“I don't know. I'm not queer. I don't notice that shit.”
“What does he look like?” Mary repeated. “He has a face, doesn't he?”
“God, you're so—” he shook his head “—tall, dark hair, eyes that are some color…maybe blue.”
“Is he cute?”
“He has a sister. Now she's cute.”
“Good. Invite him—and her too,” she conceded reluctantly. “They sound perfect.”
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
Val tried to take notes but her professor's voice swam in and out of focus. She was afraid someone would notice what felt so painfully obvious to her. That it was inscribed in every breath, every movement, every fiber of her being. Whenever a pair of eyes happened in her direction, her body braced itself for the accusation until they moved on. Then she collapsed in relief only to have the cycle begin anew.
Nobody is looking at you.
No, that wasn't quite true. The professor was.
“Do you think you could save your music appreciation for another time, Mr. Winters? I believe the school offers a class for it. In the meantime, please refrain from using your headphones during my lectures.”
He was looking behind her. Val sighed in relief.
“There are ten personality disorders arranged in three clusters within Hendricks continued. the DSM-IV,” Professor
He had a droning voice, probably because of his age, and even though the class was interesting it put a lot of people to sleep. His eyes roved, searching for another victim in that student foolish enough to take a quick snooze or munch from a chip bag.
Val stared down at her textbook. On the right hand corner she had sketched a grid that looked suspiciously like a chessboard. She erased it guiltily.
What are you thinking?
Professor Hendricks clicked his remote and the projector switched to a slide with the masks of Comedy and Tragedy. Over the masks were the words “Cluster B”, written in Gothic font.
“Today we're going to focus on the personality disorders, with behaviors classified as dramatic, emotional, and erratic. There are a multitude of symptoms, some of which you may recognize within yourself, but I strongly advise against checking yourself into the nearest institution just yet….”
A few people laughed obligingly. Val, thinking of her own checkered mental history, remained in tightlipped silence.
“First we will cover borderline personality disorder. People afflicted with borderline personality disorder often report feeling empty inside. It is as if they are an emotional cup that can never be fully filled, try as they might.
“They have intense relationships which tend to be very black and white. Very 'all or nothing.' Anything less than absolute devotion is pure hatred. There is no middle ground, no gray areas.”
“Sounds like my ex-girlfriend,” muttered one of the boys behind Val, eliciting a laugh from his friends.
“Excuse me, but I thought I made it quite clear that this lecture material is not intended for providing diagnoses, Mr. Chemmanoor.”
The boy muttered a half-convincing apology. Professor Hendricks nodded curtly and continued on to discuss histrionic and narcissistic personality disorders, pausing to point out the many similarities between the two, and how to differentiate between them.
This was in the book. She had been through it, highlighting the pertinent information. Twice. “How many of you have ever been called antisocial?”
Fabric rustled as a few students raised their hands. Val kept hers between her thighs.
“That's what I thought.” He cleared his throat. “The correct term for you folks, who I assume are merely shy, is actually asocial—that is, somebody who is indifferent to or exists separately from society. This is an individual who spends a lot of time alone engaging in solitary activities. Such traits are generally considered relatively normal on the vast continuum comprising human behavior.
“Antisocial behavior consists of markedly different behavioral patterns. Often criminal, though not always. They may be disingenuous, selfish, pathologically exploitative. Somebody who is antisocial may not be shy at all. Quite the opposite. Many antisocial individuals appear very social and charming at a glance. They also tend to be quite successful with the opposite sex.
“However, the antisocial personality is not someone you would want as a romantic partner or spouse. This is an individual who has no qualms about going against societal norms to preserve their own self-interests. To them, other people are simply a means to an end. These people lack empathy and a true sense of conscience—at least in the way that we understand it. You may be familiar with the term of sociopath. It is an obsolete term but refers to this diagnosis.
“The symptoms of antisocial personality disorder consist of pathological lying, narcissism, superficial relationships, impulsiveness, thrill-seeking or risktaking behaviors, promiscuity, profound lack of empathy, and a disregard for their own personal safety and the safety of others, in addition to societal norms, as I mentioned earlier.
“Given these traits, it may not surprise you that many criminals are often diagnosed as having antisocial personality disorder. Indeed, the greatest proportion of violent crimes are committed by a relatively small percentage of individuals, mostly those with antisocial personality disorder—yes? Question in the back?”
Val heard a female voice say, “What percentage of people in normally functioning populations have it?”
“What is normal?” he said wryly.
The female student flushed.
“Just something to keep in mind. To answer your question, one percent.” Professor Hendricks smiled. “However, as with most mental health disorders, the severity of the symptoms exists on a continuum.
“It is actually very interesting that you chose to refer to a 'normal population' as it is true that many sociopaths are able to mimic socially acceptable behavior and function in society, even having jobs, going to religious services, and starting families.
“Antisocial personalities are a mystery to us. It is difficult to fathom a style of perception so different from our own. We know so little about the so-called normal brain….” He trailed off. “From what we do know about neuroanatomy, people with antisocial personality disorder appear to have fewer neural connections in their limbic system and frontal lobes, the areas of the brain chiefly responsible for emotion and executive functions, respectively. They also have suppressed nervous systems; they tend to maintain prolonged eye contact without the feelings of anxiety or discomfort that others tend to exhibit. When exposed to loud and sudden stimuli a startle response is often absent.
“Emotions are a mystery to them. A puzzle, if you will. Many of them become adept mimics but their performance is often, well, soulless.”
He clicked slides.
“Rehabilitation is often unsuccessful, because of this mimicry. People with antisocial personality disorder are frequently keen observers, and will speak and act in the way their therapist desires. The sad truth is that attempts to “cure” the individual often just results in a better liar.”
Val looked at the screen.
There was a man there, in confinement somewhere. A jail cell, maybe. His pierced lips were drawn into a vaguely sardonic smile. What bothered her most, though, were the eyes; they were a cold dark blue, devoid of any perceivable human emotion, staring as though attempting to bore past the camera lens and into the innermost thoughts of the observer on the other side.
She was reminded of that picture of Gavin she had seen freshman year. Him, holding the crossbow as though he planned to fire it at the yearbook photographer. Gavin's eyes are like that. She bit her lip. Prolonged eye contact. Yes, that was it. He had a way of staring people down.
The moment the thought occurred to her she knew she would never forget it, and that simple realization tore her insides to shreds.
Chapter Sixteen
Lime Blossom
Val woke up, drenched in sweat.
Not again.
&nb
sp; Another horrible nightmare.
She clutched at the front of her tank top, halfexpecting to feel the thick congealing blood from her dream coursing down her front. Her eyes flicked to Mary's empty bed and panic rose.
Where was Mary? What time was it? 12:15? Three hours until abnormal psychology. She had been asleep for more than half the day. Again.
Val got to her feet and winced as an ache sliced down the back of her head.
Sleep hangover.
She grabbed a hair-tie and twisted her hair into a messy ponytail and searched for something to wear. Clothes were all over the floor, mostly on Mary's side of the room. Val tossed a few of the clothes on Mary's bed and then gave up. She didn't have the energy to clean. She didn't have the energy to do anything.
She was still spooked by that last lecture. By the delinquent youth with Gavin's eyes.
Mary had set up a coffee machine in the bathroom. The pot held the remnants of last week's brew. Val muttered in disgust as she scraped the moldy remains into the bathroom sink. She was a slob, too, but she drew the line at mold cultures.
As she scrubbed, she happened to catch her reflection in the bathroom mirror. More breakouts speckled her cheeks and forehead beneath the freckles, far more noticeable because of her fish-bellywhite complexion. Hair, lank and greasy from her night sweats. She could see the network of veins on her face, gray-green beneath the skin, dark purple on her eyelids. Darker shadows beneath her eyes.
She looked terrible. Not as terrible as she should have—not as if her entire world were flying apart in pieces as sharp as razors—but terrible nonetheless.
Putting on makeup. That was something else she was going to have to do if she planned on leaving the house. Not that it mattered. She had nobody to impress.
Val finished filling the clean pot with water and shut off the tap. Once the coffee started brewing she felt a little invigorated. The heady smell of the Ethiopian brew was warm and homey. It was the same brand to which her father was partial.
A sharp knock at the door jerked her unpleasantly from her coffee-induced stupor, and yearning thoughts of home.
Mary, why don't you ever take your key? Val shook her head. “Why didn't you clean the—”
She stopped. It wasn't Mary stretched out in her doorway, but Gavin.
He managed to slip through before she could slam the door, closing it with a heavy thud that rattled all the windows up and down the hall as he leaned his body back against it. Casually, he reached down to flick the latch. She clenched her hands into fists.
“Get out—get out, or I'll scream.”
His eyes flicked to her hands before crinkling, catlike, in amusement. “I'm sure you will.”
She knocked his hand aside, hard enough that her fingers stung. “You don't get to touch me.”
“Is that a fact.”
She stumbled back a pace when he pushed off from the door and felt her panic mount at showing such weakness. “It…it hasn't been three days,” she ground out, trying not to wilt when he closed the distance between them.
“Actually, it has. But we'll cross that bridge when we get to it, won't we?”
“What are you—what do you want then?” “It seems we have an unwelcome addition to our little game.”
A loud burbling sound caused them both to look off to the side. Val escaped into the bathroom to shut off the coffee machine, only to find Gavin outside the door.
“I didn't tell anyone.”
“I know.”
It took her a moment to put the pieces together. “He called you, too?”
“Yes.” He was studying her room intently. “Yellow roses. How very appropriate.”
“Its my favorite color,” she snapped.
“And how well it becomes you, my little jade.”
His lips fell upon hers, and his mouth was hot and sweet as his fingers raked through her hair to free it from her ponytail. She felt the tangled strands fall to her shoulders, tickling unpleasantly. He kissed her until she had no air left and she fell away, gasping for a breath that did not exist.
“My roommate will be home soon.”
“We won't be long.”
He pulled her robe back from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. He put his hands on her
arms and whispered something in her ear. He laughed when she stiffened, casually sliding the straps of her tank top down to bare the top of her breasts as he purred, “Such a simple request.”
“I said no.”
“I will not be refused.” He dragged her top lower, and kissed her upper lip. “Surely you've done it before.”
Val said nothing.
“Undress me.” He pressed her hands against his shirtfront before sealing their lips together. He ran his hands down her flanks, down her buttocks. He maneuvered beneath the leg of her shorts and made a pleased sound as his shirt fell open and her breasts rubbed against his bare chest.
“Now.” He slipped his hand out of her pants and took her right hand. His other hand was at the base of her spine now, keeping her in place. He ran her fingers down his chest, over the tops of his jeans, eventually coming to rest against his bulging fly. He pressed down on her hand, hard, and she felt him throb inside the denim. “Unzip me.”
And he dug his fingers lightly into the base of her spine as he caught her lower lip between his teeth and sucked, before turning his head and plunging his tongue into her mouth. He sighed into her mouth as she unfastened the catch, and felt springy hair and hot skin before yanking her hand away as if she had been burned. He hissed in her ear, “On your knees.”
He shoved her down before she had time to register the command, and pulled her head up by her chin. She found herself thinking, He seems a lot taller from the floor.
She remembered the greenhouse, when Charlie had been threatening her with the poker and he had stepped in at the last instant to kill the brunette girl.
He had seemed impossibly tall then, too.
Gavin squeezed her jaw until she opened her mouth and then he slipped out his sex. His erect penis reared up, roseate and corded with purplish veins. It swelled under her frightened gaze, and he deftly ran his hand along the shaft to caress the florid tip with his thumb.
“I've often dreamed of this. You have the kind of mouth that inspires the fantasies of poets.”
Val squeezed her eyes shut and felt the heat radiate from his body as he stepped closer. The tip of her nose brushed against his scratchy treasure trail.
“Open your eyes. I want you to watch.”
He released his grip on her jaw, letting his fingers coil and knot through her hair as he pushed past her lips. His other hand was on her shoulder, clenching. And then she heard him moan and something hit the back of her throat. She nearly gagged, and he dug his fingers in harder, bruising her collarbone.
Val forced herself to breathe through her nose. She could feel her tender skin chafing, growing chapped in the cold dry air with the repeated friction. He grunted occasionally, usually proceeding another one of those particularly deep and painful thrusts that left her epiglottis feeling bruised.
Just when she thought her face might splinter, or that she might throw up for real, he pulled out and she felt a warm stickiness spatter her breasts. Thick, white, milky, viscous.
Her stomach heaved. She wanted to look at him, but could not meet his eyes. Not like this, with the straps of her top dangling pathetically around her elbows, half-naked, and covered in his seed.
“My clue,” she mumbled.
“Look me in the eyes and ask me.”
“Please….”
“Look at me.”
She did, and immediately wished she had not. “I want my clue.”
“I want you to taste me.”
Val did not understand, and then she thought she might and her stomach lurched frightfully. “What?”
He took her hand, forcing out her index finger. He ran her index finger up her breast, catching one of the opalescent globs, and brought her hand to her
mouth. “Lick it all off and I'll give you what you want.”
She choked back a sob. Closed her eyes. Flicked out her tongue and swallowed because it was better to get it over with quickly and all at once than to let the taste of him linger, salty-sweet, in her mouth.
Her gorge rose, and she felt saliva flood her mouth. He ran the pad of his thumb along her lower lip. “Such an obedient thing,” he said. “Even in filth, you remain a rose.”
“Please,” she sobbed.
“Yes,” he mused. “I suppose you've earned it. Very well. Your clue is sin.”
“Who did you kill?”
He shook his head as he left. She had the feeling he was laughing at her, as if he knew she would be running into the shower the moment he was gone. Because that was precisely what she did.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
Val had never been superstitious, but the soft, full moon that drenched the room in a bluish, surreal cast was almost enough to make her believe in ghosts.
She could hear the faint ticking of a clock, and, fainter still, the sound of a television in one of the other dorms. She felt like she was living through one of her nightmares—and perhaps she was. They were, after all, based on life.
The light from the moon was enough to see by and with a stealthy look at her sleeping roommate, Val slipped her laptop's case out from underneath her bed. The canvas scratched against the edge of her bed and her heart stopped as Mary groaned, turning over onto her side. Val wasn't so afraid of waking Mary up as she was of Mary wanting to know what she was doing up at this hour.
The screen blinked on, bathing her in a bright white glow. She unplugged the power cord, letting the screen dim as it reverted to battery power.
She had to know whose death she had caused. She had to know who she should have on her conscience. That she should feel guilt was necessary; it was her burden to bear as much as it was Atlas's to hold the world on his shoulders.
She typed in “Derringer” and “murder”, praying there would be no hits. She was disappointed. Nancy Ramirez Murdered in Home.
Val felt simultaneous horror, confusion, and dread, pierced with the cold arrow of relief. The name was unfamiliar to her, and there was no chance of her being a student at DHS—not a recent one, anyway— since the article gave her age as twenty-nine. So who was Nancy Ramirez?
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