Sing Me Your Scars (Apex Voices Book 3) (12 page)

But we took care of him, didn’t we?

No, no matter what he’d done, he didn’t deserve what happened. No
one did.

§

Long after the sun had faded from the sky, she and Anthony
took a walk through the neighborhood. The children and dogs had been collected
for the night, and lights behind windows winked out one by one. His hand gave
hers a quick squeeze.

“Next year we’ll go away someplace for our anniversary. How does
that sound? Somewhere with a beach and blue water.”

“And fruity drinks with paper umbrellas?”

“Absolutely.”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed her softly beneath the
glow of a streetlamp. Then they heard the shout. She jumped, pulled away, and
scanned the street. No one else was outside. The shout came again, more muffled
this time, from a small green house with a swing on the front porch.

Anthony took a step toward the house. Violet shook her head.

“Don’t.”

“But if someone is hurt…”

A voice snapped in anger, followed by a whip-quick sound that
Violet knew all too well—a slap.

“Let’s go back home.”

Anthony gave the house a long look. Violet tugged his hand.

“Come on. It’s not our business.”

§

Violet was collecting her mail from the mailbox at the end
of the yard when a dark-haired woman and a little girl of perhaps four or five
in a yellow dress and white ruffled socks walked past. She looked up just in
time to see the bruise darkening the skin of the woman’s cheek. Violet’s hands
clenched into fists. The little girl pulled her thumb out of her mouth and
offered up a wide, innocent smile.  

You can make things better.

No, it wasn’t her fight. She
didn’t know them at all. She watched them turn onto the sidewalk leading up to
the green house.

But you could if you really wanted to. Just one more time.
Help them, then I’ll go away.

The voice whispered so sweetly, but it lied. Oh, how it lied.

§

Violet pulled out a knife to slice tomatoes for a salad and
paused. The overhead light glinted in the metal. She closed her eyes and saw
the little girl’s face, the woman’s bruise.

You can fix it.

“Leave me alone,” she whispered.

Two years after her mother had married her stepfather, the voice
spoke to her for the first time. Eight-year-old Violet had been sitting in the
corner of her bedroom with the door locked, wiping tears away, with a fresh set
of bruises on her upper arms.

“I hate you,” she whispered. Over and over again.

I can help you,
a voice said
.

She’d jumped up, stifling a shout, looked under the bed, checked
inside the closet and out the window. The voice had laughed softly.

I won’t hurt you.

She’d covered her ears. Buried her face in the pillow.

Trust me. It will be easy. So easy.

It had whispered and whispered, and eventually her hands had
dropped from her ears. It had told her what to do, and when the house had
fallen silent, Violet had tiptoed to the kitchen and pulled out a small knife.

Good girl. That’s a very good girl.

She’d closed her eyes when she
had touched the blade to her ankle, and the pain had not been nearly as bad as
she’d imagined it would be. Beneath the copper bright tang of blood, she’d
smelled something dark and terrible like the sweet stink of roadkill or the
scummy water left in a vase filled with dead flowers. She’d felt something
light brush against her skin, opened her eyes, and saw a shadow
flickering across the floor. One quick flicker, and then it was gone.

She didn’t know then what it would do.

A few days later, her stepfather had collapsed in the backyard.
The doctors had called it a rare, aggressive cancer, but Violet had known they
were wrong. The malignant cells hadn’t eaten him away from the inside. Her hate
had.

Let me out.

She dropped the knife back into the drawer and slammed it shut.
It bounced back open with a little jingle, offering her a hint of the
silverware within.

“No!”

She took several long deep breaths. She would not do it. Not now.
Not ever. She recited the names. Once. Twice.

“I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

Words. Useless words. Her
stepfather had said them so many times.

He wasn’t really sorry. You weren’t, either.

§

Standing in front of the green house, Violet noticed the
white letter sticking out of the mailbox. She stepped closer, casting quick
glances over both shoulders. The letter was out far enough for her to make out
a name—
Kevin Turner
.

With her mouth set into a thin line, she turned and walked back
to her own house, the name a heavy weight inside. She couldn’t hate him. She
didn’t even know him.

You could if you wanted to. He’s just like your stepfather.

She didn’t know that. The
woman could have fallen down. How many times had she done something stupid,
something that—

Excuses, excuses. You know you want to. That’s why you looked
at the letter.

No, it wasn’t that way at
all. She wouldn’t do anything. She’d promised to leave it all behind. For
Anthony’s sake. For her own sake.

§

Sabrina Ogden had been her best friend all through grade
school. In their first year of middle school, Violet had spoken of what her
stepfather had done. Sabrina had told another friend who told another and on
and on. The whispers had followed Violet through the hallways. The shame had
burned like a brand.

When the dark voice had whispered, Violet had tried to hold it
in, but she hadn’t been strong enough.

The doctors hadn’t been able to cure Sabrina, either.

Tears burned in Violet’s eyes.

If she’d been your friend, she wouldn’t have told anyone. If
she hadn’t—

“Violet?”

She jumped, and the paring knife in her hands clattered into the
kitchen sink. She stared at the blade for several long moments, her mouth dry.
She didn’t remember opening the silverware drawer. Did she?

You know you want to. I’ve been waiting for so long.

She slipped on a smile and turned around.

“You looked like you were a
million miles away,” Anthony said.

“Sorry, I was woolgathering.”

She went to him and rested her head on his chest.

§

In the dark, she stared up at the ceiling. Recited the
names.

Joey, who’d tried to take advantage of her at a party in high
school. Sarah, that same year, who’d blackened her eye and fractured her wrist
for telling the principal about the smoking in the bathroom. Christopher.
Laura. Matt. Jake, who’d broken her heart. Peter, who’d shattered it. Ryan,
who’d promised to love her forever. He hadn’t deserved to die such a terrible
death. 

And so many more. She wanted to forget them all, but she held
tight, fearing she would.

My fault, my fault. All of them
, she thought.

Every time she’d carved a name, the darkness reappeared, a
slithering shadow she could only see as a human-shaped haze in the air. Did
they see it come for them? Did they taste its fate in their breath?

And did they know she’d sent it?

§

Just one more time. Please.

“Stop it, stop it, stop it.”

She didn’t want to hurt anyone. She was a good person now. She
was
.

§

Violet saw the little girl again, playing in the front yard
of the green house. She was digging in the dirt with a stick, singing softly to
herself. When she heard Violet’s footsteps, she glanced up, and Violet saw
bruises on her forearm, four finger-shaped marks. Violet’s hands curled into
fists. Her heart beat heavy in her chest.

We can help her.

No, it was not her problem. But her steps were heavy on her walk
back home.

§

An image of the girl’s bruises floated in Violet’s mind, and
her fingers tightened on her open book.

One more time. I promise I’ll go away.

Why wouldn’t it just leave her alone?

You know you want to help her.

But not in that way. She would call Child Protective Services in
the morning. They could help the little girl.

What if they don’t?

The words on the page swam into a blur. She recited the names.
Ran the tip of her finger over the edge of a scar. Recited the names again.

Her cup of guilt was deep, the brew within thick and bitter. No
matter how many swallows, she could never drink it all down. Not in one
lifetime or ten.

“Honey, are you okay?”

Violet looked up from her book. “Yes, why?”

“You had the strangest expression on your face.”

“I was just focused on the story, I guess.”

He touched the back of her hand.

“If something is bothering you, you can tell me. You know that,
right?”

“Of course I do.”

She put her hand atop his. The words gathered in her throat, but
she swallowed them down. Anthony was the first, the only, good thing in her
life. If he knew the truth, the things she’d done, he’d run as far away as
possible.

§

Violet put the phone down, her mouth set in a thin line.

They won’t help her, and you know it.

But they would. The woman on the phone said they would send
someone out. A snippet of memory crept in. A woman from CPS came to her house
once, and in spite of the bruises on Violet, she hadn’t done anything except
write a report. But things were different now; they took bruises more
seriously. The little girl would be okay.

But you can make sure of it.

Violet sagged against the counter and groaned into her hands.

“Leave me alone, please, just leave me alone.”

Never.

But she already knew that. It would never go away. Never give her
peace. She was broken. Wrong. She yanked the silverware drawer open and grabbed
a knife.

“Is this what you want?”

Yes. You know you want it, too.

No. She wanted to be well, to be happy.

She made a tiny cut.

Yesss…

“No! I will not do this. I will
not
.”

She threw the knife down, sank down with her back against a
cabinet, and put her head in her hands. Recited the names. A harsh sob bubbled
up from deep inside her chest. The names. The deaths. All her fault. She was a
monster. With a grimace, she scrambled for the knife.

You want this. You know you do.

She slashed at her skin, her grimace turning into a smile at the
sharp, beautiful sting of the knife. Even that was wrong. It never hurt enough.
She cut again and again, the letters distorted. Wet, red mouths dripping
crimson pearls. When she finished, she threw the knife down.

“Are you happy now?”

And there, on the delicate skin of her wrist—
Violet.

One last name, one last death, to pay for them all.

What did you do? You stupid, stupid woman.

Tears blurred her vision as the blood dripped to the floor.

“Please forgive me, Anthony,” she whispered, her voice small and
insignificant in the quiet. “It’s so much better this way. You deserve someone
so much better.”

No, no, no! You can’t do this. You cannot!

She had to. It was the only
way. Her limbs filled with lassitude, her mouth dropped open, and her breath
came long and slow.

A shadow emerged from the wound like a ribbon, taking shape as it
grew. It slipped free slowly, ponderously, its weight feather-light, its stench
thick and heavy. It caressed her cheek in a hideous lover’s pantomime. She took
a deep breath, steeled herself against the pain to come, yet the shadow
slithered across the tile, moving away from her without a sound.

“No, no, no.”

She reached out, but her fingers passed through the darkness. She
grabbed again and again, caught nothing but a kiss of air against her skin.
Then the shadow slipped beneath the door, and she sobbed into her hands. She
didn’t understand. She’d carved her name. Why didn’t it take her? She rocked
back and forth, her arms wrapped around her knees. No voice whispered in her
mind. Only a strange, calm silence. Could it have been that easy all along? But
all those deaths…

No. It had to come back for her. It
had
to make her pay.

§

Ambulance lights cut the night with slashes of red and blue,
and Anthony’s hand gripped Violet’s tight, his skin warm against hers. The
neighbors watched from their porches, their eyes filled with curious alarm as
the paramedics wheeled a stretcher out of the green house.

“I wonder what happened,” Anthony whispered.

Violet rubbed her finger along the cut on her wrist, still in the
pink of healing. A few moments later, the dark-haired woman stepped out of the
house, her face expressionless, the little girl by her side. And on the girl’s
ankle, not quite covered by a white ruffled sock, Violet saw the name carved
into her flesh:
Daddy.

No, oh, no. A chill raced down Violet’s spine. Her mouth went
dry.

Anthony tugged her hand.

“Come on, let’s go back home.”

Violet heard his voice as if from far away. She couldn’t move,
couldn’t take her eyes away from the little girl.

“Violet, honey, what’s wrong?”

The little girl met Violet’s gaze, her lips curved into a dark,
familiar smile. A smile laced with hate.

Alec woke to the sound of crying.

“Megan?”

He blinked once, twice, and the still unfamiliar room swam from
sleep-blurry to clear. Megan wasn’t in this house; she was at his old house
with his ex-wife, or soon-to-be ex, anyway.