Page 35 of Property of Necro
Aw.
Today, he brought me a flower.
A red rose sticks out of the top of an old Dr. Pepper bottle filled with water. The mini fridge Necro has behind his desk is full of the sugary stuff. It’s one of the few things I’ve seen him drink. Well, sip. Due to his mask, he sips it through a straw that he feeds through the bottom of his mask. I always wondered how he managed to drink with it on. After a few days of observing him in the wild, I now know. I pick up on the little things. Like how he only ever eats in here. Every meal. Alone. Even though I’m pretty sure Rot and Coffin have seen Necro without his mask a time or two, he still keeps to himself. The fact that he allows me to take up space in his office, even if it’s the furthest corner, is unexpected. But it’s peaceful here, so I have no reason to complain.
Sliding into the buttery leather, I tug the black throw blanket off the back and drape it over my lap. Reaching out to the small end table beside my chair, I finger the silky flower petals and smile privately to myself, head down so Necro can’t see. Not that he’s looking. I’d pick up the bottle and smell the rose if it wouldn't draw attention. But I won’t because I worry it'll disappear once I acknowledge something exists. That happens sometimes. It did with my mom, my uncle, and Ted. Once someone knows you appreciate anything, they use it against you. That’s why I rarely say thank you aloud. In my head, I do—every time.
Even though I may not like being here, I hate sleeping in a casket, and I often feel adrift, Rot and Necro are tryingto make me feel welcome. I think. The last thing I want to do is rock the boat by making anyone uncomfortable with my outward appreciation. So I keep that to myself and enjoy the little tidbits of kindness as they come.
As for Coffin, he hasn’t returned. The others who left were only gone for a couple of days. I haven’t asked when or if he’ll be back, but I sense something’s off.
Snatching a fresh book from the stack on the floor, I snuggle into my chair and happily fall into a wild, fictional world. It transports me back to my childhood, the happier parts, when my first-grade teacher took pity on me, the girl who didn’t know how to read. She spent three lunches a week with me in her classroom throughout the entire year, to catch me up with the other kids, knowing my mother wouldn’t help.
I owe my love for reading to her. She opened my eyes and my mind to thousands of worlds. They were the perfect escape—to pretend I was Alice during her adventures in Wonderland when I was starving, to the very hungry caterpillar that got to eat things I only dreamed of when the men visited my bed. Even though my education ended when I moved in with my uncle, and he pretended I was homeschooled to appease the state, I still had books. As cheesy as it may sound, they’re my only forever friends.
For hours, I soak in the words. Everything around me fades out, and I’m there, swooning over Gatsby until a thick laugh penetrates my consciousness.
Blinking at the blur of words on the page, I blink again to focus and look up at Rot's handsome face, smiling like a hot boy as he runs a hand almost shyly through his dark,Hollywood hair. “Another good story, Red?” he teases, handing me the strip of ripped paper I use as a bookmark.
“I’m easy to please.” I wink and place the paper in the crease before shutting my book and resting it on my end table to pick up tomorrow. With no real job looming and our days playing out much the same, I’ve read more in the last fourteen days than I have in years. Possibly ever. For now, it’s great. But I can’t see this as a long-term solution. I’m bound to get bored eventually. They can’t lock me in Necro’s office forever so he can play babysitter. I know that’s what they’re doing. It keeps me from wandering the halls unattended, and it’s better than being locked in a cold cellar all day or, worse, stuck in a casket until they let me out.
Rot pulls the blanket off my lap, and as I get up to spend the next part of my day with him, he drapes it over the back of the chair.
To be polite, I wave goodbye to Necro like I do every day. Again, he doesn’t acknowledge my existence as I hook my arm through Rot’s and exit into the hallway.
One of these days, he’ll notice me. I don’t know when. I don’t know how. But I’ll be more than a hole to fuck and an annoyance to babysit.
Happy to see me, Rot chats my ear off as we fall in step to his bedroom, where we fuck and cuddle ‘til dinner time. Mostly, I listen. To him. His stories. Stuff about the club.
For supper, I sit on my blanket on the floor, my spine against the leg of the table. Necro’s warm leg is a constant presence against my side as he sits at the head, just as he does every night, observing more than talking.
Mama sneaks me a thick, butter-slathered piece ofbread from his plate as I’ve already finished mine. Smiling up at him, I snatch the gift and nibble the slice like I didn’t just eat five already. Bread is life. I don’t mean that in the biblical sense of the flesh of Christ or however that goes. What I mean is that making bread with your hands and eating it straight out of the oven is life-changing. Something I wouldn’t have ever learned had I not agreed to come here.
When dinner is through, I spend what little time I have left of the evening sitting in a pew in the chapel, staring at the wall of skulls behind the altar, wondering what’s next for me. It’s been weeks since I’ve felt the sun on my face or sat in an actual chair to eat. The stool in the kitchen doesn’t count. Nobody speaks to me besides Mama and Rot. Necro doesn’t even try.
After the finger incident, all the men give me a wide berth to the point they stare at their feet when they pass by, like even looking at me is wrong. I don’t know if that’s their own doing or if an order was passed down from one of the higher-ranked brothers. It’s not like I can ask.
Sighing quietly to myself, I will the ache growing like a cancer in the center of my chest to go the hell away. The lonely piece of me sparks to life at night more than any other part of the day. Time with Mama, Rot, or even living in my fictional worlds is a fantastic distraction. Until the quiet hours before Necro puts me to bed forces me to reflect. Dealing with real-life emotions isn’t all that appealing when fantasy is far more pleasant than reality.
The first few nights in the casket, I fought Necro like before, vowing to burn his world to ash when he locked me up. The bruises around my neck got worse, to the point Icould barely talk, thanks to all the swelling. By day six, I gave up the fight. Now I wait here, or in Rot’s room, for Necro to finish whatever he does and escort me to bed for the night.
Done in the kitchen, Mama slides into the pew beside me and sets a purple bundle of softness on my bare lap.
He jerks his chin at the gift as I unfold the bundle and drape it across the back of the pew in front of me. “For you.”
The ickiest emotions swirl in my gut as my nose begins to burn with the awful need to cry. I swallow the sudden lump in my throat, running my fingers over the softest blanket I’ve ever seen. It’s the perfect shade of purple—medium, not light, but not dark. It’s my favorite color. How did he know?
Watching my reaction, not saying a thing, or calling me out for the water that seems to have found its way into my eye sockets, he drops a matching purple set of …
Are those?
A broken laugh escapes me. “Are these crocheted slipper Crocs?” My voice wobbles as I drag the back of my hand across my eyes to catch any falling water.
Mama gestures to them. “Try ‘em on. I think I got them right.”
Not needing to be told twice, I slip them on my feet, stand to test their size, and squeal as warmth and the softest of soft cradles my toes for the first time in weeks. Without thinking, I throw my arms around Mama’s thick neck in gratitude. Crocs are my favorite shoes. I know I’m not supposed to wear anything on my feet, but maybe, justmaybe, Necro will let me keep these, since they’re made of fabric.
Huffing out a surprised laugh, Mama pats my back. “You’re welcome, Sola.”
