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"I know you're in shock now; that often turns to anger." His right hand reaches up as if he's cradling my head but hidden under my hair, always hidden; his grip burns, pulling at the roots of my hair, forcing my face up. Here it comes, the side I never knew, the dangerous side. "People who are angry do stupid things. That's why you called Peter, isn't it? See what happens when people do stupid things, Poppy." He jerks his head towards my brother's grave as if he were suggesting a particular sweater on the rack and not the person buried six feet under.
"If you ever feel the need to talk about what you overheard, then, well…" he lets his threat linger in the air for a few seconds like a gladiator in a chariot circling the arena before it begins to put on a show. "It would be a shame for another tragedy to occur to your family so soon. Where is Henry, by the way?" Andrew asks. He hugs me tighter to him, as if I'm grout he is shoving in-between tiles, forcing and trapping me in place.
That's all I ever was to him, a piece of decoration. I see that now. I wish I noticed it then.
My eyes shift to the space on my right where Henry should be. I'm relieved he's not here, yet that relief brings forth the most fear-inducing question: where is Henry? And does Andrew know?
I have to tip my chin higher to meet Andrew’s eyes; his golden blonde hair shines like a halo in the sun. I always thought he was just that, an angel. The popular boy who turned his sights onto me. I thought I was lucky. Why can't we hormone-drunk females remember that some fallen angels have turned into demons? There is a reason their wings are black.
His perfect white smile pins me in place. That smile used to make me giddy.
"Don't worry. I don't know where Henry is, but finding out would be so simple." He cups my cheek as he leans closer. I hate that my body begins to shake. Showing him my fear gives him all the power.
His hot, minty breath wraps around my ear like an unwanted blanket on a hot summer's day, "You owe me, Poppy. If I informed my father about what you heard, you would find yourself right there," Andrew's finger ominously points to the grave, "nestled beside your brother. Imagine the headlines: 'The last of the Moores, Henry and Poppy, both tragically perishing in a...' Well, we can't have a car accident again. That would look too suspicious. Perhaps a gas leak or a burglary gone wrong.”
His lips brush against my skin, not affectionately but with a chilling possessiveness, drawing a gasp—a cry of fear from me. To any onlooker, it would seem I wept for Peter’s death.
Andrew draws me in, bringing me close until my cheek is pressed against his chest. I'm shocked to find there's actually a heart beating inside of him.
My breath feels constrained, bouncing off his shirt and back into my face, creating a sensation of gradual suffocation.
Why can’t I push him away? I’m frozen, just like I was that night.
Why can’t I be the strong, badass female I see in movies and read in books?
Because this is real life, and that means heroes die and villains live. No one is coming to save you but yourself.
You can't save yourself, Poppy.
"Shh, don't worry. I'm going to give you time. I think that's all you need. Time to consider your actions. Considering I'm leaving for grad school, it makes perfect sense for us to take a break."
A break? Is that why he was so insistent that night at the party? Is that why he pushed boundaries and insisted on his actions?
So many things went awry that night. What I overheard wasn't the initial misstep; no, Andrew's desire to take something from me was the first mistake of that evening. Now, I realize I was merely a way for him to pass the time before he left for grad school.
He tilts up my chin, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip, and his eyes go distant. Predatory. “I’m going to miss these lips; how they tremble for me. That’s okay,” he says more to himself.
Hundred percent psycho, but what does that make me? I fell for him.
“Time only makes the heart grow fonder. You’ll come back to me.”
Ladies and gentlemen, update your dictionaries because the new definition of clinically insane is Andrew Sinclair.
I don’t know how to fight insanity, so I just remain frozen. Play dead like a possum. The problem is some insane people like it when things play dead. Maybe I need to fight back.
Will he lose interest, then?
Do I have the strength to fight?
His lips curve into a smile that ignites a fury inside of me. "Don't do anything stupid."He purrs.
My shock-induced fear cracks like thin ice. It feels like a demon inside of me just rose up. We all have them buried deep; most choose to ignore them. Most can. I did until now. I let it speak for me, let its anger seep out.
"The same can be said for you," I hiss. "It was stupid of you to let me hear what I did. Tell me, Andrew, did you think I would handle it well? Did you think I'd look at your hands and not see the blood on them? Think I'd shrivel away into a corner; let you attach strings to my arms you could pull like a puppeteer? Not after what you did, you fool. I should have cut you out of my life a long time ago. You silly, stupid fool."
I exhale, a weight off my chest, but no inhale comes rushing in. I know I just made a huge mistake. The demon inside of me just challenged the devil. It forgot the devil is its master.
The way his blue eyes gleam makes me hesitate. He blinks, and it's like the tongue of a hungry predator just licked its bloody teeth.
