10 Liney To Sever
Liney
To Sever
I never feared my sister before tonight.
I imagine her eyes instead of the lantern’s light as I spiral down the stairs. How could illusions have burned so bright?
I always trusted my sister before tonight.
By the time I reach the storage room, I’m lost. I’ve sensed something about this island, about Elle, but I could never name it. The heat of her hands. The strength she musters from nothing. Now she speaks in tongues?
I pace the room, running my hands up and down my arms. A clap of thunder makes me jump. We’ve always been extensions of each other, strands braided together to form something stronger. But the eyes I met as I ducked under the lens were a stranger’s.
I head down to our living space to perform the inventory Elle tasked me with as quick as I can.
It’s a relief to breathe deep here where the wind is dulled, though the pounding of the icy rain hasn’t lessened.
I place the lantern in the middle of the room.
Nothing’s out of place: bed in one corner, chesterfield and fireplace in another, kitchen beside the front door, and dishes all where they should be.
One of the shutters has been wrenched open on the ocean side of the room.
I peer out the window for any signs of life. A wave sprays over the glass, as though we reside inside a sea devil with the window as a porthole into the depths. It sweeps away the frost that formed. While the storm frightens me, the wash of the wave doesn’t. The churning rhythm is comforting.
The surf falls back to the black rocks to feed into the next surge, and still there’s no red light. Nothing but pelting sleet against the glass and darkness beyond. The sailors will only see the same dark nothing until we are the rocks that they’ll be thrown upon. They won’t make it.
I look back to my lantern. It is small, but it might be enough to—
Don’t you dare think about that, Caroline.
Chamomile has appeared between me and the lantern. She doesn’t know what I witnessed. What has changed. Or has she, as part of me?
“They need help,” I say, advancing. “I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t try.”
They aren’t worth your life. You won’t survive out there.
“There could be”—I don’t know how many people fit on a ship—“a hundred? More? They aren’t worth saving?”
This isn’t your business. Let Elle save them.
“You sound like her.” I’m tired of this babying. She doesn’t know better; she’s just a manifestation of my cowardice. “Since when have you cared about what isn’t my business?”
It’s your safety, Caroline. I want—
“What’s best for me?” Enough. I pass through her form. She splutters behind me, but I don’t stop until I scoop up the lantern. “This morning you told me to swim, now I’m too delicate to walk outside?”
This is madness. The storm is too strong. You’ll be dashed on the rocks.
A quake nearly makes me lose my footing.
It must be another lightning strike. We aren’t in an area with seismic activity.
Glass clatters in the cupboards. The ship must be running aground, scraping against the shallows.
It may already be too late for the vessel itself, but I could lead survivors to safety.
I won’t allow you to be so reckless. She places herself in front of the door. No longer a girl of mirth. She appears more solid now. The lantern reflects off her satin dress and perfect hair. One long curl by her ear dangles in rhythm with the tremors.
“You don’t allow or disallow anything,” I say, voice shaking but forceful. “You are a figment of my imagination.”
A manifestation of my guilt, my fear, my need for attention. Every bratty, self-serving impulse—it’s all her. No more. I can’t stay here while others are in danger, my sister is doing God knows what upstairs, and I can be of use.
Now, Liney—
“Do not call me that!” I snap. I set the lantern down beside myself. “Only Elle calls me that. I think you need to leave.”
How do you destroy a fiction? She may come from my mind, but she does not come from my heart. If she did, she’d never have tried to stop me.
Chamomile begins to speak. I lunge forward. I’ve got no plan, only to reach the door.
But it’s not the wood of the door my fingers grip.
It’s her arms. My chest presses against her satin gown.
I’ve pinned her. How? I’ve never been able to touch her before.
Have I completely lost it? The fabric in my hands is as real as my own nightgown.
She is no longer a being of make-believe comfort.
“What are you?” My jaw shakes with the words as another tremor threatens my footing. “What in God’s name are you, Chamomile?”
She struggles against me. Did I surprise her? I can’t outrun her, but here I have the advantage. She’s taller, but she can’t get her footing in all her layers of skirts to fight back.
“You have one chance,” I warn.
Or what? Her voice is venom wishing to sink its fangs into me. Save yourself, Caroline.
It wasn’t an hour ago that we were lying in bed together. I saw someone I cared for. But rosy dreams and sand-surf laughter were a facade. Who am I when I stare at my villain?
I can’t let her intuit my next move or allow my icy heart to stall me. Instinct must reign, not thought. I push back from her to give myself room, and I throw a punch directly at her face.
My knuckles meet her cheek. The force slams her head back into the door. Whatever ethereal being Chamomile used to be, she’s real now. And the bloom of pain spreading through my knuckles and into my wrist is real too.
She wheezes out a cough while another shudder moves beneath us through the floorboards.
Her eyes flash fear. It’s gone just as quick, but it’s as though something lifted from her for half a second.
I can’t hesitate. There’s little time to save anyone in the storm.
I grab her shoulders, ignoring the spikes of pain that radiate from my punching hand and into my arm.
They’re lost already, stupid child, she says, then spits what might be a tooth at my feet.
I push her aside with all my strength. She collides with the edge of the kitchen counter. When she looks up at me, her hazel eyes shine. Not fire, like Elle’s—thank the Lord—but a white-hot light that burns into my eyes.
I need the lantern. My overdriven heart may not last much longer. I pause, breath ragged.
Chamomile takes the opportunity and lunges. She pushes me against the opposite kitchen counter. The edge hits my mid-back hard, forcing a grunt from my lips.
Her hands reach around my throat.
Panic surges beneath each of her fingers’ pressure points. My pulse thumps in my ears and teeth and palms. I try to force in a breath, but she’s grasping too tight. Her expression towering above me is blank. Unrelenting.
You’re not real, I think. You’re me. I won’t hurt myself if I don’t want to.
I grasp at her wrists, but they’re solid as metal rods. I scratch up the sleeves of her dress. No reaction. The apple of her cheek has darkened with the bruise I gave her.
Too long, no air. I kick at her legs, but nothing lands. Each motion is weaker than the last. I try prying her fingers off, punching her hands despite the pain, rocking my head violently—nothing. She’s a vise above me.
My vision blurs. This isn’t a rosy dream gone sour.
This girl of my own mind, my confidence, my guilt, she’ll kill me.
I can’t focus enough to puzzle out what happens to her if I die.
She doesn’t seem concerned. The cabinets behind Chamomile slam open and shut.
Has a window broken? The edges of my vision darken. I can’t lose focus.
Elle will find me in the morning slumped over the counter with my own hands wrapped around my neck. Her eyes will alight with rage, the only thing that can engulf her anymore.
I can hear the ocean churn, somehow. It sounds like rage. Like Elle.
I take my hands off Chamomile’s, as though admitting defeat. I spread my arms wide, both palms down on the wood surface. Searching for a miracle.
My fingertips graze something, small but promising. I stare up through half lids at Chamomile to keep her attention on my face instead of my exploring hand. Her features dance in shadow while her mahogany curls shine in the flickering lamplight.
My toes prickle as they go numb. I stretch my fingers as far as they can go. The object is slender but long. A handle?
Show me a way out of this, I pray. How to overcome her. Show me this all meant something.
I turn my head. I’d jump with surprise were I not pinned down. My sister’s knife has somehow moved across the counter to rest under my twitching fingers. I push the surprise and let instinct reign.
I grasp the handle of the knife. Chamomile has yet to notice. Her eyes shine flat white.
I’ve never used a weapon for violence, but I summon my sister’s courage. She’d fight. The least I can do is put my all into saving myself too.
I lift my arms to meet in the middle, above her hands at my throat. I hold the knife with both hands, trapping hers beneath mine.
Push up. It is my own voice in my mind. Not Chamomile’s, not Elle’s. Mine.
The corners of my vision darken. There’s only me, the knife, and her face as realization dawns on her. I thrust the knife up and deep into her neck.
It sinks in with a sickening wet sound. I meet resistance, then slide farther.
I expect my hands to move through her as they have before, incorporeal once again.
But I reach hilt-deep in her throat and stick there.
My thumb brushes against her collarbone.
Her breath rattles, hot on the skin of my knuckles.
Her fingers loosen on my neck. Air returns. Her hands brace on either side of my head.
Don’t, she mouths, her lips darkening.
I force the blade out, fighting a vacuum seal I’ve created. Black blood sprays. It can’t be real. She’s not made of flesh and blood. Yet the liquid burns against my exposed face and neck, oily.
Chamomile stumbles back and clutches at her neck. Her eyes bulge. Is she more surprised that I could physically harm her or that I had the gumption to do it?
Catching my breath in gasps, I knock her back. She has no resistance. A rag doll. The blood keeps pouring out. It gushes, surging like the waves outside. Drenching me and the kitchen tiles.
How will I explain this to Elle?
I prayed for a way out and found this knife.
My hand cramps from holding tight to the handle.
I focus on my breath. My lungs must sustain another near-fatal beating.
I hate how each hitch stays so shallow. My head swims, and it takes precious moments to grab hold of the counter behind me and count through the next few breaths.
I was supposed to be resting. Not killing.
Chamomile mouths something, but no sound comes out.
I can’t make out the shapes of her lips, once a part of her I longed to touch.
Her movements slow, frantic hands at her throat falling limp.
Her eyes settle into a dull gray green. The blood stops pouring.
Chunks fall from her throat instead. I lean forward.
A powdery substance darkens as it absorbs the gore beneath it.
It’s ash. It comes out in clumps of powder and falls to the floor, spreading like snow.
Blood-soaked, still gasping in air, I grab the lantern’s handle. I can’t allow this macabre spectacle to distract me, no matter how my mind whirls.
I leave Chamomile crumpled on the floor, soaking the kitchen. Betrayal bubbles in my stomach, but I can’t forge it into anger. Every second I waste here could be the last breath of someone in the storm. I won’t let this chance slip away. Not when I can finally do something.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
I’m not my sister. My rage isn’t righteous. It’s cold. Brittle. It breaks apart like a fallen icicle, worthless after the damage has been done.
I open the door and rush into the storm.