Blood Doll (12)

Morning deems the occurrences of late the night before dream-like. Sleep has blurred the words he and I had exchanged, the pressing darkness that had surrounded me like fog. I recall very few details of our tense conversation, and am convinced it was all not a dream merely because of the number stated five times in succession on my phone. The way he had begged has not followed into this day, nor his elatedness when I agreed to meet him; instead, that he did beg and the fact that his elation shone through are remembered, are ghosts of our actions.

Were there no scalpel induced wounds on my torso, the impression of Mason in my mind at all would seem surreal. They are present, though, healing nicely enough that I decide not to bandage them after showering. Obviously, they will scar. I am uncertain whether aggravation floods my nerves at this or something else entirely.

Mother, after a cheerfully bade, “Good morning,” hands me a fork and small ceramic bowl filled to the brim with scrambled eggs when I enter the kitchen. We sit at the island, and I poke lightly at my breakfast. Father has departed for work hours before.

“Are you feeling okay, Eve?” Mother inquires. Her eyes scrutinize me beneath a furrowed brow, the corners of her mouth pointed to the floor. “Is it the aftereffects of the blood tests? Are you feeling woozy? Sluggish? The doctor said this might happen.”

One of my eyebrows lifted, then I smiled. “Mother, that was weeks ago. I’m fine.” For emphasis, I swallow a few forkfuls of eggs.

“They could have missed something while they were testing, or taken too much blood or too little,” Mother continues. “Is that what’s making you feel ill? Maybe you should go in for more blood work.”

“I’m fine, Mother. Trust me. Dr. Reese assured me that they found nothing, that my blood is still perfectly healthy. Regardless, I’m positive they took the right amount because I feel fine.”

Uncertainty and worry on Mother’s face crumbles to admission. “I know you’re right. A mother can never be too careful, though. But, you do look a bit peaky. You need to eat more.”

“I’ll eat lunch today,” I promise, then stand and rinse off my bowl and fork before turning to leave. More than prominent is the urge to purge my secrets of Mason to my mother. Perhaps she would understand and know what to do, somehow refrain from punishing me for going about things without permission.

As I have already immersed myself in something of curiosity, I cannot confide in my parents. They would go to extreme lengths to ensure my utter safety. A small, humorless smile tips my lips because of this realization.

Once I have said goodbye to my mother, I catch the bus to school.

Ang suctions herself to my side the moment I step through Leeburg High’s front doors. She has not made even a half-hearted attempt at seeing or talking to me these past four days. Though I have abstained from doing the same, figuring she always returns not even a day later and this was no different, I feel the blame is on Ang.

The majority of the week had passed and she directed not so much of a glance in my direction. My indifference had been replaced by concern, concern by irritation, irritation finally by anger.

“Girly, girly, what’s up?” Ang asks.

“I just got to school,” I reply. A certain standoffishness that rolls from my words goes unnoticed or overlooked by Ang. She falls into step with me as I start for the stairs. Her pale pink heels clip the floor, whereas my boots are silent.

“Where’re ya goin’, girly?” She had believed I would halt right when she graced me with her presence, as I was wont to do.

“The library.”

A minute passes between us before Ang persists. “So, what’s been up, Eve? Haven’t seen you in, like, freaking forever. You’ve been a ghost-y.”

“You’ve been more of a ghost than I,” I snip.

“Okay, okay, I get it. I deserve the cat scratch you’re giving me. But, hear me out. Andrew started talking to me, like finally noticing my existence. And I think he likes me, but I haven’t been able to tell you, and I’m super sorry. Forgive me?”

I halt before the library doors and wait for Ang to do the same. Taking a deep breath, I begin slowly. “Do you not understand? I haven’t gotten so much as a glance from you for four days. I get that Andrew started talking to you. Trust me, I do. But you could have at least called me like usual when you go off and leave me in the dust.”

My face softens when Ang’s demeanor collapses. “Ang, I know you have other friends, but I thought being your best friend would grant me a bit more than this crap. I haven’t minded that you run off with your other friends for a day or two because you always call me, but four days?”

“I know,” Ang admits. “I need to do better. And I will, I promise. No backsies. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

A miniscule pang wrenches my chest at her last words. Aiming to conceal that something snuck up on me at all, I hug Ang tightly. “A simple promise suffices.”

“What are we doing here anyway?” Ang inquires as we slip through the library doors.

Hesitant to reply, I chew my lip. “I’ve been meeting a friend here for the past couple of days.” To prove my point, Peach perches at a rickety table in the back of the library, hunched over a sketchpad. Her fingers comb through her pink bangs and she beams when I arrive, sit across from her. Though her head tilts slightly when Ang tentatively lowers herself into the seat beside mine, she says nothing but, “I haven’t seen you around.”

Evidently, my best friend is unsure how to respond. In the end, I come to her aid. “She’s been gone a few days,” I explain. “I don’t believe you two have any of the same classes.”

Peach holds a lacy white glove out to Ang. “Call me anything but Gretta and we’re good.”

“This is Peach,” I supply to Ang’s blank expression as they shake hands. “Her parents christened her Gretta.”

“But it is a despicable name for anyone under the age of fifty-three, in which case, Peach works nicely,” Peach finishes.

“This is my best friend, Angel,” I tell Peach.

“My parents didn’t do so well on the name aspect either, so call me Ang,” my best friend corrects. Her face I study intently. Besides a shyness uncharacteristic of her, she seems at ease. At the very least, she is not visibly standoffish or furious for any unknown reason.

“At least I know my parents aren’t alone in their insanity,” Peach says.

We stand as the tone’s shrill shrieks pierce the school. Exchanging farewells, we split for our own classes. As I watch Ang wade through the sea of students, slight worry that she will not be comfortable around Peach rises to my mind, but I assure myself otherwise. Moreover, I know that if Ang dislikes my friendship with Peach, she will either have to compromise, or leave. I only hope it will not come to the latter.

My classes pass moderately quickly. Immersed in my own thoughts, my school work is met with feigned attempts. Instead, I worry if Ang and Peach will eventually get along.

More importantly, I worry about the next day. Thus far, an explanation can neither be given as to why I agreed to meet Mason, nor why I even answered my phone when he called incessantly. Now that I have agreed, though, the knowledge that I will proceed with it disconcerts me. Mason could hurt me again. Our encounter could do nothing to benefit either of us. It could, in fact, recess our position enough that I call that police to arrest him.

Even so, I will keep my word and allow him to explain.

The question of what his explanation will be is what truly concerns me. How is it possible to rationally explain why he slit my flesh, why he drank my blood? Does he have a mental disorder? Does he believe himself to be a mythical creature? Is he merely the deranged-cannibal-psycho-killer I pegged him to be?

These thoughts remain with me when the bells trills for lunch, and I make my way through the lunch room to my table. When it is in sight, I falter before catching myself and striding forward.

Peach and Ang sweep their views to me. Ang stands from her seat beside Peach and gathers me into a routine hug. “I was just asking Peach if she would tell you that Andrew wanted me to sit with him at lunch�"well, now, I guess. And that I would call you later. But, I guess that doesn’t apply any more. So, call ya later, girly?”

“Sure,” I say. “I know you’ll tell me all about it when you call, so I won’t ask you to.”

“Bye, girly, girly. Bye, Peach!” With that, Ang practically skips out of the lunch room.

Peach sets her sketchpad in her book bag as I sit in the seat vacated by Ang. “What do you think of her?” I ask.

“Of Ang?” Fidgeting with one of her many necklaces, Peach says, “She’s extremely hyper. All the time, it seems.” I nod. “Don’t mind my straightforwardness, but how the hell are you two friends?”

A laugh touches my voice. “I honestly have no idea. She and I have just stuck to each other for years. I don’t even remember how we met. She’s a good person, though. Really creative, can’t draw worth her life, and loves drama and fashion.”

“She does have a nice sense of style,” Peach agrees. “Pink heels, black tights, a tie-dye dress, and a striped vest. She’s either out of it, or fashionable.”

“What does that makes us?” I wonder, gesturing to our outfits. “You’re wearing a floor length pinstripe dress, a purple fishnet top, and gladiator sandals, and I have safety pinned black jeans, combat boots, a skeleton top, and a maroon-looking velvet jacket on.”

“Definitely fashionable,” Peach says with full conviction. “We’re unique, at least.”

The remainder of the day concludes monotonously. Wade catches the sleeve of my jacket as students pour from classrooms to leave, but I rip myself from him and weave faster through the crowd. At home, my parents cook dinner while I resume painting the Mardi Gras mask that has already taken two weeks.

Half and hour after supper my phone rings. As it had at Ang’s words earlier, my chest strikes, though it certainly would not be him calling. To further prove my point, my best friend’s number and voice assure me it is not.

Not long after being informed of everything that has happened between Ang and her crush, I bid my parents goodnight and retreat to my room. There, I sketch absentmindedly before resorting to just pulling up my nightshirt and inspecting the three wounds on my stomach. They are rough under my fingertips.

When I finally am able to release my shirt, watch it drop to conceal my stomach, I crawl into bed. Per usual, I stare at the stars through my skylights.

For the hundredth time, I wonder what I am getting myself into.