NIKKI & JOE, CASUALLY |

65: mould

            The silence is kept from strangling us only by their ragged breathing through the bloody napkin and the clink of my necklaces as I fidget with them. I wish Joe were here. Maybe I wouldn't be on the brink of a heart attack–

Cece flashes out of their seat. I'm at the kitchen door before them but they don't back up this time. They shove and pull and claw but even if he hadn't just spent three nights not eating and probably not sleeping, they'd be too weak to have much of a chance of moving me anywhere.

They step back, panting. 'Let me out.'

'No.'

'Let me out.'

'No.'

Greed infests the roots of even my softest thoughts—I don't care if I do have to lock him in, I am not letting him vanish for another three nights.

Cece hits, twists, shoves but it's only himself he exhausts. I grab his arm, hold him off from wrestling me. They glare before they start prying my fingers off their wrist one at a time. When that fails, they punch me. Or try to but I seize their other wrist. I've got both their arms decapacitated now. Not that that stops them from fighting. He kicks, writhes, drops his whole body onto the floor and twists.

Their last resort is predictable: teeth press to my forearm. But don't dig, don't break skin. Eyes drill into mine. They're begging me to let go. Let go, let them go, so they won't have to do it.

I don't. Let them bite.

Canines leave leave notches on my flesh. They screw their eyes shut, prepared for the taste of blood but not for the sight of it, not for the sight of our frail relationship shredded in their canines. They'll never get over the guilt. If they run now, they're never coming back. It's over for us. I won't find them. I'll be alone–

Cece retreats, the only blood left on my arm that which has smeared from his nose. I let go of their wrists but they remain slumped on the floor, all fight drained. They've lost and they know it.

The fire is removed from beneath my anger too and it calms, stops boiling over.

I rub the ghost bruising around my left wrist, bruising that hasn't healed for eight years. This is what I get for resting. Why did I let myself fall asleep? 

'Why are we going backwards?'

'You'll be busy with your girlfriend.'

'Joe's not–!' Oh... Understanding arrives as a summer drizzle.

'Don't insult me,' they mutter, energy too depleted to speak louder though the sardonic tone still drips into the puddle of blood from their nose. 'I might not understand how any of this works but I'm not stupid.'

How did it take me so long to realise? Their insistence on calling Joe my girlfriend hasn't been to make fun of me but to protect themself. Say it so many times that when it turns out true, it won't hurt as much—or at least when the hurt comes, he can blame himself for it.

Did I teach them to do that?

Still in a foetal position on the floor, their mouth is hooked into a grin, blood crawling up the gaps of their teeth. It's a trap, like the starfish flower that mimics the appearance of a carcass to attract pollinators, Cece is an expert in appearing as exactly what he isn't.

'I'm gonna break the window if you don't let me out.'

'No, you won't.' I step away from the door, lowering myself to the floor in front of them. 'Cece, you don't need to worry about Joe–'

They scoff. 'How many people d'you reckon wanna mither with their boyfriend's screwy siblings? Cause I'd say about negative seven billion.'

'Cece–'

'It's fine. You deserve to be happy—you, if anyone, deserve to be happy. No te preocupes por mí. I'm eighteen in six months and then I won't be your problem, or Bobbi's problem, or the state's problem. We ain't gotta drag it out—just rip the plaster off.'

They clamber to their feet, clutching the kitchen counter for balance when they black out. They need to eat.

He circles an arm through the air like a ringmaster. 'I release thee from thy duty.'

'Cece–'

'It's fine. I don't stick, yo sé eso.'

They smile, bloody and saccharine. The crack starts from the corner of their mouth and the harder they try to keep it together, the further it cobwebs. Tears pearl at the corners of their eyes. When the first one falls, he breaks. First the shatter of the sardonic layer, then the apathetic one, and the terrified kid that's left slides along the kitchen cabinet back to the floor.

Laughter is trawled out between their sobs. Even when Cece wraps their arms around themselves in desperate search for comfort, they can't stop laughing.

'¿Por qué no comes?' I regret the question as soon as I've whispered it. I know I shouldn't. It's not summat you ask someone. I'm not sure why I ask it in Spanish.

'They don't want me to. They don't want me to.'

I dunno if "they" refers to his hallucinations or the intrusive thoughts—I dunno if he knows either—but it don't matter. I crawl closer to hug them, still freezing and bleeding and now trembling from crying too. I hold them tight enough that their shivers reverberate through my body and against my spine, hold them so their body don't have room to shake.

Their fingernails claw into my shoulders. 'I'm sorry. I didn't– I didn't– I thought you'd be happy if I left now that you've got a girlfriend.'

'That's alright.'

'Lo siento.'

The ache echoes from their skeleton, a vicious spiky static that will shred the whole world if let free. Just let me take it, all of his pain, please, I can take it. Even if every bone is shattered and my heart erupts, I've got skin that won't break. I can take it.

Notes

Stapelia grandiflora: African starfish flower or carrion flower. A succulent and that appears and smells like carrion to attract pollinators.

No te preocupes por mí: Don't worry about me.

Yo sé eso: I know that.

¿Por qué no comes?: Why aren't you eating?

Lo siento: I'm sorry.