Filed To Story: Pretty Poisoned Novel by Elle Mitchell
Then, I hear the sliding back door open, and when I look again, I’m alonejust me and the bloody knife on the floor. I slide down the wall and onto the cold tile.
I pick up the knife, examining it in the moonlight. I stabbed my booty callI would have killed him if I could have. I wanted to kill that fucking nurse who bled me, too.
Maybe he’s right. I run my tongue over the blade, licking it clean, moaning when I taste the warm, coppery liquid on my tongue. I close my eyes and let it sit there. I don’t swallow, I just kind of wait for it to dissipate. Maybe I am a freak.
Afterward, I clean the knife in the kitchen sink, first with soap and water and then with vodka before replacing it. Then, I look for more bloodstains on the tile, scrubbing them clean and disposing of the evidence.
And once I’m finished and it’s nearly midnight, I head upstairs, strip down, turn off the lights, and crawl into bed. When I roll onto my side, he’s there again, sitting in my chair in the back corner of the room with his arms crossed in front of him.
“You’re a problem, little monster,” he says. “You can’t run around stabbing frat boys.”
“Do you think he’s going to tell anyone?” I whisper. “Like the police?”
“No,” he says.
“It was nice for a minute, thoughbeing touched, feeling wanted. I’m so lonely.”
“Of course you are,” he says. “Things like you don’t belong in places like this. You’ll always be lonely here.”
It’s nothing I don’t know, but then again, how could it be?
“I’m not a thing.”
“You’re not quite a person, either, are you? What do you think is going to happen?” he continues. “You’re going to get a job, fall in love with someone normal, live in a neighborhood like this, and no one will notice what you are? Please.” He scoffs. “You’re going to snap again and wake up in a puddle of blood. Maybe it’ll even be your parents; my money’s on the sister.”
“I wish you were Luca,” I tell the thing in the chair before turning to face the wall. “I hate you.”
I bring the comforter to my mouth and bite down, stifling a sob.
“You’re not going to cry again, are you?” he asks.
I squeeze my eyes shut, refusing to answer.
“I’m not Luca. I’m not going to baby you.”
“Please?” I sniffle. “Please, will you hold me?”
“I thought I wasn’t real.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I tell him. “It still feels good.”
“No.”
I bring a pillow to my chest, wrap my arms around it, and squeeze tightly. I bury my face into the side of the pillow and pretend I’m not alone until I fall asleep.
Iwake early the following morning, something I got used to over the past three months. After I pull myself out of bed, I catch my reflection in the mirror and, with a heavy sigh, pull an old t-shirt from my drawer and throw it on over my tank top before heading downstairs.
I miss the clothes River bought for me. I wonder what happened to them.
“Hey, Mom,” I say, crossing the kitchen to the refrigerator.
“Hey, Teagan. There’s some croissants over here if you want one.”
I grab a take-out container with leftover egg rolls instead. “No thanks, I’ll just have these. Hey, Mom?”
“Yeah?”
“Before I left, I was supposed to interview to work with Austin.”
“Yeah, that’s not going to work,” Mom says. “I’ve already spoken to him; they won’t hire you now.”
“What if I can’t get a job anywhere?” I ask, remembering how the phantom mocked me. “What if no one will hire me because of what happened to me? Look at what happened when we tried on dresses the other day.”
And when I tried to bang some fuck boy.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” she says.
“Maybe I could work with you guys?”
She shakes her head. “Teagan, you’re not qualified to work in pharmaceutical sales. And with your history, I don’t think it’d be a good fit anyway.”
“Maybe you could talk to Blakely. Ask her to give me back the money Luca gave her”
“I can’t believe you would even suggest that,” she says. “No. Don’t bring any of them up to me again.”
“Well, I need new clothes. I have nothing to wear; I’m going to need money,” I tell her. “Does my car have gas in it? Where are the keys?”
“They’re in a drawer in the credenza by the front door. And it has about half a tank.” She opens her wallet and places two one hundred dollar bills on the table in front of me. “Make that last. Use it on gas, and get a nice outfit to wear on job interviewssomething that covers your body. Maybe you could change your hair.”
“I don’t want to,” I tell her.
“Well, you may have to. I’ll ask around and see what I can figure out about scar removal, too.”
I don’t want that, either. I won’t do it.
Subconsciously, I bring my hand to my heart and trace the ‘L’ through my t-shirt. I realize what I’m doing when her eyes fall in that same spot, her lip turning up in disgust.
“I’ll be home before dinner. I’ll text you,” she says, taking her coffee and leaving through the garage door.
I pour a cup for myself. I have plans today, but they don’t involve shopping.
It’s only nine in the morning. The drive is around five and a half hours, but if I don’t stay for long, I could be back by ten like I’m supposed to. It’ll be a long day, but when was the last time I drove a car on the freeway with the windows down and music blaring from the speakers?
Who am I kidding? I know exactly when it was; it feels like a lifetime ago. It was a lifetime ago.
Before all of this, the idea of spending so much time in a car in one day would have made me sick. After my extended holiday at Rancho San Flores, it sounds invigorating. I throw on a pair of jean shorts and a bra under my t-shirt, grab the money my mom told me to spend on an interview outfit, and then find my keys and head to the car.
It’s parked just around the corner like she said it would be. I perk up a little when I see ita small piece of me, something that still feels entirely mine, even if I don’t feel entirely like myself. I climb into the grey Toyota, turn the key in the ignition, and connect my phone to the car’s Bluetooth. A song I’ve never heard before by an artist I used to love fills the vehicle. It’s catchy; I wonder what else I’ve missed over the past three months.
I wonder what I’d do if his voice suddenly echoed through the car. But, of course, I know it won’t happen. I’m not sure if it’s a comfort or not.
It’s eighty-five degrees, but still, I roll down the windows just to feel the wind in my hair. Just to feel something.
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It’s around three-thirty and 110 degrees when I park in the cul-de-sac near the bungalow in Glendale. It’s definitely the right houseit’s the same porch, the same swing. The same chipped yellow paint on the stucco. With the AC up and the music turned down, I’ve sat here for about ten minutes now.
I’m freaking the fuck out.
I barely survived the past three months, and a big part of that survival was my ability to think of what happened with the people I used to call my family as sort of an alternate realitya fever dream, something untouchable, unreachable. But if River and Hazel are here, only yards away inside that bungalow, then it was real. And that means Declan and Luca are real, too.
And I’m really a murderer.
I take a deep breath and, with shaky hands, exit the vehicle, my heart in my throat as I cross the empty cul-de-sac and walk up the steps. I feel lightheaded by the time I reach the door and ring the bell.
New Book: Returned To Make Them Pay
On her wedding anniversary, Alicia is drugged and stumbles into the wrong room—straight into the arms of the powerful Caden Ward, a man rumored never to touch women. Their night of passion shocks even him, especially when he discovers she’s still a virgin after two years of marriage to Joshua Yates.