Page 24 of Speak

Chase hisses and Jonas says, “Do I need to call the cops?”

When I don’t respond, because I won’t respond, Jonas follows me into the building, past the common area where co-eds are mingling or studying, (or staring) down the corridor and into the safety of my room where I step into my walk-in, close the fucking door and redress into a clean shirt and change out of my ripped fishnets, tugging on the school approved knee-high socks.

When I step out, in a new shirt, panties, and fishnets, Jonas pulls me into his strong arms, enveloping me in a hug that’s not very friendly. It’s possessive. It’s the kind of hug I always imagined Dr. Archer would give me. I’m so fucked. I’m so fucked up. I’m letting him be kind after I’ve gone and dry humped my bully of a professor while thinking of Archer.

I’m the worst person in all of human history.

I don’t know I’m crying until I feel his thumb swipe under my lids. He kisses my temple, drags me to the bed and then has me sit sideways in his lap, crushes me to his chest and simply holds me. “I’m going to fucking maim whoever did this to you, baby.”

I could fall in love with Jonas Anderson, I really could. Except how could I ever tell him, to maimme? That I did this to myself? I simply blink and kiss the corner of his lips.

And what does Jonas Anderson do?

He holds me tighter.

I could really fall for someone like Jonas Anderson… if a certain doctor and a sick professor weren’t occupying my head. Why did I like it? Why was it such a rush?

I stare at my book bag I had thrown haphazardly into my room, the lip of it open, the book and my laptop sticking out, gleaming like diamonds. I need to learn to get my emotions under control. I need to kick all three of these men to the back of my mind and continue on my path. Nothing, and I meannothingcan keep me from finding the truth.

______

It’s later that evening, after Jonas and I have parted ways after eating in the dining hall, and I have my philosophy textbook open, my desk lamp on, Yo-Yo Ma playing low in my ear buds, that I can’t ignore the call of the fucking weird book anymore. I’ve carried it around in my bag all day, the weight of it felt like I carried a boulder around. I know the gravity of what’s written inside. My thoughts weren’t on what was around or in front of me at all today and I know Jonas felt my distance.

I ate my dinner of roasted bird and veggies quickly in the dining hall with him and the twins and when he walked me back to my dorm, I was quick to say goodbye, closing the door in his face. I’ll apologize somehow tomorrow.

I finally bend and grab the textured book out, trailing my fingers up and over the spine, the title, the circular symbol with the triangle tips on the outside, a line slashing through each side of the triangle to connect it furthermore. So many of the buildings off campus and around the US have this symbol like the stone masons. Except this symbol isn’t just on old buildings. No, this sigil is integrated, designed intricately to be hidden in plain sight. The only way to see it is to know it - to know exactly what you’re looking for. The only reason I know it, is because I’ve seen it time and time again everywhere we went as a family. In every vacation home, every building, every person whose home we have ever visited for the last twelve years I’ve been a Monroe.

The way the binding is both rough and smooth under my fingertips confuses me. I’ve never felt a texture used for binding on a book like this before and yet, it feels so familiar. I take my thumb and rub it against the underside of my middle finger mindlessly over and over again while I continue to trace the binding.

The hair on the nape of my neck stand on ends. My stomach recoils and lurches, flipping my dinner as I realize what I’m feeling. I look at the pad of my thumb that’s now clamming and a shiver runs through me.

It’sskin.

I throw the book to the side, grab my trash can by my desk and almost empty the contents of my stomach into the waste bin. But nothing comes out. Panting, I slowly deadpan to the vile book sitting atop my desk, beside my textbook, another shiver escaping me. I get up, go to my ensuite bathroom, and wash my hands.

Gloves. I need gloves. I’m not touching that evil fucking thing again without any. I look for the first aid kit I know Axel brought and rummage through it, grabbing a pair of non-latex gloves inside and slip them on, snapping them against my wrist as I make my way back to my desk. I inspect the cover again, noticing what would be pores where hair follicles once were.

Who the fuck was this? What could someone have done to become the fucking cover of a book? Jesus. I shake my head, hold my breath, and finally get the ovaries to open it.

Pro Familia, Sanguinem

For family, we bleed.

The writing is in an ink that is as maroon as the walls in the stairwell to the restricted section of the library. Except this time, I have a feeling it really is dried blood. I flip to the next page and my eyes widen.

Dates starting in 1912. Beside them, names I recognize; Prescott, Cartwright, George, McDonald, Anderson, Monroe, Whitmore, Daniels, Bevans, Smith, Holmes, O’Connell, Cleary…

All besides names I don’t recognize. A shiver skitters down my spine, shimmying over my shoulders.

It’s aledger.

A heaviness weighs over me as I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding. It’s too late to go back now. All I know is I need to put this thing back as soon as I can. Someonewillbe looking for this. I can’t take pictures of it; it’ll upload to the cloud. For the first time, I’m so grateful Axel ordered me a home copy/scanner/printer machine and set it up for me before leaving so I wouldn’t have to use the one in the common area.

I take the book, go to the machine and the whirring begins as I copy the front of the ledger, let it print and then flip as far forward until I get to the 1950s. Sixty pages front and back before I’m done copying, my heart stops as I catch what’s written.

2019 – Raven Monroe – T. Prescott, A. Smith, J. Cartwright, T. Whitmore II, S. Hoover, A.

A.what?

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