Page 122 of No Merciful Corruption

Dahlia

Lettie has been on a miserable rampage for the past two weeks.

Far be it from me to question the behavior of my slightly unhinged little sister but she’s been even more neurotic than usual. I’m starting to get concerned.

Lettie’s behavior moves in cycles. For a time she’s quiet, well-mannered, and isolated, focusing on her work and hobbies like the garden. We usually know she’s entering her next cycle when she emerges from her cocoon and begins to seek out our company. From there, it’s a lot of traveling, shopping, and evenings spent at her favorite restaurants or enjoying the city. Last, it’s a period of mania where she’s an insufferable menace to everyone which is usually followed by a crash which then leads to the cycle repeating. Withdrawn, social, mania, crash, rinse and repeat.

I have no idea what this cycle is. Mania looks different for her. She hyper fixates on everything; the cleanliness of the house, the plants in her garden, counts the number of tiles in each of the bathrooms to make sure they’re an even number. Nothing can hold her attention so she jumps from hobby to hobby, everything from re-sewing the buttons on all our clothes to polishing the guns I pretend aren’t locked away in a cellar room downstairs.

After this many years in the family, I’ve decided that whatever I don’t know or care to acknowledge won’t hurt me. And Allegra is forbidden from going down there anyway.

Lettie drags her arm across the grocery store shelf and clears out over two dozen boxes of cookies and cakes. I quietly eat my gelato as she stops in front of a display of cheap cava and puts three bottles into her cart.

“I am going to kill myself.”

I shove another spoonful of gelato into my mouth. “I can see that.”

She maneuvers the cart like a maniac down the store aisles and nearly runs over some elderly woman’s cat. Lettie snaps at her in Catalan and whatever she says must be sharp because the elderly woman’s jaw drops. I hide my face from the woman and scurry after Lettie.

“I feel sick. All the time. Dizzy, like my head is spinning.” She opens the freezer door and doesn’t bother to look at the ice cream tubs before grabbing them. Five get haphazardly tossed into the cart. “My stomach’s in knots.”

“Why? Did something happen?”

She slams the door shut and grips the cart handle. “Have you ever gotten butterflies in your stomach?”

I stop in my tracks. “You have what?”

She shakes her head frantically and takes off. “I think I’m going to vomit.”

“Are you getting your period or something?” I watch as she dumps two boxes of popcorn and three bags of chips into her cart. “Leticia!”

“I think I need to see a doctor,” she laments. “I’m going to have a heart attack.”

“More like diabetes.” I snatch a bag of gummy worms from her hands. “You don’t even eat candy! Or processed sugars!”

She grabs the bag from my hand, rips it open, and shoves a handful of gummies into her mouth with an agonized moan. “Siento que mi corazón se va a salir de mi pecho. No sé qué me pasa. Es como si fuera⁠—”

“Holy shit.” I drop my gelato. “Do you have a crush on someone?”

“Dios mío…” She applies pressure to her temple. “Estoy muriendo.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” I rush to keep up with her. Now we’re roaming down the soda aisle. “Since when? I thought romance disgusted you?”

“Who said anything about romance?” She opens a bottle of Fanta and downs half of it. She looks like she’s about to cry. “I’m serious. I think I need to go to the hospital. I feel so sick.”

“How sick?”

“Like…like I’m going to die.”

I’m so giddy I could click my heels. “Oh my God, I’ve been waiting for this day!”

Lettie grabs a loaf of bread and two massive jars of Nutella. “My heart keeps pounding. It’s pounding all the time.”

“This is literally better than ecstasy. I feel higher than a kite right now—eek!” I spin around her, feeling as though my heart is going to burst out of my chest. “Tell me everything, tell me everything!”

“My life is over.”

“Who is he? Or she! Or they? It can be whatever. Oh my God…oh my God!” I clasp my hands together. “Do we know them? When did this start? Was it—wait, actually⁠—”