Page 63 of Grave Possession

Dread twists in my gut as I nervously stare at the door to Victoria’s place, sweat accumulating along my hairline. The urge to reach out to her has been an incessant nagging in my mind lately. I’ve been feeling a little better each day…lighter and less murderous. The decrease in self-hatred making way for the seeds of longing to take root and bloom at an alarming rate. I fucking miss my best friend—her laugh, her sarcasm, her bluntness, her rib-crushing hugs. Usually I can stuff those feelings down. I know it’s better for her if I stay away, I’m just a reminder of what happened to her. However, today it was impossible to ignore the fast eroding foundation of my friendship and the impulse to salvage whatever bits of it I can.

After stopping at the post office to pick up my mail, I sat in my car staring blankly at my phone, praying for it to ring and it be Victoria on the other end of the line. But since I don’t possess the power of mind control, it didn’t happen. I tried to build up enough courage to call hermyself, but failed. The fear of being ignored or hung up on held me back.

On the drive back home, I passed the turn off to where she’s living at Lennox’s house. I just turned the wheel without thinking, whipping a u-turn in the middle of the road. Earning myself an obscene gesture from the driver behind me. Now I’m sitting in my car, parked on the street, trying to channel my inner badass so I can approach the door. However, she must be taking a really deep sleep because I’m tremoring with anxiety.

Showing up at her house unannounced seemed like a good idea at first. Even if it was a snap decision I didn’t fully think through. I thought maybe my actual presence would make it harder for her to ignore me. Unfortunately, I think I was mistaken. I would much rather be hung up on than have the door slammed in my face after she tells me she hates me and never wants to see me again.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, I exit the vehicle. Walking on wobbly legs as jolts of anxiety zap through my body, I approach the door.

Knock. Knock.

I wait nervously, rocking back and forth on the soles of my boots. There’s muffled sounds coming from inside, but still no one comes to the door. I don’t know if Greyson is here or not, but I assumed since Nox went into work, Officer Smith would be there too.

My anxiety wars with the awkwardness of standing on a doorstep longer than necessary as sweat trails down the back of my neck. The cool September breeze sending a chill through my body.

Ding dong.

I ring the bell, ignoring the encroaching urge to turn and run from the situation.

“Go away, Mallory.” Victoria’s voice, muffled by the door between us, is stern. She means business. I open my mouth to object, apologize, or say anything at all, but no sound comes out. It’s like my brain knows better than my heart about when to shut up and when to dig my heels in.

Defeated, I turn to leave, walking down the pathway back to my car. My eyes sting, and the sidewalk blurs as I approach my car.Hold it together, Mal.Opening the door, I climb behind the wheel. I need to get the hell out of here before I break apart at the flimsily reconstructed seams.

After a short drive across town, I pull into the driveway, rounding the bend to the back of the house so the car can’t be seen from the road. I don’t know what I’m hoping to find by coming back here. I just need a place to be alone. It’s not that I’m hiding from Nox, I love him. But being around him makes it next to impossible to breathe, much less think. I get so hot and needy, I just want to ride his fat pierced dick into the sunset.

I have to work through this shit pile though, and I can’t when he’s always there, trying to help or support me. His mere presence lifts me up emotionally, I’ve realized it’s why I’m only confronted by Johnson in my sleep or triggered by something innocuous. I need to be alone, to work through things in my own way at a pace that’s good for me. I spent so much time caring and worrying for Nox after he was shot, I ignored everything I went through. Finally, things are quiet and stable enough that I can let myself feel.

I exit my little black car, moving through the longgrass covering the neglected backyard of my parent’s abandoned house. Memories assault me the second I unlock the door and swing it open. The cold tile of the kitchen floor rushing up to meet me as Dennis pushes me off a stool. My mother’s palm cracking off my cheek, leaving the hot sting of pain and embarrassment in its wake. Johnson’s raspy laugh rings in my ears as the sound of Victoria’s “Go away, Mallory,” echoes through the near barren house. Maybe coming here was a mistake. I feel the weight pressing down on me again, it constricts my chest with a burning sensation that prevents me from getting a full breath into my lungs.Let it out,my subconscious purrs.

When I moved out, I took some things with me: small appliances, cutlery, end tables, and other little things I could easily move in the Civic. But as I started to accumulate my own belongings, I returned my parent’s things to their house. At first, I didn’t want them to think I’d stolen all of their possessions because they took an impromptu vacation without telling me. But now… While I have no proof of their deaths, I am certain they’re gone.

My fingers wrap around the handle of the coffee carafe to my right. Trying to fight and suppress my urges to scream and lash out because of the mess my life has become. “Just throw it, nothing bad will happen.” I whisper to myself. “Maybe you’ll feel better. Like a physical manifestation of how you feel inside sort of thing.” I slide the coffee pot out of its spot on the maker, and whip it across the room. It collides with the grimy white tile backsplash behind the sink, exploding on contact, and sending tiny glass shards everywhere.

Nothing.

I feel nothing.

I don’t care that I just destroyed something that wasn’t even mine. I should feel bad, guilty, shameful, or fucking anything. But there’s nothing, and that fact undoes me like nothing I’ve ever known. What the fuck is wrong with me?

The coffee maker is swept off the counter, meeting its end beneath my boot. The toaster is next. I fling it across the small room and it crashes into the refrigerator, leaving a large dent in the metal.

Rage burns through me. I wouldn’t be like this if I had other parents, literally anyone else would’ve been better. Maybe my biological father could’ve saved me if he hadn’t abandoned my mother and I when she was pregnant. My life could’ve been different, possibly better, if he’d just stuck around long enough to see me and have that fatherly instinct kick in. More despair rips apart the fabric of my soul as I rain destruction down upon this horrible fucking house.

Blazing a path to my parents’ bedroom, I kick open the door. It swings fast, banging into the wall with enough force to leave a dent. A metal bat clatters to the wooden floor and rolls to my feet.It must have been propped up against the wall, and fallen from the force of the slamming door,I think to myself. Without another thought, I pick it up. A smile curves my lips as I move across the room, swinging the bat into the bedside lamp, sending its shattered remnants pelting into the adjacent wall. Bringing the bat down on the side table over and over again until it starts to break apart has the burning in my chest raging. I need anotheroutlet, this meaningless destruction isn’t helping. My mind wanders as the rise and fall of the bat slows. Maybe I should pick up a bottle of wine on the way home, it could help me forget, for a little while at least. However, the memory of having a girls night with Victoria at my house quickly deters me from the idea of alcohol. I know I’ll end up sobbing because of it. A new wave of hurt crashes over me because of my flitting thoughts, and I take it out on the table once more.

There has to be something else. I’m sure if I went to a doctor, I could get a prescription for some sort of pill that could help, but that could reflect poorly on Nox. I don’t want a rumour starting because I was prescribed antipsychotic meds or worse…a mandatory three day psych evaluation. A quick glance around my parents’ room has my gaze catching on the top of my mom’s dresser, which is covered in drug paraphernalia. Bongs, rolling papers, pipes, and other pot smoking devices I’d seen them use. I’ve never smoked weed, but do know it’s supposed to mellow you out. Could that help me feel better? More level and less tense? Could it make me forget about the evil I witnessed? The darkness I felt blooming inside myself? It’s worth a shot, I think. My parents had contacts for everything. If the reefer doesn’t help, I’m sure someone from that circle could scrounge up some pharmaceuticals for me without the rumour train barrelling all through town.

Lost in my thoughts again, the bat hangs at my side. The fractured pieces of the bedside table finally split apart, falling to the floor. The sound of multiple little thuds echo around the silent space, breaking through theheaving of my breath and thundering pulse in my ears. Dropping the bat, I pull apart the wood, throwing the pieces aside after inspecting them. It appears there was a hidden compartment in the back of the nightstand. With this being Dennis’s side of the bed, my interest is piqued.What were you hiding stepfather?

Kneeling down, I clear the debris, revealing a pile of paper scraps and three cell phones. The notes are all clearly drug related. Pick up and drop off times along with a location. No names, which is to be expected where illegal shit is concerned, I suppose. Two of the phones are older flip-phones, and completely useless since my outburst destroyed them. The last phone is in a hard protective case with a flip cover to shield the screen. Opening it has a piece of paper fluttering down into my lap. The phone is newer, but doesn’t turn on. Luckily, I have an old charging cable that should work for this one. Maybe I can find the number for one of Dennis’s friends who didn’t assault me, and get something to take the edge off.

Picking up the fragment of paper, I flip it over.

Bellamy

555-868-8936

Maybe I won’t have to wait for this phone to charge after all. Standing, I make my way back through the house to my car, leaving the wreckage forgotten behind me. I dial the number while I walk, raising the phone to my ear, and holding it in place with my shoulder as I lockthe back door. The deadbolt clicks into place as the ringing stops and a deep, gruff voice says, “Leave a message.” Even though the curt voice says to leave a message, the tone of the statement heavily impliesfuck off.

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