Page 12 of Morena
7“Puede ser,“ she whispered, closing the album with a shaking hand and pressing her palm to its cover. “Then maybe you are safe.”
I rubbed at my temples, said nothing, and slipped out of the living room, trying to find the bathroom. And as soon as I did, I locked the door behind me.
What’s past is past.
That is what they say. But what if the past is the thing gnawing at you day and night, dragging you back when you try to step forward? They say you must let go of ghosts to grow. But what if I am the most haunted ghost of all? What if I cannot die because I have already been dead for years, trapped inside this rotting human shell? Maybe life is not life at all. Maybe this is hell. Living in pain. Unable to live. Unable to die.Tragic.My life is tragic.
I turned the faucet, letting the water run warm. Steam came quickly, fogging the mirror. When I wiped my palm across the glass, nothing looked back at me, only emptiness.
I leaned closer, my breath shallow. A chill crept over my skin, and cold fingers brushed the back of my neck, claws draggingdown my chest, pausing over my heart. My reflection blurred, then sharpened into hers. Her eyes burned like a storm, jade blue, drawing me in.
I tried to pull my hand away from the mirror, but it would not move. It felt glued to the glass.
8“Coño,“ I hissed, clutching the sink with my free hand.
The water surged hotter and hotter, steam filling my lungs. Then, in the drain, something moved, like it was growing from the drain.
I cut the faucet and slipped a finger under the stream. The water was icy cold. My skin prickled.
9“Qué…?”I whispered.
The drain gurgled. Something snapped around my wrist, like a braided chain dragging me under. I tried to scream, but no sound came, only the rasp of air caught in my chest.
“Fuck,” I gasped, straining. “Fuck,Morena.”
“You called me.”
Her voice came from behind me. Breath against my ear. Her hands slid from my hips to my chest, nails scoring lines until blood warmed my skin.
I hissed through my teeth.
“Don’t tell me you are in pain,” she whispered, mouth brushing my ear, then lower along my throat. Her body pressed hard against mine.
“Is my touch cold enough for your heart?” she growled softly. “Or is it the fire inside you that burns?”
“What would you know?” I forced out. “You are the one who is dead.”
She laughed, her nails grazing my neck. “That is low, even for a failure like you.”
I locked my eyes on the mirror, searching for her. “Tell me, Morena, how is it to be dead, and still long for a body? How is it to crave life, when you can never feel it again?”
She laughed, the sound bouncing off the bathroom tiles, too loud, too close. “You really think this is what it’s about?” Her laugh dropped lower, darker. “You called me. Remember?”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “I was forced.”
“Tsk, tsk.” She appeared in front of me, tilting my chin away. “Don’t look,10misojos tristes.You’ll go blind.“ Her chuckle was wicked, intimate. “I can’t help hunger with pretty eyes like yours.”
“What do you want?” My voice cracked against the steam.
Her fingers trailed from my chest up my throat. Her leg slid between mine, pulling me in. The sink dug into my hips.
“11Tú,“ she purred. Then softer, with a growl beneath it, “But not yet, lust burns sweeter when it’s left to starve.”
“I’m no good to take.” I strained against her grip, trying to look at her, but the force on my hand pressed me harder against the sink. Her palm held my face in place, denying me her eyes.
“You carry something of mine,” she breathed at my neck. Her voice curled warm against my ear. “You’re broken. And broken things…” Her lips grazed my skin. “…belong tome.”
A sudden bang rattled the door. Carlos’s voice cut through. “Matteo, you good?”
