Chapter Thirteen
My flesh feels wrong afterward—overexposed, stripped of its defenses.
The color had drained, but as the days passed, it returned darker, bruised, stained, as if the skin remembers what touched it and refuses to forget.
Even after healing, the mark lingers. My hands carry the injury like a memory that resurfaces, whenever light finds it again.
I stare at my hands, the discolored skin, the scarring from the blisters, and tears silently stream. Jasper takes hold of them and kisses my knuckles, my palm, and the tips of my fingers.
“You’re still just as beautiful to me as before, Starling. There’s no end to loving you, Darling, and even when our flesh rots in the soil, I will find my way back to you, to love you even more.”
I feel like a moron for not knowing of such a plant’s existence and not being alerted by Tammy’s glances.
She knew. I ignored the unease that called to me after seeing her darting eyes, pushing past the emotion to get what I wanted.
A cruel joke by fate for choosing myself, for what I desired.
My hands are mutilated at the touch of a poisonous plant.
Marvin called later that evening and said he had spoken to the florist. It turned out that one of her interns had accidentally added it to the bouquet, mistaking it for another leafy addition.
As they worked with gloves, he didn’t suffer.
The explanation was plausible, but Jasper had demanded that the intern be fired.
Marvin had agreed and said it was inexcusable.
To me, none of it matters; the damage is done.
The scars on my hands are a bloodless symbol.
I am forced to wear gloves whenever I go outside, especially in the summer.
The heat is unbearable, stinging my skin.
The voices in my head are getting louder again, whispering their poison to me in their mean tone.
They are doing their best to overthrow the healed parts within me, and I try to fight them.
I do my best to convince myself that Jasper will not leave me over some imperfections.
Yet, the seed of doubt only needs one root to spread; even without further watering, the fracture is there.
“Darling, come back to me,” the softness of his voice returns me to the moment. Tears well in the corner of my eyes.
“I understand if you want me to leave,” I whisper, the words coming out choked.
It feels like my heart is held together by the thinnest thread, ready to snap at any moment. To shatter into a thousand unrepairable pieces. A small part of me is prepared for all of it. His abandoning me.
“How can you expect me to leave you, now that I have been with you? What can I say to make you understand that I will stay by your side, no matter what happens? Clara, you have my blackened heart; it beats for you, in your hands. Even if you decide to step away, I will stay nearby in the shadows. It’s not possible for me to stay away from you. ”
The words are desperate, and I feel the invisible noose that I placed around my neck loosen.
“My heart is so full with love for you, I doubt it’s even my own anymore, Jasper. And with that comes fear, because love is a strange kind of violence. It can destroy you without touching you, yet its impact is more forceful than any weapon. The idea of losing you… I will not recover from it.”
“Starling, all I can think of is you.”
I wrap my fragile, stained, calloused fingers around his neck and pull him in for a kiss. Crushing my lips with his, he swallows the voices, my mind returning to its calm state. I can never express in words how grateful I am that he entered my life.
He breaks the kiss and studies my face.
“My beautiful Starling,” he murmurs.
“I love you,” I breathe.
“I love you more,” he whispers.
I give him a smile. Some might call his response childish, but I need the validation.
“What are we going to do about Tammy?” I ask, breaking the silence.
“Whatever you want, my love.”
“Well… I got what I wanted from her…”
I notice the twinkle in his eyes.
The corners of my mouth curve into a grin. “Yes, my love, you may play with her.”
I can tell he has strained himself for me, keeping his bloodlust under control, so I got out of Tammy what I wanted first. It’s only fair that he gets to exercise his demons as well.
He fidgets with his hands, glancing nervously at me, and gets up.
I frown at him, not used to seeing him like this, almost… antsy.
“I have something for you,” he says, a nervous twitch in his voice.
I tilt my head at him and squint.
“Okay…,” I respond, watching him curiously.
He walks out of the room, and I hear his footsteps on the stairs, the soft pads as he goes up. I wait anxiously for his return, and tuck my legs underneath me as I sit. It’s still hard to fathom sometimes the turn my life took, how choosing my own needs resulted in all of this.
Jasper stands before me, hands behind his back, an uneasy smile plastered on his face.
His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows, the deadhead moth inked on his throat moving with it.
There’s not a trace of the man I’ve come to know as unflinching.
He stands there, shy, nervous even. He hands me a velvet burgundy-colored box with a white, satin ribbon around it.
Gently, Jasper places it on my lap and looks at me expectantly.
I lower my eyes from his to the package and carefully remove the lint.
I open it, and my eyes widen with delight.
Inside, there’s a silver, antique locket with intricate details, its surface dulled by time. Fine filigree curls along its edges, softened by decades of touch; the once-bright metal is now worn but still elegant. I take it out, holding the necklace. I watch as the trinket slowly twirls before me.
“It’s beautiful,” I whisper.
A smile grows on his face.
“It’s Victorian… Open it…”
I glance at him through my lashes; the uneasiness he sported earlier is now replaced with excitement. I smile.
The hinge creaks softly when it opens, revealing a velvet-lined hollow within.
The interior is stained with age, the fabric darkened to a bruised plum, carrying the faint scent of old perfume and forgotten skin.
However, that is not what catches my attention and makes me gasp, my lips forming an ‘o’.
“Jasper…”
“Do you… like it?” He bites on his lower lip, gauging my reaction.
Inside, there’s a bed of finely braided hair, the strands having the same obsidian color as Jasper’s.
The craft is reminiscent of Victorian times, when people would create art from the hair of their deceased loved ones.
It’s beautiful in the most delicate and intimate way.
On top of it, there’s a small pendulum; the glass vial is filled with a deep red fluid.
“Is that your… blood?” I ask.
He nods, and a flicker of panic appears when I don’t respond immediately to the admission.
“I love it,” I whisper, grazing my fingers over the cool metal.
It feels like a relic meant to be worn close to the heart, and after closing the locket I put it over my head.
It hangs heavily on my chest. It's less of an ornament; if anything, this is a vessel for memory and devotion.
His way of saying I hold his life, and all the quiet things love refuses to forget.
I fling myself into his arms as warm tears begin to collect and slowly fall to their demise, coating my skin in their salt. He holds me tightly and kisses them away.
“You are everything to me, Starling.”
It’s all he says, and it’s all I need.
Miraculously, Tammy still breathes, clinging to life by some invisible thread.
I almost admire her stubborn refusal to let go.
Her eyelids twitch as she struggles to open them, the glue preventing it, while her instincts respond to us nearing her.
I wonder if the hairs on her neck try to prick up, and how it feels since they’re stuck in the hardened wax.
“Seems like our little lamb is still alive, Starling,” Jasper says with a vicious smile.
“I’ve always enjoyed playing with dolls,” I grin.
He goes over to his toolbox and retrieves his trusted clawhammer. He swings it casually as he returns to Tammy and me.
“Time to get you out of that mold, little doll.”
He raises his arm and slams the hammer down on her stomach.
The thick layers of shiny wax break under the impact, splintering into a hundred tiny shards.
Tammy’s eyes fly open. Her lashes are cruelly yanked out, no longer stuck in the wax and glue mix.
Small dots of blood well, where the tiny hairs are no longer visible.
I wince, knowing the mean stinging pain all too well.
Recalling when I pull out an eyelash, that’s twisted upside down and irritates my eye.
Somehow, they are always still solidly attached in their hair follicles.
Roughly, Jasper peels away the glossy layer of crusted wax, ripping out hairs and tearing pieces of skin.
Her flesh is still an angry red; the burns make her skin look like a sealed surface, which reminds me of a slab of meat suffocating in plastic.
Most of the blisters are dried out, with coagulated raisin-like skin.
Some of the wounds are infected, with yellow pus oozing from them. I feel my lips curl in disgust.
Jasper seems unfazed by it all as he pries his fingers under pieces of broken wax.
When he reaches her collarbones, he lifts the hammer, turns it in the air, and slams it down.
The claws embed themselves in the wax and the tender flesh beneath.
Tammy cries out, ripping open her lips as the caked layers break.
Bright red begins to pour from her mouth in a steady stream as she heaves in distress.
The carefully smoothed mask I had laid onto her face is ruined, broken.
Blood seeps through the cracks where skin is torn off.
Without thinking, I pull my phone from my pocket and turn on the camera. Jasper grins at me, pleased that I cannot withstand the piece of art he started. I hold my phone close to her face, capturing the ridges of the wax, the bits of skin clinging to it, and the rivers of red spreading.
“Beautiful,” I whisper, as I take more pictures of Tammy’s fractured second face.
Her eyes are desperate, and I’m uncertain why she looks at me like that, as if she hopes I’ll come to her rescue. I want to graze her cheek and whisper in her ear that she’ll know peace soon enough.
The floor is covered in wax shards, and most of Tammy’s body is exposed. It’s enough for whatever Jasper has in mind.
With a fillet knife, he traces a thin line from her chest to her belly button, and the slender blade slices through her tissue effortlessly. She whimpers at the intrusion, her vocal cords hardly able to make any sound from the days of dehydration.
“Why?” she asks. Her voice emerges rough, as if scraped raw by dryness.
“Because creativity is a human need,” Jasper says, gleefully. He widens the cut, the knife going deeper, separating layers of flesh, fat, and muscles.
With precision, he peels back the skin.
My eyes are glued to his hands, covered in blood. Subconsciously, I lick my lips, and Jasper catches me doing it.
“Wet already, my Darling?” He grins, his smile predatory, and heat starts to spread as I nod.
This time, I do not feel any shame for the desire that he evokes in me.