Page 111 of Things We Do in the Dark
NO!she screamed, and while it was only in her head, it was enough to unfreeze her.
She slid her hand out beside her, feeling her way to the little crack between the mattress and the bed. The box cutter was perfectly placed, right where it always was, right where she’d put it as soon as her bed frame had arrived. She grasped it, pushing her thumb onto the slider to extend the blade. She pushed out the sharp metal a quarter of an inch, and then another quarter of an inch, and then just a tiny bit more.
Down by the pond, the frogs went silent.
She brought her arm up and stabbed the box cutter right into Tito Micky’s thigh as hard as she could, until the blade met resistance from the plastic sheath. Then she pulled the blade down, slicing an inch of him open vertically, which was more difficult than she thought, because flesh was more unyielding than she thought.
But it was enough.
Her uncle yelped and sprang back, and oh, it felt so good to feel his blood, it felt so good to cause him pain, it felt so good to hurt the monster who was hurting her, if only for tonight. She kicked him hard, and he rolled off the bed, landing with athudon the carpet. He climbed awkwardly to his feet, his whiskey-glazed eyes clearing as his face morphed into panic.
She never knew that blood looked black in the dark.
“Pasayloa ko,” he gasped, looking over frantically at the opposite wall where his two young sons were beginning to stir in their beds from the noise. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Then he stumbled away, his shoulder bumping the doorway, and he was gone.
A sleepy voice from the other side of the room said, “Are you okay, Joey?”
She wiped the box cutter on her fitted sheet, then slid the blade backinside the plastic. She would wash her bedding tomorrow morning, and if anyone asked about the blood, she would say she got her period. Lies were more easily believed than the truth.
“Go back to sleep,” she whispered.
The frogs began to croak again.
She was not okay. Not even a little bit. She should have told Deborah the truth when she asked, but really, what would it change? Her mother was in prison, and there was nowhere to go, and so this was her life, because it had always been her life, and it would either kill her, or she would survive it.
Tonight, both sounded equally terrible. She was being punished. For the lie she had told.
And in the end, it wasn’t even worth it. There were monsters everywhere. It was like playing that old carnival game, Whac-A-Mole. As soon as she pounded one monster down, another one popped up.
Unable to sleep, Joey lay with her eyes open all night long, watching as the moonlight changed to morning. Only when the sun came up and the room was bright did her eyelids finally grow heavy, and she slipped the box cutter back between the mattress and the bed frame, back into the crack where nobody looked, because nobody cared.
PART FIVE
We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl
—PINKFLOYD
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Paris stares at her lawyers from across the kitchen table. Well, one of them is her lawyer. The other isalawyer. But both their faces are somber, and the way they’re looking at her now is scaring the shit out of her. They look like they’re on the verge of dropping some incredibly bad news.
“Okay, who died?” Paris asks. She winces the second she hears what she just said, and curses her mouth for being faster than her manners. “I’m sorry, bad choice of words. Let me try it again. Why are you both here, and how worried should I be?”
“It’s not bad,” Elsie says. “It’s quite the opposite.”
“It’s an early Christmas present,” Sonny says, his shark grin finally appearing. “Unless you’re Jewish, in which case it’s all eight days of Hanukkah rolled into one.”
Elsie jabs him with her elbow. “You can’t say things like that. You’ll offend someone.”
“Counselors,” Paris says, her gaze shifting back and forth between the two of them. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Sonny slides the folder he brought with him across the table. “Happy fucking holidays.”
Paris opens the folder. Inside are three black-and-white photographs of herself, enlarged to 8x10s. She’s in her car, and it’s nighttime. The first picture shows her full face; she’s looking straight ahead through the windshield. The second picture is a 45-degree angle of her looking up as shehands over her passport. And the third photo is of her profile as she waits for the gate to lift. All three are time and date stamped.
US Border Patrol has finally come through, and Paris is looking at proof that she crossed back into the country at the exact time she said she did.
