Page 28 of There is No Devil

Our madness aligns in all the right ways.

* * *

When we’ve pulledon our clothes again, I remind Mara, “A question for a question. I haven’t forgotten.”

Mara sighs. “You kept your word. I’ll keep mine.”

I take her hand, pulling her up from the sofa. Mara doesn’t flinch away from me—she loves when I touch her, even knowing of all the blood on these hands.

Her normal-meter is broken. She’s been around too many horrible people. She doesn’t know how brutal I truly am, how unredeemable.

Lucky for me, I suppose.

“Come up to the kitchen,” I say. “I can’t get you a unicorn, but I can damn sure make you an ice cream sundae.”

Mara follows me up to the main level. Despite me telling her exactly what I was going to do, she’s still delighted when I put down a giant bowl of vanilla ice cream in front of her, covered in chocolate syrup and mounds of whipped cream.

She’s always more surprised by kindness than by cruelty.

Mara takes a massive bite, eyes closed, letting the ice cream melt on her tongue before she swallows.

“I needed that,” she sighs. Then, setting down her spoon, “Alright. I’m ready. What do you want to know?”

I sit next to her at the counter, our knees almost touching.

Leaning forward, I say, “Tell me about Randall.”

* * *

Mara

Twelve Years Ago

Mad World – Gary Jules

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I’m walking home from school, slowly so that I won’t catch up to the group of girls in front of me, but not so slowly that Randall will be angry that I’m late.

Mandy Patterson is at the center of the pack like usual, impossible to miss with her long flow of ash-blonde hair, perfectly curled and tied with the kind of oversized cheerleader bow that has become such a trend at school.

I don’t have any bows.

I asked for one for my birthday. Randall and my mother got me a used violin instead. I have to take lessons with Mrs. Belchick every Tuesday and Thursday. Her house smells like rancid cooking oil, and I’m allergic to her budgies. My eyes swell up every time, and my fingers are so itchy that I can barely grip the bow. I’ve begged my mother not to make me go anymore, but this is my punishment for not practicing piano enough.

I fucked up bad at the recital.

I hate performing in public, hate everyone staring at me.

I had never played on that particular piano, and when I sat down on the bench in the awful silence of the auditorium, the glaring overhead lights reflecting off the glossy black Steinway, I was hit with the horrible realization that I wasn’t sure which key was middle C.

It sounds ridiculous after all the years I’ve played, but I always orient my hands relative to the chipped golden script on our own piano, which reads Bösendorfer across the fallboard, only missing the second “o.”

I stared at the keys, the seconds ticking past.

I could see my mother standing just offstage, already starting to pace in agitation, snapping her fingers at me to start.

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