Page 52 of Crawl
With that, Remedy’s shoulders slump and she looks away from me. She feels guilty. Sleeping with me. Her sworn enemy. And enjoying it. Logically, I understand what she’s feeling and why. But instinctually, the guilt makes little sense. She can’t help that she has feelings for me. Why hold back when you know what you want?
I narrow my eyes on her. I know what I’m supposed to want. And yet, I can’t seem to make myself do anything about it.
“Whatever you need,” I say calmly. Relief flickers through her body, her shoulders sagging with those words even more.
“It’s her birthday soon,” she explains.
“What about your birthday?”
She pauses, pulling inside of herself. And there it is—her arms clutching her chest like she’ll never be warm or safe again. But then her hands find her sides, and she stretches her fingers open, one by one, forcing herself to be brave. To confront those memories. I know what that’s like. Shoving it down. Feeling like you can’t control your life. Not until they’re in the ground.
“It’s been a while since I’ve celebrated it,” she says.
“Why’s that?”
Her eyes flicker around the room. “When I was nine, my stepdad had this custom dress made for me. It was gorgeous. All these different shades of pink. Frills and ruffles. Shiny. Sequins. Sparkles everywhere. They got on everything too. I used to love the color pink.” She laughs to herself, and I smile. Seeing as how she only wears black or white or gray, it’s amusing to think of her in pink. And sad. The color must have a lot of memories attached to it.
“Anyway, I loved the dress,” she continues, “but he wanted to see me in it, and he said I had to put it on in front of him. Said that he needed to help me zip it up in the back. That kind of thing.” She glances away. If she was nine, why did she need him to help put on her dress? Why couldn’t she ask her mother for help? “He was always so nice. Bought me nice things. Had these reasons he did everything, even when he touched me.” She presses her lips together, holding back her shivering chin, and her eyes flutter to the floor. “He never hurt me, you know?”
She says those words like she’s not sure if he’s done anything wrong. Everything shifts inside of me. She might believe it, but Idon’t.Not for a second. He may not have physically hurt her, but he broke her emotionally. And now, she doesn’t trust men. The only reason she trusts me is that I’m so damn brutal and warped that she has no choicebutto trust me. She always knowsexactlywhere she stands with me. It’s a curse, but it also comforts her.
And at least I can give her that.
“After that, we celebrated, but it was never the same,” she says. He must have abused her for years, then. “I always felt trapped. Because no matter what I said, he always got what he wanted. And I swear, he even had my stepbrother in on it. Brody hurt me if I evensuggestedhis dad did anything. And so I hid. Locked my doors. Kept my blinds shut. Because at least then, I’d know when he was coming, you know? And I didn’t really date until I met Dean. And even then, it was short-lived. He didn’t know me, because how could he? I couldn’t put that on his shoulders.” I ball my fists, ready to make her stepdad and stepbrother into roadkill. “For a while, I thought it was my fault that he touched me.”
I can’t stop myself anymore.
“It was never your fault,” I say. “Your stepdad and stepbrother were supposed to protect you.”
“But I didn’t fight it. I didn’t tell my stepdad to stop.”
And then it surfaces—years of silence when I was growing up. Using those lack of words as a way to protect myself. Only speaking up when I knew I could win.
“You were a child, Remedy,” I growl. “A fucking child. He was the adult. Why would you have told him to stop?”
“I don’t know. But I didn’t do anything.”
She quivers like she’s close to tears, and I want to tell her everything. That my parents abandoned me when I was an infant. That two addicts left their baby in a garbage can on the beach. That I had been beaten and abused and neglected on and off for years, being shoved from one house to another. I want to tell her that in the beginning, I tried to be good, but no matter what method I used, the results were always the same. I want to tell her I understand where she’s coming from. I know what it’s like to be completely powerless underneath the fucked up pieces of shit who are supposed to take care of you. That I know exactly how to restore her power.
But I don’t say any of that. This isn’t about me. She needs to believe that it isn’t her fault.
“You did nothing wrong,” I say again, my voice stern.
She grins to herself like she’s already made up her mind. As if nothing is wrong.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night,” she says carefully. “I do wish I could kill him. I’ve imagined his death for years now. Sometimes it’s creative,” she forces a nervous chuckle, probably ashamed that she’s actually admitting this out loud, “but mostly, it’s just a knife. I can always get one in the kitchen.”
And for that, I smile. I remember my first kill with a kitchen knife, and I remember when Remedy tried to attack me with one.
“Do you know how hard it is for me to be alone with a man?” she continues. “Or how I wish I could have normal sex and enjoy it? I’ve tried. I’ve tried so many times, but I’m just numb.” Her jaw tenses and her fingernails dig into her sides. “I can’t enjoy softness anymore. It makes me feel like I’m trapped, even though he’s hundreds of miles away. Even though I know I’ll probably never see him again.” She lets out a long breath, then stares down at her feet. “Maybe if I killed him, I wouldn’t feel so trapped.” She laughs, her tone skittering and anxious, like a butterfly trapped in a net. “I sound terrible.”
How do I tell her that I’ve killed more people than I’ve loved? That watching someone’s life leave their body is more familiar to me than believing in a person’s smile? That seeing her mouth twist in delicious agony for the first time is when I realized that she may actually understand everything?
“You don’t sound terrible,” I say. She perks up, confused and intrigued. “Humans are animals. We have primal instincts. And sometimes, that means murder. It doesn’t make you any less human. In fact,” I press my teeth together, baring my canines, “it makes youreal.”
She nods, but my words aren’t enough for me. I have to do something. I want her to be free to live her life. To do what she wants. To never think twice about what’s right or wrong again.
“How would you do it?” I ask.
