“My family, your brother has failed you. He has failed us all. Not only did he not provide food for the feeding, but he tasted the flesh of a human and spared her life.”
Outrage erupted.
The demons screamed and cursed. Their hateful words echoed in the chapel and beat at Paimon’s head like clubs. The Devil knew. They all knew. And now he was going to die.
“As ruler of Hell, as your father, your one true God, I ask you, Paimon, what do you have to say for yourself?”
Paimon dropped to his knees and kissed the Devil’s feet. “My lord, forgive me. I could not take her,” he said. “I couldn’t do it.”
The Devil kicked Paimon in the face, nearly breaking his jaw. The snap of bone rang louder than any cackle or laugh. The horde loved pain and they relished in the agony sketched across Paimon’s bloodied face.
“It is not your job to make decisions. It’s mine.” He squatted next to Paimon and whispered in his ear, “And now I’ll just have to go get her myself…her and the child.”
The Devil eased up, his soulless eyes never leaving Paimon’s as he walked away. He motioned to Arazel, who came running.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Take him to the monastery and leave him there. He’ll want to pray before he dies.”
Arazel nodded.
The Devil put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Do not disappoint me.”
“Never.”
Arazel walked over to Paimon and bound his arms. Saliva and blood ran down his neck and soaked his shirt. She leaned over his shoulders to secure the bond and whispered, “This is going to hurt, but I have to make it look real.”
Paimon tensed. Make what look real?
Arazel jammed her fist into his jaw, forcing it back into position. Pain beat the side of his face as his bones screamed. The hurt was too much. He started to fade, the blackness a welcome comfort to his pain.
“Pathetic,” said Arazel, laughing.
Then Paimon blacked out.
Part 2: Rebirth
“No man can serve two masters: for either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other. Ye cannot serve God and mammon.
-Matthew 6:24
Chapter 21
Rhea coughed herself awake. Her throat burned. The covers were wet with sweat and wrapped around her body like a straightjacket. Each time she moved, it seemed they held her a little tighter.
Everything was blurry and she had to blink a few rounds before her room came into focus. Red, blue, green, indigo, orange, yellow, violet. Sin collected everywhere she looked, her room spinning in a kaleidoscope of color. She fought the blankets off and squeezed out of their grasp. What happened last night? Her blouse was bloodied and ripped; buttons were missing and askew. Dirt stained her fingernails, which were chipped, some broken.
Where are my boots?
Rhea sat on the edge of the bed and dangled her feet; one wore a sock but the other foot was naked, the second sock likely lost somewhere in the blankets. She shrugged, arms crossed and holding herself. Partial memories surfaced, tempting her with the impression of a bigger picture.
“Rhea? You awake?”
Her sister’s voice ran through the chalkboard of her mind like knives on slate. Christ. What time is it? Rhea reached for her cell phone, but it wasn’t on her bed where she usually kept it. Where is everything today? Frustrated, she eased out of bed and struggled to regain her balance. Some hangover. She felt like she was drunk. I don’t even remember drinking last night. But that didn’t mean anything. She walked over to her dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer. Underneath her jeans was an empty fifth of Grey Goose.
“Rhea?”
Ugh. Again with the screaming.
“Yeah.”
Kris tapped on the door. “You alive?”
Hardly.
“What do you want, Kris?”
“Casler called. Said something about you missing another appointment.”
Shit.
Rhea searched her memory for the date but came up with nothing. She couldn’t even remember what day of the week it was.
“What time is it?”
“Two.”
“Two?”
“Yeah, but listen, I have to go to work. You going to be ok here? You don’t sound too good.”
Rhea rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” No need to worry.
“All right. See ya later then.”
Rhea fingered the neck of the alcohol bottle and put it back in the drawer. Looks like I’m out of booze. Shit. She’d have to go to the store, which meant going out in public and that definitely wasn’t going to happen anytime soon. The idea of looking in a mirror didn’t settle well with what she could already see of her appearance from the chest down.
Her jeans were on the floor, crumpled and stained with grass and dirt. Her jacket was on the opposite side of the room, draped over her desk chair. Rhea walked toward it, her bare feet sinking into the carpet, and rifled through her jacket pockets. She found her purple lighter and all at once craved nicotine. She grabbed a pack of cigarettes from her junk drawer and fell back into bed.
There were no memories, no dreams.
Just a bad feeling, a pit in her stomach.
Over the years, she’d become used to waking up to pain, to sadness. After her dad’s death, she never felt whole again. Something always remained missing. A part of her that she couldn’t get back. That’s when the drinking started. The smoking. Anything to take her mind off the hurt. And then everything with her mom…
My fault, too. All my fault.
Rhea slipped a cigarette between her lips and savored the impending taste of relaxation. Christ, finally. She spun the wheel of the lighter a few times before it sparked. She lit the cigarette and calmness spread through her chest.
Rhea unbuttoned her shirt, shrugged out of it and tossed it aside. Goosebumps climbed her arms as she unhooked her bra. The cups fit loose on her breasts, and the lace that lined the black silk fabric was ripped. Her underwear bore the same torn lace and hung off her hips more than they stayed on. Anorexic chic. Amazing what a diet of coffee, liquor and cigarettes will do for you. Rhea inhaled deeply and held the smoke, let it crawl into her lungs and build in her throat before blowing it out in one long, steady stream.
Three years.
Three years since her mother’s breakdown.
Neither her, nor Kris, had heard from her since.
Wonder if crazy is contagious?
Rhea closed her eyes and burrowed underneath the sheets. When the doctors first committed her mother, they told her it would only be for a few weeks, just as a precaution. Then weeks turned into months, months into years, and then it was as if she’d never existed. The drugs turned her into a different person. The treatments scared her into confinement. Paranoid and delusional, she was a danger to others and to herself. Not fit for visitors. Especially ones who she thought had killed her husband.
Rhea’s scars were proof of that.
She rubbed the bite mark on her forearm. Rhea had only visited her mother once, which turned out to be enough. If she closed her eyes, Rhea could almost see her mother’s arms extended in embrace, almost hear her voice as she begged Rhea to come closer so she could apologize. Rhea I’m so sorry. You have to believe me. I was heartbroken, confused. I had to blame someone so I wouldn’t blame myself. Like a desperate fool, Rhea reached out for her, but instead of love, all the found was more pain. Her mother clamped her mouth onto Rhea's right arm, laughing as she dug her teeth deeper into skin. If the nurses hadn’t gotten there in time, there was no saying what might have happened.
Thank God for nicotine.
She couldn’t handle thoughts about her mother right now. Those demons were forced to be buried for the time being. It was the new ones she had to worry about. Damn it. Where is my phone? Rhea frantically scoured her bed. Mascara-stained pillows were tossed to the floor and a faded, black comforter followed suit, rolled up and
crumpled. Lodged in the crevice between her mahogany headboard and ten-year-old mattress was her phone, the screen cracked and covered with dust.
“Fucking hell.”
The screen, while cracked, came to life and revealed no missed calls, no unanswered text messages. She debated calling Caden to see if he wanted to talk, but her gut told her it was a bad idea. Deep down, she knew she couldn’t handle the breakup conversation so she avoided it instead. At least if they weren’t talking about it there was still a chance.
Even if he’s fucking someone else, the voice said.
Rhea took another drag on her cigarette and wiped a tear from her cheek. The smoke spread through her bedroom in a haze, its scent clinging to the eggshell walls and curtains. While it didn’t bother her, Rhea knew the smell drove Kris crazy so she cracked the window to avoid an argument. A harsh gust of cold winter air sprang through the gap and hit Rhea in the face. Flurries snuck in and clung to her hair. She shivered, naked as she was, nipples erect.
Snow blanketed the world outside, covering it in white sheets. Rhea liked the way it looked. Clean and pure. She envied its stillness and simplicity. Rhea fought the urge to go back to sleep, but the need to shower overcame her desire to slip back into unconsciousness. The filth kept her awake.
She was aware of the bottle of vodka inside the bureau. It wasn’t fair. None of it was. She smoked faster, cramming the end of the cigarette into a crystal ashtray she’d taken from a bar when she and Caden had been on holiday, when they were teens. Back before her father’s suicide. Back before Jayme.
Rhea picked up a towel near her closet, administered the smell test, and decided it was only a day or two old. Fair enough. She wrapped herself in its dampness and walked to the bathroom, scooping up piles of dirty laundry. I don’t need it. I definitely don’t need it. The urge to drink away her hurt coiled up her body like ivy, squeezing her tighter as it settled in her chest. Her throat burned and when she swallowed, the aftertaste of nicotine on her breath churned her stomach.
The toilet wasn’t close enough. Rhea dropped the clothes she’d been collecting and threw up all over the bathroom floor. Vomit spattered the bottom of the blue wallpapered walls. Her body shook, her back arching like an angry cat as she heaved stale air and gagged. Nausea rode her hard, rising and falling in her throat as it took her over. Rhea grabbed a towel and wiped her mouth. Ugh. She threw it over the steaming pile of puke and crawled to the toilet.
The draft from the open bedroom window slid underneath the bathroom door and stirred the sour air. Rhea’s hair hung in greasy strands, soaked from sweat, flecks of mascara working their way into her eyes. Her cheeks felt flushed and her forehead burned. Another wave of yellow-stained vomit filled her mouth and sent her head into the toilet’s base.
I’m never drinking that shit again.
Bubbles popped in her stomach like acid bombs. She cringed as they splattered the walls inside her, their juices like fire. She laid her head on the toilet seat and spat a wad of sick aftermath into the bowl. Fuck. What happened last night? Rhea closed her eyes and tried to recall the events of the previous night.
She remembered snow and fire. The way Caden brushed back Jayme’s curls to better see her face. She remembered the way Jayme’d looked at him as her lips brushed against his, then remembered the feel of gravel on her back as she lay weeping on the road. How did I get home? No idea. I’m losing control again. The blackouts were getting worse.
‡‡‡
“Jesus Christ, Rhea,” said Kris.
Rhea lifted her head off the toilet and wiped the drool from her face. The bathroom smelled awful, triggering emotions and memories that she didn’t want to deal with. A sourness filled the space, its fragrance tainted with sickness. Disease. Rhea took one mouthful of air before she puked again.
Smoke. Gunshot residue.
She smelled the night of her father’s suicide.
Kris stayed in the doorway, her hand over her mouth. “How long have you been going at it?”
“Long enough,” Rhea said between gags.
“You look awful.”
“Thanks.”
Kris leaned against the doorframe. “You need anything?”
Nothing you can give me.
“No.”
A pregnant silence filled the room. Rhea appreciated her sister’s concern, but more than anything, she just wanted to be left alone. Awkwardness swelled between them. She knew Kris meant well, but her sister didn’t know what it meant to provide comfort. The only thing she was good at was pushing people away.
Like me.
“All right, well, I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
Rhea nodded and laid her head back on the seat. The pounding in her head became louder with each passing thought and her stomach had yet to stop stewing. When she tried to move, her body refused and remained unmoving, like a full sack of flower leaning against a wall. Everything hurt.
Her gaze traveled the length of her naked body, taking in the damage. Unattractive at best, her legs were covered in goosebumps and needed shaving. A diet of gas-station coffee and cigarettes had turned her skin pallid and took away whatever glow Caden hadn’t already taken himself. Her nails were bitten to the skin and alcohol wasn’t doing anything for the swelling under her eyes. She winced at the inevitable bags she’d see once she dared look at herself in the mirror.
She needed a shower. Something hot enough to burn away the regret and humiliation. Rhea lifted her head and adjusted her balance. Everything was spinning. Easy now. She pulled herself into a standing position, arms using the wall for support. The merry-go-round charade hurt her head, and she closed her eyes to get off the ride.
Her hand found the ledge of the bath and she sat down on it, spreading her legs to put one foot in the tub, the other outside it. Nausea crept up her throat but she pushed it down, smothering its will to surface. Rhea opened the faucet and put her hand under the water until it burned her skin. Perfect. She pulled up the stem of the spout, stepped into the spray and pulled the sheer plastic curtain shut.
Soon, steam filled the bathroom. Rhea massaged cherry blossom shampoo through her hair and rubbed the remaining suds over her body to mask the stench of vomit that still managed to assert itself. Breathe. Just breathe. No matter how much she scrubbed, she couldn’t feel clean. Her skin seemed to repel soap and while the dirt was gone, the feeling of filth was not.
She squeezed water from her hair. It hung in damp clumps and stuck to her cheeks. Rhea stood there for a few moments, collecting her thoughts before opening the plastic curtain. I have to stop drinking. Have to stop acting like this. It’s not going to bring them back to me. Not Caden and not dad. The towel that had previously passed the smell test lay soaked in puke and she had to step over it to get her robe, which hung off the hook on the door. The blue fabric nestled onto her shoulders as she tied the belt around her waist and Rhea felt the moisture on her skin soak into the thin cotton fabric.
The hiss of a teapot whistled downstairs, and Rhea hoped her sister was making her infamous peppermint brew. The two of them may not have been close, but they worked together to survive, which was fine with Rhea. There wasn’t necessarily comfort, but there was stability. Assuredness. That—above all else—was what mattered most. And the tea. The tea was good.
Rhea took a deep breath and held it in. She bent down to scoop up the vomit-soaked towel and threw it into the tub. She turned the water on hot and let it soak. She’d clean it later.
There’s always later. Rhea ran a brush through her knot-infested hair. In the light it shone like black silk, and Rhea wished it held that same sheen when dry. Split ends and cheap conditioner prevented that from being the case. Caden’s hands didn’t catch in Jayme’s hair. She yanked the brush through the knot and pulled out a clump of hair.
When the fogged up bathroom mirror cleared, Rhea saw much of what she’d expected. Swollen, sleep-deprived eyes with stress bags underneath them. Pale, sickly skin. Her lips were tight and chapped
and they looked as if they’d forgotten what it meant to smile. Even her cheeks looked ashen, their natural red blush lost somewhere in her past. There was no use fixing her hair or putting on makeup. Rhea knew she’d either cry or sweat it off. All she wanted was her bed and sleep. Maybe a bucket.
Rhea heard the familiar creaks of the stairs.
“Rhea, I made you some tea,” said Kris. She extended a chipped yellow cup and the aroma of peppermint and honey infused the air. “No sugar. Just how you like it.”
“Thanks. I can really use it right now.”
She took the cup, letting it burn her palms as she carried it back to her bed. Mint leaves floated on top of the water like small dead, bloated bodies. Rhea took a sip and sighed.
“Perfect.”
“Feeling any better?”
“Not really. Shower helped a bit, though.”
Silence bred.
“Did you call Casler back?”
“No.”
“Are you going to?”
Pressure once again settled in Rhea’s chest. It clawed at her lungs as if it was determined to break free from her. Since when did Kris start caring about her appointments? It wasn’t as if the two of them discussed things when she came back from them like some suicide-sister-bonding time. Her time with Casler was her own and she could barely open up and talk to her, let alone anyone else. Frankly, she didn’t even know Kris knew she was still seeing Casler.
“When was the last time you saw her?” said Rhea. The bite of her words hung in the air and she could tell by Kris’s expression that their conversation was over.
“Right. Well, feel better,” said Kris without any intention of masking the hurt in her voice. She shut the bedroom door and left Rhea to herself.
Guilt began to fester but there wasn’t anything Rhea could do about it. Kris had opened a box of problems she had no business searching through. Truthfully, Rhea hadn’t seen Casler for therapy in two months. For a while Rhea kept cancelling their appointments, and then she even stopped doing that. Their last session didn’t end well, as Rhea flat-out refused to go on medication. She didn’t need any more vices in her daily routine. One was enough, and she couldn’t even handle that.
The Eighth Page 11