We are Wormwood by Christian Autumn

Author:Christian, Autumn [Christian, Autumn]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2013-07-29T00:00:00+00:00

Part Six: Machine Like a Baby’s Fist

Chapter Twenty-One

I LURCHED AWAKE IN a cold bath, naked and numb, unable to even scream. I pulled myself out of the tub and onto the tiles. For several long seconds I felt I couldn’t breathe, my hair wrapped like a fist in my mouth. I crawled across the floor and ripped a towel off the rack to cover myself.

Saint Peter and Genie sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea in the dark. I knew it had been dark for a long time.

Saint Peter ran toward me. She smoothed my wet hair, touched my face, felt my heart.

“Oh god. Lily.”

“Why was I in the tub?”

“Do you remember last night?” she asked.

“I don’t remember anything. I’m freezing.”

“You wouldn’t wake up. No matter what we did.”

“You just left me in there?” I asked. “My head feels like a goddamn cathedral bell. Everything hurts.”

“You should go to bed,” Saint Peter said.

But I couldn’t sleep, because, maybe next time, I would wake up in the center of a frozen lake, or in a black tar pit. I popped the last of my aspirin. The water heater didn’t work, so I took a cold shower. My razor was too dull for me to shave and the tiny bar of soap disintegrated between my fingers.

I thought of how many people must die each year from slipping in the shower. Probably thousands.

I couldn’t find a brush, but at least the hair dryer still worked. I ran my fingers through my hair, trying to untangle the knots. My head kept throbbing despite the aspirin.

I threw on ragged, dirty clothes. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d done laundry. We ran out of detergent a long time ago. I just took a shower, but I already smelled like sweat and grass. I curled my feet against the cold tiles, and they cracked. I stretched, and the bones in my back cracked. Nausea hit me. I ran to the toilet to vomit, but there was nothing in my stomach. I gagged and gagged.

I emerged from the bathroom again to find the sun had risen. It seemed like it’d been months since sunlight filtered through the house.

Saint Peter threw her cardigan over my shoulders because I couldn’t stop clenching my teeth with cold. I sat at the table, cross-legged, tucking my blue feet underneath me. Genie stood at the kitchen countertop. The black dogs lay around her feet.

“Why does my head hurt so bad?” I asked.

“You really don’t remember what happened?” Saint Peter said.

Something moved in my periphery.

Three dirty-faced, tall boys stood in the entryway. I hadn’t even heard the front door open, or footsteps sound through the house. Their eyes darted around the room, refusing to make eye contact. Their fingers twitched with involuntary spasms. I couldn’t distinguish one from the other and I recognized none of them.

“You said you had a fourth,” one said after a long pause.

“Oh,” I said. “Oh. You’re talking to me.”

I darted out of the kitchen and grabbed the weed stashed in my bedroom.

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