2. Maren
Maren
I sit at the dining table, my fingers tracing patterns in the condensation of my untouched drink. The ice cubes clink softly as they melt, reminding me of the sound of a knife scraping against bone. I suppress a shudder.
Celeste talks like nothing is wrong, like we're just having a normal family dinner. As if this house hasn’t seen me at my worst. Multiple times, in fact. It’s the fact that she keeps this house and stays here that really sets me on edge.
“It's been a year, Maren,” Celeste says, her voice dripping with false cheer. “Don't you think it's time to move on?”
I stare at her, wondering how she can be so fucking oblivious. The steak knife in my hand trembles slightly, and I set it down before I'm tempted to use it. Again.
The house is exactly the same. Same wallpaper, same crystal chandelier, same fucking china cabinet full of pristine plates that have never seen a real meal. It's like walking into a time capsule, and it makes my skin crawl.
But I know better. I can still see the bloodstains on the carpet, even though they've long since been cleaned away. I can still hear the wet thud of the knife plunging into flesh, over and over and over again.
My skin crawls. I want to claw it off, peel away the layers until there's nothing left but raw, exposed nerves. Maybe then I'd feel something other than this numbing emptiness.
“Maren? Are you listening to me?”
I blink, dragging my attention back to Celeste. She's staring at me expectantly, her perfectly manicured nails tapping an impatient rhythm on the table.
I make a noncommittal noise, something between a grunt and a hum. It seems to satisfy Celeste, who launches into another monologue about how worried she is about me, about my “new look,” as if changing my hair color is the most pressing issue in my life right now.
But I'm not really listening. My mind is back on the quad, replaying the moment when Riggs' eyes locked onto mine. The way he looked at me.
I remember the whispers that followed me across campus. “Bloody Mary,” they called me. As if I'm some urban legend, some creepy story told at slumber parties to scare little girls. But I'm not a legend. I'm flesh and blood, even if I feel hollow inside.
The curse. That's what they think I am now. A curse on this town, on anyone who gets too close. They're not entirely wrong.
Celeste is still talking, her voice a constant drone in the background. She's moved on to my grades now, lamenting how I've “let myself go” academically. As if that matters. As if any of this matters.
I take a sip of my drink; the ice long since melted. The watered-down liquid tastes like nothing on my tongue. Everything tastes like nothing.
“He wasn't perfect, but he was still my husband.” The words hang in the air, poisonous and suffocating. I feel my chest tighten, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The room starts to spin, memories flooding back in a nauseating rush.
The words hit me like a slap across the face. I freeze. Did she really just say that? My mind reels, struggling to process the sheer audacity of her statement.
Celeste's voice cuts through the haze, dripping with condescension. “You don't have to act so tragic, Maren.”
Something inside me snaps. The chair scrapes against the hardwood floor as I stand up, the sound echoing in the too-quiet dining room.
I move slowly, deliberately; it reminds me of how I used to move during cheer practice when we were learning a new routine.
My body feels like it's on autopilot, disconnected from my racing thoughts.
I can feel my lips curling into a smile, but it's not a happy expression. It's feral, dangerous.
Celeste leans back in her chair, her eyes widening. I can see the fear creeping in, replacing her usual look of disdain and disappointment. Good. She should be afraid.
“Maren,” Celeste says, her voice trembling slightly. “What are you doing?”
I don't answer. Instead, I reach out and trail my fingers along the edge of the table. They come to rest on the handle of my steak knife. The metal is cool against my skin, familiar in a way that should probably disturb me.
“He wasn't perfect?” I finally say, my voice low and eerily calm. “Is that what you tell yourself to sleep at night, Mom? That he wasn't perfect, but he was still your husband?”
Celeste swallows hard, her perfectly manicured nails digging into the arms of her chair. “Maren, please. You're overreacting. I didn't mean?—”
“Do you want to know what your not-so-perfect husband did to me?” I ask, taking another step closer. “Do you want me to tell you in detail? Or do you already know and just don't care?”
Celeste shakes her head, her perfectly styled hair coming loose. “Maren, please. You're not well. We can get you help?—”
I laugh, and the sound is harsh and bitter. “Help? Now you want to help me? Where was this help a year ago? Two years ago? Five?”
Celeste's eyes dart between my face and the knife, her perfectly painted lips trembling. “Sweetie, please. Just…just put the knife down. We can talk about this.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I snarl, my patience finally snapping. The words come out in a low, dangerous growl that I barely recognize as my own voice. “Shut the fuck up before I do to you what I did to Luke.”
Celeste's face goes white, all the blood draining away. She lets out a nervous laugh, high-pitched and brittle. “You...you don't mean that. You wouldn't.”
I lean in close, close enough to see the fine lines of fear etched around her eyes, hidden beneath layers of expensive makeup. “Wouldn't I? You have no idea what I'm capable of, Mom. No fucking clue.”
My free hand comes to rest on the back of Celeste's chair, effectively trapping her. She shrinks back, trying to put as much distance between us as possible without actually getting up. Smart move. I'm not sure what I'd do if she tried to run.
I lean in closer, my breath hot against Celeste's ear. “You know what Uncle Matteo is capable of, don't you? He'll make you disappear so cleanly, it'll be like you ran off to Tahiti for a wellness retreat and just decided to stay.”
I can feel Celeste's body trembling beneath my hand. Her nails dig deeper into the chair's fabric, leaving little half-moon indents.
“Get out, Maren,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.
I pull back slightly, studying her face.
The perfect mask of the society wife is crumbling, revealing the terrified woman beneath.
Her mascara is starting to run, leaving faint black tracks down her cheeks.
It reminds me of the time I found her crying in the bathroom after one of Dad's “business trips.” I was twelve then, still naive enough to try and comfort her except Dad never made it back home.
“Mm,” I hum, tapping the flat of the knife against my palm. “That's what I thought.”
I straighten up, letting the knife clatter onto the table. The sound makes Celeste flinch, and I can't help but smirk. How the tables have turned.
“Don't summon me here again, Mother,” I say, the word 'mother' dripping with contempt. “You're dead to me, and so is this house.”
As I walk towards the door, my fingers trail along the wallpaper.
It's the same pattern it's always been, pale blue roses on a cream background.
If I press hard enough, I can feel the slight indentation where a fist once punched through, leaving a hole that was quickly plastered over and papered.
Just another secret buried within these walls.
As I reach for the doorknob, I pause. Without turning around, I speak one last time, my voice carrying easily through the stillness. “Oh, and Mother? If you ever try to pretend he wasn't a monster again, I'll make sure the whole town sees how truly ugly you are.”
As soon as I step outside, I take a deep breath, letting the cool air fill my lungs, pushing out the stale, suffocating air of that goddamn house.
I start walking back toward my apartment and pull out my phone, scrolling mindlessly through social media.
It's a habit I can't seem to break, even though I know it's just going to piss me off.
Sure enough, my feed is full of smiling faces and party pics.
Look at all these happy, normal people living their happy, normal lives.
I'm about to shove my phone back in my pocket when a post catches my eye. It's from one of the cheerleaders, Brittany or Tasha or whoever.
Theta Chi's 'Myths and Legends' party is LIT! The whole hockey team is here!
A slow smirk spreads across my face. If the whole team is there, that means Riggs is there too. My heart does a weird little flip at the thought of him, and I hate myself for it.
I change direction, my feet carrying me towards Greek Row without conscious thought. The closer I get, the louder the music becomes, pulsing through the air like a living thing. I can feel the bass in my chest.
As I round the corner, the Theta Chi house comes into view. It's lit up like a carnival, with strings of lights crisscrossing the front yard.
I pause at the edge of the property, suddenly unsure. What the fuck am I doing here?