Chapter 23
DELILAH
Kane has only been gone for a day and I’m already losing my mind. Between my parents, my grandparents, and the creepy atmosphere of this house, I’m tempted to take my chances by throwing myself out the window.
The food has lasted but fruit only manages to stave my hunger for so long. I need something more, something with significant weight so I don’t have to hug myself to be able to fall asleep while my stomach grumbles.
I don’t know what the freaks here do. I’m assuming they’re like normal monsters who come out in the dark, so I wait until the sun is at its highest point in the sky to leave the room.
The belt is uncomfortable under the sweats Lennox brought me, but he packed thick fleece-lined socks so I can’t feel the cold as I walk down the stairs.
Tucking my hands into my hoodie, I tilt my head, searching for anyone I could cross paths with.
Anna has fucked off and the rest have left me alone, but I still don’t trust them.
Thankfully, there’s no one in the kitchen and I can’t hear anyone talking in the lounge, so I walk to the fridge on my tiptoes.
The hum is far too loud as I pull the door open.
Like Kane said, there are a bunch of meats in plastic tubs.
I don’t look at them too closely in case they stare back at me.
There’s cheese, which I think is safe. That can’t be made from human remains, so I set it aside.
I grimace at the bowl of cold boiled eggs as I take them too.
It won’t be a lavish meal or anything close to appetizing, but beggars can’t be choosers.
My options are severely limited and the only non-meat items are a tomato, some congealed flan pudding thing that looks disgusting, and celery.
Bread will be fine.
I turn, searching the counter for it. Just as I begin closing the fridge door, I jump as Helene asks, “Would you like me to show you the pantry?”
I slowly turn to see the creepy bitch standing on the other side of the kitchen table with my mother beside her. It’s the latter who answers for me as she tilts her nose in the air. “She’ll be fine without.”
Helene tenses, turning her head. “Did you mishear what Kane told you? Delilah is now part of my family, not yours. She must shed the horrible habits you instilled in her.”
My mother lowers her proud chin. “I overstepped, Mother.”
Why the fuck is she calling this old cunt her mother?
“Delilah is a Kobalt. Leave me with my kin.” Helene flicks her hand in the air, swatting my mother away.
I always thought cults were formed by distorting religions, manipulating people who were lost, in search of guidance.
Helene has formed her own version of religion where she’s at the helm and they’re all fearful of her.
Their worship involves depravity rather than a deity.
Religion and business have always intersected so it’s not a farfetched idea, in theory.
Watching her feels different though. She’s not as charismatic as I thought cult leaders would be.
Maybe I’ve given myself too much credit for thinking I’d be able to recognize manipulation. After all, that’s all I’ve ever been around, and I allowed it to happen. Or maybe it’s worse, because all I have ever known is manipulation, yet I’m still fucking dumb, unable to spot the signs.
Who knows? Who cares, when I’m starving?
Helene waits until my mother has left to walk past me to a small wooden door painted the same drab color as the walls. I’m not really sure what cannibals keep in their pantries, but I’m shocked at all the normal foods revealed as she opens the door.
I thought everyone would know how to spot them because heinous actions have to change a person.
Everyone likes to think they’d be able to differentiate between good and evil—the monsters are removed from humanity, so we can save ourselves.
It’s a defense mechanism, a common lie society tells themselves when the reality is the monsters are normal people.
Like my parents. They have children, they get married, they have friends and colleagues who respect them.
When those people find out their neighbor, colleague, friend, loved one has committed a crime, they always lie.
Say they knew something was off about them.
We’re all liars—the monsters and the normal people—because we’re all continuously ignoring reality.
Helene doesn’t. She revels in her monster status, keeping herself secluded on this island.
Who’s the real monster?
Those who infect everything around them? Or the one who contains their evil away from civilization?
“Your appetite is unlike mine,” Helene says, dragging me away from my mental examination. “You may use anything other than the third shelf in the refrigerator.”
“What’s on the third shelf?”
“An acquired taste you wouldn’t appreciate.” Her smile holds humor as she gently tilts her head to the side a fraction.
People.
Human fucking flesh beside the eggs and butter.
She steps into the pantry while I stare at her in intrigue.
It’s like I’m in a documentary about the nutcase who had a normal life as she carries out a box of pasta shells and a sealed carton of chicken broth.
She’s so normal in this moment, it’s more terrifying than the times she’s shown her crazy.
Stopping beside me, she sets the items on the kitchen table and opens the fridge to remove a container of white meat.
I don’t know if humans have white meat, so I look down at my arm like that would help me.
The person who was served during the cult wedding ceremony had dark meat. This looks like a chicken breast.
“Sit. Rest,” she says as she continues moving around me, grabbing a chopping block.
I don’t move until she opens a drawer, taking out a large butcher’s knife.
The rectangle blade is huge and thick, but she sets it on the table on her way back to the pantry.
Gripping the edge of the counter, I walk backwards, so she doesn’t kill me or eat me.
I hope I taste like shit if she ever does.
As I sit at the end of the table—the furthest away from her—she comes back out with a large white onion in her hand.
Weird as fuck. Another thing I wouldn’t have thought about cannibals is they season their food.
If someone asked me before all of this, I would have thought they kill and eat like wild animals.
It’s another layer of mindfuckery, making the monstrous actions normal.
They’re not eating people while their hands are covered in blood. No, the imagery is normal. A lovingly prepared meal like any other, as the person who ordered my father to rape me is now making me food.
She places the onion in the center of the chopping block, then raises the heavy butcher’s knife before slamming it down, cutting it in half. The strangest thing is when she peels back the layers of onion skin. She sniffles as she says, “The bigger ones always irritate my eyes.”
This woman who fucks her son, made rape a business, carts her dead, stuffed husband around her house is sniffling because of an onion.
All of her behavior is normal. Too normal.
It makes me question how she’s done the things she has.
Surely, the woman tilting her head back with watery eyes isn’t the same one who whipped Kane without any emotion.
But she is. It’s the same person, finely dicing the vegetable before she heats a skillet then adds a pot of water to the stove to boil.
I drop my hands under the table, pinching the inside of my thigh to make sure I’m not dreaming. The oil sizzling and water boiling are the only sounds in the room until she places the chicken breast on the chopping board, cutting it in thin strips.
“Lizbeth was never a good cook,” she says, turning to check on the stove. “It’s a shame she didn’t teach you how to be self-sufficient.”
I idiotically engage her. “She liked the staff to do everything.”
“An insecure woman.” She shakes her head, softly smiling at me. “You may place the pasta in the water.”
For some reason, I nod as I quickly stand, collect the box of dried pasta, then pause in front of the stove. “How much do you want added?”
“Whatever you will eat, sweet girl.”
Throw the boiling water over her and run.
It would be the intelligent thing to do if I didn’t need to befriend the bitch and make her think I’m one of them, so I add a few handfuls then set the box on the counter.
She continues instructing me to do different things until she’s finished cutting the chicken then washes her hands. I nearly laugh at that. She eats human flesh but she’s worried about food poisoning. Totally fucking sane.
There’s got to be a joke somewhere in the fact she stands beside me at the stove and opens one of the wall cabinets to take out a spice rack. She turns them, showing me before she uses a small spoon to scoop out different seasonings to add into the skillet.
Welcome to cooking with a cannibal, Delilah. You may not be crazy now, but you will be when the program ends.
I don’t move away or say anything as we finish making the strangest meal in history, which actually smells good. The cold nasty boiled eggs are forgotten when she makes up a plate for me, and I sit back at the table. There’s no cutlery, so I pick up a piece of chicken with my fingers.
“You are not an animal,” she snarls. “Eat correctly.”
The cutlery drawer rattles as she roughly pulls it out then slams a knife and fork on the table beside my plate.
I don’t want her to take my food away, so I use them as she sits at the other end of the table.
This bitch doesn’t allow me to have any peace though as she says, “You will not carry on the bad habits you developed under your parents.”
“I’m sure Harkin raped them out of me,” I mutter, stabbing into the chicken.
“Kane was correct.” She nods, lowering her voice.
“Now you’ve learnt your place is here, no punishments will be required.
However, I must stress the importance of learning your role.
After some discussion, I understand the younger generations move at a different pace than I’m accustomed to.
Also, you were not raised correctly. Both of you have been without guidance, so from now, I will be your guide. ”
Keep eating. Don’t fucking say anything to ruin this.
The food turns bitter on my tongue as I swallow, forcing my voice to be lighter. “I’d like that.”
“Good. Eat, regain your strength, then I’ll show you the island.”
I feel like a child as I walk beside Helene around the grounds. She doesn’t have her stick, dressed like some lady of the manor in a long tea dress floating around her ankles. Her heels don’t sink into the lawn, while my sneakers squeak against the wet blades of grass.
“It really is beautiful.” I push my hands into the pockets of my sweats.
The grounds and the island are hauntingly mesmerizing.
There are different broken structures showing how the island has weathered on our way to the steep edge.
I stay a step behind her when she stops so she can’t throw me off as we stare at the lonely broken gate.
She looks at it fondly, her voice softer as she says, “Those gates led to the garden. My children adored playing around the souls of their ancestors. Isadora would even collect flowers to make an arrangement for the table.”
“She was good at that,” I whisper. “Making a house feel like a home, warming it up.”
“She was. When she left, everything became colder.” She drags in a slow, weighted breath while staring at the gates. “I fear I did too.”
“I’m sure she missed you,” I lie.
She looks over her shoulder, smiling like she knows I’m talking shit. What I should say is, “If you weren’t such a wretched cunt, maybe your daughter would have wanted to be around you.”
I remain silent as she sighs. “A son can’t offer what a daughter can.
They are made to advance you in the world, but a daughter?
” She softly shakes her head. “A daughter is a part of you, existing outside of yourself. She—and any life she will go on to create—are all formed within you.” Turning to me, she places her aged hand on her stomach.
“A female is born with all the eggs she will ever produce. It’s marvelous, isn’t it?
One person can hold the next two generations within themselves. ”