Page 10 of Hunting Harbor
This must be someone else’s dream.
I want to laugh again, but I think it might make me cry.
And what’s really wrong with me is something I can’t even think, let alone say out loud.
Is that I don’t hate it.
Is that it feels so good.
Fuck me.I laugh again.Well, someone did.I look over at my night stand, determined to pass this off as some sort of odd dream and there’s something there. I squint, trying to make it out.
A blur becomes an object, becomes a photograph, becomes a silent scream. Just sitting on my nightstand. Like it's been there all along. Like it's waiting for me to notice. My breath jumps out of my lungs as I snatch it up and stare at the picture, horror rushing through my veins and freezing into cold, heavy calm. Four bloody, severed hands. Entwined. Holding each other. But I know them, even without their bodies. Father. Brother. My life. My ghosts. This is sick. This is awful. This is exactly what they deserve.
Who knew? Who did this? Who loves me enough to?
I think my body might disappear around me.
I think this might be the last breath I take.
The picture swims, but the hands stay sharp. Jaggedly sharp. They've been waiting for me. Someone's sent me a present. Probably the same someone who left his fucking baby batter between my legs and didn’t even bother to clean it up. A terrifying, terrible, perfect gift. And that feeling I can't quite shake—the feeling from this morning that I'm still not entirely alone—flares up. Hot. Cold. Like a flash of light on metal.
Then it dims into a less terrifying truth.
That someone knows me.
That someone sees.
I trace my finger along the edge of the photograph, then pull back as though burned. The hands are unmistakable.Oh my God… I know that counter…
My throat tightens around a dry, airless sob.
Maybe I'm not supposed to breathe.
Maybe I'm not supposed to feel anything at all.
And that should be true, but then why do I feel so light? Like the pressure that's always been there is floating up, up, up and away? A sick little balloon. A ghost that's decided to find someother writer to haunt. Someone knows about them. Someone's made it their business. It's sick. It's wrong. But maybe it's not...?
I fold myself into my own ribs and listen to my heart, waiting for it to beat normally again. To thud and slow like I haven't just woken up to the impossible. Like this is no big deal. Like nothing happened.
How did it get here?
Who brought it?
Who could love me enough to?
And more terrifying, why do I love them back?
Fuck, this was ridiculous. I cannot possibly love a stranger I’ve never met, but fuck it if I don’t. They saved me from this perpetual nightmare.
Man, I’d marry this psycho right now.
I put my head down and choke on the strange, raw sound that pushes its way out of me. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a cry. A scream that's lost its voice. Is this real? Did someone send this just for me? I don't know if I'm more afraid that it is or it isn't.
It must be some sick joke, I think, staring at the picture with one hand pressed over my eyes.
It's disgusting.
It's amazing.
