Chapter 30
In the morning, I smiled as sunlight scampered across my closed eyes.
Dig stood over me, donning a pair of dark jeans and a plain black t-shirt. His heart-shaped glasses were polished, his hair damp from a shower. He smelled like vanilla. “Hey Princess. Do you want me to cry yet?”
We sat at the dining table, eating scrambled eggs.
“Salt please.” I clicked my fingers.
He passed me the salt, but not before moving my knife out of my radius. “You tried to slice my throat last night. I found that very impolite.”
“I was sleepwalking.”
“You were trying to leave.”
“Where did the eggs come from?”
“From chickens.”
“And where did the chickens come from?”
“From eggs.”
“Do you think I’m odd?” I asked.
He looked up, seemingly confused by the sudden change of topic. “What did you say?”
“Because I can’t cry,” I said. “Do you think I’m odd? Like there’s something wrong with me?”
He stood up, kicking back his chair and ripped the fork from my hand. I lost a breath as he heaved me out of the chair and bent me over the table, forcing my head down. “Don't you ever think that again. There’s nothing wrong with you, you are perfect.”
“People don’t tend to like me.”
“Because people are fucking stupid.” He ripped down my underwear and smacked me hard against my bare ass. “And we don't trouble ourselves with stupid people.”
I gasped into a smile from the sting of his smack and the sweetness of his words. “What I mean is, I’m not everyone's cup of tea.”
“Don’t be tea.” His lips pressed against my ear. “Be petrol. Set the world on fire.”
“But I’m a good person.”
“Morals have aesthetic criteria. You kill a cockroach, you're a hero. You kill a butterfly, you're evil. Your version of ‘good’ is different to others. And to me Princess? You're fucking perfect.”
I lifted my head in thought. “Huh.”
“Now, when I go out, don’t try to leave or mess up the place.” He patted my ass and walked away. “If you can do that, I’ll give you a massage tonight.”
“Huh?” I looked over my shoulder, annoyed. “Where are you going?”
He shrugged on his leather jacket. “Work.”
I frowned. “Work?”
He took a knife off the wall. He inspected it and slipped it into his belt and armed himself with more weapons.
“What do you mean work?” I stayed bent over the table, hoping he’d return.
“I got work today.”
“What’s your work?”
“I have to check the water tank, brush the solar panels, clean the gutters, weed the gardens, make sure no one’s come near the chickens or my safe houses, look for fuel in case we need the bike again and mess up anyone that’s come close to nesting near the apartment.
I have to drop food and water off to my sister—”
“Sister.” I briefly remembered the dark-haired package-sized girl strolling into his hideout.
“—and try to kill my brother—”
“Wait, you have a brother in the Battle too?”
“We’re all in here. Oh, fuck.” He checked the clock. “I have to pop into Doctor Death and pick up my prescription.”
“Prescription?”
“Antibiotics.”
“Why do you need antibiotics?”
“I’ve been stabbed a hundred times by now from dirty blades, what do you think I need it for? Also, I have to hunt.”
“Hunt? Like, deer?”
“People. We’re in the middle of a God damn Execution Battle. Gotta thin the numbers down so maybe next year we can get dental.”
“Who are you going to kill?” I pulled up my underwear, realising this was going nowhere.
He drew out a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. “Uh… some guy called Barry, my sister’s Soulmate, my asshole brother and a guy with a tattoo of a moon on his neck—”
“What did he do?”
“It’s a dumb tattoo.”
“No, your brother.”
“He’s a dick.”
“And… wait… your sister has a Soulmate?”
“Another dick.”
“That’s a lot of dicks for a single man to handle.”
“I’ll be home in a few hours.”
I had a sudden urge to cuddle him. Strange. There was nothing satisfying about holding another person. It was messy and hot and annoying. Magnus was the one who hugged me, and I hugged him in return so that I would not appear peculiar. And when I did hug another person, it was only a performance.
Yet now, as I looked at Dig Graves, I could see myself in his arms.
My heart thumped deeply.
“Do you promise you’ll stay here?” Dig asked.
“I promise.” I stopped my feet from moving toward him.
“You won’t leave?”
“I promise I won't leave.”
As soon as Dig left, I worked on getting ready to leave.
The upside-down man was still alive and back to hanging upside down. I think Dig had set him up the other way for a while last night, to stop the blood from rushing down his head. Dig was thoughtful like that, always caring about others’ needs.
The upside-down man sniffled from his cries as I tugged on the knot on the rope, trying to undo it.
“He’s got a nice chin, don’t you think?” I asked.
“He’s very clean. Always freshly shaved.
Always in new laundered clothes, his apartment is spotless, he organises his blades from smallest to largest. An organised environment is an organised head.
Oh, and I like his hair. It’s so sexy. Do you think his hair is sexy? ”
The upside-down man choked on his own saliva. “Please… cut me down.”
“I can’t find any blades, Dig took them all.”
“Unpick the knot.”
“What do you think I'm doing? Rude.”
“Hurry, before he comes back.”
“I’ve decided to take him on as a lover.”
“He’s a psychotic killer!”
“At least he has a hobby.”
“Please… please help me.”
“He doesn't mind that I don’t cry,” I said through a smile. “I kind of want to kiss him again, maybe cuddle, maybe get married and grow old together. I don’t know.”
“Please…”
“Last night was incredible. Do you think I should stay for one more night?”
“No!”
“Of course.” I forget about the rope. “You’re right, I need to get out of here and help Tommy.”
“You need to help me!”
I yawned and stood up, checking the clock. Half an hour had passed. Dig was probably gone by now.
The rope holding up the upside-down man was still too tight. I used whatever I could to pick at it, bending forks, toothpicks, hair pins. Nothing worked.
“I'll try the spare bedroom,” I said. “Maybe he’s left something sharp in there. Hopefully it's not full of dead bodies.”
I went into the spare room and paused.
My mind cleansed of all need to unpick the upside-down man's rope and I dwelled there, in this room that held myself inside of it.
I was on the walls, every angle of my face, every twist of my body, etched and painted and sketched, capturing my likeness as if they were all photographs. There were papers too. Stacks of paper with more pictures of me, curated by careful, artistic hands. “Huh.”