Page 98 of These Monstrous Ties
“You came,” he whispers, almost as if he doesn’t believe I’m here. As if he thinks I’m a ghost.
I grip the knife tighter in my hand but don’t raise it.
I underestimated how much it would hurt to see him again. How it would feel like getting stabbed in the chest all over again after two weeks apart. And that sick feeling is back. I think I might vomit again.
I stumble to the railing of the balcony, the knife falling from my hand onto the cement floor, my fingers curling along the edge of the balcony, my head hanging off the side.
In an instant, Jeremiah is up out of his seat and his hand is gentle on my back.
And for an instant, I don’t shove him off. For a second, I pretend he’s my big brother again. I pretend he’s the same guy who cleaned my foot. Who told me he loved me. Who had been looking for me for fourteen years. Who saved me from the devil.
But the second passes.
And so does the moment.
Because that’s all a lie.
I spin around, knocking his hand away from me. He still holds his glass of vodka, and I rip it from his hand and throw it against the wall of the balcony, where it shatters behind him. I see, beyond him, Lucifer stepping into my brother’s room, his blue eyes wide and frantic until they find me.
I regret throwing the glass.
I’m not ready to share my brother’s suffering yet.
But Jeremiah just stands there, staring at me. Blinking. I notice, in the dim light from the balcony, that the whites of his eyes are red.
“What have you done to us?” I scream at him, the knife still on the concrete. I kick it aside. I don’t want to use a blade. I want to use my bare hands.
I lunge for him, slamming him against the wall, glass beneath our shoes.
“What have you fucking done?” I scream again, hitting him, my hands flying over his chest, over his suit, my nails digging into his neck, his face. I slap him, again and again and again, and he takes it, unmoving, all while his eyes stay glued to mine. It’s a different kind of torture. I want him to fight back. I want him to hit me, too. I want him to resist. To argue with me, cut me down, like he used to.
I know he’s drunk.
I can smell the vodka on his breath. It’s like he’s drowned in it. And his eyes are bleary. He’s barely standing upright as I attack him, over and over and over. And he could have seen Lucifer. I know he could have. He could have glanced at him, right then. But he didn’t. I don’t know if he truly hasn’t seen him, or if he just doesn’t care anymore.
I slap him one more time, the sound ringing in the night, his head twisting sideways.
I put my hands down, breathless.
“Fucking say something!” I scream at him. The words come out on a sob. I take a step back, the glass crunching under my boot.
Someone clears their throat. All three of us whirl around at the same time.
Monica.
The bartender. Of course she would have a key. She has two bottles of vodka in her hands, and she looks around at all of us, at Jeremiah’s red face, at the scratches down his neck. His skewed mask, nearly knocked off of his face from my attack. At Lucifer.
“I, um…” she gestures with the bottles, her eyes finding mine.
“It’s okay, Monica,” I say, the first words I’ve spoken since I’ve arrived that aren’t angry. “Just…” I shrug. “Just leave them on the bed.”
She opens her mouth, closes it again, then nods. Her eyes find Lucifer again, and her gaze lingers on him a second too long. Jealousy lights up my gut.
“On the bed,Monica,”I hiss, harsher than I mean to.
She nods again, tearing her eyes away from Lucifer, and steps back into the room. I wait until I hear the front door to Jeremiah’s unit click behind her.
I look back at my brother.
