Page 7 of The Phantom's Vice

CHAPTER FIVE

GHOST

The Code: Rule #9

You cannot trust anyone—not even your blood.

30 years ago…

“Momma?”I whimper, holding up the boo-boo for her to look at. Thick, sticky red liquid pours from my hand down my arm, but it doesn’t hurt. I’m worried because I know she’ll be mad if I spill on the carpet again.

Momma pulls the glass pipe from her thin lips, fixing me with hazy blue eyes. “Are you fucking serious, Boy?” she scoffs. “What the hell did you do to yourself now?”

I use my good hand to point towardthe corner of the room. A pair of scissors lie on the floor in a puddle of the same sticky stuff coming from my hand. With despair, I realize some of it has even gotten on Momma’s present.

Forgetting about my hand, I rush back over, tracking red spots across the carpet in my haste to save the gift. When Daddy was still here, he would give Momma presents, and it always made her happy. I wanted to do it too. Wanted her to smile at me the way she would before he left.

I grab the flowers in my good hand and run back to Momma, a big smile spreading my pudgy cheeks.

“Here!” I cheer, presenting the bundle of wildflowers wrapped in twine to her proudly. “I made this for you!”

Momma looks down her nose with a scowl, jerking away from the present I worked so hard to make her. “You got blood on them. They’re ruined.”

My heart sinks, and my hand falls to my side. “I’m sorry, Momma. I didn’t mean to?—-”

“Yeah, you never mean to.” She interrupts, sighing as she places her pipe on the greasy coffee table. “Come on, Boy. Let’s stop the bleeding before you fuck up my carpet anymore.”

I follow Momma into the kitchen, feeling a horrible tightness in my chest.

I just wanted to do something nice for her.

She presses a rag to my hand, not bothering to be gentle. Tears well in my eyes, though it's not from pain. I don’t mean to hurt myself. I just can’t help it. I don’t even realize it’s happened until I see that awful red stuff. That awful, awful red that ruins Momma’s carpet.

“I’m sorry I’m no good, Momma,” I whisper, the tears falling freely down my dirt-stained cheeks. I want to be good.

“It’s in your genes, Boy. You can’t help it. Oh, stop that—crying won’t fix it.” She sucks her teeth, checking to make sure the blood is quelled before pulling away from me. “There. All better.”

I look down at my hand, caked with dried red and dirt. There’s a deep gash allowing me to see inside myself, and I pull the skin apart curiously, poking at the squishy pink and yellow stuff deep in my palm.

“Oh my God! Stop that!” Momma screeches, her face white as she watches my curiosity unfold.

“What’s wrong, Momma?” I ask, pulling my head up to her with my finger still deep inside the gash. “What did I do?”

“Just… stop being so fucking weird,” she grumbles, yanking my hand away from the gash with a disgusted expression. “No wonder your father left. I seriously can’t with you… I need to smoke.” She stumbles off toward the couch, leaving me without so much as a look over her shoulder.

I sit on the counter, inspecting the wound closely now that Momma won’t get mad. I just want to see what’s inside. I have to know what causes that sticky red stuff to flow.

A few minutes later, my inspection is interrupted by a knock on the front door.

“Boy! Get the door!”

I jump off the countertop, hearing—rather than feeling—something pop as I hit the ground. I look down at my legs, and notice my left ankle is sitting strangely off-center, growing in size, and purple. When I put weight on it, it crumples beneath me, and my brows come together in a frown.

That’s never happened before.

Shrugging, I hobble toward the front door, being careful not to put my full weight on my left side. I wrap my bad hand around the doorknob before I remember, and I cringe as more red stuff stains the handle.

Momma’s not going to like that.

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