Page 122 of Dark Ugly Places

“There’s no game,” Bambi says calmly. “Jason was an asshole and a piece of shit, but he wasn’t a killer.”

Martha’s eyes roll back in her head. “Like hell he wasn’t. He took out Emmy’s dad in broad daylight. Stop sign? No problem. He just sped right through, accelerating all the way, like the entitled piece of shit that he was. And do you know the ultimate clincher that even I wasn’t prepared for? He didn’t stop! He just left the scene. Left him to die. I mean, even I couldn’t have predicted that!”

“Is that why you wanted to help me?” Bambi says. “Is that why you came here? So that you could kill him?”

“Well, you’re not as dumb as you look,” Martha intones. “Isn’t she doing well, Emmy?”

Emmy swallows, knuckles white as she clutches the counter. “Martha, you have to stop. It’s enough. It’s done now. You did it, okay? We’re even.”

Her head whips around, hair wild, her eyes eerily empty. Bambi sees it, but it’s just that moment too late. “Not yet.” Everything slows down as Martha turns and smiles. “To think we could have been friends forever,” she whispers and lunges at her, the knife entering her sternum.

A trickle of blood forms at Bambi’s lips, and she can taste the deep metallic liquid next to her teeth. Martha pulls back, a slow, careful extraction from her midsection. Bambi clutches herself, aware that the blade just missed her belly. She falls to her knees and tightens a fist into her body to try to staunch the wound. She looks up, just in time to see Martha raise the knife, but Emmy barrels into her, taking her to the ground.

Bambi sinks lower to the floor as Emmy and Martha thrash and roll, the crimson color everywhere. A stern wave of nausea overcomes her, and Bambi gags, feeling herself coming undone. She pants and tries to keep her eyes open as Emmy grabs for the knife, and Martha snatches it and presses the blade to Emmy’s throat. Bambi inches toward her, hand outstretched, blood dripping from her fingertips.

55

Nicola

A thudding arrives from a long way off, a perfect faint rhythm. It grows nearer, like a little drum whose beat I recognize. It’s as familiar as a voice. The tump tump tump is in my ears. The sound is so unique, I feel it pulling at me, deep in the core of my body. It’s my sound. Her sound.

My abdomen bristles with life.

Emmy.

My child.

My baby.

The tump tump tump of her inside me pushes through the darkness, a sweeping mass of endless night, until I’m right behind Martha, breathing down the base of her neck. I’m right where she doesn’t want me again, and I know that I need to rejoin the light.

In the darkness, I try to run, my body heavy and slow, like pulling myself through tar. The emptiness does not move. There is only a void here and the thudding of Emmy’s life on the outside hanging in the balance.

I hear my name—not my birth name, but the one Emmy uses for me. “MOOOOOMMMMMM!!!”

It’s then that I know what must be. A tiny pinprick of light opens, and I run toward it, full speed, legs like deadweight in the endless dark. Voices encircle me—the cackling of my mother’s laugh, the terrorizing voice of my father when his sickness and rage consumed us, my own screams as a child, the sound of hands swatting flesh, dishes breaking, doors slamming, a car engine revving. The angry sounds chase me toward the light, which is growing now and expanding, becoming a vapor of escape, just out of reach. I pull myself toward it, the sensation of living coming into my fingers and toes. I can feel where Martha is now, and the light spreads open, yawning like a campfire burning hotter, brighter, higher. I see her now, knife in hand. And everything is red, red, red, all around, the stench of bodies and fear surrounding her.

The guilt encircles me and pulls me back. She is me. I am her. Toward the light, I sprint, tirelessly, guided by the heartbeat and the sound of Emmy’s quick breaths. My body plummets toward her, and I scream helplessly in the darkness for this to be the end.

As I approach the light, I can feel her, ready to take from me what can never be replaced. I throw myself into her reeking flesh, becoming her—becoming me once more. Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh. I know what I must do.

My hand releases the knife. I pull Emmy up to me and hold her in my arms, feeling her tired, shivering body. She is so much smaller than I remember. For a moment, she resists, then releases into my embrace.

“Mom?” she cries. “Is it you?”

“It’s me, sweetheart,” I tell her.

She throws her arms around me and buries her face in my shoulder. “I missed you so much.” She pulls back. “Martha … she … she …”

I glance around at Bambi and Jason and understand. “Shhh, baby, it’s okay,” I tell her. “I’m here now.”

Emmy releases a tiny sob. “Please don’t leave me again. You promise?”

I stroke her hair back, careful not to touch her scar, and kiss her forehead. She still smells the same to me—the baby in the crib, soft, new, perfect. “I have to take care of this,” I tell her, my eyes fogging. “I have to make this stop.”

Her lip quivers, and I sense that she knows. “I have to stop her,” I say to Emmy. “And there’s only one way I can do that. Do you understand?”

Emmy shakes her head. “No. You can’t. I won’t let you!”