Mind Games

Deliberately, she laughed. “Babies tend to wake up crying every few hours.”

“I’m doing fine, I sleep fine. I got you here, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, I’m here.” In control, she reminded herself. She’d stay in control.

“I thought, why not pay Ray a visit. It’s been a while, but nothing much has changed. What’s it been now?” She wandered to the door, put her hands on it. “Fifteen years. How about that, Ray, nearly half your life’s been spent behind this.” She gave the door a quick knock. “How’s that feel?”

“I get out. I get out plenty.”

“It’s not the same, is it? Using the gift you corrupted to walk outside these walls, watch people go along as they please. Eating ice cream sundaes, having a drink at the neighborhood bar. Can you smell the air stirring up spring or the grass freshly mowed on a summer morning?”

She turned back to him. “Does that give you some relief from the stench in here, that smell of isolation and despair? I don’t think it does. I think it eats at you, it eats away because you know you’ll never really exist outside these locks, these walls again.”

“You put me here.”

“I did. I was only twelve, and I put you here. And, Ray, that’s the biggest, shiniest personal achievement of my entire life.”

“I’ll get out, and I’ll come for you.”

“So you always say, but here you are.”

He grinned again. “You, too.”

When he lunged, she pivoted instinctively to block the knife in his hand. She felt the edge of the blade score along her shoulder, felt the shock of pain, and the impact of the door as her back struck it.

“You’re here,” he said again. As he lifted the knife to plunge, she pulled herself out, away.

In her bed she heard him shout:

“You’ll die here before I do!”

Someone yelled, “Shut the fuck up, Riggs.”

But he laughed, and as his laughter faded, as she came back to her own room, to the mutter of thunder from the passing storm, she pressed her hand to her shoulder.

And stared at the blood smeared on her palm.

* * *

Just past dawn, she sat at her grandmother’s kitchen table. She’d held back too much, she had to admit that now. As she described the encounter, Rem shoved up, paced the kitchen, stared out the back door, paced back again.

But Lucy stayed still, stayed quiet until the end.

“Let me see your shoulder.”

Thea pushed up the sleeve of her T-shirt. She’d butterflied the shallow cut.

“It’s hardly more than a scratch,” she said, “but … Have you ever heard of something like this?”

“No. You cleaned it good?”

“Yes, and used your ointment. It’s not deep, and—”

“Jesus Christ, Thea!” Exploding, Rem threw up his hands. “The son of a bitch cut you. He made you bleed. He could’ve killed you.”

“I don’t know if that’s true. I just don’t know. Grammie?”

“This is beyond me. I don’t know how he could do this. I don’t know how he knew he could.”