Page 23 of Together We Rot

Somewhere deep within the trees, my family is still searching for me. Wil doesn’t know the danger I’m in. She doesn’t know anything—

Wilhelmina.

Another emotion stirs inside me. Not anger, not fear, but the same guilt I felt back at the party. It seems like ages ago, but the flashing red numbers on her clock suggest it’s only been two hours.

I’ve never been in her room before.

It’s cramped, packed so tight with belongings that there’s hardly room to breathe. There’s a layer of dust over everything. Beneath me, the patchwork quilt is dingy and old. There are cobwebs in the corners and the lingering smell of ash.

My room is a crisp white with very few personal touches aside from my pinnings. All of my shirts and pants are folded neat in the drawers, steamed to get out the wrinkles. Here, she’s got clothes wadded everywhere. There’s some on the floor, some shoved haphazardly in drawers.

I fight the ache in my bones as I lift myself out of bed. She’s right. I need to change out of these clothes. But first, I’ve earned myself a shower. A real one.

Each step forward is a struggle. Sleep, my bones sing, return to the bed and sleep. I refuse to listen.

My limbs are no longer so weak that I can’t carry myself. In fact, a strange new energy propels me forward.

Don’t look at my shit. Don’t touch my shit. Wil’s voice buzzes in my skull. I shuffle from the bed to the bathroom, awkwardly dancing around all of her things.

The bathroom opens with a rusted groan. The lights take a moment to flicker on, but when they do, I smother a scream. The bedroom doesn’t hold a candle to the bathroom. Drawers swung out, piles upon piles of garbage lining the counters; half-empty bottles of shampoo, tipped over into permanent dried goo; shelves collapsing under the weight of all the contents crammed inside; hairbrushes, combs, curlers, an overflowing bin of trash.

I push through it all, grabbing what I hope to be a clean towel off the rack. More of her laundry has migrated in here from the other room. Mismatched socks and a belt that looks suspiciously like a snake in the corner.

The shower floor has a disturbing streak of rust that resembles black mold, but I force myself to step inside anyway. I crank the dial to scalding, but the faucet has other ideas. Ice water spews from the showerhead and it’s cold enough to throw me back a step. I grip the tile to keep from toppling over completely. With another gurgle, the water gradually transforms from torturous to bearable. By the time the temperature is finally what I want, I’m already shivering.

The burn is miraculous on my skin. I let it run down, drip off my hair and my brow to the floor. The bliss doesn’t last for long.

My life is over.

The realization hits me. I can’t go home again. Everything has changed. I need to get out of this town. My father said it himself: next time I sneak out, I’ll see the full extent of his wrath. Now that he knows I’m gone, there’s a countdown. Seconds ticking away to my last breath. When I become the rabbit in my father’s sermon.

The blood beneath my nails has darkened from red to black. My father’s hand had gripped my shoulder, and he’d beamed for the whole church to see. For one fleeting moment, I thought he might’ve been proud of me.

I don’t love him, he’d said. No hesitation. Elwood is a means to an end.

I fall to the grimy floor and cling tight to my bruised knees. The water rains over me, scalding hot to ice-cold. The tears racing down my cheeks blend seamlessly with the water, blurring together. I’m not sure how long I sit here crying with the pelt of ice on my back. It’s an eternity before I lift myself and fumble with the knob to shut it off.

I expect to freeze the second the air hits, but my whole body is burning up.

A splitting migraine shoots throughout my skull. Two knives stabbing through my temples. I massage it, but nothing is enough to drive it away. My mother would know what to do.

She’s got an entire arsenal of medicines at home, enough to blur away the slightest bit of discomfort. Wil’s got to have something, right?

I swing open the medicine cabinet, but there’s nothing tucked away aside from neglected combs, bobby pins, and a bottle of expired melatonin. I let it fall shut and stagger back.

The mirror shows a strange reflection. I see myself—rigid and frozen over, my body heavy like cement, eyes as wide as they’ll go. The pain only magnifies each time I move, growing and growing until I feel on the verge of passing out. Wings beat against my ribs. The sound of it travels to my skull, a cicada scream blocking out my thoughts.

My reflection burns in and out of focus. Back and forth like the hypnotic spin of a watch. It clears for a dizzying second and I spot a peel of dead skin on the bridge of my nose. I lean in, close enough to fog the glass, and I pull. The strip doesn’t end. I unravel myself piece by piece.

The colors spin and drain off my skin, replaced by a dewy, vivid green. My skull cracks, my already-sharp chin elongating into two pointed pincers. Eyes exploding out of my sockets, growing large and buggy with two inky-black pseudo pupils.

This isn’t real. This cannot be happening again. First the moth in the toilet and now this.

The whole room transforms with my thoughts, wallpaper bubbling and peeling, bugs scurrying out from the interior—writhing maggots, thick, milky-gray worms, fur-covered tarantulas. A garden full of squirming, buzzing insects.

I scream, jaw unhinging to let out a shriek that tears like a knife’s path up my throat. It doesn’t even sound human. My voice pitches. Higher and tighter until it’s no longer a voice but the smacking of a wet tongue and the clacking scrape of teeth. My humanity chips away, and all I’m doing is chirping. Screeching like an insect hiding in tall grass.

I fall. The ground is buzzing with beetles and the tile breaks to let the dirt in. Squirming roaches and ants that scurry up my legs in a thick black swarm. The vision breaks with the slam of the door.

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