Page 69 of Her Dark Lies
And you’d be wrong, on so many levels. Do you understand what love really is? Do you?
Love is simply a word we use to explain the biochemical nature of species propagation. It’s something we use to justify the base desire to experience pleasure with another person when in fact it’s just about making procreation more palatable. We say we’re in love, but what we really mean is we want to connect so we don’t feel so alone, and in so doing, create stronger familial constructs that allow us to fend off other familial constructs who want to take what we have.
Love is code for the powerful urge to survive among predators.
No, I’m not in love with her.
I’m in hate with her.
I’m in hate with him.
It is intoxicating, this hatred. It has taken all my time, all of my ferocious attention. All of my abilities to stay hidden, the spider in the corner no one notices. It feeds me, this hatred, and I bloat on it; I grow, and I grow, and I grow.
They’ve blithely gone on living while I was forced to be dead. I’ve lived this way against my will for a decade and I will not do it any longer.
I will not.
My God, are you not listening?
Wake the fuck up.
41
And Then She Dies
When brunch finally ends, we are decidedly tipsy. Our guests peel off for an afternoon on their own, which, for most of them, considering the rain, will probably mean hanging out playing billiards or drinking some more. It’s such a shame they’ve come all this way to have a fun Italian vacation and it’s pouring.
Harper goes with the Comptons to do the interview. Katie says she’s feeling inspired and wants to write some lyrics and will come help me get ready for the rehearsal later. Mom and Brian head off on a tour of the house. Jack suggests a siesta back in our rooms, which sounds like fun to me. I’m ready for some time alone after all the interaction. A natural extrovert I am not.
It’s raining hard, and the hallways are dark. He has to use the flashlight on his phone so I don’t trip. When we get to our rooms, they are dark, too.
“Have the generators stopped working?”
“The majority of their power is for the common areas and the kitchens, to keep the food and stuff cold. It won’t light up the private spaces unless it’s necessary. There have been plenty of dark days and nights in this place since it was built. Let’s find a candle. There should be some in the drawer, here.”
He digs around in the night table and pulls out a thick white candle and a pack of matches.
“That almost sounds like you enjoy this, Mr. Compton.”
“Being alone in the dark with my bride? I do. It’s even more romantic with candlelight.”
The match strikes with a sulfurouswhssst, and he sets the flame to the wick. The shadows in the room begin to dance, strobed every few minutes by flashes from outside.
He fits his mouth to mine, and things are progressing quite nicely when banging starts on the door, a hand rattling the knob.
“So much for alone time,” Jack grumbles. “Who is it?”
“Jack? Is Claire with you? And Harper? We can’t find anyone, and the lights are still out in our room.”
It is my mother.
With a small vocal groan that matches my internal sigh, Jack slides off the bed and makes his way to the door.
Framed by the bleeding black silence of the dark hallway, her face pale and ghostly in the storm light, it’s clear something is off. My mom’s coppery hair is in disarray, her white shirt smudged with black on the left shoulder. Her eyes are bright and hectic, not entirely focused.
I don’t know how long we’ve been apart, less than an hour, but in that time, she’s managed to get very, very drunk.
“Well hey, you two.” The words run together in a slurred Southern drawl:wallhayewetew. “Goodness, Jack, this storm is terrible. Such a beautiful house. A little dark and creepy without the lights. Claire, where have you been? Have you seen Harper? I can’t find her anywhere. I’ve been looking and looking—”
