Gun Shy(13)

“Thanksgiving’s next week,” Damon says. “Did you get the turkey organized like I asked?”

I nod. I’m lying. I haven’t. I will. Damon’s a traditional guy, wants the roast turkey and all the trimmings. I hate turkey. To be truthful, I hate food in general. The little I do eat to keep up appearances I purge as soon as I can. It’s comforting to be in control of some part of my life; and besides, the thinner I am, the less tits and ass I have, the less attention I get from the male population. I’m almost androgynous, with cheekbones that could cut glass. Except for the long hair I can’t bear to part with and my tits that, while small, refuse to disappear entirely no matter how hard I restrict my calorie intake.

“Pick up the prescription from the pharmacy?”

“Yup.” I left it on the hallway table, like always.

“Did you get the wood chopped?”

My stomach twists nervously. Damn. All week I’ve been walking around in a state of semi-anxiety, knowing I’ve forgotten something. “I’m planning on doing it tonight,” I say quickly. “I was busy with the shopping.”

Damon’s face turns from dispassionate to frustrated.

“You’re useless,” he mutters.

“Really.” I roll my eyes.

“Cassie. You can’t even get out of bed in the morning without being reminded. You’re like a child. A retarded child.”

“You’re supposed to say ‘intellectually disabled.’ It’s more PC.”

He slams his palm down onto the table, hard enough that my cereal bowl dances. “Do you know how goddamn hard I work to keep this house paid up? To keep your mother’s nursing bills paid up? To buy fucking prescriptions of that shit that keeps her alive?”

I swallow cold coffee, unmoved by Damon’s martyr speech. I work just as hard as him, turning tables, pulling double shifts whenever I can, pouring every cent I earn into Mom’s medical care, the bills, this falling-down house. So I don’t care about poor Damon.

For the first time this morning, I notice his face is puffed out on one side, and there’s a small cut above his right eye.

“What happened to your face?” I ask.

He glares at me.

“Get dressed,” he says, making a face after he drains his last inch of coffee. “Coffee machine’s broken again.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the operator,” I say, leaning over to the counter and lifting the lid on the machine, slamming it down again so it locks properly. After a moment, dark black coffee starts to flow into the pot underneath. “There.”

Damon stares at me, unimpressed. “Hurry. Up. Or I’ll take you to work as you are.” He gestures to my pajamas.

“I bet the customers would love that,” I reply, pushing my chair back and standing. I jump as a hand curls around my upper arm and yanks me so my upper half is bent across the table.

“That’s not funny,” Damon grinds out, his face inches from mine. “You want everyone thinking you’re the town whore?”

“No,” I say softly.

His hand squeezes tighter. “You know what happens to girls who act like whores?”

“Yeah,” I say, meeting his steely gaze. “I’m thinking it’s pretty similar to what happens to girls like Karen.”

“Karen?”

“Murdered Karen,” I clarify.

“I know which Karen,” he snaps, rubbing his hand along his jaw. “Why the hell would you bring that poor girl up after all these years?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. She’s the first town whore that came to mind. Unless you count Mom before she got knocked up with me.”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Then, apparently done, Damon drops his grip and I hurry upstairs.

In my room, I drag jeans and a clean long-sleeved work shirt on, scraping my long blond waves up in a messy ponytail. Function takes place over form in winter, at least for me. I don’t have the energy for all that bullshit preening and careful wardrobe selection that some other girls do. Girls like Karen Brainard. They put so much effort in and look where it gets them. Taken. Raped. Murdered.



* * *



In the bathroom, I don’t bother with makeup. Makeup draws attention, and the last thing I want is for anybody to look at me too closely.

Some days I feel like I’m made of glass, my clothes and my hair and my downturned eyes the only things that stop the light from getting in, from showing the world what’s happening within me. Who’s touched me. Who’s been inside me.

Nobody can ever know the things I’ve done.

Besides, I’m barely making it through the days without the added burdens of mascara and blush.

I brush my teeth listlessly, my brain smashing relentlessly inside my skull – I wish I could remember what pills I took last night.

I really don’t need to add liver failure to my list of this year’s achievements, but I think if I have to go to work with this noise inside my head, I might pass out before the lunch rush even begins.

I spit toothpaste out, grateful that at least the cereal taste has been burned away by mint-flavored chemicals, and find a bottle of aspirin in my top drawer. I shake a pile of the tiny white pills into my palm and toss them into my mouth, swallowing them dry. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, all hard angles and sour expression, the light smattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose the only thing that colors my lily-white skin. We don’t exactly get an abundance of sun up here in winter.