Page 17
I pick at my nails and then lift my hand to my face so that I can use my teeth to tear at it some more. I’ve been a picker for as long as I can remember. The feeling of the side of my nail being torn down into my skin and tearing away my cuticles with it makes it sting like a new tattoo or a fresh cat scratch. It has been a pain I’ve always welcomed.
I look up at Attie through my curtain of frizz, and before I can stop him, he’s leaning across the top of the splintering bench and grabs my hand. He slowly and gently tugs my hand down and away from my face and places it in my lap with a brief squeeze.
“No picking,” he says.
He sits back down and massages his forehead.
He’s so beautiful. I mentally trace the grooves in his forehead, noting that alive, he must have either frowned a lot or lived in constant pain. The laugh lines protruding from the sides of his teardrop-shaped eyes tell me a different story; a story of love, happiness, and admiration.
His massive hands tousle his hair, and he shakes his head like a wet dog, the ends of his hair brushing the tops of his broad and muscular shoulders. I flinch at the quick movement and he returns to my question.
“As soon as I saw you, I knew. When you’re stuck in the In-Between, it can be tricky because your soul isn’t accepting of your death. After a while, you start recognizing the symptoms.”
As soon as he says this, memories of Dee come crashing in. Her disappearance, her dilapidated apartment, the… sex…
“She fucking knows, doesn’t she?!” I exclaim.
I attempt to douse my own fire before it has a chance to get heated, but I know it’s already too late for that.
He starts, “Before I answer—,”
I interrupt again because screw that.
“Nope. I don’t wanna hear excuses; I don’t need you to tell me to calm down, and we’re not beating around the bush or talking in circles. Okay? What I need for you to do is answer the question. Yes or no?”
I’m impatient and quickly growing anxious as I wait for a response.
He closes his eyes and deeply inhales a breath before responding with a defeated, “Yes.”
I knew it. Dee, my best friend for almost my whole life, is a lying sack of shit. The realization that she is also dead hits me like a freight train, and I feel as if the wind has been knocked out of me.
The look on Attie’s face radiates empathy, and I find myself not wanting it. What I want now is to find Dee. I erupt like a volcano.
“When were you gonna tell me, Attie?! Huh?” I yell and rise from my seat, leaning over the table on my left palm.
My right index finger jabs repeatedly into his chest.
“When?! When were you gonna tell me that she is dead, too? That she knew? You’re just as bad as she is. I can’t believe this shit.”
“Do you ever shut the fuck up, Lyr? Sit. Down. Now.”
Anger boils in my belly, and I can feel the poison cooking; the venom in my words.
“Fuck.”
“You.”
I sneer.
Atticus glares at me and gestures for me to sit. I do because, honestly, I’m scared. This look isn’t something I’ve seen from him before. His eyes grow cold and his lips purse. I can see his jaw tick from here.
“Watch the way you talk to me, Lyric. I’m all you have right now. Don’t you forget that.”
My stomach churns.
He’s right.
I’m all alone.
