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The cop turns around, and I'm thinking about how I could ask him if he's really sure my mom is dead and if that ashes are hers, but a noise from the bathroom changes my mind.
“It's just my cat... looking for food. I’m feeling better after our little chat. Calmer,” I lie without a drop of guilt on my face.
“Good to hear,” he runs a hand through his hair and gives a nod goodbye.
Once he's gone, I lock the door and slide the bolt, pressing my forehead against the worn-out wood. It's like a reflex, but then it hits me—I've locked myself in with whoever's in my bathroom. I don't have a cat.
“I was already losing my patience,” I hear that annoyingly familiar voice getting closer.
His hands all wrapped up, and he's wearing a different suit, without the jacket. The shirt’s fabric looks expensive, and the pants are meticulously pressed.
“How long have you been here?” I ask Manasseh, who's leaning against the kitchen door frame.
“About an hour, I guess. I watched you snooze and totally lost track of time.”
“Can't get any weirder than this,” I run my fingers through my hair and stomp through the tiny hallway.
Ever since Manasseh showed up, my apartment feels like a matchbox.
“Has anyone ever told you that you sleep like a Viking after a battle?”
I can't help but remember the first night Samael stayed over at my place, on the floor, complaining that I snored and accidentally rolled onto him. I don't usually fall out of bed, but my subconscious probably gave it a kick because I wanted to sleep next to him.
“Yeah, I've heard it before,” I reply with a cocky grin, carefully watching his reaction, sensing his irritation radiating off him.
He knows exactly what's going through my mind, or rather, who I'm thinking of. He knows that his brother still lingers in my thoughts after all this time, and he hates it. And trust me, I hate it too. It's one of those rare moments when I actually appreciate Manasseh's ability to read me like an open book, as if he can hear my thoughts. I hope he catches the echo of Samael's name bouncing in there, reflecting in me every moment of my existence.
I grab the pills and tilt my head back, ready to swallow them with a glass of water, but before I can bring it to my lips, Masse lunges at me. With a firm grip, he grabs the back of my neck, and with his other hand, he holds my chin and inserts two fingers into my throat, pressing against my tongue.
“Spit it all out!” he commands, his voice echoing above the sink, the salty taste of his rough fingers triggering an instant wave of nausea.
Panicked, I obey, bursting into a fit of loud coughing.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I leave the half-empty glass on the edge of the counter, spilling onto my shirt, and wipe the saliva off my chin.
“From now on, you'll stop with this crap. You don't need them anymore,” he looks at his fingers moistened in my saliva for a moment, then puts them in his mouth, staring at my wet shirt so intensely that I feel a shiver running down my spine and warmth spreading in my stomach.
“Who do you think you are to tell me what to do?” I cough abruptly and hide my breasts with my arms, feeling my hardened nipples that probably showed through the now transparent white fabric after coming into contact with water.
“It's for your own good. I didn't think you still took them, but I guess it's all my fault for not telling you earlier.”
“What should you tell me?”
“That these pills are slowly killing you.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? Do you think my mom would keep giving them to me if they were bad?”
“Probably, she either doesn't know or doesn't care, as long as her little girl remains pure and innocent.”
Mom started giving me these pills when I was around thirteen, and all I know about them is that they are some basic vitamins to regulate my menstrual cycle.
As far as I can remember, Masse has known about them since high school, but back then, he never forced me to stop taking them. Why now, after all these years?
“You're such a weirdo,” I shake my head and stop trying to understand him.
“Maybe. Do you know why everyone is afraid of weirdos? Because they can't comprehend them.”
“Okay, weirdo. Now, I want to see my mom, not understand you,” I can't take my eyes off him, and I catch a satisfied grin on his face.
