Page 95 of Succubus

“I didn’t touch it.”

“You did! I told you not to touch it and you touched it!”

“I didn’t touch it. I touched your hand. And you told me after that.” Yes, I’m arguing with a seven-year-old. Eight soon. And still terrified of a drop of blood. Still terrified of so many things. So many fears, so many phobias. So many issues.

I go into the kitchen, where I keep extra Band-Aids in the cabinet with the vitamins. Crap, we only have the Monsters, Inc.–themed ones left. She hates those. She thinks the monsters are creepy. How have I failed to replenish the Band-Aids? It’s been a while since I went to the grocery store, actually.

“Okay, Ella, I’m going to put the Band-Aid on now.” I work to keep my voice even as I come back into the living room. Her suspicious eyes come up over the barricade of her knees. They widen in outrage.

“No, no, no, NOT a monster Band-Aid! You know I hate those so much. They are too scary. I already told you that so many times. . . .” She trails off, aggrieved and entitled.

“This is what we have, Ella. You need a Band-Aid. I know you want a Band-Aid.”

“I don’t want that one!”

Blood is dripping down her finger. The couch is oatmeal colored, not without its faint map of stains, but still, we don’t really need to add blood. I can already hear her mournful voice explaining, again and again, “That’s where I cut myself. . . .” Or worse, with panic, every time she sees the rusty spot: “Cover it up! That’s blood! I can’t look at my blood!”

“This is what we have,” I repeat, my voice rising.

“Get me a different one! I don’t want that one!” She escalates far beyond me, hitting a shriek almost instantly. Her toes flex and then curl with fury, as though she is digging invisible claws into the cushion beneath her.

“Ella. Give me your hand right now.” I reach for it and she falls to the side, tipping like an angry egg, anticipating me with some animalistic instinct, even though her eyes have retreated behind her knees again.

“Don’t touch it! Don’t touch my cut!” she bellows, choking on sobs.

“Stop it right now!” I bellow back. “This is ridiculous! Give me your hand! You’re bleeding all over the place! I’m putting the Band-Aid on you—just stop it!”

At the part about bleeding, her sobbing peaks hysterically and she screams, “You stop it! Don’t touch it!” her limbs erupting outward—a ferocious alien baby high-speed hatching, ready to wrench my face off. “Bleeding ‘all over the place’? ‘All over the place’?”

“This is so stupid,” I hiss, bending over her, trying to catch the bloody hand as she whips it away from me, toward the back of the couch.

“I hate you!” she screams in my face, her sweaty face twisted, mouth wide, spittling. “I want Mommy! I hate you!”

My hand flicks out, connects with her cheek. It makes a satisfying, solid sound.

We stare at each other.

I hit her.

I hit Ella.

I slapped her across the face.

My niece. Who is practically my own daughter.

There is a chasm of silence into which everything collapses.

And then she asks, “Titi?” in a quavering voice. As though she no longer in this moment recognizes me.

“Oh my God,” I say.

And then she’s crying even harder, if that’s possible (it is), and I hear that the door has opened and closed, because Dee is suddenly home, too, much earlier than usual. I know she’s standing behind me at the entrance to the living room.

“What’s going on?” comes her tight, confused voice. I don’t know how much she saw. I don’t think she saw me hit Ella, but the timeline is already folding in on itself, and it doesn’t matter because Ella flings herself up from the couch, explodes into Dee’s arms, features wrung into an ongoing gasp of horror.

“I hit her,” I say, flat voiced.

“You hit her?” she repeats, as though this doesn’t make sense.