I trace the cold, sure edges of this cage that is my heart. My skin prickles with savage excitement, with the possibility of throwing the lock and letting the creature inside me run. How would it feel to embrace all my pent-up violence, to let the viciousness soaked through me have its way? I’m not so stupid as to give in to that temptation. But sometimes it soothes me to place my fingers within snapping distance of the sharp jaws of my ferocity. It’s the only time I’m sure that I’m real.
A text from Uncle Bill pops up on my phone as I’m drying my hair.
Stay safe, it reads.Both of you.
I text back,Don’t we always, with a smiley face. It’s hard to know what these things mean with him. Maybe he read something fucked up in theReview-Journal. Three dots appear, vanish, reappear, as he types, deletes, types again.
We will, I add quickly. I want to get to bed, not have a drawn-out text conversation.Thanks. Love you.
There is no safety for us, not really. We choose between scheming and stealing to get the blood we need, or a brief brutal burst as a monster. We tell kids that the flayed man can only smell us when we’re transformed, that he’s always hunting, always hoping, but as long as we stay human, we’re safe from him—we tell kids that, because the truth is scarier. If I got so hungry my bones came through my skin, it wouldn’t be the flayed man who killed me. It would be a cop or a guard or some other guy with a gun, and he’d be right to do it, because once we transform, there’s nothing left but destruction.
We have stories about that too. Abandoned infants who become killing machines, mothers whose jaws slip loose from their sheathes. Teenagers testing their limits, put down by a bullet.
I crawl into bed, the sun slashing slivers of brightness around the edges of the curtains, and do my best to forget it all.
5
THE NEXT FEW DAYS ARE A BLUR OF WORK AND WORRYand my mom’s entreaties. I stop at the Colombian bakery and get the bread she likes. Just one loaf, but my stomach sours as I get into my car, and I end up going back for a second. She swallows her daily pills, a round one the color of Dijon mustard and an oblong one the color of cooked chicken breast, while I hold out a glass of water and feign disinterest. It humiliates her, any sign that I don’t trust her to manage it herself, even if we both know that I don’t. I order takeout and we watch reruns ofL.A. Law. I sleep when I can. Someone’s grandfather comes into the hospital with a burst appendix. A twenty-year-old in labor who didn’t know she was pregnant, a man with a bullet through his foot, ruined sneaker and ruined flesh so intermingled they became something new, no longer separate.
My mom seems all right, until she doesn’t.
I’m heading to work. She’s supposed to be napping. I run the dishwasher and start scratching away at a fresh Post-it.I’m at work, be back by 6. Love you, Ellis.
A door slams, slicing through the whir of the dishwater. The pen flies out of my hand and rolls somewhere under the couch.
“Ellis.” Her voice is thick with sleep. The old T-shirt she sleeps in sags off one shoulder. “Someone’s in the house.”
I’m almost electrocuted with panic, until I see what she’s got in her hand: a bright pink Post-it. Even with her thumb covering the middle, I recognize my own handwriting.Hairbrush is in the second drawer to the right.
“I wrote that.” It comes out too harsh. My skin crawls in the electric current’s aftermath. “It’s for you. To help you.”
She frowns and pats at her hair. The frizzy halo goes lopsided. “You wrote it?”
“Yes, Mom.” Don’t say it too fast, or it’ll sound like an admission of guilt. Don’t say it too slow, or she’ll accuse me of talking down to her. “I write all of them.”
Her eye catches one of the Post-its stuck to the wall.Keep the thermostat at 70. Her frown draws lines like railroad tracks between her features. She scans the living area, where more Post-its scatter the coffee table—Green button = on, Red button = off—the TV—Don’t unplug!—the side of the fridge, the counters, the walls.
“Why would you write these?” Her voice arcs up, high pitched and pitiful. “Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Of course not, it’s—”
Too slow. She rushes from note to note, crumpling them up and tossing them wildly. Post-its flutter around the room like a flurry of multicolored snow. “You do, don’t you. I’ve never been good enough for you. Does bossing me around make you feel good? Does it make you feel special?”
“I’m just trying to help.”
She snatches a cereal box off the counter and flings it to the ground. Cornflakes scatter like ashes. “I don’t need your help. I can take care of myself.”
“No, you can’t,” I snap. No, remember all the books, all the advice. Stay calm. Don’t argue. But it’s too late now. “You forget things. You’re going to hurt yourself or someone else if I don’t write the notes. I’m not—it’s not—I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay.”
Her mouth twists into a pout. “Everyone forgets things. Remember when you forgot your homework at that rest stop in Colorado and we had to drive an extra three hours to get it?”
She’s brought that up a hundred times, when we have this very same argument. Only for her, every time still feels like the first.
“This is different.”
“Different?” She kicks at the cereal carnage around her. “Different how?”
I open my mouth, but she’s back on the offense. “I’ll tell you how it’s different. It’s different because you want it to be different. He’s poisoning your mind. He’s trying to take you away from me. Just like he took my mother.”
