Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Parking my blue, thirty-year-old beater, held together by a prayer and duct tape, at the end of the long, dirt-lined path through the woods, I grab my duffel from the backseat and huff it to our cabin, the only home I’ve known.
Dee is rocking on the old porch, humming to herself, when I arrive.
There’s a fire burning in the stone pit with a Dutch oven settled in the flames.
I drop my bag on the porch.
Dee stops petting Poppy long enough to lift a hand in hello.
“Hi, Dee, it’s nice to see you, too,” I tease, claiming the worn rocker beside hers that our dad built for me.
Poppy hisses her greeting from Dee’s lap, and I glower at the rodent just as a much smaller version of Poppy bounds up the single step onto the porch. Dee leans over, scoops the ugly thing up, and sets it on her lap.
I shake my head in amusement at Cinderella incarnate. It’s always been this way. Dee loves wild creatures, and for some reason, they love her back.
“Is she pregnant again?” I gesture to Poppy, her opossum.
Yes, I said, opossum. As in the pink nose, long whiskers, beady eyes, weird fingers, fur, and a long tail.
Dee nods at my question.
I figured. Poppy only hisses at me when she’s about to be a mama again. The same went for Poppy 1.0, 2.0, and now 3.0. Yes, we are on our third version. The others passed on from old age.
“Did you fix up the doghouse for her?” I ask, referring to the house where no dog has ever lived.
Dee and I built the small box at the edge of our property the year our dad passed away, so her critters have a place to stay if they want to.
They tend to live longer when they have a safe home, away from predators.
Dad despised Dee’s love for wildlife. He even called it her weakness and killed her favorite animals right in front of us.
His cruelty only pushed us to venture further into the woods around our cabin to be with her creatures.
I always kept my eyes open in case Dad followed, but we were good at hiding our tracks.
He taught us well, at least in that regard.
I’m just glad he never managed to steal this from her.
Dee hums a yes and strokes the back of Poppy’s head, then the smaller opossums.
“What’s that one’s name?” I jerk my chin at the tinier furball.
“Peanut.”
That’s an apt name given its size.
“Is Peanut full-grown?”
Dee shrugs.
“Are these the only two left until the babies are born?”
My sister shakes her head and flashes me four fingers.
“Four total or four more?” I ask in surprise.
“More.”
“You have six?” I squeak good-naturedly, loving this for my sister. They keep her grounded and are good company when I’m in the city working, and she’s alone in the middle of nowhere, where she prefers to be.
A smile splits Dee’s lips, and she nods as a blush suffuses her cheeks.
For a long while, we rock side by side, not speaking, just being. The old porch squeaks under our weight as the fresh air fills my lungs. It’s peaceful out here. Too quiet sometimes. But peaceful nonetheless.
Bugs buzz, squirrels dash through the yard and up a tree as the weight of the world slowly eases with my sister by my side.
I wish we didn’t live so far apart. I wish I didn’t have to work to support us.
But that’s life. We were raised with little.
We grew much of what we ate, canned what we needed, hunted, fished, and even baked.
We stole everything else. Dad never worked.
Not a real job anyhow. We were his job. Teaching us to read, to write, to do math, and all the things you’d learn in homeschool.
Even though neither of us graduated, we learned a great deal.
Book smarts and street smarts alike. He saw to that.
When I was old enough to trek into the real world on my own, he made me work for real money, since I refused to kill like them.
I needed to be useful. While he and Dee planned their next human hunt, I worked at a grocery store, then a gas station, and eventually, behind my father’s back, I got my GED so I could get an even better job.
Which led me to where I am now, working a job that benefits us both, even if it keeps me away longer than I like.
With opossums sleeping on Dee’s lap, I whisper something I’ve dreaded bringing up. “I have a new apartment in the city if you wanna come stay with me.”
My sister shows no sign of listening, but I know better, so I go on. “You’ll be closer to our marks in the city. There’s electricity, solid cell phone service, and running water.” To lay it on a little thicker, I add, “Hot water.”
Rolling her eyes, Dee huffs and shoots an agitated sidelong glance that says a whole lot of don’t start.
But I do. I have to.
What kind of sister would I be if I didn’t offer her my new digs to stay?
It has two bedrooms and a view of the city.
It’s way nicer than any apartment I’ve lived in before.
There are two showerheads, for cryin’ out loud, and a bed made from angel feathers.
Which is a far cry from the stolen cots we slept on as kids, and she still does.
“You’ll have your own bathroom, attached to your bedroom.
” Laying it on thick, I waggle my brows, and she snorts.
“When I’m not working, we can spend time together.
Do normal things, like go to the movies.
You’ve never been to the movies. You might like it…
There’s this sushi place within walking distance that I’ve wanted to try.
We could go together.” I tack on the last because Dee’s a pescatarian and sushi is one of her few loves.
More than anything, I want to keep an eye on her. Dee needs support and guidance, given her violent delights. I don’t want her to make a wrong move, kill some rando, and end up in prison because I wasn’t there to stop her. I know I worry too much, but she’s my sister. She’s all I have.
Sure, the city gives her more opportunities to kill, but it also offers more socialization and purpose. Maybe she could work, too. At a cat café, or something with animals. They’re all the rage right now, aren’t they?
When Dee doesn’t jump at the idea, I try one last thing, and it’s a long shot.
“My plants are dying,” I lie. “They need you.”
More eye-rolling ensues, and Dee flips me off. “Liar.”
I grasp my heart as if she’s mortally wounded me, and list off the side of the rocker. “Oh. Dee. That hurts. You don’t care about my plants. You want them to die. Then you called me a liar.”
With an amused snort, she double-flips me the bird.
Harnessing my superior acting skills, I slide off my chair and collapse onto the porch. Sticking my tongue out, I go boneless and pretend to expire.
“Next week,” she grouses, sounding half-annoyed, half-not. “For a day. Not overnight. To see your plants and your new apartment.”
“Deal.” Suddenly revived, I crack a smile and reach out to her to shake on it.
The bitch sets the smaller marsupial in my hand.
The pink-nosed ball of attitude hisses at me, then goes limp, playing opossum.
He sure is a cute fella. Fake deceased and all.
I rest Peanut on my chest and let him do his thing as I half-ass glare at my sister.
She grins, all teeth and mischief.
“So, what did you do with last weekend’s penis?” I ask.
She pats Poppy’s head.
Gotcha. She fed it to our resident mama-to-be. That’s what she does with most of her trophies—gives her creatures a little snack of the human flesh variety. They seem to like it.
“Do you wanna hunt next weekend?” I ask, and Dee’s head bobs in childlike anticipation.
“Alllllright,” I drawl. “I suppose I can figure something out. Hopefully, I won’t have to work.”
Wrinkling her nose, Dee makes a grossed-out kissy face. “Work. Huh?”
“It’s money,” I remind, even if it means dressing in skimpy clothes and batting my fake eyelashes at older men. Money is money. Or so I keep telling myself. I have a job to do. The dumber and sweeter I act, the closer I can get, and the closer I get means more dead assholes.
Because they murder us.
And steal organs to sell to the highest bidder.
I hate men like that.
Those who use us for their own gain, treating us like nothing more than a thing to be dealt with.
My father wasn’t much different, was he?
But he taught me one thing right. Never trust a man. Any of them. They all deserve to die.
There’s someone special next on my list.
Lucky for me, he won’t go down without a fight.
Slow deaths are all the sweeter. To be savored.
To be earned. Sure, Dee revels in the physical act of draining life away, the carving of flesh…
but I love the progression of getting us there.
The scouting. The hunting. Not the act itself.
It’s over far too quickly—a blip of time. But the anticipation is addictive.
Oh…he’ll never know what hit ‘em.
The arrogant ones never do.