Page 22 of Haven't Killed in Years
My little friend’s eyes bulged and he open-mouth grinned at me. “Holy shit. Gwen, you animal!” He abandoned the drink he was making and ran over and wrapped his bony arms around me, lifting me off the ground and jostling me around.
“Okay, cowboy,” I said, and he put me down. He looked different. I think he was wearing black eyeliner. And his clothes were black. We’d both opted for a little dress-up this time.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. I didn’t like him here. This was Marin business. He was Gwen business.
“These are my people now.”
“You just met them.”
“So did you!” he argued. “What areyoudoing here?”
“I ran into Elyse and she told me to come by.”
“Okay. Okay,” he said, mulling it over.
“Is she here?” I asked.
“Yes, come.” He snatched my hand and guided me into the living room.
A lot of semirecognizable faces and one very recognizable face occupied the couches. Everyone was immersed in some sort of group activity led by Jake, who had scurried back to his seat while Porter was assaulting me.
Elyse glanced up and I waved. She lifted her fingers off her knee and I started to step in her direction before Porter yanked me toward a vacant seat barely big enough for the both of us.
“Don’t embarrass me,” Porter whispered in my ear with love.
A coffee table anchored the group of people. On it was an array of drinks, ashtrays, shot glasses, a mug full of capsules, strips of cloth, and a knife—totally normal.
Jake grabbed the knife. “Who’s next?”
Porter’s hand shot into the air, almost hitting me in the face on its way up. Jake used the knife to motion him over and Porter dropped from the couch onto his knees. He crawled toward Jake, and as he came to a rest in front of him, Porter reached for the edge of his shirt, lifting it up and revealing his stomach.
I scanned the group, looking closer this time, and noticed several of the guys were touching their own stomachs, some brushing subtly past like a memory, others with their hands purposefully up their shirts. One guy, who I think I remembered from the last party, held a bloody piece of gauze in his hand. What the hell was this? An initiation? Or a cult ritual? A branding? I instinctively reached up and touched my side. I could feel the small raised marks from my father under my bra.
Jake braced one hand on Porter’s shoulder so that he could steady himself. He took the knife to Porter’s stomach and pressed down into his skin. “Five,” he started, and the rest of the group joined in. “Four…” Jake moved the knife slowly across his stomach. “Three—”
“Okay!” Porter screamed, pushing Jake’s arm away. The shirt dropped over the incision, but Jake was quick to yank it back up before any blood could get on it.
The group erupted in a mix of noises that sounded both congratulatory and unsatisfied. Jake put the knife down and grabbed a strip of cloth. He pressed it along the wound to stop the bleeding. “That’s three,” he said, taping down the gauze.
Porter reached for the bottle of rum on the coffee table as Jakecleaned the knife off with a Lysol wipe. It was kind of a vibe crusher seeing the same cleaning supplies they used at Painting Pots. He should have hidden the wipes in a skull or something.
Porter lifted the bottle to his mouth. Then everyone was counting again while he chugged. “One, twoooo…” Their rhythm slowed in sync for the last number, really drawing it out. “Three!”
Porter slammed down the bottle before crawling away—a couple of guys patted him on the back as he went by. He climbed up and plopped down next to me.
“This is a drinking game?” I whispered, as if it were beer pong or kings, where the better you were at the game, the less you were forced to chug—not the more you were sliced with a knife.
“Yeah,” he scoffed. “Don’t be judgy.”
“Whatever would I be judging? Everything here seems on the up-and-up.”
He threw me a side-eye before scooting forward in his seat to see who was next.
“Elyse?” Jake asked, lifting the knife again.
She nodded, then looked at me, almost for approval. I met her eyes, but tried my best not to say anything with my face. She stood and walked to him, dropping to her knees once she got there. She lifted her shirt, revealing several previous cuts in varying stages of healing. I could tell I was in her periphery and I gently tucked my hair behind my ear to let her know I wasn’t bothered by what I was seeing.
“Shall we make this a little more interesting?” Jake asked her, and she adjusted, getting me out of her sight and giving him her full attention.
