Page 7 of Only a Monster

Joan sat heavily on her bed. Her first terrible instinct was to put her arms over her head and block everything out. This couldn’t be real. She couldn’t bear it to be.

Gran had said that Joan had stolen time from Mr Solt, that he was going to die earlier than he would have because of her. But that couldn’t be true. Joan wouldn’t hurt him. She never would.

And the rest of it was . . . just impossible.

But the alarm clock said one fifteen a.m. That was real. And Joan had left for the café not an hour ago. That was real too.

Monsters. Joan’s family had always called themselves that. Why hadn’t Joan ever asked why?

She watched the alarm clock blink. The minutes ticked over at the same speed they always did. One forty-five a.m. Two thirty a.m. It felt unnatural to be this wide awake so deep into the night. It felt like being jet-lagged.

And that thought brought memories with it. Like how Ruth sometimes seemed hyper and then an hour later exhausted enough to fall into bed and sleep all night. Like how Bertie could change outfits five times in a day.

Ruth and Bertie . . . If this was true, then they’d known all along. They’d stolen life from people. He’ll die half a day earlier than he was supposed to, Gran had said about Mr Solt. Gran hadn’t even seemed to care. Like she really was a monster. The thought was unbearable.

Six thirty a.m. Seven thirty a.m. Sometime after that, Joan must have fallen asleep.

She dreamed that she was outside the café again with Mr Solt. Only this time, when he pushed her, she turned and put her hands around his neck and squeezed. He choked and struggled, but as big as he was, she was somehow stronger than him this time.

And then, like a flicked switch, day turned into night.

Mr Solt’s voice came out of the darkness. You’re a monster.

Joan woke up with a start. The curtains were open, and the sky outside was startlingly white. Joan reached up to cup her own neck, and felt the fragile flex of it when she swallowed. What kind of a dream was that? What kind of a person would have a dream like that?

Downstairs, in the kitchen, Ruth was eating toast with Marmite. The kitchen clock said three thirty. Joan couldn’t make sense of it. Ruth was eating breakfast. It was bright outside. The clock said three thirty. Those things didn’t go together. And then her sense of time abruptly reoriented: three thirty in the afternoon.

Ruth looked up. ‘Hey!’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you didn’t wake me up when you got home! Tell me about your date with the hot nerd! Tell me everything.’ She sounded so normal that Joan felt another swoop of disorientation. ‘Was it amazing?’ Ruth said. ‘Did you . . .’ She pursed her lips in an exaggerated kiss.

‘I missed it,’ Joan heard herself say.

‘You missed it?’ Ruth’s amusement faded. ‘You missed your date? What do you mean? You were so excited.’

Joan stared at her. Ruth’s hair was all teased up. Her jacket had big shoulder pads, and her makeup was a little smeared. She looked like she’d just come home from a 1980s costume party.

Or from the 1980s.

‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ Joan said slowly.

Ruth was starting to frown. ‘What’s true?’

‘We’re monsters,’ Joan said. ‘Real monsters. Our family steals life from humans.’

Joan couldn’t look away from Ruth’s familiar face. She’d known Ruth her whole life—since before she could talk. Sometimes, in the summers, they’d shared a room. She’d argued with Ruth over stupid things, and made up with her again. Stayed up with her all night, talking about everything. Joan’s throat felt chokingly tight. Laugh, she thought to Ruth. Please. Or be confused. Or deny it. Tell me I’ve lost it completely.

Please, Ruth. Please. Tell me it isn’t true.

Ruth opened her mouth and closed it, as if she wasn’t sure what to say. It was strange to see her looking so uncertain. She was usually so confident about everything. ‘Someone told you?’ she said finally.

Horror settled in the pit of Joan’s stomach. It was true. What Gran had said last night was true. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she blurted.

The colour was leaving Ruth’s face. ‘Joan . . .’

‘You’ve been stealing life from people?’ Joan said. ‘Gran has? Bertie has?’ The whole Hunt family. Joan’s stomach gurgled like she might be sick. ‘Ruth, that’s so wrong! That’s really wrong! That’s evil!’ A horrible thought struck her. ‘Did you ever steal life from my dad? From me?’

Ruth looked shocked. ‘Of course not. How could you think that?’

Joan backed into the hallway. Her stomach lurched. She really was going to be sick.

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