The Sinner
SIXTY-EIGHT
The bleach stings as I pour it over my hands. The first time I did this, it didn’t even do that. Just slipped off my skin like water.
Then I scrubbed them. Hard.
Tiny micro-abrasions littered my fingers so when I did it again, the bleach burned.
And it felt cleansing.
Good.
Not that I’ll ever be that again.
My eyes close for a split-second and I grab the nailbrush.
It’s gotten so bad that one of my soap dispensers has actual bleach in it now—half and half so Victoria won’t freak out when she visits.
As I pump more onto my palms, over my nails where Dyers’s blood collected and stained, where I’m sure I can still see tinges of red, my cell beeps.
The number of notifications are adding up.
I usually call my mom twice a day.
Sommer calls me at bedtime.
My dad calls once—usually to discuss a chess move on our long-distance game.
My adopted mom and a multitude of Old Ladies always reach out to me once a week, minimum.
And Priest texts me a couple times a day.
I haven’t spoken to a single one of them. Not for weeks.
Mom’s reverted to emails. I think the only reason Dad hasn’t come up to Poughkeepsie is because I send my chess move to him every morning.
Giulia: Look, you little shit, if you don’t answer my text right this second, Amara and I are going to ride out at dawn.
Giulia: Which means she’ll bring three kittens and two dogs for you. She’s got a pony to rehome. We’ll hook that up to a trailer if we have to.
Giulia: TEXT ME BACK
I glance at the message. Ignore it.
Giulia is a pain in everyone’s ass. Amara, too.
I shudder at the prospect of them riding up to Poughkeepsie but I don’t answer.
I have no words. None. And it’s killing me.
When banging threatens to break down my door, I jump in surprise.
Victoria and Shay have come around, I’ve even hung out at the diner with the crew, but I think because Denny’s in Madrid, no one’s pushed me when I stay on the edges of conversation.
Victoria’s been my biggest support—she comes over, sits with me, and we don’t talk. We just watch TV. Silence. It’s become our saving grace.
She wouldn’t make that much racket though.
“Wynter, with God as my witness, if you don’t open this fucking door, I’ll kick it in.”
A shiver rushes down my spine.
Is that… Priest?
My throat tightens. My eyes burn. But I don’t answer the door.
“Snowflake?”
A sob escapes me.
I pump more bleach onto the nail brush.
Scrub scrub scrub.
I hiss as the sting deepens, burns—
BANG!
A booted shitkicker does its job and thuds as he follows through as promised.
But that’s Priest all round, isn’t it? Full of promises.
He has his beliefs. His targets. His goals. His needs. His sins.
I’ve wanted to be one of them since the first time we met.
A tear falls, curling over my cheek.
That day seems so long ago now. Before Oakwood, before the Veronians, before—
How can he ever love the sinner I’ve become?
The End…