No…
She pulled up her shirt and yanked down the waistband of her skirt, tracing her own star with her finger.
“I know why I have mine. Why do you have yours? Tell me the truth, Elian Beyer.” Her soft voice was my unraveling.
Falling.
Falling.
A.
Part.
“Why?” It was a broken word. Strangled. Torn.
Why?
Layna Whitaker, my obsessive focus, calmly stood there, her fingers tracing the lines of that hateful, horrible star. Impassive. Unmoving.
Waiting for me to tell her my secrets.
Secrets I had always kept.
“My sister. Amelia,” I let out in slow, painful bits.
Layna dropped her hand, her shirt once again covering the tattoo. “Your sister,” she repeated.
Heartbeats in my ear. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t think.
“I saw the star. Out the window. On his arm. She went with him. Away. Never came home.” Short, choppy sentences. Not making sense.
What was I saying?
Hide!
Run away!
Can’t handle this! Not now. Not here.
Not with Layna.
“Your sister went with him.” Layna stepped toward me, hands out stretched. Reaching for me. I backed away.
“Who are you?” I asked. Knowing.
Knowing.
“I’m his daughter,” she whispered, half in pain, half in relief. Tinged in something else. Joy?
“Daughter,” I repeated, my tongue thick and too big for my mouth. Lies, all lies. Nothing but lies.
Layna continued to reach for me.
Touch me…
“I’m his daughter. Him.” She bent down and picked up a newspaper article that had fallen on the floor.
The Nautical Killer.
“You’re his daughter.” I shook my head. I was having a hard time understanding.
Falling.
Falling.
A.
Part.
“I’m his blood.” Her eyes were full of tears. Red and wet, hanging on her lashes, refusing to fall. She wiped them away and they were gone. Never were.
I mourned the loss of her tears. They were mine in a way that she never would be.
Not now.
Not now.
I pushed past her and ran to the door. The devil behind me. The monster shouting my name.
“Elian! Wait!” Panicked. Layna was panicked.
I needed to leave.
Too much.
I had to go.
“Elian!”
I was gone.
Ruined.
Destroyed.
I was the monster.
Me.
Sharp teeth and sharper claws.
Forked tongue and serpent’s tail.
His devil.
His lie.
I had chased him away.
I knew the time was coming but I fought against it. I fought against the pull of the blood.
“I should come out to see you,” Matt suggested later that night. He sounded scared. Worried.
He should be.
Right?
He had called, as though instinctually knowing that I needed him to. He was there. My humanity.
“No,” I said, ragged and harsh.
No.
“I can hear it, Lay, you’re not doing well.”
Not doing well. That was an understatement. Elian had fled. Ran. Six hours ago, and I was finished.
Plans ruined.
Maybe I was fine with that.
“I’m okay, Matt. Don’t come here. Ever,” I said, a clear warning. He was my voice on the phone. Not a presence in my reality. There not here. That was important.
I scribbled words on the dry erase board. Silly words. Honest words.
The truth is the ugly side no one wants to see.
Matt didn’t say anything for a long time. “Why haven’t you ever tried to see me? Not once in all these years. I haven’t seen you since the day they took me away.”
I knew the time would come when he’d ask. I could hear the betrayal. The sting of it was sharp.
It was sweet and full of assurances.
“It was better that way.” I didn’t want to talk about that. Not about my failings or his feelings. Not about our life before.
What was the point?
So we could cry and be assuaged from the chains of guilt?
We had to avoid the past. We had to deal with our present. Plan for our future.
My memories weren’t for sharing. Not with Matt.
“I was twelve, Lay. I had lost everything. I hated you.”
“I know.”
“I still hate you.”
“I know.”