Page 22 of Necessary Cruelty

Eight

I have a verybad habit of breaking things, even when I’m trying to do precisely the opposite. It’s like I have the Midas touch, but instead of turning the things I covet into solid gold, I have to watch them disintegrate into a million pieces.

Does that make me a bad person?

Probably.

It started from the very day I was born. I destroyed my mother before I even managed to completely enter this world. My father thinks it’s helpful to tell me that my face is the last thing she saw before she died, as if that somehow makes the fact she died in childbirth an easier pill to swallow.

And the sick thing is that sometimes I like breaking things, because if I can’t have something, then I’d rather see it destroyed than given to someone else.

I didn’t mean to break Zaya Milbourne, not at first. When I look at her now, all I want to do is pull her apart piece by piece so I can see what’s hidden deep inside. And the overwhelming anger that rises in me when I see her face makes it feel good when I hurt her.

Even when I’m also hurting myself.

With every moment of weakness, I swear it has to be the last time. But I find myself climbing into her window in the middle of the night, like that shit is inevitable. I can never decide until I touch her whether I want to fuck her or wring her neck.

She doesn’t know, either, which of the urges brings me to her door.

But she does know what she did.

My father sends me an oblique text on Saturday evening, making mention of the fact that he hasn’t laid eyes on me in days. I wait as late as I can before finally venturing into the main house.

Silence greets me as I enter Cortland Manor. Silence and cold. This place is always freezing, as if none of the bright California sun is capable of penetrating the large picture windows of the entry hall that look out to the sea.

The only sound that echoes through my ears is the dull click of my heels on the tile floor, and if I could silence even that, I would.

Silence is the most precious sound known to man, if just because of how rare it is. Most of the time, I can’t get anyone around me to just shut the fuck up.

A silver statue of a hawk taking off in flight greets me as I reach the stairs. Its claws clutch a large orb that has been etched to look like a miniature version of the earth, as if the hawk has laid claim to the entire world.

The hawk is a special symbol for the Cortlands. It is emblazoned on our family crest and represents the strength and cunning that are supposed to be our family’s central values.

I remember hiding behind this same statue as my stepmother chased after me with a leather belt in her hand. When she was really angry, she would make sure to hold the end that didn’t have a buckle so the metal would strike painfully against the bones of my skinny back.

I’m not a kid anymore, and she hasn’t hit me in years, not since she realized how much bigger and stronger than her I am. But that doesn’t stop the memory from coming, my shoulders stiffening like I’m anticipating another blow.

I refuse to call her my mother, even though she married my father when I was still in diapers. I don’t remember a time before she was in my life, but I know this isn’t the same as having an actual mother, and I refuse to pretend.

Giselle stands at the top of the elaborate stairwell, dressed in a long red evening gown. Her hair is done up in some crazy design that probably took hours to complete and enough hairspray to poke another hole in the ozone layer.

Think of the she-devil, and she doth appear.

Ridiculously long nails, also painted red, glide along the banister as she comes toward me. Those things look like bloody coffins stuck on her fingers, and I wonder how she wipes her ass without getting shit up under them.

Although she probably has one of the many servants she makes scurry around this place wipe her ass for her.

“Are you just getting home from school?” she asks, even though it’s almost eleven o’clock at night.

And a Saturday.

I have no idea if she is just that vapid or simply doesn’t give a shit.

“Something like that.” I scrutinize her nipped and tucked face, marveling for a moment at how much her skin looks like plastic. “Looks like you’re headed out.”

“Just coming in, actually. Your father and I had the Junior Society Charity Auction. I swear, they always have their hands out for cash. Thank God ball gowns don’t have pockets, because I’m sure someone’s hand would have been in mine.”

I want to point out that the money isn’t hers to begin with. Giselle would still be a scheming social climber with a maxed-out credit card if my father hadn’t plucked her from obscurity.

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