Chapter 42
“Here are the scissors,” I say brightly, walking back into the living room a few minutes later. “The cinnamon buns smell so good, Shelby.”
Wyatt and Shelby have their backs to me, watching Clementine pick at a loose corner of the tape. She’s barely made progress.
“Thought we lost you to the temptation of the buns.” Wyatt laughs, then turns my way. His face drains of color when he sees me, or, more specifically, sees my arm.
Blood drips down my fingertips, falling in steady droplets to the floor below. I see the slow-moving rivers of blood against my bare skin, my sleeve pulled up to my elbow, yet I’m oddly detached. No pain whatsoever.
“What’s wrong?” I don’t understand the look on Wyatt’s face. I fixed the itching! It was as simple as my mother said it would be. Mother knows best.
I have the kitchen shears in my other hand and hold them out to Clementine. “Here, sweets. To open the box.”
“Tilly! What the hell did you do!” There’s terror in Wyatt’s voice. It unnerves me, and I’m confused about why he sounds so scared. What is going on?
It’s as though everyone is frozen in place—like a Christmas-morning tableau.
The tree lights twinkle, the bars of “Jingle Bell Rock” play, there’s wrapping paper scrunched in balls on the floor, festive-colored stockings draped over the back of the couch.
My family stares at me, each with a similar wide-eyed and openmouthed expression.
They’re in shock—this registers, even though I remain perplexed as to why they aren’t happier for me. I solved the problem.
“Goodness, why does everyone looks so worried?” I say.
Drip, drip, drip. I glance at my arm, at the blood that isn’t slowing.
At the hole I’ve carved out, near my wrist. Hmm…
that might need a small bandage. Later, though.
Clementine’s gift needs to be opened first. I can’t wait to see her expression.
Again, I extend the scissors toward my daughter, smiling. But instead of taking them from me she drops the shoebox, slaps her hands over her ears, and starts screaming.