Page 7 of Where Dark Hearts Devour
T.
Blood thumps through my temples.
Her brows knit as she looks at him. “I’m fine, Brett,” she slurs.
The bartender flushes pink. “It’s actually Rhett, but, you know, phonetically, it’s about the same.”
She staggers to a stool, and he finally releases her.
I exhale slowly and uncurl my fists. I didn’t know I’d clenched them, but I can feel crescent-shaped indentations in my palms.
I unbutton the collar of my shirt and look around at the clientele. It surprises me how few people I recognize. All day I’ve been looking for something—anything—that might suggest the opposite of what I know to be true. That my father hasn’t just died. That I’m returning to a place untouched by his absence. But all that’s become clear while sitting in Joe’s is that whetherour loved ones are dead or alive, the world keeps on turning. And distractions in white dresses don’t help much.
I take one last look at her sitting on the barstool, the dim light casting her pretty features in a tragic shadow, making her all the more beautiful for it.
Then I head out into the darkness.
Trilby
Vomit rushes up my esophagus and splashes into the toilet bowl. I can feel a hand rubbing my shoulder blades, and another one holding the hair out of my face. I press the back of my wrist to my mouth before another retch brings up more fluid.
My head pounds all over again at the sight.
It’s blue.
“Ugh, Trilby. What were you drinking last night?”
I reach behind me and grasp my sister’s hand. After I’ve expelled every possible thing from my stomach, I slide from my ankles onto the floor.
Sera passes me a glass of water, then joins me on the tile, crossing her legs. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. It’s fuzzy—which, at this time of year, I’ve found is preferable to it being crystal clear.
Crystal clear means I remember.
Every. Vivid. Detail.
And I don’t want to, because it hurts.
Five years ago today, I sat in the back of my mother’s car and watched as she was brutally murdered right in front of me. Whoever said time is the greatest healer has never had to wash their dead mother’s blood off their face.
“I can’t imagine what it must be like,” Sera says softly, “reliving it over and over.”
I sip the water and feel the instant coolness soothe my throat.
I’m the eldest of four sisters, Sera being the second eldest. She’s only one year younger, so Mama’s murder affected her as much as it affected me. But for one thing, she wasn’t there when it happened, and for another, she doesn’t like to talk about it, preferring to bury her head in horoscopes and tarot cards instead.
Contessa was twelve when Mama died, and Bambalina was ten. Tess has grown into an angry teenager for whom black is the aesthetic of choice, disgust the mood du jour, and anarchy the weapon of justice. Bambi is still a child. A sweet, kindhearted, pony-mad girl who’s been raised and swaddled by three strong-willed sisters and a slightly unhinged aunt.
I sigh heavily. “I keep hoping the visions will fade as time goes by, but they don’t.”
Sera tips her head to one side. “Maybe when you finish school you should move somewhere new. Get a change of scene. It can’t be helpful to be around all these places and people constantly reminding you of Mama and what happened. I would miss you enormously, but if that’s what it takes to make the visions fade, I’d support you one thousand percent.”
“It’s a nice idea, but Papa won’t allow it,” I say with a resigned sigh.
“Talk to him, Trilby,” Sera says earnestly. “He knows what you went through—what you’re still going through. He might consider it. Even for just a few months.”
I shake my head.
