“Well, okay, then. If you need anything, I'll be in the laundry room. Do you have anything that needs washing?” she asked in a shaky voice.
He ignored her question and opened the fridge.
After Margo had practically ran to the back of the house, Emma wandered into the kitchen as well. Per their pattern as of late, she should've been disappearing, too. But she was happy for his interruption, and curious about what he thought of her little domestic dispute.
“I don't understand how you're so fit when all you seem to eat is garbage,” she said, watching as he took a bunch of lunch meat and tomatoes and bread out of the fridge. He glanced at her, then went about making his sandwich.
After he'd buttered two pieces of bread, he finally spoke. “She doesn't like you.”
Emma nodded and stole a piece of lunch meat from the container.
“No, she doesn't. You're lucky – she's scared of you.”
“Good.”
He attacked a tomato with the bread knife. He certainly wasn't a chef, that was for sure. She winced at how aggressive he was with the blade, slamming it down more than actually slicing. When he nicked his index finger, it wasn't a shock. Neither of them said anything as he lifted the finger and examined the wound.
A fat bead of crimson blood balanced on top of his finger, shiny under the kitchen lights. Emma stared at it, then stepped up next to him. He glanced down at her, then did a double take when she grabbed his hand. Stared as she put the injured finger into her mouth and wrapped her lips around it.
An act she'd done a dozen, a hundred, times to herself. Without thinking, without thought, just a natural reaction. So it made sense to her to do it for him.
His index finger was stiff for a second, then pressed down against her tongue. Hard. His free hand gripped her hip – it was still holding the knife. The blade scratched against her side, the tip brushing under her arm.
She looked up at him just as he stepped into her, forcing her against the counter. It dug into the back of her hips. He slowly pulled his finger from her mouth, scraping it across her bottom teeth, dragging it over her lips and chin.
“You're not beautiful,” he breathed. She nodded as his fingers wrapped around her throat.
“So you've said.”
“You're not,” he insisted, his eyes falling shut as he squeezed tighter and tighter. “You're ... exquisite. You're perfection.”
Jesus, she would do anything for this man. Get down on her knees right then and there, blow him in front of Margo and Jerry and god and anyone else who cared to watch. Split herself open and let him live inside her. Keep him safe and sound while she just disappeared.
She couldn't breathe. She was going to pass out. Fall right on that shiny, sharp knife. She shut her eyes and willed it to happen.
The sudden presence of air in her lungs shocked her. She gasped and opened her eyes. Looked around. What had happened?
He wasn't looking at her. He was staring into the living room. It took her a second to realize the phone was ringing. Yes, of course Jerry had a land line. He also had a flip phone. It was almost impressive. Church stepped away and went back to the fridge, opening it and rummaging around just as Margo strode into the living room.
Emma felt exposed. Vulnerable. Like her mother had just walked in on her having sex. She realized she had a hand against her chest, clutching her shirt. She glanced at Church once, then hurried out of the kitchen. By the time she got to the hallway, Margo was hanging up, and she turned to her at the last second.
“Good lord, Emma, what's on your face? What were you eating?” she demanded. Emma didn't slow down, just pressed a hand to her chin and hurried into the bathroom.
She panted and leaned hard against the sink. When she lifted her head, she looked at her reflection. Stared at it. Tried to recognize it.
Her hair was a little messy and bushy, she'd been sleeping when Margo had decided to start bitching at her. It was all pushed to one side, her part low on the left side of her head. Her eyes were wild and wide, her pupils so huge they were swallowing the green irises. She didn't recognize them.
Her bottom lip was stained pink all along one side. The stain continued from the corner of her mouth down to her chin, where it disappeared. But not for long. She caught sight of it again, on the side of her neck, alongside a couple fingernail marks.
She looked ... ravenous. Like a wild beast who'd just been denied the kill, after she'd already had a taste. She couldn't catch her breath, and started panting harder. There were footsteps in the hall. She kept staring at herself as she listened to them walk closer. Walk past. Walk into a room. Then a door slowly creaked shut.
He's magic. He's the devil. He's inside me now, in my blood, in my brain. Why isn't he always talking to me? Why isn't he always looking at me? Why aren't we together right now?
He's it.
He's my moment that I've been waiting for.
He's the greatness I've been missing.
CHURCH.
Okay, so maybe I do have a couple issues with women. Blame my mother. She didn't leave me with a very good impression of the fairer sex.
Though to be fair, she didn't leave me with a very good impression of human beings, in general.
Emma, though, she is beyond perfect for my needs. A nudge here, a push there, and she does exactly what I want her to. I wouldn't have to speak at all, and I could still get her to heel.
It's not my fault she led an awful life that made her self-esteem so low, she'd look for love and attention anywhere she could get it. It's not my fault it led her to me.
I ignored her that first night. She could have returned the favor.
But now I'm interested. Poor girl.
She does have a certain charm about her, even I have to admit. Beautiful and damaged, like a rose in a vase. Lovely and doomed to die. She looks at me with those eyes. Those big, outspoken eyes of hers. Begging me, all the time. Only me. Everyone else, she looks at with shutters over her eyes. Like she's not really seeing them.
But with me, she lifts the veil. She stares straight at me. Sometimes, I even worry, stares straight through me. She seems to know me, to understand me. Almost too well. She just babbles away, making all these assumptions about me, which would be fucking annoying if they weren't all right. It's like she can just look at me – just look – and know me. Know me, and not be afraid of me. Know me, and not care about the monster she sees inside me.
For someone who hardly ever speaks to meet someone who can understand them without words? It's like an answer to a prayer.
I can't get used to this. I can't want this. It's just a look. Just a pair of eyes. Just a girl. Just legs to spread and a body to use and a mind to manipulate.
And here I thought my time at home would be boring for the most part. At least I can have fun with her until it all goes to shit.
5
Blood doesn't stain for too long, especially if it's taken care of right away. By the time Emma had gone back to her room, she'd looked normal again.
Looked being the key word.
She had a new game she liked to play. When Church was gone for those long, unexplained hours, she went into his room. Laid on his bed. Sometimes naked. Sometimes wearing his clothing. She spread herself out on his comforter, hugged his pillows to her chest, rubbed herself against his sheets.
She often wondered what would happen if she ever got caught. She'd violated his sanctuary. There was nothing in the room to show it was Church's, but it was his, nonetheless. She was trespassing. Would he get angry? Would he punish her?
She touched herself in his room.
He never caught her.
Her mind was spiraling. She wanted to hurt someone – possibly herself, but mostly someone else. She found herself standing outside of Margo's bedroom door at night. Jerry slept like the dead, and Margo took sleeping pills. She could walk through playing a bass saxophone and neither would notice. Wouldn't notice if she marched right up to the bed. Probably wouldn't even wake up a
s she beat her mother to death with the wind instrument. It would be so easy. She would rest her hand on the door knob, let the cool metal chill her hand, and she would picture it. Blood and bruises and an end to so much misery.
She never turned the knob.
She hated school, hated having to interact with other people. She'd never been a fan of it before, but now thinking about Church with Marci – with other women – it was driving her insane. Thinking of him being out there in the world, without her? Torture. Obsession was in full swing, and she didn't know how to shut it off. She walked the three miles to school and back every day. Ran three more at night. Lost five pounds from her already slender frame.
Every time Church looked at Marci, looked at any other girl, she wanted to die. Wanted to kill. And he looked at other girls a lot. Almost as if to torment Emma, as if to goad her into reacting. And worse, Marci always looked right back, smiling at him with her inadequate mouth and batting her small eyelashes.
But he talks to me. He understands me. I want him to take me to wherever it is he goes and show me whatever it is he does and scare me and terrify me and make me fall so in love with him, I'll never see the light of day again.
As her old therapist would've told her – those weren't healthy thoughts. She wasn't stupid. What she felt for Church was moving so far beyond obsession, they hadn't even invented a name for it yet. Emotional cannibalism? She wanted to be inside his thoughts. His touches. His every waking moment.
Crazy. Crazy. I always knew I'd go crazy some day. I blame Church. I blame Margo. I blame myself.
“You look like shit, sweetie,” Stacey said in a sympathetic voice. Emma barely glanced at her.
Church thinks I'm exquisite.
“Been feeling a little under the weather,” she finally managed to reply. It was raining again. She stared out the windows of the common area.
“You seem down. Is everything okay?” Stacey asked, sitting next to her. Emma shrugged.
“It's all the same. Good days and bad days, you know? I'm fine, really,” she lied.
She wasn't fine. Her soul was somewhere in the west wing, grading math papers. She hadn't even realized she'd lost it, and now she felt sick without it.
There was a thunking noise, and they both turned as Marci MacIntosh sat at their table, right next to Emma. She groaned and dropped her head. She'd been nice to the girl once, and suddenly they were on friendly enough terms to sit together?
“Hey, chickies!” the girl sang, adjusting her clothes so more cleavage showed.
“Hey, Marci,” Stacey said in a polite voice.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, Emma's just not feeling well.”
“Oh, bummer. I was hoping to ask you about something.”
“What?” Emma asked, finally lifting her head.
“Could you talk to your step-brother for me? Maybe give him my number?” Marci asked, looking into a mirrored compact the whole time.
Emma was confused for a moment, then the light bulb went off.
“You want me to give Church your phone number?” she checked, a little shocked.
“Yeah. I've noticed him checking me out, I think it's finally time to go for round two, if ya know what I mean.”
Oh, Emma did know. This fucking bitch had the audacity to think she was allowed to breathe Church's air, and now she wanted to talk to him? Touch him?
I'm gonna fucking kill her.
“Sorry, Church and I aren't that close,” Emma growled. “We're not in the habit of giving each other numbers for fuck buddies.”
“C'mon, be a pal. I'd do it myself but, well, you know how he is.”
“No, Marci, I don't. How is he?” she asked in a patronizing tone, then she leaned forward, propping her chin in her hand.
“Don't get me wrong, he's hot as sin, and he was a good lay, but he's ... you know ... creepy.”
“Creepy?” Emma laughed, and the sound came out sharp. She saw Stacey wince.
“That's not nice, Marci,” she snapped. “You're talking about her step-brother, and, like, someone with special needs.”
“He's special alright,” Marci snickered. “Special in the pants department, if you know -”
“We know what you mean,” Emma barked. “We're not fucking five. His dick. You're talking about his dick.”
“What's your problem? You were talking about all this stuff the other week,” Marci pointed out, glaring at Emma.
“I was casually asking about your sex life – I didn't ask for a detailed description of someone's cock.”
This was ridiculous. She was completely overreacting. Logical Emma knew this, understood it. But Logical Emma wasn't in control anymore. Dark Emma had the reins now, and it had been a long time for her.
“Yeah, seriously, Marci,” Stacey chimed in. “Maybe just go away now.”
But poor, sweet, stupid Marci had got it into her head that she'd been offended.
“You're just jealous,” she said with something that sounded suspiciously like a sniff.
“Jealous?” Emma checked, and even Stacey cackled at the very idea. “We're jealous of ... what? You?”
“I've seen the way you look at him.”
Emma stopped laughing. Emma stopped smiling. Emma even stopped breathing.
What happened, or rather, what didn't happen, between her and Church was private. Sacred. No one else was worthy of being a part of it.
“What did you say to me?” Emma asked.
“Pretty sick, wanting to sleep with your own step-brother,” Marci spoke about it as if she were an authority on the subject. “You stare at him in class, while he's staring at me. Like a puppy dog, it's pathetic. Just because no one here wants you doesn't mean you have to make the rest of us feel bad. You know, like, I tried to be nice to you, even though everyone talks about what a weirdo you are. Makes sense you want Church so bad, two weirdos would be -”
Marci didn't get to finish her sentence because Marci's face was abruptly introduced to the table top. Without a thought or a word of warning, Emma had grabbed the other girl by the back of her hair and slammed her head down into the table. Once, twice, and even managed a third time before hands started pulling her away.
“Emma! Stop it! Stop it!” Stacey was gasping.
Emma did stop. She wasn't sure when it had happened, but she'd stood up. Marci slid out of her seat and fell to the floor as soon as Emma released her. She was crying and her nose was bleeding.
Everyone in the common area had frozen and was staring at them. Everyone. Then everything went back into motion all at once. Several students rushed to Marci's aid while several faculty members ran up to Emma, demanding to know what was going on.
“She attacked me!” Marci was sobbing and shrieking. “She attacked me! She's a fucking psycho!”
Goddamn right I am.
“She's not feeling well,” Stacey was struggling to stay next to Emma as more people crowded close. “She's been sick, and Marci wouldn't stop talking shit about her step-brother. Please, she's sick.”
Oh, I'm sick alright.
Everyone was talking at her, yelling at her, but she ignored them. She lifted her head and was glad for her taller-than-average height. She glanced around the room, knowing he was there. She just knew it.
And Church was there, standing in a doorway, his leather portfolio under one arm. His gaze passed over the crowd. Dipped down to Marci, who was only just visible through the sea of legs. Then landed back on Emma.
She stared back, almost defiantly, her chin raised. Two could play the silent game, and she was better at it. She spoke his language, but she was confident that he didn't speak anyone's language.
Campus security was called. Before that moment, she hadn't even known they existed. Once all involved were taken to the administration's wing and delivered to someone important's office, the police were called. Stacey stayed with her the whole time, insisting to anyone who would listen that it was mostly Marci's fault.
Emma staye
d silent. She didn't speak to anyone or answer any questions. Stacey used this as proof of how sick Emma was – she couldn't even talk, and didn't she just look like she was about to faint? She needed to go home. She needed to lay down. Were they really going to keep a sick girl? It had been hours now, it was dark out. This was just inhumane.
And it worked. God bless small towns. She wasn't exactly a flight risk. No money, no car, no nothing. They were launching an inquiry into what happened, and it was a very real possibility that Emma could get kicked out of school. Beyond that, Ms. MacIntosh could press charges. Emma could be facing a felony. Did she understand how serious that was?
Stacey drove her home, fussing over her the whole way. Emma still didn't speak when they got to her house, but frowned when she realized they were both getting out of the car. She didn't want Stacey to come in and realized she'd probably have to shut the door in her face. Luckily, her mother solved the problem for her. When they'd pulled up to the curb, Margo had opened the front door and glared at both of them.
“Want me to stay?” Stacey whispered. Emma shook her head and allowed Stacey to hug her, then they parted ways. She watched as her car slowly disappeared around the block.
“Get in here, NOW!” Margo snapped.
When Emma walked through the front door, Jerry immediately got up from the table. He glanced at her over the top of his glasses and sighed. Then he took his newspaper back to his bedroom. Margo didn't follow him. Instead, she shut the door and stormed around the living room, picking things up and slamming them back down.
“I've had it,” she kept saying, over and over again. “I've had it, Emma. I've really had it.”
So have I, Margo. So have I.
“All you had to do was go to school. I didn't even make you get a job! Just go to school and pass and graduate and go away. That was it! But no, of course fitting in was too fucking hard for you!” Margo hissed, not allowing her voice to carry.
Church. Page 7