Page 48 of Sinister

I take a step back, open the envelope again, and this time hold the flesh in my hand. It fits perfectly in my palm. The message is unmistakable. The writing is his.

Forgive me.

He asks for forgiveness—with this?

Madness.

And yet . . . perhaps some of that madness has sunk into me as well. Because instead of throwing it into the fire, I carefully wipe the blood from the flesh, preserving the words.

Then, slowly, almost reverently, I slide it into the pages of my Bible and hide it away.

He is mad.

But maybe . . .

Maybe I am, too.

14

PETRA

PRESENT DAY

The following days bring no respite from my condition, nor from the eerie dreams. They are all centered around the same character—the other me that lived in a time long since past.

Stranger still is the way the relationship between dream-Petra and dream man develops. He reminds me of Sin far too much at times, even bearing his name.

I have to wonder if this is not my brain telling me something: that he’s no good for me, that he is as dangerous as I am morbid for conjuring up dreams of bloodied flesh and forbidden encounters.

I stop myself just as I’m about to go into a Freudian analysis.

I’m sure it’s just my pregnancy brain acting out because he is the father of my child.

Ugh.

Waves of morning sickness make me spend a good hour slumped next to the toilet as I will myself to get ready for school.

Yet my mind manages to stray, recalling Sin’s chimerical personality shifts from yesterday. How chilly his voice had sounded when he demanded the names of my previous (imaginary) sexual partners.

How he had instantly shifted to Prince Charming mode while saying, “Whatever makes you happy.”

Washing my face and taking a warm shower helps dispel some of these troubling recollections.

Although the physical toll is manageable right now, this . . . addition to my body seems to have warped my way of thinking.

I can’t shake off a nagging suspicion that there’s something I know but haven’t understood clearly yet.

My SAH-monogrammed skirt and blazers still fit, thank fuck, but my face is an accurate depiction of the chaos swirling through my head.

Enough is enough, I decide, and carefully prepare myself for the day.

Thankfully, a touch of concealer and blush make me look human again. I round out the look with a light mauve line over my upper eyelids to match the school uniform.

Hair pulled back in a muted ponytail, a few dabs of my favorite Dior perfume that makes me smell of oud and warm spices, and I am ready.

Well, as ready as I can be under the circumstances.

The drive to school is spent oscillating between warm, positive memories of Sin and my anxiety about facing him again.