I shake my head. “Do I ever?”
She smiles. “No. But know that you can. If you want to.”
“I know.” And I do.
“Did you know that ancient Egyptians shaved off their eyebrows to mourn the death of their cats?”
I change the subject and Calla laughs, shoving her long red hair out of her eyes with slender fingers. It’s our thing, these stupid death facts. It’s my thing, really. I don’t know why. I guess it’s from all the years of living in the stupid funeral home. It’s my way of giving death the finger. Plus, by focusing on death facts and learning Latin and making my stupid mental lists, it gives me something to focus on. Any time I focus hard on something, it staves off the voices.
Trust me, I’ll do anything for that.
“I didn’t. But thank God I know now,” Calla answers. “What would you shave off for me if I died?”
I would plunge to the bottom of the ocean for you. I’d comb it for shells and make you a necklace and then hang myself with it. Because if you aren’t here, I don’t want to be either.
I can’t show her how panicky the mere thought makes me, so I shrug. “Don’t give me the chance.”
She looks horrified, as she realizes what she said, so soon after mom died.
“I didn’t mean to….” She starts to say, then trails off. “I’m sorry. That was stupid.”
Calla and I are twins. Our level of connection can’t be understood by those who don’t have it. I know what she means even when she doesn’t. Her comment had come out before she remembered mom. It sounds stupid, but sometimes, we can forget our loss for a second. A blissful second.
“Don’t worry about it,” I tell her, as I turn onto the highway.
Fuck her. She has no right.
The voices are loud.
Too loud.
I close my eyes and squeeze them hard, trying not to hear.
But the voices are still there, still persistent.
She doesn’t deserve you. Kill her you fucking pussy kill her now. Push her off the cliffs. Lick her bones. Lick her bones. Lick her bones.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, trying to force the voices away.
Lick her bones, suck her marrow, show her show her show her.
Today, the voices sound real, even though I know they aren’t. They’re not my voice, they’re just masquerades, a scary mask, imposters. They’re not real.
My voice is real.
Those voices are not.
But it’s getting harder and harder to tell them apart.