Page 13 of Prohibited

“You’re mine, Evelyn,” he said simply. “To do with as I wish. To dispose of, how I wish. In the eyes of God and the law, you are mine.”

God, her stomach was starting to turn faster and faster. She began to choke, to heave. He let go of her at once like she was a filthy snake and she just managed to crawl over to the water closet and upend the contents of her stomach there.

“If there’s a brat in your dried up old womb, you will get rid of it,” he said behind her in a tone so cold that it sent goosebumps up her spine. “I don’t care if it’s mine or the cab driver’s. I want nothing else from you.” There was a pause, a shuffling that sounded like him putting the pistol back in his pocket. “Heed my warning, Evelyn. I am not bluffing.”

Then his shoes moved away. She waited, hunched over the toilet, fearful that they would come back. But he walked across the floor. The sound of the door opening. The sound of the door closing.

Evie sat, frozen on the cold white tile. The deepest frost radiated from the center of her, turning her body to rigid ice.

And then she started to cry. She stumbled to her feet and staggered out into the bedroom. All opulence and splendor, but to what end? She moved toward the bed and sank down on the edge of it, drawing the velveteen bedspread into her hands, crushing it between her fingers, sticky with tears and spit. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her reflection in the huge mirror of her dressing table. She turned her head slowly to see herself, pale and rumpled on the edge of the bed.

If there’s a brat in your dried up womb–

The final insult.

What else was there for her but this spiral of destruction? Everything she could have ever wanted had been taken from her.

She stared at herself in the mirror, a woman she didn’t recognize. She got to her feet and walked closer, every step more unsteady than the last.

Something started to cave inside of her while she looked in the mirror, skin still burning where the carpet had rubbed it away. A persistent throbbing etched its way across her scalp from where her hair had borne the weight of her body. She gritted her teeth together and hugged herself tightly.

What would Etian think of her now? No, God, she couldn’t think that. Wouldn’t think that. She tried so hard not to think about that these days, but the thought came at her like a swarm of hornets, stinging her on every surface of her being. Her fingers slipped over her face and blocked out the light. As if she could hide from the truth of all of it.

A faithless wife. An indolent, vapid woman. A murderer.

She should have been his wife. And there would have never been a more faithful one alive.

A sob ripped out of her throat. Another followed. And another. They rose in intensity until she was screaming hoarsely, gripping her hair.

She picked up the small jar of her night cream and threw it into the mirror. Glass shattered everywhere, but she barely noticed that glittering rain that scattered like dangerous sequins across the surface of the dressing table and the floor. She picked up the heavy silver brush and hurled it into the rest of the shards of glass hanging in the frame. She picked up her jewelry box and threw it across the room as hard she could. She picked up her hairpins and threw them, though they fluttered around her like feathers and denied her the cathartic violence shecraved. She seized her perfume bottle and pitched it. The little peacock her mother had given her as a gift erupted into fragments.

The room was starting to grow dark around the edges.

The adrenaline of the moment was starting to drain from her and it left a cold, wicked dread in its wake. She sank onto the edge of the bed and numbly began to strip off her blouse. The exhaustion from the hideous encounter with Linus and from days of being Walter Stanley’s prisoner, was settling over her like an enormous hand, pressing her down into the bed. She shrugged the silk down off of her shoulders and then felt the last of her energy leave her. She laid back and curled into herself, drawing the coverlet over her, not bothering to undress further or to crawl under the covers and orient herself properly.

Sleep, she hoped, would be merciful tonight.

Chapter six

Evie

She was dreaming. She knew she was dreaming because she was trying to explain to her neighbor, Mrs. Watson, why her front lawn was purple. It wasn’t a bad dream, just a bizarre one. At least it wasn’t one of those awful ones, one of those–

And then, like every night, it came. The sound of the bombs falling, whistling toward them. The men screaming. That man, the beautiful man with his leg blown open. Walter laughing. Hattie dying in her arms, bleeding out through the hole in her gut big enough to tuck a helmet into.

Then, she was opening a box, looking for medical supplies. Morphine. Syringes. Bandages. Blades and needles. If she could just find what she needed. She could save them both. She could save them all. But she opened another box, the lid squeaking, and found a hand bomb that someone had pulled the clip out of.

It detonated.

Evie sat up with a shriek, clutching at her face and her hair. Certain they had been blown away. Everything, blown away.

She was alone. In the dark.

Quiet.

Something had woken her. The squeaking. Was that from the dream? Or was that something in her bedroom?

The hair on the back of her neck stood up and she squinted hard, trying to see into the darkness. Someone had turned the lamps off.

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