Chapter 53
53
I can’t sleep. The Belladonnas’ limbs are a suffocating, sweaty net. My head spins in circles as I try to piece everything together. Angelique, Iz, the mice, Mrs. Melniburg’s warning, this whole island. Something is off. I can’t ignore how everything we’ve done is perversely fucked up. My throat itches with an intense need to scream. Maybe it’s the ghost of the mouse residing within me, the remnants of its soul scratching at my esophagus.
I can’t believe I ate a fucking mouse as a show of devotion.
I can’t believe all these girls stuffed mice down their throats too.
I tremble, recalling how I was swept into their coos of affection, falling headfirst into the persuasions of the ever-elusive us . It was intoxicating, that golden, rippling energy. But now that the heat has worn off, my chest and stomach cold and empty, I’m forced to confront my actions.
These girls.
What is wrong with them? I can’t believe I witnessed them swallow a whole mammal and still wanted to be one with them.
Which begs the question: What the hell was wrong with me ? Where had my head gone? It’s like logic had slipped out between my fingers, disintegrated like sand. Was I so desperate to be their companion that I swore fealty to some ridiculous, amorphous, godly being just so they’d accept me into their group? I know I can be a lonely, miserable wreck at times, but I wouldn’t be so susceptible to this shit if my mind was clear. Is it possible that they’re drugging me with all those drinks? With the food? It would explain why I always feel groggy after dinners, why my memory appears in fragments.
And now I wonder: What more was I going to do if I hadn’t snapped out of it? What if I hadn’t puked out the carcass of what I ate? Would I have held their soft hands and blindly twirled into the depths of insanity?
Time crawls at a snail’s pace as I mentally comb through every horrific thing I’ve done. When sunrise arrives, I stir, waking the Belladonnas, who blink lethargically to consciousness, eyes crusted over with sleep. They look ugly and smell pungent. Acrid morning breath, blood, and sweat stewed between Egyptian cotton sheets.
“Morning,” begins one.
“Morning,” replies another.
“Mor—”
“I’m going to take a shower.” They all stare at me, eyes wide and confused. Quickly, I add, “Morning, my loves. Excuse me.” Though I am sick from what we did, I can’t bring myself to upset them. I can’t tell if it’s fear or if a small, lonely part of me still hopes to have their love within reach.
I untangle myself from their sticky web. As I pad out of the room, their songbird choruses hypnotize each other. Morning. Morning. Morning. It takes everything in me not to be pulled in.
I don’t put on my shoes. Stones jab at my feet as I navigate the gravelly path that leads through the avenue of bungalows. My pulse thrums as I get closer to Iz’s house, which is near the end of the row. This is my chance to investigate. I push on her door, but it doesn’t budge.
The padlock. I pull. It’s locked tight.
What the fuck?
I’m about to pound on the door when I hear footsteps. I run back out onto the path, heart hammering.
A staff member crosses my path and I almost bump into her. She’s brunette, dressed in a white linen frock with an intense smile on her lips. “Need help with something, Miss Chan?”
Chan.
Does this entire island know I’m Julie? That I’m basically a felon who stole her twin’s identity? And they’re still smiling at me?
I know I’m fucked up, but these people are a whole new level of fucked.
I grin nervously at the worker, eyes flicking to Iz’s door, the padlock. What if she’s been locked in? No, the Belladonnas wouldn’t do that—Bella Marie wouldn’t.
Yet it gnaws at me, the what if.
I had thought they were all perfectly beautiful creatures. But after the mice, I can’t look at them the same way. I don’t know what they’re capable of.
“Fine, thank you. Just, uh, trying to shower off this blood. Haha.” I hope she’ll leave me alone so I can check on Iz.
“Of course! Let me know if you need extra towels.” She stands there. Staring.
I walk past her, past Iz’s bungalow, glancing over my shoulder as the worker smiles. I can’t investigate now, not with this attendant gawking at me.
It’s okay. There are chances in the future. I have three more days here.
As I head back to my bungalow, my mind drowns in thoughts of Chloe. For five whole years, she was a member of the Belladonnas, a believer in Eto, one of the family. Then, she dies, and the girls barely blink an eye, accepting a replacement at the snap of their fingers. I knew my twin for four hazy years of childhood, yet I continued to think of her for most of my life. And when I couldn’t connect to her, when she abandoned me, I filled her image with hatred and envy because I couldn’t fathom a life where she didn’t take up space in my mind. That’s how much she mattered to me. That’s what being a family should be like.
When I confront the truth this way, the Belladonnas’ cruelty toward Chloe is apparent. Would I be any different? Is their pretty affection nothing more than fantasy? A mirage that vanishes once I open my eyes? At one point, I desired their connection, their friendship, their empathy, and group synergy. But I have this sinking feeling that everything I receive here is false and shallow, as authentic as a sponsored post.
I hate what’s unfurling within me. The knowledge that the Belladonnas are not the people I hoped they were. I wish I could shut my eyes to all the creeping unease, not just about who the Belladonnas are, but what they’ve done to Iz. Everything would be so much simpler if I could shut myself off from the truth and live happily in their toxic bubble of positivity.
But I can’t.
I can’t shake it off. I need to see the truth for myself.
As I’m showering, washing off the remnants of Angelique’s blood and sweat, the dirt between my toes, the smell of the Belladonnas from my hair, a few sprigs of flowers caught between strands, I think of a plan: I move at night, when everyone is asleep, no staff lurking around. I need to break into Iz’s bungalow. Just to confirm that Iz is okay, that my worst suspicions aren’t true. I don’t have a key, so I’ll have to use brute force. The axe by the farm we use to cut wood. That’s perfect.
Okay, so I’m going to break into Iz’s bungalow.
What then?
In all likelihood, Iz will be safe, right? And if she is, then everything is okay. I can shove these worries into a dusty corner of my brain, label them as unfounded worries, and pretend that everything is totally fine.
But what if my worst fears are true? What if Iz is locked up and it’s the Belladonnas’ fault? I won’t be able to deny reality any longer. I’ll have to confront the fact that these girls, who I want to believe are pretty and innocent, are anything but.
If Iz has been captured and harmed by the Belladonnas, there’s no way we can stay on the island. I need to devise a way to leave.
There’s a landline and ethernet access in the main house that we can use to call for help. We have to be close to some country—Saint Marten?—that could send a helicopter over.
But I can’t just ask to use the phone. That would be suspicious as hell. I’m supposed to disconnect .
Should I play along until the end of the week and jet out of here safely? But what if weirder shit happens? One night we’re munching on mice, the next night might be worse. Horses? Turtles? Maybe they’ll hack off a chunk of Viktor’s juicy thigh and sear it medium-rare for me to devour.
God, what did I get myself into?
Biting my lip, I get out of the shower and towel myself off. I can’t think about this too much. First, I’ll focus on Iz, check to see if she’s okay, and when the time comes, I’ll make the decisions that are necessary.
Three knocks on my door. “Julie, darling, will you be joining us for yoga?”
I take a breath and stare at myself in the mirror. My dark hair, thinning brows, deep, inky eyes, tan skin, and thin lips.
Remember who you are. Don’t fall for their deception. Don’t get swept in.
For now: blend in.