, though I keep her face out of it, just like I promised.
When I’m finished, I end the recording before switching the screen back to portrait mode. I aim the camera so it captures the two of us clearly while I lean on my elbow and crowd over her.
“Look at me,” I order, focusing on her face.
“N—”
“Now, Reverie.”
Snarling, she turns toward me just as a tear slips down her cheek. I dart forward, catching it on the tip of my tongue, and instinctively snap a photo of us.
“Dread,” she hisses, jerking away before turning and pressing her forehead into my bicep as hard as she can, as if she’s merely an apparition capable of sinking through a solid form. “Delete that now. You said you’d keep my face out.”
“I said I’d keep it out of the video,” I retort casually.
I open the photo, drawing both of our focus. My blood heats as I take in the side view of her face tilted up toward mine, mouth parted, eyes leveled on me. My tongue glides along her cheek, several strands of my hair concealing part of my face. Her arms are still hiked above her head, and her tits are perfectly visible, though the date written beneath them is just out of view.
The picture belongs on a goddamn porn site, and even though theghosts of her father’s sins bury any rational thought or emotion, I can appreciate how fucking sexy it is.
But the thought curdles in my stomach like spoiled milk, and I return my stare to the black ink written on various parts of her flesh.
She’s shown unwavering support for the man who committed those crimes, for the man who has ruined so many lives beyond the women he sliced into pieces. He not only has their blood on his hands, but that of innocent people unfortunate enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
My upper lip curls in derision, though I can’t decide who I’m more disgusted with—her, or myself for finding her alluring for even a fucking second.
She’s a terrible human being. Fuck, she’s not even human, and she shares the blood of two goddamn monsters. Her mother’s just as guilty.
The entire family deserves a fate worse than death.
I exit out of the photo and turn off the screen, plunging us back into a darkness where my outside world reflects my insides. I toss the phone on my nightstand, grab the blankets at our feet, and lie back down, covering the two of us beneath them.
Tucking her arms against her body, she rolls on her side, her back to me once more. She keeps silent, likely sensing I’m walking a fine line, split between the side of me with a slice of humanity and the side who’d love nothing more than to make her swallow her fucking teeth.
