Page 72 of Marked By Feral Monsters
If your lover causes you pain… kill the source. Maybe that's not right, but itfeelsright.
"I cannot fucking believe you!" Dina bellows. Well, I'm angry with her, too.
I kick at the wall, since I can't yell back. A mirror falls. It doesn't smash, but it cracks.
She screams and cries, her rage reflected in the broken shards. There're other things in the reflection, too.
The dead electrician.
See, the electricity kept cutting out, and then the internet would go, too. And I could do nothing but watch Dina get frustrated and yell. And there was this look in her eyes; she wanted to leave, but she couldn't. Like the house won't let her go. I wouldn't let her go either, if she ever tried.
We can't have conversations. We can't laugh, or discuss the deep thoughts that plague her. We can't talk about her feelings about being related to Greta, or her weariness over my actions. I can't talk about any of those things either.
And when the electrician came to fix the wiring and the internet, Dina smiled in a way she hadn't in a while. I don't think it was attraction so much as relief at talking to a person. That was almost worse.
She was going to leave me. I could feel it.
At least I waited until the electrician finished his work. I just didn't like the way he looked at her. Like he could make her his. I knew where his thoughts lay every time he unnecessarilyadjusted his tool belt.
But then he had to comment on the house. How creepy it is, and why does she live all alone? He leered at her during the project and returned after he finished, claiming he had forgotten something.
He just wanted Dina.
I snapped his neck partway through his lame excuses.
The wide, unseeing eyes of the dead electrician stared at me, and I felt a little guilty for doing to him what Greta had done to me. At least his death was quick. I'd have dragged it out if Dina wasn't here.
Angel didn't leave a car here. Unfortunately, this guy—the electrician—has a work van sitting in the driveway.
I try to explain, to apologize, but Dina doesn't let me. Fear wracks me as Dina snarls, steals the man's keys and disappears. While she's gone, I bury the body in the backyard. And she returns hours later, on foot, and still angry.
She doesn't speak to me. Sometimes she talks to herself when she thinks I'm not in the room, but this time, she doesn't do that either. The house is nothing but dark silence for weeks.
Dina - present day
Crawling up the brickwork, the rose bushes bloomed unnaturally large, intensifying the haunted vibe of my inherited Victorian. A riot of pink and red petals, green vines and sharp thorns stands bright against the black trim.
No matter how many times my neighbor, old man Marv, asks what my secret is, the question always brings me back tothat fateful day I first arrived, not knowing Greta's secrets would become my own.
What is buried six feet under does wonders for fertilization. And I can't help but assume that's where I'll end up, too. Eternally tethered to this macabre fucking house of horrors.
"Good morning, Mrs. Wong." I wave to my other neighbor across the street as she wheels her little pushcart down the driveway toward the farmer's market downtown, a few blocks away. We live on a quiet street in a quaint coastal town, and I often wonder if it really is as picturesque as it seems or if everyone in our little town holds secrets as deep as mine.
Mrs. Wong tilts her head in reluctant acknowledgement, her long bony fingers clutching the handle of her cart. She wears a bright sun hat and a large-print flower dress, and periodically looks back at me, likely wishing I'd stop greeting her every day.
The day I stop pretending to be normal is the day I've given up trying to be. That day is not today.
My arms burn with scratches from the thorny roses, but I relish the pain as I snip, prune, and pull weeds. I retrieve the wheelbarrow from the garden shed out back, pack it full of mulch, then fall into hours of edging and filling. The work keeps my mind busy, keeps me from spiraling. When I'm finished, I'm a mess. My arms are filthy, my knees and lower back ache, but it looks good. Friendly, even.
I need it to look welcoming and cute, so no one looks too closely at its darkness.
I dust myself off before heading inside, kicking off my shoes in the foyer. Padding barefoot into the house, I head to the kitchen first, naturally the brightest room in the house, then run cool water over my arms in the sink, watching the dirt circle the drain.
Four years ago, I took all the mirrors down. Three and a half years ago, I put them all back. Though creepy, having them all upmakes the house feel less lonely. The minimal light reflects off of them, and, according to Eric, the other trapped souls inside these walls prefer the mirrors. I've gotten used to them.
I've gotten used to too much.
I dry my hands and head up the old creaking wooden steps.
