Page 16 of Molt

“How many times?”

I don’t move as she looks toward the shelves…toward the jars. Then back at me.

Her face slowly loses color. “Specimen eight.”

Fuck.

“What does that mean?”

I say nothing.

Her eyes widen. “Oh my God.”

“Lenora.”

“Eight.”

“Don’t.”

“Am I number eight?”

“No.”

She looks relieved.

I hate what I have to do to her.

“You’re number nine.” I whisper and the apartment goes silent.

Her mouth opens but nothing comes out.

I watch her look at the shelves differently now.

Not as the collection of a lunatic. A timeline. A graveyard.

Our graveyard.

“There were eight before me?”

“No.”

“Then what the fuck does that mean?”

“They were you.”

She laughs again. A terrified little sound. “I don’t believe you.”

“Good.”

“What?” she says incredulously.

“I hope you never do.” I say then walk toward the kitchen.

Distance. I need distance.

I toss the bloody cloth into the sink and turn on the faucet. Red swirls around porcelain.

My nose has stopped bleeding. For now.