Killing Adonis by J M Donellan

Author:J M Donellan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press, Inc.
Published: 2016-11-03T04:00:00+00:00

17

Dr Moo

***

“Sooner or later, you’re going to have to share a few of those skeletons in your closet with me,” says Freya. “You can only play the mysterious, tortured artist for so long before it gets annoying.”

It’s bright outside. She shields the sun from her eyes with her hand and looks out at the light bouncing off the river. Somewhere on the other side of the world, oil is dancing with water.

“Take a look at that log in your own eye before you start commenting on my twig.”

“Meaning?”

He nods towards her wrists.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll come clean, but only if you go first.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Come on, blue eyes. There must be a story there you aren’t telling me.”

“Ah. I was wondering when you’d ask about my eyes. Or the bruises. Or both.”

“So, what are you? Shapeshifter or a garden-variety werewolf?”

“Nothing quite so glamorous. Quite the opposite, in fact. It’s a condition called Osteogenesis Imperfecta.”

“OI? Brittle bone syndrome?” says Freya, conjuring up her old textbooks’ images of stunted, fragile figures wrapped in elaborate casts and bandages.

“In the common tongue, yes. Type 1, to be specific, although I haven’t got it as bad as some. A little spine curvature, these weird eyes, my hearing’s fading prematurely, but mostly I’m just a very fragile little creature. I bruise easily and my bones are like cardboard. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had to avoid anything physically risky, like skateboarding, jumping castles, bicycles. You know, mostly the fun stuff. Throughout my childhood, Lord and Lady Vincetti insisted I kept to a strict regime of housebound pastimes. I had a home tutor for education and a revolving cast of nannies to clothe and feed me, although none lasted long under Evelyn’s manicured iron fist. Basically I was a lonely, isolated kid who spent his spare time with his nose buried in books.”

“And you grew up to be a writer, that’s so—”

“Trite? Hackneyed? Clichéd?”

“I was going to say poetic, but sure, if you want to get all self-pitying on me.”

“Like I keep saying, I’m not used to keeping sane company. It wasn’t easy watching Elijah shove his relentless pleasure-seeking into my face all the time. His top grades, ski trips, overseas holidays. He’d come back from weeks away in Vienna or Paris or Costa Rica, toss some tasteless five-dollar souvenir in my lap to twist the knife and then run off to whatever new adventure awaited him. When we got a little older, he started bringing home a procession of impossibly beautiful girls. He’d knock on my door and announce, ‘This is Crystal’ or ‘Marian’ or ‘Katrina,’ or whatever the fuck their names were in virtually the same tone he’d use to announce purchasing a new pair of shoes. Meanwhile, I hardly got to leave the house save for the odd specialist’s appointment. At one point, I developed a vitamin D deficiency and ended up looking like Gollum. Of course, my life’s not so horrible; it’s not as though I have some terminal degenerative disease, I’ve just developed a rather potent fear and distaste for the outside world.

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