Page 54 of Art of Sin

My frayed patience snaps. “Can you just leave me alone?” I snap.

A brow cocks. “No. Not for another five months. Let’s go on a field trip. Take me somewhere meaningful to you.”

Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose between my thumb and forefinger. I don’t actually have a headache—more like a soul ache—but if this conversation keeps up, I will soon.

“I have to go back to work.”

Gideon laughs. His fingers peel mine away from my face, and I open one eye to see his grin. He’s standing close enough that if I leaned forward, I could rest my head on his chest.

I wonder if he’d let me.

If I’d let myself.

“You know what? Fine.” I jerk away and slip into the car.

He jogs to the passenger side and gets in, buckling his seatbelt then rubbing his hands together like we’re kids going to Disneyland.

I start the car and reverse out of the parking spot at a speed just short of reckless. My body hums with frenetic energy, with the looping echoes of gunshots and the concussion of recoil. It wasn’t enough—tearing holes in a paper man. I thought it would help, ease the pounding in my gut, the fear that’s spread like a fungus in my heart since I woke up this morning with a dead man’s cologne in my nostrils.

I almost called Nate a thousand times today just to make sure he was okay. Thankfully, some part of me remains sane. At best, I would have worried him, and at worst, I would’ve sent him into a downward spiral. I can’t—won’t—do that to him.

Nate is—has always been—the better of us. The softer, kinder one. He would never let me steal from people who looked hungry or poor, or had kids with them. Even after everything, he’s retained that innate goodness.

Maybe I never had any.

There’s no redemption for me. All I have left is the swiftly disintegrating lie I’ve lived for the past decade. Though I’m sure it was inevitable… if Gideon hadn’t come along, there would have been someone or something else. A person, a memory. Something that catalyzed my unraveling.

The thing with rabbit holes—you can’t stop halfway down because you’ve suddenly changed your mind. Just ask Alice. Once you start falling, you’re gonna hit bottom no matter what.

* * *

I stepout of the car, dimly registering my aching body, the result of driving over two hours with every muscle clenched. The desert air soaks into my skin, burning and harsh. Unforgiving.

Just like me.

There’s something magnificent about the sheer oppressiveness of the high desert. It gives zero fucks about life—at least the kind that most mammals require. But humans, we’re an odd beast. The only one that insists on living in places we’re biologically opposed to.

The trailer park has changed in the last twenty years. Stubborn, spiny trees have grown several feet with regular watering from their caretakers. Fools, criminals, and the unlucky people who can’t afford to survive anywhere else.

Bumpy, narrow asphalt streets waver with mirage in the early afternoon sun, crisscrossing between rows of tired, dilapidated trailers. Here and there, signs of life persist. A faded collection of fake houseplants bracketing screen doors. A plastic kiddie pool filled with water, an upside-down rubber ducky floating on the surface.

My restless gaze finally lands on a trailer both familiar and foreign. Abandoned, unlivable, rotted from the inside out. The flimsy carport has collapsed, so we’re parked in a gravel-coated easement nearby.

Our trailer is the only one on this small stretch of road. While the rest of the park is occupied, here there’s a sense of vague unease. Decay. Like the land remembers all the things that happened here.

Memories crowd my mind, clog my ears.

“Your daddy was a murderer. Killed my innocence and gave me you in return. A demon’s own child.”

Mama’s words pluck me like a chord, halting my hand mid-stroke. The stubby brown crayon in my fingers thuds onto the yellowed newspaper.

She’s having a bad day. I stayed outside most of the morning, until it got so hot black spots danced across my eyes. I thought hiding under the kitchen table with my crayon—stolen from the trash at school before it let out for summer—would at least give me a few more hours of peace.

But wishes are for other, better children.

“He never loved you. When he found out I was pregnant, he wanted me to abort. But the Lord forbade it.” Her voice grows nearer but softer, dreamy and slurred. “I took his money, though. Damn right, I did. I took it and bought vitamins so you didn’t come out small and sick. I tried to love you, even if he didn’t.”

As she intends, the words punch holes through what little heart I have left. They don’t make sense—my daddy left just this morning. He said he loved me more than all the stars.

“You’re lying. Daddy loves me,” I whisper, unable to quench that final shred of rebelliousness.

She cackles. Hoots. Slaps her skinny thighs like I’ve told a joke.

“That ain’t your daddy, girl. And there’s only one thing he loves about you—your sweet, innocent face that keeps people from shooting his lying face off. When you’re old enough, he’s gonna sell your soul to the Devil just like he did his own.”

I don’t feel the tears leaking from my eyes. But I taste them. Salt and despair.

“He’s not my daddy?”

Her footsteps shuffle away, back toward the saggy couch. “You look just like him, too. We all pay for our sins, don’t we? You’re my restitution. The Lord understands and will reward me.”

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