Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127476 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 637(@200wpm)___ 510(@250wpm)___ 425(@300wpm)
She looks at the front of the manual for a moment before tossing it down and turning away from it. She snatches a bowl from the cabinet, slamming doors and drawers as she fixes herself her usual morning cereal. I watch in silence as she brushes right past me, grabbing the milk out of the fridge. She pours it into her bowl, some sloshing out that she doesn't bother to clean up.
Standing there, her back to me, she takes a bite and stares out the window.
Still so angry…
Slowly, I stroll over to her, pausing right behind her, so close my tie rests against her back. I'm still wearing yesterday's clothes. I don't know if she even notices, or cares, that I didn't sleep beside her, that I didn't come home until some godforsaken hour and then spent until sunrise putting together a goddamn machine to give her coffee. I don't know if she missed my presence then, but I know she feels it now.
I know, because she shivers when I lean forward, and in the reflection of the window I see her eyes briefly flutter closed. I bring my lips to her ear, my voice low as I say, "I think the words you're looking for are thank you."
Faith.
Trust.
Pixie Dust.
The words shine bold, written in gold, on the colorful old poster. I saw it a few times in the past, hanging in Karissa's dorm room, but I haven't seen it since she moved out of there.
Until now, anyway.
The big eyes of the little blonde fairy glare at me across the bedroom, from where she's now affixed to my wall, haphazardly tacked there. The poster is crinkled, and crooked, the bottom right corner torn.
It looks like it belongs in a trashcan, not hanging beside my bed.
The sight of it makes my skin crawl from anxiety. I want to tear it down... or, hell, at least hang it up straight, smooth out the wrinkles and make it presentable. But I don't. I do nothing but stand in the doorway, irritated, and stare at the goddamn thing in the dim lighting.
Shaking my head, I turn around and head downstairs. I'm too exhausted to deal with its sudden appearance right now. I spent all afternoon dealing with things for Ray, handling business, and I just want to be able to unwind for a bit, put that all behind me and relax.
The only light on in the house is the den, the sound of the television filtering out when I head that way. More cooking shows, I assume. Always the goddamn Food Network. Stepping in the doorway, I pause again from surprise when the same little blonde bitch from upstairs greets me on the screen.
Tinker Bell.
Huh.
Karissa's sitting on the couch, wearing pajamas, her feet tucked beneath her. I stroll over and plop down beside her, so close my thigh brushes against her leg.
She tenses, her body rigid, but she doesn't look at me. Instead, her eyes are fixed on the screen. I watch her for a moment as I loosen my tie before kicking my shoes off and turning to the television.
Peter Pan.
It puzzles me.
I know a lot about her, but one thing that confuses me is why she loves this movie so much. I've thought about it, considered it, and I know she's young, but it feels so juvenile for someone so mature.
"You know," I say, "some people think Peter Pan is actually a horror story."
From the corner of my eye, I see her forehead wrinkle with confusion. She casts a disbelieving look my way.
"I'm serious," I say, meeting her eyes. "There are theories that Peter Pan is the grim reaper and Neverland is purgatory. That's why they don't age there." She stares at me in silence, not yet turning away, so I take it as an opening to keep going. "But of course there are other theories, too, that the Lost Boys don't age because Peter kills them before they can. There's a line in the book, I don't know if you've read it, but it says: When they seem to be growing up, which is against the rules, Peter thins them out. Pretty self-explanatory, don't you think?"
I run two fingers across my neck, simulating slitting my throat.
Karissa stares at me.
And stares at me.
And stares at me some more.
Her expression is blank, but her eyes shoot fire. If she could burn me with them, she would. After a moment she turns away, snatching up the remote and pressing the power button. The television cuts off as she stands, tossing the remote onto the cushion beside me.
"You have to ruin everything, don't you?" she grumbles, not giving me a chance to respond before she disappears from the den.
Once she's gone, I tilt my head back, resting it against the couch as I close my eyes.
It's a lost cause.
It's obvious, I think, but unacceptable. I can't seem to do anything right when it comes to her. I'm sure she thinks I have all the power, that she's at my mercy, but that's only because I fight day in and day out to maintain some semblance of control around here.
Because without that? I know I'll lose her completely.
And if I lose her?
We both might as well be dead.
Standing up again, I head out of the den, leaving my things lying where they are, too drained to maintain order today. Tomorrow I'll deal with it, deal with everything around me that seems to be falling to pieces, but tonight I only have enough energy to deal with her.
And I can't deal with her the way I deal with everyone else. They get a knife to the throat or a bullet to the back of the head. All I have for her are words, and they seem inadequate at best.
She wants nothing to do with my kindness.
Doesn't believe a word of my promises.
Machiavelli believed it was better to be feared than loved, because attachment is easily severed, but the terror of pain is ever present. I have her fear. I know I have her fear. I see it sometimes when she looks at me. But what I don't know is how to keep her love when it feels close to dissolving every time I talk to her, like she picks apart every syllable looking for something else to hold against me, something to prove to herself that I'm the monster she believes me to be.