by Amy Cross
"Normal girls don't burn other girls' faces," says the voice of the imaginary normal girl.
I turn to look across the room, almost expecting to see her in the corner. There's no-one there, though. At least I'm not so crazy that I've started hallucinating. Besides, I know the voice isn't real. I'm not going mad; I'm just imagining someone talking to me. I'm doing it on purpose, and I enjoy it.
"Normal girls make friends with other girls," she continues. "Normal girls hang out with their friends. Normal girls don't end up hurting other people like this."
"I'm not a normal girl," I say quietly.
"Then what are you?"
"I'm evil."
"How do you know?"
"Because I hurt..." I pause for a moment as I realize that burning Samantha isn't even the worst thing I've ever done. "Because I've killed someone," I say eventually.
"Who?"
"Martina. My father's girlfriend."
"And how does it feel?"
I close my eyes.
"Do you feel bad about killing her, Juliet?"
I open my eyes.
"Well?"
"No," I say. "It's just something that happened."
"And her cat? Do you feel bad about killing Gizmo?"
"No."
"And do you feel bad about hurting Samantha?"
"No."
"What does that say about you, Juliet?"
"I'm tired."
"What does it say about you?"
"I'm evil."
"That's right. You've got a cold, black little heart and you'll never change. It doesn't matter what you father or Dr. Larson try to do, they'll never be able to make you good. So you have to decide whether you want to spend your whole life struggling to be something you're not, or embrace the darkness that comes to you so naturally."
"I'm tired," I say, getting into bed. I don't want to talk to the imaginary normal girl anymore; it was fun for a while, but I'm so exhausted, I just want to sleep.
"You can't get rid of me that easily," she says. "You've gained a friend today, Juliet, but it's not Samantha. Do you know who it is?"
"Go away," I say quietly.
"Come on," she continues. "I know you're smart, Juliet. You know who I am. You just have to admit it to yourself. Maybe it'd help if you gave me a name?"
"No," I say, rolling onto my side. "I'm tired. I just want to go to sleep."
"Fine," she says, "but I'll be back. You need me. You can't keep all of this inside. You need someone to talk to, and if I'm the best you can come up with, I guess we'll just have to carry on like this for a while. But remember, Juliet... Normal girls don't talk to imaginary friends in their heads."
After a few minutes of silence, I realize she's gone. I start to relax a little. I need to stop talking to her, because it feels like she's starting to take over. It was okay when she was nice to me, and when she was helpful, and when I could make her go away; now, however, it feels as if she's gaining strength, and the last thing I need is to have an uncontrollable voice living in my head. I take a deep breath as I try to stay calm. All I want right now is to go to sleep and not wake up until... I pause for a moment, as I realize that maybe I don't want to ever wake up. After all, what's the point? Tomorrow's going to be all about Samantha, and about a trip to see Dr. Larson, and I'm going to have to deal with my father's anger. The idea of waking up in the morning isn't very appealing. I'd rather just sleep forever; at least when I'm asleep, I can dream about other things, and the voice in my head isn't talking to me. The only time I can be happy is when I'm sleeping.
Epilogue
Today
It's time.
I knock on the door, and then I wait. This is kind of stupid. I mean, he might not even be at home. It's getting kind of late, and I know almost nothing about him. Maybe he works night shifts? Maybe he's gone on holiday; maybe I've got the address wrong? After all, he might have moved recently, or he might have dropped dead this morning. The truth is, this is a crazy thing to be doing, and there's no guarantee that it's going to succeed. Even if he answers the door, he might -
"Hello?" says a voice from nearby.
Turning, I see a man staring at me from the garden. He looks to be in his forties, maybe a little older, and he's wearing rough, paint-spattered clothes. It might be him.
"Hi," I say, feeling my throat start to dry up. "Are you Robert?"
"I am," he replies, eying me suspiciously. "And you are?"
"My name's..." I pause for a moment, wondering whether I should maybe give him a false name. After all, this could all go very badly wrong, and it might be useful to be able to just run away without any fear of consequences. Then again, I suppose I have that option anyway, thanks to Jennifer Mathis. "Juliet," I say finally. "Juliet Collier."
"And what can I do for you, Juliet Collier?"
"I just..." Damn it, I thought I'd planned ahead, but now I realize I'm treading water here. "You had a sister," I say. "Martina Hopkins?"
"Uh-huh," he says, clearly a little confused by my presence. "No offense, Juliet Collier, but all of that was a long time ago. More than a decade. If you're here to pay your condolences, that's very nice of you, but... Like I said, it's been a while."
"I know," I reply. "I just..." All my plans are starting to fall away and I feel hopelessly exposed. Part of me wants to turn and run, but I feel like this is my only chance. "I wondered if you had a photo of her?" I ask after a moment. "I'm... I'm just trying to make a kind of scrapbook about my family, and my father dated Martina for a while, and I didn't have a picture of her, and..." My voice trails off as I realize how completely crazy I must sound.
"A scrapbook?"
I nod.
"And you want a picture of my sister?"
I nod again.
"Well... okay. I guess you'd better come on in. Come around to the back door." He gestures for me to follow him, before turning and wandering back around to the other side of the house.
After pausing for a moment, I hurry after him. This feels like one of the most insane things I've ever done, and I'm surprised he believes my bullshit story about making a scrapbook. Still, I feel like I need to get to know him a little before I tell him the truth about Martina's death. For the past few days, I've been increasingly bothered by a desire to tell him everything. I want to tell him about the cat, and about the jack-in-the-box, and I want him to know that I was responsible for the crash that killed his sister. I feel like this is something that has been bothering me a lot, and it'd be good to get it out in the open. I want to see the look of shock on his face when he finds out what really happened; I want him to get angry, to threaten me, maybe even to attack me. I want to see the pure fury of a man who is finally face to face with the person who caused him such heartbreak. I want to be exposed to his pain, just as I exposed myself to Samantha's pain. Robert Hopkins' pain must be much greater than Samantha's.
In many ways, this is a rehearsal for the moment when I finally confess everything to my father. In both cases, I have the ultimate fallback position: I know that I have the option of killing them, and then getting Jennifer's help to hide the bodies. Everything is starting to make sense. As I walk up the steps and follow Robert Hopkins into his house, I realize that for the first time in my life I'm totally in control.
Book 6:
Mad World
Prologue
Eleven years ago
Sometimes - just sometimes - I think that maybe there's a God.
It's a warm, sunny day and my father's busy work schedule means I'm able to walk home alone from school. This isn't a luxury that comes my way very often; my father has always tended to be over-protective, so he's usually waiting in his car to drive me home, and since the incident with Samantha last week he's been positively clingy. I guess he's worried I'll burn or bite some other girl. Anyway, today he's got to stay late at work and have some kind of big meeting, so I get to walk home, and it just so happens that I know something else of importance is happening this afternoon. In
fact, as I sit quietly and calmly in the shade of a large oak tree, mid-way along a dull suburban street, I can't help thinking that God must have arranged for me to have this opportunity.
"You alright there?" asks a voice nearby.
I look up and see a middle-aged man staring at me from a few feet away.
"I'm fine," I say, before turning back to look at the house on the opposite side of the street.
"What're you doing?" the man continues.
"Nothing."
"You must be doing something."
"I'm waiting for someone," I say, hoping he'll leave me alone.
"You are, huh?"
Without looking at him, I nod.
"You know," he says after a moment, "this isn't generally the kind of place where people stop and just sit. Do you live around here?"
"No."
"Do you have any business around here?"
"No."
He pauses. "I'm gonna level with you, young lady. This here, right behind you, is my house. You understand? And I'm not particularly comfortable with having you just loitering out the front of my house. In fact, technically, you're on my property."
I turn to him. "You want me to move?"
"I would like that, yes."
Getting up, I take a few steps forward until I'm on the sidewalk.
"You're still outside the front of my house," he says humorlessly.
Sighing, I walk a few paces to the right, until I'm in front of an entirely different house. "Is that better?" I ask.
"Well..." He's clearly not convinced, but I don't see that he's got much choice. This is a public right of way, so I guess I can just stand here all day and all night if necessary. Without saying anything, the man turns and heads back into his house, and I realize that I managed to wear him down. Still, I feel a rising sense of anger in my gut. I want to follow that man and hurt him; I want to teach him that he shouldn't tell me what to do. If I went into his house, I could find something heavy and crack his head open, and no-one would ever know it was me. No-one should ever, ever talk to me the way he talked to me. I'm -
At that moment, I spot a familiar dark red car turning onto the street. Instinctively, I step back and watch as the car pulls up at the house on the other side of the street; after a moment, Mary gets out and walks around to the passenger side. She opens the door, and Samantha steps out with a large bandage covering one side of her face. It's been a few days since the 'accident', and I would have thought Samantha's injury would have started to heal faster, but I guess it'll take a little time. As they walk up the driveway and into the house, I can't help feeling a little proud of myself. After all, it's my fault that she looks like that. In a way, I created her, which means I'm her god. I doubt she sees it like that, and I know it's something of an exaggeration, but it's still fun to think of things in those terms.
Once they're inside and out of sight, I turn and start walking along the street. I only wanted to see Samantha once, and I don't have any plans to ever come back. I really don't regret what I did to her; I thought she was like me, and I thought she'd be able to deal with something as shocking as having her face damaged. I was even maybe willing to let her do the same thing to me, as a symbol of our closeness. Frankly, I think everyone has over-reacted, although I'm fully aware that my perception of the world tends to be a little out of line with the perceptions of other people. My father, for example, is still shocked by my actions, while Dr. Larson seems to have decided that I'm more dangerous than he'd originally thought.
The funny thing is, they still don't know the truth. They don't know about Martina; if they knew what I'd done to her, with the jack-in-the-box in the car, they'd soon forget about the incident with Samantha. I mean, scarring someone is one thing, but killing someone is something else entirely. It's as if I have this wonderful secret, but I can't tell anyone. I was actually, briefly, thinking about telling Samantha; it's a good job I kept quiet, though, because she'd probably have blabbed to everyone. I guess this is an important lesson: there's no-one in the world who understands me, and consequently there's no-one in the world who can be trusted to know my innermost thoughts. I had a close shave with Samantha, and I'm still a little shocked by how quickly I started to crave her friendship. That part of my life is over now, though, and I'm completely focused on the future. I have to get rid of Dr. Larson and my father, and I have to do it in that order. I have a session with Dr. Larson tomorrow, so I guess I need to make sure my plan is in place.
Chapter One
Today
"What?" Mr. Taylor asks, looking up from his desk.
"This new guy," I say again. "Are there any special medical or dietary requirements I should know about?"
"Oh." He pauses for a moment, before grabbing a file from his briefcase and taking a quick look. "I don't think so. No. Nothing I know about. Nothing on here, anyway."
"Are you sure?" I continue. "If he's got diabetes or a heart condition or something, I should know about it. It could be important." I wait for Mr. Taylor to show that he understands the importance of this matter. "You know, in case anything happens? Maybe the insurance wouldn't pay out if -"
"Good point," he says, checking the file more thoroughly. "Let's see. Male, seventy-one years old, no family in the area so he's ended up here because he can't walk. The guy's in a wheelchair. There you go. There's your special medical condition. He's in a wheelchair."
"So it might be a fire hazard?"
He shrugs. "I guess." He pauses for a moment, staring at me with a slight smile on his face. "Something's different about you, Juliet."
I stare back at him, suddenly feeling a cold chill. I didn't mean to draw attention to myself; in fact, by trying to do my job properly, I was hoping to just fly under the radar.
"You seem more... professional," he says eventually.
I clear my throat. "Well... I guess I've been reading up a bit." It's true: I've been reading some general medical websites, so that I might have an idea what to do in case of an emergency while I'm working alone overnight. The truth is, I'm taking this job a lot more seriously these days, since I'm starting to think more and more that I might abandon my college plans and just stay here at Crestview.
"I'll be sorry to see you go at the end of the summer," he replies.
"Yeah," I say, "about that... I was thinking of maybe... not going?"
"Seriously?"
I nod.
He smiles. "Juliet, you've been a life-saver this summer. While I'd never want to dissuade you from going to college, I've got to admit that I'd welcome you here on a full-time basis with open arms. You're not only the best night girl we've ever had; you're one of the best members of staff, period."
"Thanks," I say, feeling a little awkward. I knew I'd have to have this conversation at some point, but it's come a few weeks earlier than planned. "So there's definitely a job here, if I want to stay?"
"There's definitely a job." He pauses for a moment. "So is this a definite thing? Are you really going to skip college?"
I take a deep breath. I've certainly been thinking about committing to Crestview, but now that I'm on the spot, I'm not certain what to do. "Yeah," I say suddenly, surprising myself. "Yeah, if... I mean, if that's something that would be okay, then I'd totally stay." My heart is racing. Did I really just do that? Did I just accept a full-time job here?
"I'd send you on a training course," he replies. "Just a basic thing to cover first aid, that sort of thing."
"Okay."
"There wouldn't necessarily be any extra money for you..."
"It's not about the money," I say with a smile. "It's about doing a job that I love, and helping people, and generally being a part of Crestview."
"Well, that's what I like to hear," he says. "Juliet, welcome to the Crestview family. There aren't many of us. In fact, there are less and less with every passing month, but the modernization program is going splendidly." He smiles. "By modernization, I mean streamlining. As long as you're okay working alone overnight
, the job's yours."
"And there aren't any problems with the regulations?" I ask.
"Regulations?"
"About me working alone overnight. I thought -"
"Oh, forget about that," he replies, leaning back in his chair. "As long as no-one finds out, I don't see that it's a problem. The only person who's ever kicked up a stink about anything around here is old Piotr Cymbalista, and even he seems to have decided to give it a rest. Haven't heard from the bastard for more than a week."
"Huh," I reply, thinking about Mr. Cymbalista's body rotting in the abandoned ward.
"But seriously," he adds, leaning forward, "you can't let anyone know. Not ever."
"It's fine," I say. "I should probably go and check on the residents."
Checking his watch, Mr. Taylor stands up and starts cramming the various files and pieces of paper into his briefcase. "I didn't realize it was so late," he says, clearly distracted. "I have to be somewhere, Juliet. Are you going to be okay tonight?"
"Of course," I reply, slightly offended that he'd even ask. I grab the new patient's file from the desk and wander over to the door. "So there's no sign of anyone joining me on the night shift in the near future?" I ask, making sure to sound as if it's just a casual question.
"Uh, no," he replies as he heads past me. "To be honest, Juliet, it's a real help for the budget if you can carry on working alone. The economics of this place are insane. Everyone wants the best care for their relatives, but they won't pay one cent more than minimum." He pauses for a moment. "It's easy for you. You can just see them as human beings, but I have to see them as financial burdens. Every minute you spend helping one of them is a minute that costs money. That's just the way things go around here."
Once he's hurried out the door, I go to the window and watch him walk quickly to his car on the other side of the darkened parking lot. Charles Taylor might be right when he says that people don't want to pay for their relatives to receive top quality treatment, but there's one thing he conveniently left out: he's been cooking the books for years. Piotr Cymbalista mentioned something about financial irregularities before I killed him, and since then I've managed to get a look at some of the accounts for Crestview. Mr. Taylor has been skimming profits off the top for years, but his greed is starting to snowball and his 'skimming' exercises have become more and more blatant. I know it's a little ambitious, but I can't help thinking that I'd do a better job as the manager of this place. With help from Jennifer Mathis, I must just be able to take over.
