Chamomile takes the opportunity and lunges. She pushes me against the opposite kitchen counter. The edge hits my mid-back hard, forcing a grunt from my lips.
Her hands reach around my throat.
Panic surges beneath each of her fingers’ pressure points. My pulsethumps in my ears and teeth and palms. I try to force in a breath, but she’s grasping too tight. Her expression towering above me is blank. Unrelenting.
You’re not real, I think.You’re me. I won’t hurt myself if I don’t want to.
I grasp at her wrists, but they’re solid as metal rods. I scratch up the sleeves of her dress. No reaction. The apple of her cheek has darkened with the bruise I gave her.
Too long, no air. I kick at her legs, but nothing lands. Each motion is weaker than the last. I try prying her fingers off, punching her hands despite the pain, rocking my head violently—nothing. She’s a vise above me.
My vision blurs. This isn’t a rosy dream gone sour. This girl of my own mind, my confidence, my guilt, she’ll kill me. I can’t focus enough to puzzle out what happens to her if I die. She doesn’t seem concerned. The cabinets behind Chamomile slam open and shut. Has a window broken? The edges of my vision darken. I can’t lose focus.
Elle will find me in the morning slumped over the counter with my own hands wrapped around my neck. Her eyes will alight with rage, the only thing that can engulf her anymore.
I can hear the ocean churn, somehow. It sounds like rage. Like Elle.
I take my hands off Chamomile’s, as though admitting defeat. I spread my arms wide, both palms down on the wood surface. Searching for a miracle.
My fingertips graze something, small but promising. I stare up through half lids at Chamomile to keep her attention on my face instead of my exploring hand. Her features dance in shadow while her mahogany curls shine in the flickering lamplight.
My toes prickle as they go numb. I stretch my fingers as far as they can go. The object is slender but long. A handle?
Show me a way out of this,I pray.How to overcome her. Show me this all meant something.
I turn my head. I’d jump with surprise were I not pinned down. My sister’s knife has somehow moved across the counter to rest under my twitching fingers. I push the surprise and let instinct reign.
I grasp the handle of the knife. Chamomile has yet to notice. Her eyes shine flat white.
I’ve never used a weapon for violence, but I summon my sister’s courage. She’d fight. The least I can do is put my all into saving myself too.
I lift my arms to meet in the middle, above her hands at my throat. I hold the knife with both hands, trapping hers beneath mine.
Push up.It is my own voice in my mind. Not Chamomile’s, not Elle’s.Mine.
The corners of my vision darken. There’s only me, the knife, and her face as realization dawns on her. I thrust the knife up and deep into her neck.
It sinks in with a sickening wet sound. I meet resistance, then slide farther. I expect my hands to move through her as they have before, incorporeal once again. But I reach hilt-deep in her throat and stick there. My thumb brushes against her collarbone. Her breath rattles, hot on the skin of my knuckles.
Her fingers loosen on my neck. Air returns. Her hands brace on either side of my head.
Don’t,she mouths, her lips darkening.
I force the blade out, fighting a vacuum seal I’ve created. Black blood sprays. It can’t be real. She’s not made of flesh and blood. Yet the liquid burns against my exposed face and neck, oily.
Chamomile stumbles back and clutches at her neck. Her eyes bulge. Is she more surprised that I could physically harm her or that I had the gumption to do it?
Catching my breath in gasps, I knock her back. She has no resistance. A rag doll. The blood keeps pouring out. It gushes, surging like the waves outside. Drenching me and the kitchen tiles.
How will I explain this to Elle?
I prayed for a way out and found this knife. My hand cramps from holding tight to the handle. I focus on my breath. My lungs must sustain another near-fatal beating. I hate how each hitch stays so shallow. My head swims, and it takes precious moments to grab hold of the counter behind me and count through the next few breaths.
I was supposed to be resting. Not killing.
Chamomile mouths something, but no sound comes out. I can’t make out the shapes of her lips, once a part of her I longed to touch. Her movements slow, frantic hands at her throat falling limp. Her eyes settle into a dull gray green. The blood stops pouring. Chunks fall from her throat instead. I lean forward. A powdery substance darkens as it absorbs the gore beneath it.
It’s ash. It comes out in clumps of powder and falls to the floor, spreading like snow.
