Page 77 of Possession

The older she got, the more depressed I became, because I couldn’t tell anyone how I felt. People understand the frustration of a baby; you’re tired and they scream and demand so much. But once they’re five, six, seven? The child is capable of reasoning and expressing themselves.

Even when she grew, I could never stand Mary, could never love her. Every kind act she ever did only reinforced my disdain, because I’d seen the darkness in her. She couldn’t hide it, and yet, that was all she tried to do.

With every hug and kiss and project she brought home from school, I saw the trick of the devil behind it all.

When I heard what happened, I wasn’t surprised. I knew it was coming the moment she was born.

I shut the book but can’t bring myself to put it back on the shelf. Even though my stomach is dropping and my eyes are watering, I keep it clutched in my hands. The cover says that this is an international bestseller. It’s been translated into over forty languages, millions of copies sold. After a moment, I flip to the back cover to see the author’s photo.

Even though I knew it was her, I still gasp at the sight of my mother. She looks older, like she’s been worn down, but she’s smiling in a smart blazer. She wears her hair differently. Does she still use the same perfume? She must have more money now—did she move? Where does she live?

With a shaky breath, I put the book in my cart. I don’t know why. Her words are hateful. Hurtful. It would be best to throw it away and never think of the book again, but I can’t.

Maybe I’m curious. I never did understand why my mom ignored me and didn’t clap at my graduation. Maybe I’m a glutton for punishment. Some of that definitely hurt to read, like the fact that she wanted to give me away and never properly loved me.

I don’t know. Maybe I want to keep it because she might have a point. Maybe she was right all along.

I never knew why Aris possessed me. What if he saw something in me, the same thing my mother saw? Then again, I don’t feel evil; I don’t do mean things. I never bullied or hurt others. In fact, I went out of my way to help people. I had friends who enjoyed my company and said nice things about me. Is evil really buried so deep? Surely, I would have shown signs of it by now.

Sighing, I make my way to the front of the store, nitpicking everything I remember from my childhood. Was it selfish to ask for something for Christmas? Should I have walked to school instead of requesting a ride? My friend asked me to take a theater class with her, but I declined because of stage fright—was that wrong? Was I a terrible person, or was I just sixteen?

I can’t imagine that other people are perfect. In fact, I’ve met many others who seem to genuinely enjoy causing problems. Does that mean I’m better than them, that I’m good, or that everyone is just bad?

I haven’t questioned my nature like this before. When Aris was in me, it was clear that he was what was foul and chaotic and messy, while I was the good human, the moral compass. Now I’m thinking that maybe it was never that black and white.

Henry is by the entrance of the store, staring to the side as if deep in thought. For a moment, I think I’ll have to call out to him, but his head snaps in my direction whip-quick, and his blank, dazed expression is abandoned with a smile.

When he walks over, Henry immediately tells that something is wrong, and he opens his mouth to ask, only to shut it a second later. The atmosphere becomes tense as I wait for him to say what he wants to, but he never does.

Finally, he clicks his tongue, grin now strained. “Well, let’s get this all bagged up, why don’t we?” Henry says.

I don’t say anything, only dutifully follow behind him as he packs and carries most of the cart. The only thing I end up holding is my comforter set and trash can, which wouldn’t fit in Henry’s arms.

Henry stays a step in front of me as we walk back, muscles flexing under the strain of the weight. I’d normally sneak a peek at his biceps, but I don’t have it in me. All I can think of is the book buried at the bottom of one of those bags.

Did my dad feel the same way as my mom? I remember him as more affectionate, and she said that he fought not to give me up for adoption. Did he love me, still love me? How did he feel when Mom wrote that book? Does he think I’m evil, too?

I wonder if, all of the times I’ve thought of them and missed them, if they were thinking of me, too. Thinking about how much they despised me.

It hardly feels fair. I didn’t do anything wrong. Am I not also a victim?

When Henry stops outside of my room, I’m so distracted that I keep walking down the hall. It’s only the call of my name that brings me out of my trance.

“Sorry,” I murmur and double back to open the door for him.

He follows me inside, setting the heavy bags down. “Are you all right?” The look on his face is, again, patient.

I don’t like lying; I’m not good at it. Still, I can’t bring myself to say anything. If I tell him that I’m hurting, he’ll ask why, and then I’ll have to explain that my mother wrote a book about me being the Antichrist. Beyond not wanting to admit it, how embarrassing would that be?

“I’m tired,” I say, which is half true. My body is tired; my mind is wide awake. “And I have a lot to set up here.”

“You want me to leave?” he asks.

It’s a straightforward question. Not much wiggle room. I sigh and nod, feeling mean. No one exactly likes to be told to go away. “Is that okay?”

“It’s perfectly fine. Don’t worry,” he says softly, giving me the nerve to look at his face. Immediately, the friendliness there reassures me; he clearly isn’t angry.

That’s one less thing to obsess about, at least.

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