Page 35 of Queen of Nothing

‘Thoughts of home will be your enemy.’

I don’t explain myself.

Silence stretches over us.

I stare at the landscape.

She stares at the house.

I dig my fingernail into the apple’s skin. “Do you think they are still looking for us?”

Her answer comes too quickly, too easily, and so I think she must’ve been ruminating about home, too.

“Definitely.”

“What if they’re not?” I ask.

She turns a blank, patient look on me.

“What if they told everyone we died or something, and they just… go on pretending we don’t exist?”

For the first time in a long time, Serena smiles. A true, genuine smile.

“Then we would be truly free,” she says, soft, and loosens a sigh. Her dark hair spills freely down her back, a river of ink. “And we wouldn’t need to stay here, and we could get in the car now and drive off into the sunset.”

I scoff. “Into the sunset, then to the hospital—because you’re about to burst.”

Her fingers drum on her belly, and she hums. “It would help if I knew how far along I am.”

She looks as pregnant as one can get. That is a big baby belly—and she looks on the verge of going into labour, like Elvira who just spilled her water all over the polished floors.

But what do I know?

Serena could be seven months, eight, nine.

She could be early or late.

I only wish the little seed would hurry up already. It’s been a lifetime here at Hell House, and I’m ready to get out of here.

“What about after the hospital and the sunset?”

Serena hums, “Hmm?”

I turn to face her. “What would you do? Where would you go? If they weren’t looking for us.”

“I would…” Drumming her fingers on that belly, over and over, she lets her mind wisp away to places of fantasy. “I would work. I would build a career in fashion.”

I make a face. “Doing what?”

“Run a magazine,” she muses with a faint shrug, “or create my own version of fashion week outside of New York, Milan, and Paris… or simply open my own shop. A boutique near the beach.”

Flames of an old love flicker in her eyes.

I consider her now, in basically a sack that was mislabelled a dress, and the awful, dated floral print.

Serena never would’ve worn anything like this before we ran away.

Now, it’s the only thing of Sofía’s that fits her, so she wears it every day. It stinks. Reeks of sweat and mildew, because she rinses it in the shower with her sometimes, then wears it outside until it dries, but it never really dries all the way, not even in this heat. It needs to be washed and hung out properly with the worker rogues.