Page 33 of A Heart So Haunted
His hands started back at my waist, down to the edge of my shorts, this time from behind. He hauled me closer. “You’re too small. Skinny. That’s what you’re saying?”
“Maybe—I guess—” Was it? No. That’s not what I meant.Skinny.The word stung. No, it burned. The way he looked at me—with eyes on my chest, then lower, the faster he bent in, and his mouth landed back on my neck. He reeled me closer.
“Ivan, wait, stop—”
“Just eat something, Landry,” he bit into my skin. I was going to throw up. That tone didn’t feel gentle at all, any hint of reassurance I’d told myself was there, vanished. I slipped closer to the end of the bench. “Is this about what I said? About Wren? I didn’t mean it, not really.”
I tangled my hands in his hair and pulled him back. My stomach was all knots and a cold sweat started over my skin, mixed with trembles.
“You said you got off from her Instagram pictures, Ivan.” My voice hardened a bit.
He looked incredulous. “So? She’s not you. It was just a spur of the moment thing, okay? I told you because I want a clear conscience. I could havenottold you about it, and that would have been worse, right?” His expression turned almost incredulous. “And you didn’t care before. Why care now?”
Make this stop.I wanted to shake myself awake. Guilt, shame, muddled with anger, flooded my veins. How had I ever let this happen? Why didn’t I walk away?
Why had I let him talk to me like this?
Ivan’s hand started back up my shirt, cupped my breast, and I reared back, but he kept me close. Closer, until our bodies were flush, and I suddenly felt sick. The emotions from that moment roiled around me, pressing in farther and farther until each inhale turned into a choke, while the dream continued.
He was right. He told me. He could havenottold me.
“Because—I didn’t bring it up,” I said.
He pulled back completely, the distance jarring. “Maybe if you gained some weight, I wouldn’t have to beat it to someone else’s pictures, Lan. How many times have I told you to eat something? Yes,you’re beautiful—I’ve told you so many times, you should know this by now—and I still don’t get further than putting a hand up your shirt. How am I supposed to feel like you love me if you keep me at a distance?” His voice grew gritty, frustrated, splotches of color creeping over the collar of his black shirt.
I struggled to stand. He stood, too, shoulders heaving. “I do love you, I’m just trying to tell you the things I’m feeling. It’s supposed to be good to talk about feelings, right? And I didn’t bring up Wren,youdid.”
“I wouldn’t have to if you just listened to me!” he shouted, veins thickening in his neck. He ran his hands over his face, laughing. “I swear, it’s like talking to a wall when I’m with you sometimes.”
“I do listen,” I whispered. I reached out. “Ivan, please.”
“Stop, Lan.” He reared back when my fingers brushed his forearm. “Don’t touch me.”
I wiped my cheek with the back of my hand and pulled away. I’d asked him so many times to not touch me, and he’d made advances anyway. What made my requests different from his? Was it my tone? Did I not say it forcefully enough? Or was I too mean?
Would it kill you to be nice once in a while?my mother’s voice echoed, so sharp that it was like she leaned against my shoulder when she’d said it.Always so hateful.Then her voice morphed into my own, bristled and angry.How far will it go? Does it make you angry that he thinks so little of you?
Does it make you hate him, just a bit more? Youhatehim, don’t you? I know you do.
You hate them all.
I turned my back to Ivan. The sharp angles of moonlight cast the sunroom, the wicker furniture, and the shelf of seedlings into a gray shroud.
I froze.
Ivan continued talking, as if I’d never looked away. I watched his reflection in the door to the house, his hands moving as he spoke,neck red and jaw set. He went on as if I were facing him, not facing away.
But there, just three feet from me. A shadow hovered in the door window, watching us. Not a person, and not Aunt Cadence or my mother. A silhouette, tall and solid, yet misted at its edges.
My blood ran to ice.
The face wasn’t human. Sunken bits of jaw and dangling teeth from the roots, shredded clothing around its torso and stringy white hair from its scalp. The only lively part of its person was the eyes: as if untouched by decay. Yellow, with black slits no thicker than a pen stroke.
Its smile ripped far past its jawbone.
Then, it jerked behind the doorframe, and the dream broke apart.
I sat up with a gasp to the grandfather clock ringing.
