Page 104 of The Final Cut

DELIA,

AGE 19

Isabel introduced me to a man twice my age and told me he served the family well.

He kissed my hand. I wanted to cut his mouth off.

Isabel watched my face the entire time, so I smiled.

Afterward, Mother was sick in her bathroom. I heard her through the wall.

No one mentioned it at dinner.

That is another rule of this house.

Women bleed.

Women vomit.

Women disappear.

Dinner is still served at eight.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

DELIA

The couch is too soft.

I sit at the far end of it anyway, because my knees burn and standing is a pride I can no longer afford. The shower and borrowed clothes helped. The bandages helped less, mostly because they make the damage look neat, as if the problem was the bleeding and not the hands that put me on the chapel floor in the first place.

Reva sits several feet away with a mug of coffee between both hands and the remote balanced on her thigh. She left space between us on purpose.

I noticed that.

The orange cat has no such manners. He climbs onto the cushion between us, tests my leg with one paw, then steps carefully into my lap as if I invited him. His weight hurts my knees. His purr starts almost immediately, though, and I let him stay. Something about him is healing.

Reva watches him settle.

“He’s kind of rude, sorry,” she says. She doesn’t sound sorry.

“So are you.”

Her mouth moves, a small almost-smile that disappears before it can become anything real. She turns toward the television, scrolling through horror movies. Masked men. Haunted houses. Blood-streaked girls looking over their shoulders.

“Do you still like scary movies?” she asks.

The question is ordinary enough to hurt.

Dad used to watch them with us on the couch, even as little as we were, one arm around the popcorn bowl, one hand ready to cover our eyes ten seconds too late. Reva always screamed first, then accused me of screaming louder. I always denied it because I was older by minutes and believed that meant something.

I pet the cat because looking at my hands is easier than looking at her.

“I grew out of liking things where girls scream and no one comes.”

Reva’s thumb stills on the remote. She doesn’t apologize, though. Which is better.

Instead she says quietly, “When I got old enough to figure it out, I learned that I liked horror movies because the ones I was drawn to were actually deeply feminist. The ones I dismissed—the ones I did not like—were misogynist and just the opposite. But the others? The final girl, the monstrous feminine, how so many provide a way to help the viewer process trauma…I like that.”