Page 40 of Severance

“So you can shack up with some jobless lowlife and party your life away? You’re not well enough to go to the grocery store on your own, let alone handle a job and an apartment!”

Acid rises in my throat.

Mikah steps closer and grips my shoulder. “You didn’t have to hit her.” He sounds abnormally calm when he speaks to my father.

I stand there with my hands over my face, my scarred skin rough on my cheeks and my chin. I can feel every ridge, every little bump. My side vision catches the neighbors’ porch. They’re watching us like we’re Sunday night HBO, their jaws hanging open.

“Come on.” Ignoring my father’s threats, Mikah presses his palm against my back and nudges me in the direction of the truck.

I’m so dazed over the fact my father just smacked me that I blindly follow his lead and slide into the passenger seat—there’s no way I’m going home. My head still in my hands and my father’s voice striking inside my head like a hammer, I lower my gaze to the floor and notice the box with my toothbrush.

Mikah leans over to fish out my seatbelt, his long body stretching across me. I hear the click of the buckle and the engine roaring to life, and when I look up, I see my mother rushing out onto the porch, her features twisted with shock. She shouts my name and waves at us nervously as Mikah backs out of the driveway.

* * *

I’m not familiar with the neighborhood Mikah’s truck is taking us through. The sun, low on the horizon, flickers from behind the roofs of the bungalows we’re passing, and the narrow street twists like a snake, making my stomach queasy.

“You good?” Mikah asks, turning down the music a bit. It’s one of the earlier Type O Negative albums, which I don’t mind at all. On the contrary. Dakota used to play it for me and I loved it. The songs match my mood perfectly.

“Yes.” I nod and turn to look at Mikah. His eyes are set on the road and he has this apathetic expression on his face that saysI don’t give a shit, but I know it’s just a disguise. If he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have said anything to my father.

“What chapter are you on?” He throws a quick glance at me and I swear there’s a glint of genuine curiosity in his gaze.

That’s when I realize he’s talking about the book. “I’m almost done.”

“You’re the slowest reader I’ve ever met.” He chuckles.

“Well…” I say with a sigh. “It’s not the type of book I’d normally pick.”

“Well, you’re not the type of a girl who’d pick this book.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re aJane Eyretype girl.”

“Really? Stereotyping much?”

“I’m not stereotyping. You bake cupcakes for fun. You lovedJane Eyre.”

“So just because you’re a guy, you’re the only one who’s allowed to be into overly complex and incoherent horror books?”

“You probably enjoyedWuthering Heightstoo. Women dig that shit.”

“Are you done figuring me out?” I huff, crossing my arms on my chest.

Mikah’s tone softens and I wonder if he’s guessed why I decided to read a book I’d otherwise never pick. “Are you done figuringmeout?”

I ponder for a minute before confessing, “I want to understand your fascination with the undead.”

There’s a long pause. Then Mikah’s half-hysterical, half-amused laughter cuts through the music.

“What did I say?” I ask, looking at him.

“You know you’re fucking weird.” He shakes his head.

“How am I weird?”

“You tell me what you think when you finish the book, okay?” Mikah says a few moments later.

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