WHO IS LIKE GOD

1.

FORGIVE ME, FORGIVE ME

FLORENCE DUPONT had many regrets— killing Victoria was number one.

It kept her up at night, like most of her anxieties, thinking and stressing over a stuttered word or little mistake. Or the more serious misgivings, memory after memory— of the car ride, the bonfire, the knife— they haunted her every waking moment. But only one managed to actually haunt her.

Victoria stood at the foot of her bed, as she always did. Watching. Waiting. Skin tinged blue, iced lips, and eyes like a dead fish on display at the farmer's market. Her dark hair was plastered to her face, strange with the absence of her signature hair tie. Blood splattered her clothes, darkening around the collar of her shift where blood had flowed after her throat was slit.

Florence was prepared for a migraine the second she opened her eyes. She hadn't been sleeping, not really, but when she faked it, she could almost pretend there wasn't a hallucination of her dead friend staring at her.

Like clockwork Florence emerged from her bed and began dressing while on autopilot, going back and forth through her room while Victoria turned her head to watch. The bathroom lights buzzed to life and amplified the pain in her head. She stared at her reflection: buggy eyes darkened with bags, her newly cut hair, and her dark knuckles gripping the countertop. The bathroom was the one place Victoria would not follow, it was like she was scared of her own reflection, the inhumanity of it.

Florence took off her bonnet and removed the bands from her hair, releasing the cloud of black curls surrounding her head. She turned the faucet on and splashed water on her face, from freezing to boiling, until her nerves were shot and she felt forcefully awake. Her tongue was like sandpaper in her mouth when she brushed her teeth. Victoria was gone when she came back to the room. She didn't bother to turn the lights on as she donned her Sunday best.

Her mother and stepfather were in the kitchen when she emerged. All of them were clad in bright white to stave off the possibility of mourning. The truth of it noosed her throat, tightening like a viper. Her mother enveloped her in a hug. Florence tried to lose herself in the comfort and familiar smell of her mother's perfume but her mind strayed to the dead, limp feel of Victoria's skin after she'd stopped moving. As soon as the thought surfaced, Florence stiffened and her mother stepped away, disappointment and pity on her face.

The car ride was silent.

---

Victoria's disappearance was not a particularly sad affair. No one broke down crying, her family didn't wail or plead, there were little to no posters plastered around town of her face. She'd been gone for six weeks.

The church was filled with the loud hush of people shuffling, the brush of clothes, the murmur of prayer. Beside her, Elphie clutched a bible so tight it was as if she hoped to collect the ink from its pages.

Victoria's photo rustled as people approached the dais to light a candle or pray for her safety. Her father, Alexandre Côte, stood at the front. He knelt and hung his head. The light from the candles and the refracted stained glass painted his oily black curls gaudy and illuminated the stain of tears on the collar of his dress shirt.

The rest of her family sat at the front-most pew. Juliet Côte, Victoria's mother, clutched her son, Mathieu, barely a year old and silently staring back at Florence like he knew something she didn't. He and Victoria had the same black eyes and intense stare. Victoria's uncle patted her mother's back and Mathieu turned away to nestle his face in the crook of her neck.

Victoria looked like none of them, she looked like all of them. A face-thief, an amalgamation of features. Her mother's tawny skin and her father's high, curved nose, and her uncles limp black curls. She and her brother had the same eyes, no one else had eyes as black as that. Florence recalled the sight of them after Victoria had taken her last breath. Thinking of it now, her stomach twisted and she crossed herself again.

The last thing she remembered was the blood— thrashing her hands in stream water only to find the sanguine fluid had snuck under her fingernails too. She remembered Elphie grabbing at her side and wailing from the stab wound, calling for Michelle and getting no answer. And Michelle checking for a pulse and declaring, "Nothing. Did you hear me, Florence? There's nothing. You killed her."

Michelle was nowhere to be found. She had been sandwiched between she and Elphie for the first hour or two, then suddenly, while Father Georges called for devotees and begged heaven for the return of the beloved Victoria Côte, she'd abruptly stood up, said she was leaving for the bathroom, and never returned. Neither she nor Elphie had gone to look for her. That was the thing with Michelle— she would turn up again when she wanted to be found.

Despite the tension, one pair of eyes truly made her sweat. Darcy Sinclair knelt as Alexandre moved. As she took a knee, the weight of her thick twists sheeting her face, Father Georges prayed and swept his thumb over her brow and left a streak of gleaming holy oil. Darcy Sinclair was not religious. Florence had never seen her during Mass or heard her mention any God. As far as she knew, Darcy thought herself second to no one. When she turned from the dais, her eyes were hard and cold and devoid of anything besides a blazing rage. Florence had lied. She had seen darker eyes. Darcy's burned.

Florence stood on shaky legs and stepped behind Darcy to wait for her own anointing, but Darcy didn't move. Florence shifted on her feet, awkward.

"Miss Sinclair?" Father Georges asked, breaking the silence.

Florence startled as Darcy stood, her fists clenched, and turned away. Before she fully made her way down the steps, Florence lost her nerve and grabbed her wrist. Immediately, she regretted it as Darcy turned the full force of her gaze onto her. 

"I... I'm sorry," she said, "about Victoria."

Darcy's eyes narrowed to slits. Florence thought she might say something but Darcy walked down the steps and towards the back of the church. She sat next to two women, the tallest of them with gray dreadlocks that hung down her back, who both enveloped her in a hug. Florence turned away and back to Father Georges. She knelt and the feeling of the oil across her brow steadied her, even if just slightly.

She crossed herself as she stood and sat next to Delphine, who had opted out of anointing, or praying, confessing— even privately. The bible was still in her hands, she still hadn't blinked. Beside her was Michelle, the smallest of smiles on her face. She waved as Florence sat and turned back toward the dais, as if she'd never left.

"Rise," Father Georges intoned, "and let us pray for the safe return of Victoria Côte."

Florence reveled in the moment of silence as she was finally given time to think, but while they shut their eyes, hers were wide open and trained on the photo of Victoria. It was badly cropped, she knew, because originally all four of them had been in it. Michelle, her arm slung over Victoria's shoulder and taking the candid shot; Delphine, desperately trying to squeeze in; and Florence, mouth agape, and startled. Michelle had surprised Victoria but it didn't show. Victoria had the same look she always did: bored eyes, flat mouth, relaxed brows. The only indication of her surprise was a slight quirk in her lips. Her hair tie was wrapped around the lower part of her braid and half threaded between her own fingers as she toyed with it. Victoria looked forward and it was as if her eyes bored directly into Florence.

Forgive me, Florence prayed. Forgive me, forgive me, please forgive me.

Now, there was only a flash of Michelle's cheek and the tufts of Elphie's hair. Her own elbow was shoved into Victoria's side accidentally. It had been taken outside their school a week before the trip that had ended Victoria's life.

A chill spidered up Florence's neck, and she turned to examine the source. Her eyes fell on Darcy Sinclair, glaring. Silent, she mouthed:

"I know what you did."

The prayers began.