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He let her in. He let her touch me. I was gone. I should have known right then, I should have fucking left town, but I was weak.
I needed her. Not wanted. Needed, like the need to breathe or swallow.
Free will? I’m not so sure about that. I eviscerate myself for not leaving, but if I could have, I would have—right?
My real belief: I couldn’t go. As soon as I spoke to her, as soon as she touched me, I was lost to Gwenna White.
I don’t understand it. Something…fit. That thing I needed fixed inside me, it was quieter when she was around. The more I got of her, the smaller the wound became. It healed.
Magic. Who could walk away from magic?
Maybe it wasn’t possible for me to get away from her. Or maybe it was, and I’m a greedy asshole.
I don’t know.
What was the purpose of this?
I don’t fucking know. I wish I did.
It gets dark, the house gets quiet, and I get scared. I feel it, feel the darkness. There’s the purpose. I can feel it like an undertow, pulling me down where I can’t breathe, where I can never re-surface.
Good, it whispers.
Over there, it used to speak. You would feel it in the air that day when something happened. Die. You’re going to die.
But I don’t want to die, because she’s still alive. She’s right next door. I can’t leave Gwen. I know I ought to. But I can’t. When she cries, I cry with her. I’ve already sold all the guns, but then there are the knives. There’s a bungee cord down in the basement closet. There’s a thousand ways. I know them all.
So torn…
That truck goes up and down her driveway, and I watch while my mind races.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Gwenna
January 22, 2016
“Gwenna Isabella White. This has got to stop. Lift your head up and look at me, you little drunk!”
When I don’t, she walks over and grabs me by my temples and she makes me.
“Owwww. That…doesn’t feel good.”
“Good. It’s not supposed to.”
Jamie drops my head, and through my closed eyes, I see bright light.
“Don’t…”
“Oh yes. Curtains open. Veni vidi vici!”
I can hear her coming over to me, so I try to draw my shoulders in and push my face into the pillow like some kind of drunk, sick turtle.
“Oh, no you don’t.” She grabs my shirt collar, tugging. I bat at her hands.
“This is Stella McCartney, slutface. And it’s cute.” My words are croaks.
“Well that’s a shame, because there’s wine all over it.”
