The Misery
Page 2
Her eyes open. No, please, don’t give her a glaze of humanity in a soul already lost to the Misery. Don’t give me that scrap of hope that zings like a living thing over every inch of my flesh, raising goosebumps and making me choke on the need to vomit, to call her name in a squeaking, breaking voice. Don’t. Please.
Please.
I don’t know what to do, it’s never happened before. Yes, if had them stir, moan, even shake a little sometimes. Pretend to be human, the illness lying, the invading disease trying to survive when it’s time should be long over. But I’ve never known one to actually wake, to stare, to show consciousness and awareness when the sun is high.
She doesn’t move, can’t, I guess. The daytime keeps her trapped, as much as the Misery. But she’s not the only one held rigid, though my frozen state comes from feeling, from too much humanity and the call of the past I can’t ignore. Can’t, for certain. Not with her staring at me like that.
“Mom.” I didn’t mean to whisper, to speak in a shaking, little girl’s voice I am afraid of.
Her lips tighten. Twitch. And then, in the stillness between one moment of utter agony and the next, she says, “Abby.”
Oh.
My.
God.
I turn sideways, gut twisting with me, emptying out the cup of tea and hard bread I’d had for breakfast, then bile, then nothing, trying to lose the entirety of every single thing I’d ever ingested in that one violent outpouring of rejection.
When I straighten, she’s still staring at me. Smiling just a little. I’m imagining it, surely. That’s it. She’s not really there, her eyes devouring me, her lips turned upward. Dreaming.
Screaming.
Bo barks, close. Upstairs. Close enough I jump, stagger back from her. How didn’t I notice her hand is out, she’s reaching for me? Can it be, is she in there after all? Have we been killing the stricken without understanding? No, it’s not true. I’ve taken so many with mercy in my heart, done what I was told because this was the only way to save them. Dad, Dustin.
To save her.
Abby. My name, sighed into the air. Footsteps overhead. Jake and Bo. I have to tell them, tell someone… I’m dying standing there while his sneakers descend down the open wooden steps, his body moving with the kind of flowing quiet that I know I, too, use when I’m hunting.
The moment he reaches the basement floor, meets my eyes, I see it in his dark, green gaze, in the set of his narrow shoulders, in the way he doesn’t try to push his long, pale hair out of his face, using it instead to shield his expression, a shroud of waves over tanned cheeks.
I drink in his silence. Absorb it. Hate it.
He already knows.
“It’s a lie, Abs.” He gestures at my mother—she’s my mother, but she’s not—and shrugs. “She’s not in there.”
“But she might be.” Trembling, no, nothing so delicate. I’m shaking, violently, so hard it’s difficult to stay upright. How did I never see this before? How was I blind to it?
Jake shrugs, blond hair swinging back, now long over one shoulder, eyes dark. “She’s not.”
Swallow. Breathe. Pull yourself together. The spike is in my hand, Mom still watching me. Silent now, lips a slack line. But she’s in there. She is. Jake can say what he wants, but doubt lives in me now. About the Misery and the souls of those who I once thought long gone. How can I kill my own mother, knowing what I think I know?
Bo growls, low and soft, his heavy shoulders rippling as his fur stands on end. The mastiff is an excellent guardian and I’ve never doubted him, not in the five years Jake and I have hunted with him, from puppy to full-grown beast.
“I thought I was ready for this.” I hate to be weak, especially now. In front of him. He’d never judge me. But seeing the emptiness in his face makes me judge myself.
“So did I, when my turn came.” Jake nods finally, like that’s all he has to give, should be enough. “When I faced this.” He could have warned me. But no, I wouldn’t have believed. I had to see it for myself.
What do I do now?
Jake falls still before sighing. “One question, Abs. Then you decide if you walk or not.” He stares like she does, intense, devouring. “You think she’d thank you for leaving her like this?”
It’s the hit I need, the face slap with words that settles my stomach, firms my grip, steadies my hand. That, and the plea behind her eyes. The one I remember, eight years old, in her arms as she whispered to me just before Uncle Ray dragged me away.
“Abby,” she’d said. “When the time comes, when you finally come home. Kill me.”
Jake turns and leaves as I weep, fingers touching her cheek, spike in her brain.
I’d like to think she’d be grateful.
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About the Author
Everything you need to know about me is in this one statement: I’ve wanted to be a writer since I was a little girl, and now I’m doing it. How cool is that, being able to follow your dream and make it reality? I’ve tried everything from university to college, graduating the second with a journalism diploma (I sucked at telling real stories), was in an all-girl improv troupe for five glorious years (if you’ve never tried it, I highly recommend making things up as you go along as often as possible). I’ve even been in a Celtic girl band (some of our stuff is on YouTube!) and was an independent film maker. My life has been one creative thing after another—all leading me here, to writing books for a living.
Now with multiple series in happy publication, I live on beautiful and magical Prince Edward Island (I know you’ve heard of Anne of Green Gables) with my very patient husband and six massive cats.
I love-love-love hearing from you! You can reach me (and I promise I’ll message back) at patti@pattilarsen.com. And if you’re eager for your next dose of Patti Larsen books (usually about one release a month) come join my mailing list! All the best up and coming, giveaways, contests and, of course, my observations on the world (aren’t you just dying to know what I think about everything?) all in one place: http://smarturl.it/PattiLarsenEmail.
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