Chapter 9
nine
She still tasted cum and stale piss with every swallow as she leaned against one of the towering brick edifices near the Morrow girls’ gallery.
The voices told her not to overstep. They told her that they could make her do whatever they wanted, when they wanted.
Finally realize you don’t rule us, little girl? The most persuasive of her voices asked.
We rule you. We’ve always ruled you. We said you were taking too long to make the girl suffer—
We had to intervene. You are forever and always inept.
“I am,” she agreed. She had gotten carried away, but the voices had brought her back. She’d already moved some of the girl’s embroidery and sewing items. Personally, she wouldn’t have minded the chaos, but the girl was more like her mother. She would notice any discrepancy.
A place for everything, everything in its place, daughter.
God, how her mother’s voice grated even in her thoughts.
Moving items hadn’t been enough for the carrion living symbiotically within her. They had forced her feet in the direction of one of Dublin’s derelict neighborhoods to seek out a drunk, drug addict for his services.
The filthy man’s assistance would earn him five hundred pounds…and a blowjob. The voices were “teaching” her humility.
Surely you missed being some disgusting man’s whore.
The best part was when the scumbag refused your offer of sex. A hard voice said, belonging to one of the cruelest of her “friends.”
Christ and all His Saints. How ugly does a woman have to be to repel a homeless addict?
She knew they were trying to get under her skin. She knew! Except they were usually right. They were cruel, yes, but they were honest.
Hiding inside the stoop of a jewelry shop that gave her a view of where the girl had tumbled down, she retrieved her new knife.
Yes.
Finally.
Bleed for us.
She let the cold, metal tip scratch against her forearm as she waited patiently for the girl to either emerge or for an alarm to be sounded.
She grunted an almost euphoric, “Mmm,” when the knife’s sharp point pierced her skin, her focus momentarily diverted as she watched a thin, red line of her blood skitter and crawl in a haphazard line.
Go. Kill the girl and be done with this. Leave your signature on her youthful body so that her sister knows who is ultimately responsible.
That last voice was the one who encouraged her to slit the wrists of that drugged out artist. That voice adored watching death glaze a person’s eyes.
“Perhaps, I should just kill myself,” she mused.
Threaten us again, and you won’t enjoy the consequences.
You can try, but without our consent, there won’t be any follow-through.
Yeah, the only follow-through you’ve ever managed is putting the last stroke on one of your mother’s paintings, and when you swallow a pig’s release. Whoops, I meant your Prince Charming.
Enough. The leader of the voices barked. We aren’t quite done with playing with the girl. When we are, we move on to Mommy Dearest.
Keep to the plan, you sloppy mess, but cut yourself deeper while we wait.