“Why is that?” I ask cautiously. As I watch her, an intense melancholy overtakes me. I shrink away, moving closer to my bed as if a little space between us can protect me from feeling her feelings. Being empathic isn’t exactly a joy ride.
She doesn’t answer. Another spasm grips her and she leans forward. “I have to use your bathroom again,” she says with eyes closed.
Corrine’s tiny body slips out of the chair. Bent nearly in half, arms wrapped around her middle, she rushes from the room.
Chapter Eight: Victims
Juliana
Alone, for me, doesn’t mean lonely. Flopping back against the pillows on my bed, I take a few deep relieving breaths. When will Nathaniel be back? I wonder, and then I stop this train wreck of thoughts in its tracks. I have maybe a few minutes to myself and I will not waste it by dwelling on something out of my control. He said he’ll be back as soon as he can. All six feet of him — gorgeous beyond description, thoughtful, intelligent, caring, and he gets me. Is this really happening? I thought relationships like ours only existed in fairy tales. Two deep breaths later and I tell myself, No, Jules. Take this minute for yourself. Nathaniel will be back and then I can focus on him, but for now, I need some time to process.
Rolling over to the side of my bed I grab my notebook and pen from the top of my trunk and then sit up, cross my legs, and hunch over the paper. Journaling always helps me express whatever it is that powers my being. What comes out on the page is a part of me, but it’s not a conscious part. Jared and his band like my writing too. They’ve requested lyrics in the past and I’ll surprise myself by looking over my journal and picking out segments I think might work for them.
I stare at the lines on the paper. My mind is unfocused. I have to tune everything out. Corrine in the bathroom. Worrying about Jared finding the car in some other way than I left it. I didn’t even warn him about Travis. And Nathaniel’s injury — which he never specified exactly how it happened. Darn. To clear my mind, I close my eyes and picture waves washing away footprints on a sandy beach. When the remnants of other people’s existence are erased, I begin to scrawl whatever comes to me.
Truth lives in the depths of a black life.
Whisper licks of fire and flame.
It touches my soul and steals my hope.
Buried alive up to my eyes.
The tide is coming, heavy and high.
Say goodbye till the day you die.
Leave all you know in your shattered bones.
She’ll eat you, and then she’ll be you.
I slam the notebook closed and brush it off my lap. Embracing darkness is not part of who I am. It never has been. Through all my heartache, my dad dying, my mom working all the time, my brother choosing to do drugs, I’ve never felt anything evil inside of me until maybe just now. I stare at the cover on the book, now lying innocently on the floor, and shiver with revulsion. What was that!
Being alone in my room was, for a minute, a welcome treasure. I wanted to feel its comfortable familiarity, but for the first time, it’s not there. Reaching for my purple comforter I pull it up around my shoulders, making a cocoon, and tell myself I’m imagining things again. There’s nothing different, or out of place. This is my home. I’ve slept here since I was a baby and it has always been safe. So why does something feel inexplicably terrifying?
No answer comes. Instead, I hear Corrine call my name. Anxious to leave my room and the cold eeriness crawling over my skin, I hurry to the bathroom door across the hall.
Tapping lightly with the back of my knuckles, I say, “Corrine?”
“Come in,” I hear weakly.
Expecting a repeat situation from earlier, I brace myself for more blood and cramps, but instead I open the door to Corrine sitting on the edge of the bathtub holding a razor blade. The tender white skin of her left wrist is exposed.
“I don’t understand what’s wrong with me,” she says, and I see trails of tears running down her now pallid complexion.
“You’re just having a hard time right now,” I say trying anything that may help. I really don’t know enough about her, but I can’t let her kill herself in my bathroom.
“If I’m dead, it will stop.”
“What do you need to stop, Corrine? Maybe if you tell me then I can help.” I take a tentative step forward.
“No one can help,” she says, and lowers the blade to her skin.
“Corrine, you called me in here. Some part of you must not want to do this,” I reason out loud.
“No, I didn’t!” she screams.
“Okay, okay. It’s going to be all right. I can help you find your mom, would that help you? I’ll do whatever I can, but don’t hurt yourself.” Corrine’s hand is shaking and I’m afraid she’ll slice herself open, either by accident, or on purpose, but somehow it’s going to happen.
“My mom, she was…and he,” she sobs, and her head droops lower, the tears falling fresh. Her hand with the razor lowers to her side. “I don’t think you can help me. I don’t even know what’s wrong.”
“I can try,” I say, and take another step forward. “Can you try telling me what it is?”
“I want to see my mom so bad, but I can’t leave my brother alone with him.”
Him, has to be her terrible stepfather. Leaning over, I grab a tissue from the box and hand it to her. She places the blade down and takes it. Mild relief gives me some false security that, at least for now, most of the threat of her cutting herself has passed.
“You can’t just walk away from someone who is…a part of you,” she sobs into her wadded up tissue.
“I wouldn’t leave Jared for anything,” I confess with absolute honesty. “But Corrine, is it him, your stepdad? Is that why you’re so sad?”
Where is Jared? Surely going to get the car doesn’t take that long. Some help right about now would be desperately appreciated.
She shakes her head no. “He’s horrible. Travis uses me. He does wicked things for fun, but he won’t hurt me. He needs me too much.”
“Well, what is it then? I won’t tell anyone if you tell me,” I promise, not knowing if keeping her secrets will make any difference. Picturing Corrine in my mind, I can see her walking a line as thin as the razor’s edge. On one side is sanity and on the other is insanity. She wavers to both sides like a drunken tight rope walker trying to find the balance point. Falling down can happen to the very best of us. Can’t it?
She goes quiet as she picks up the razor blade, toying with it between two fragile fingers. The bathroom is darkening by the minute as gray light from the one small window above the shower filters into the room. Unbelievably, the day has gone and evening is already here.
“It’s her fault,” Corrine says in a breathy whisper.
“Who?” I ask, and a chill — which has nothing to do with the end of the day’s warm temperature — whispers down my neck and across my bare arms. Warnings from those who have passed, my Gram’s voice says again. I back up toward the door a couple of inches.
“She likes to do things. Then I can’t remember afterwards,” Corrine says, and she sounds like herself again. Nasal and choking on misery, but not the previous horrible whisper. “It has to end. I don’t know what else to do.”
Corrine holds out her wrist.
Her hopelessness weighs down the room like we’re being smothered in wet concrete.
“Please. Give me the razor, Corrine.”
“You really want to help?” she sneers, as if I don’t mean it.
“Yes. Just give it to me. Let me help.”
“You don’t want to help me! Go away!”
“Put the razor down.”
“Leave me alone!”
“No!” I yell back feeling out of control. “Stop this. We’ll find you some help.”
She doesn’t stop. She runs the blade across her wrist and a line of crimson, instant and terrifying, wells up.
Human instinct kicks in and I know she won’t die from this cut. I can tell it’s not very de
ep and she went the wrong direction, cutting from side to side rather than down the length of the vein. I grab a towel with one hand and her wrist — the one holding the razor — with my other hand. The blade falls to the floor with a tiny plink and then I wrap the towel around her wound.
The stunned look on her face and the horrible pallor of her skin has me more concerned than the actual bleeding.
I swallow hard trying to put the image of her blood somewhere where I will never ever recall it. “Sweetie, everything’s going to be okay,” I say, although for myself, I’m unsure. My heart races like that of a hunted rabbit, easily a million beats per second. My nerves are firing like bolts of electricity, causing every cell in my body to shake, but somehow I get Corrine’s wrist bandaged and ease her out of the bathroom. “You’re all right. Everything is going to be fine,” I hear myself saying over and over.
We sit down on the edge of my bed and I keep my arm wrapped tight around her bony shoulders. How long we sit, I’m not sure. My room is totally dark before either of us come out of the stupor. As I feel some sort of life moving through her, my thoughts begin to return to some kind of normalcy. How can I get her some help? I’m not equipped to handle a suicidal maniac.
“Jules?”
“Yeah?”
“I need help. I don’t want to die,” Corrine whimpers into the dark.
“Please live,” I say, and give her shoulder a light squeeze. “I’m going to call for help now.”
“You can’t. Please. I won’t try anything again. Just sit here with me.”
Then she breaks down, sobbing, and I wait, feeling numb and unsure of who to call or what to do. With some relief, I think she sounds saner. It’s odd because I keep thinking she’s just a girl in a messed up situation and could use a little therapy. Then she says something that makes me think she needs serious professional help, and locking her away may be a feasible option. At least she’s admitting there’s a problem. That’s a step, right? Crazy people don’t admit they have a problem, do they?
Corrine’s head tips over to rest on the top of my shoulder. When my shoulder is soaked with tears, I feel her shift a little. My back is so tight from not moving that my muscles are beginning to burn. I want to turn the light on, or even better, go to sleep and let this day pass away.
Sounds on the stairs tell me someone is home. There’s a click and then yellow light casts a slanted rectangle across my floor. A spark of hope that it may be Nathaniel is extinguished as I hear a door open and then close. Jared’s bedroom door. Corrine shifts again.
“I like your brother. He’s luscious. Too bad he’s your brother,” she says emphasizing the word “your” like it’s forbidden.
I stiffen, more on the inside than physically, because my back and arms couldn’t get any more uncomfortable. Something in her tone sounds different again, but it’s hard to be certain because she’s so stuffed up from all the crying. Call it my sensitive nature, but I suddenly want to get far, far away from Corrine.
Her hands fidget in her lap. I lower my arm from her shoulders and lean slightly away, but Corrine moves with me.
“Do you want to sleep on the blow up mattress tonight?” I ask.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”
“Oh?”
“I feel like going out.”
“Your stomach’s not hurting anymore? You should have some more tea. I think I’ll go get it.” I start to stand.
“Wait,” she says, and places a hand on mine.
I try to slide my hand out from hers and get up, but her grip is unyielding.
“I really have to thank you, for everything,” she says in her strange breathy voice, and then she turns to me and wraps her tiny spaghetti arms around me.
Returning the hug, I give her a quick squeeze and then try to pull away, but she doesn’t let go.
“I want to get the tea, okay? I think it’s helping.”
“It is helping. I feel tons better.”
Her hand travels to the back of my neck and I pull back harder, but I can’t move. Her arms feel like steel bands. How is this little body holding me? It’s not possible.
“Corrine. Get off!”
“Almost,” she hisses.
Then teeth sink into my shoulder and I scream. My cry is muffled as she slams her wrist over my mouth. I jerk back with all my strength and she falls over me. Throwing my head to the side, I thrash and claw for my freedom, but she’s like an angry pitbull, attached to me with vise-like jaws. I can taste her blood in my mouth. It’s the wrist she cut. With sickening disgust, I realize she had been taking her bandage off.
Her teeth finally unclamp from my shoulder and her arm is away from my face. Less than a millisecond later, I throw her off with as much force as I can. She bounces across the floor with tiny thumps. She’s so petite. How had she been able to pin me?
Grabbing my stinging shoulder, I roll off my bed and onto my feet screaming, “You freaking bit me!”
I run into the bathroom leaving Corrine on the floor mewling pathetically. Slamming the door behind me, my fingers shake as I turn the lock. I catch a glimpse of blood streaked across my cheek and onto my lips in the mirror. Bending down, I rinse my mouth under the faucet, spitting and spitting into the sink. It doesn’t begin to satisfy my need to erase the copper taste of her blood and the fear of what may be in her blood. Panic makes my movements clumsy and erratic, but it doesn’t stop me from trying to erase the taste and feel of Corrine from my memory. Whipping my head back upright is a terrible mistake as the room begins to swirl and melt around me. Ignoring the swimming images in the mirror and holding onto the countertop with one hand I open the medicine cabinet and grab the bottle of disinfecting mouthwash. I twist open the cap and pour the burning liquid into my mouth again and again and then I swallow some hoping it will continue to work on the inside of my throat. With my mouth on fire and my stomach turning circles with disgust, I whip off my shirt and grab the bottle of rubbing alcohol, the bottle of peroxide, and the bottle of disinfectant, and begin to cleanse the bite wound. There are small smears of blood around the swelling crescent shaped marks. She broke my skin, that evil little minx. Pouring the rubbing alcohol on my wound brings tears to my eyes and I scream as silently as I can as I rub at the marks with a towel. I scrub at my flesh until I am close to passing out. The queasiness in my gut is rising, but I swallow my bile and switch to the peroxide.
“Jules! What’s going on?”
I attempt to answer, but a rush of dizziness makes me clamp my mouth shut, afraid vomit will be the only thing that comes out. Setting the peroxide down, I reach for the disinfectant, continuing to cleanse the F-ing bite. The bottle is heavy and I barely manage to open the cap. Then I feel myself sinking to the floor, my eyes close against their will, but I slosh the cool liquid onto the top of my shoulder anyway.
“Jules, open the door.”
“J, not feeling—” I can’t finish the words, but I manage to open my eyes and look at the lock on the doorknob. It seems impossible to reach that far. Somehow, my arms are no longer connected to my brain, along with my speech, and my reason.
The bathroom spins around me. Black shadows move in and fill the confined space. How odd, I think, as I stare at the light. It’s bright, but the darkness is taking over the room.
The door rattles as Jared tries to force it open. It has the peculiar effect of looking like it’s falling away from me. How strange, I think, as the door gets smaller and the light in the bathroom gets darker. No, some part of me realizes, I am falling, not the door.
Blackness folds around me and a terrible rushing feeling seizes the inside of my skull, as if my brains are being shoved out of the way. It takes complete control, pushing me to the far corner and then penetrates down my spine like tendrils of fog moving in off the water. I collapse fully onto the floor, feeling distant and smaller than a grain of sand.
“Stand back, Jules!”
A shudder of the walls accompanies a crack of the doorfram
e and then the door rams into my feet.
Jared hovers over me, shaking my leg, and asking half coherent questions. “What the shit, Jules? Do you think this is funny? What’s wrong with you?”
“Help me up,” I garble, noticing instantly the sound of my voice is different.
He grips my elbow and hand and lifts.
“What happened?” he asks, and the fear in his deep brown eyes is penetrating.
“I think I blacked out,” I say, and there’s an echo of myself talking. This is quite disturbing, as if I’m talking through a microphone from the far corner of the world.
As soon as I’m on my feet, Jared turns his head, but leaves one hand on my arm for support. With his free hand he reaches for my discarded shirt lying on the edge of the sink.
“Here. Put this on,” he says.
I grab it from him and notice part of me is intensely gratified by his discomfort at my partial nudity. I don’t put my shirt back on though. I look down at myself and take in my purple cotton bra over high round B cups and my smooth stomach below. Narrow hips and long legs fill in my jeans. My hand finds the curve of my waist and I brush down the length of my side. Part of my brain is telling me I have nice skin, pale as milk, and perfectly soft. Fascinated by my body, I had forgotten about my brother standing awkwardly next to me.
“Get dressed. Are you feeling better now?” he asks as he moves into the hall, keeping his face averted.
“No,” I say. “Better than all right. My body is amazing.” I’m so much stronger than the frail little girl in my bedroom, and much curvier. Yes, this will do. We will have so much fun. What? Where did that come from? Fear tightens the already present knot in the pit of my stomach. I can’t explain what is happening.
He moves out of sight but not completely away from the door. “Jules, should I call Mom?”
“Don’t. I’m fine.” What is coming out of my mouth? I want to tell him the freaky girl in my bedroom bit me and I feel strange, but instead I tell him I’m fine?
“I don’t think so, Jules. You should tell Mom what just happened.”
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