Part One
She refuses to take another day of this—another harsh slap of confinement. A shower rains down over her hunched body in a pearly tub, crimson droplets tainting the water. Not the remnants of her latest hair color, but blood, spilling from an open wound across her wrist.
Someone knocks on the bathroom door once, softly, and then again, escalating to forceful pounding. The girl squeezes her fist, watching more of her life source vanish down the drain. She barely knows herself anymore. Outside of these walls, the world offers her no joy, no purpose. She hopes that wherever she goes when the darkness takes her, her mother will be there.
—FROM THE JOURNAL OF MAURLEEN JAMES
Chapter 1
VESSA
June 9th— Three Years Ago— Crayford
Cold water flushes smeared blood droplets as I spread the pleats of my white sundress under the bathroom faucet. The brightness dilutes, but the splotches fan out like watercolor on a canvas. Shit, was I supposed to dab this?
If I had just let him peel it off, it wouldn’t be ruined. My first time with Jared wasn’t supposed to be like that. Rushed. Uncoordinated. Passionless. And now I’m going to have to explain to Mom tomorrow morning why her favorite dress is in the trash bin.
Pounding against the doorframe resumes. A nasally whine pierces the barrier. “C’mon, you’ve been in there for thirty minutes!”
Thirty minutes?
With a groan, I slide off the sink and look over my shoulder in the mirror. There’s no post-sex glow on my cheeks like I’d thought there would be. Only a tender throb between my thighs as I slip the garment back on. When I walk out of here, no one will be able to tell that I’m no longer a virgin. But I’m going toneed to improvise a damned good story about how blood got on this fabric. Lucky for me, my improvisational skills were good enough to convince the prestigious judging panel of the Iseman Institute to fund the entirety of my theater studies.
I yank open the bathroom door and shoulder past the queue of tipsy girls. Rounding the pool table and the dark living room where a couple has passed out on the sofa, I make for the front door and plop down on the brick porch step with a wince. A light rain starts to fall and the sweetness in the summer air dissipates. The ambient song of crickets echoes in the night, almost drowned out by the uproar of laughter and the heavy thumping of a dubstep bass rattling the walls. I check my phone's lock screen again. Two A.M.
Punctual to a fault, Mom’s sleek blue sedan pulls into the circle drive, slowing as she approaches the walkway.
Drawing a breath, I rise to my feet and walk towards the parked car. She leans over to prop the door open. "How long are you going to keep doing this, Mom? I'm almost nineteen. Seriously, I can just catch a ride in the morning. This is embarrassing."
"I gave you an extra hour past what we agreed on,” she counters. “Get in the car and I'll tell your father that I didn't smell coconut rum on your breath."
"But everyone else is staying over. There's plenty of?—"
“They will until one of the neighbors calls enforcers with a noise complaint. Which, given the loudness of this garbage you kids call music, is bound to be any minute. Unlike most of those drunkies back there, Vespera, you have a fellowship on the line. You’re not risking it for one sleepover withJared.”
My face goes red hot. Putting it lightly, she’s never had a single kind word to say for my on-and-off again boyfriend. Thecurfew abuser, as my dad begrudgingly refers to him.
“Let’s get going before this storm hits,” she urges.
Right on cue, thunder ripples across the clouds, announcing my defeat. With an exasperated sigh, I plop down into the seat beside my mother, discreetly tucking the stained pleats under my thigh. Though exhaustion tints her features, her heart-shaped face is as lovely as it's always been. The crinkles at the edges of her dark eyes deepen as she regards me with an endearing smile.
The suburban neighborhood gives way to dimly lit back roads, growing slicker with each passing minute. For miles, the black tar is lined with brittle fields of wheat and corn, parched for rainfall. Sometimes I imagine those grasses sprouting palm trees that stretch towards a clear blue horizon. Skyscrapers instead of lonely streetlights. Montrose. For the last four years, uprooting my mundane life to the city where stars are made is all I’ve been dreaming about. In just three months, it will finally be reality.
When the storm clouds finally open, the downpour is merciless. Mom keeps her eyes trained forward as her wipers work overtime to maintain a pocket of visibility. Breathing shallowly, I white-knuckle the passenger door handle. In my periphery, a blurry figure darts out of the cornstalks. I straighten my legs and peer out the back windshield. Lightning flickers, briefly illuminating the empty stretch of road behind us.
My seatbelt jerks me back as thunder cracks in response. Mom gasps. Above us, metal is groaning. Crunching. The car swerves wildly, tires surrendering to the onslaught of rushing water. Along the roof, an ear-rupturing scrape drags against metal. Only for four blades to punch right through. No—not blades.Claws.
Mom slams on the breaks. Whatever is clinging to the roof, it holds steady as our tires skid. A jarring sting of terror pricks my spine.
“W-What is that?” My voice cracks.
Before she can answer, the next punch shatters the windshield. I shriek and raise my arm above my head to shield my eyes from the ruptured glass. Once I lower them, there isn’t time to warn her of the telephone pole in our path. We become a collision of steel and timber, of airbags and screams.
The darknessof my unconscious state is penetrated by a pair of burning white lights. Cradling my head, the base of my neck throbs as if it has just taken a direct punch. In front of me, steam is rising out of the cavity of glass. A sob works its way up my throat as I try to reconcile with my surroundings.
“Mom?”
To my horror, she is folded over the steering wheel, face down. Motionless. My heart stops inside of my chest. Her throat. It's completely torn.
