Sacred Ghost-Gods

4

His name passed between Donny's lips, but her mind was elsewhere, racing with uncertainty. Her thoughts buzzed and hummed, becoming celestial static of their own accord. She could feel the throbbing pulse of her heartbeat in the tips of her fingers, the way her nerves felt itchy and irritated. She felt a tickle on the back of her neck, but she didn't want to lift up her hand to scratch at it. In fact, she didn't want to move at all.

The crumpled page in her back pocket felt like a lead weight, anchoring her to the floor. Donny had to tell him. She scoffed at herself. When had he ever told her anything? Never. To spill her secret so easily to him would be to ignite a stick of dynamite. She wanted to, but did she really want to face the consequences?

The memory of her mother back in California turning over the Hanged Man card of her tarot deck emerged.

Kavinsky stood before her. No, not Kavinsky. Kavinsky was a reserved name. There would only be one Kavinsky, and he was dead. He shared the same surname and the same heavy-lidded, hallowed eyes and the same straight nose. To call him by Kavinsky was an insult, and if by much, the vulgarity of it all.

So she lied.

Her emotions were only filtered by the sheer effort of appearing appalled, if ever taken aback by the unsurprising appearance of James Carson Kavinsky. And then she was hugging him because she'd missed him; true, but also because she was happy to see him; false.

The two of them detached themselves. James continued to eat from the Cheetos bag.

"So," James said, his voice muffled as he talked around a full mouth, "how've been, Dee? Heard you were cashin' in at y'ur dad's."

Donny had walked around to the other side of the counter and was busying herself with typing something on the store's PC, but all she was doing was mindlessly typing out memorized quotes from The Things They Carried she'd read in English class last school year.

"You heard right," she said, not looking away from the monitor. "Doin' fine."

Donny paused. She stopped typing, furrowed her eyebrows and turned her head to look a James. Their eyes met and suddenly her blood boiled with mesmeric adrenaline.

"What are you doing in Henrietta?"

This was a question for him, but it pertained to them both.

James gave a passive shrug. "I'm taking a little... business trip."

Donny regarded him, narrowing her eyes. She should have known his intentions for him coming to see her. There was no love. There nothing but the vocation of his sick hobby. His father had been the first, then Joseph, and of course the family business would finally fall to the youngest Kavinsky. The only son left of the Kavinsky name, no matter how soiled it was. The moment Donny met him, she knew she was fucked.

She was upset. She was upset because she'd missed him. She was upset because he knew that she knew and he knew she would never agree to comply to any of his demands this time around. Donny had known him, had known what he was capable of, because he had money and because she had been desperate back then. James Kavinsky was the shadow of his brother, an imperfect yet imitating outline, and he had never been prouder to wear Kavinsky's face as he was at the moment.

Donny's fingertips were white from how hard she was pressing them against the keys of the keyboard.

James watched her. He observed her. He was very aware that he'd struck a nerve and was amused by the outcome. He knew Donny wouldn't succumb to his standards, at least not now. She wasn't as gullible as she was three years ago.

He poured the last of the Cheetos in his mouth before crumpling it up. With the metallic bag wadded up in his hand, he said, "Beggars can't be choosers, Dee." He reached across the counter and, with his other hand that held nothing, grasped Donny's left hand and turned it over palm-up. He placed the crumpled bag in her palm and folded her fingers over it. He cupped his hands around her's. He leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss to her knuckles before pulling himself and his hands away.

Donny kept her hand closed. She watched as James extended his right leg, while bending his left, and gave a theatric bow. She watched as he pivoted around on his feet and walked around the counter's corner towards the door. She watched as he stopped at the double doors, extracted a cigarette from his front pocket and put the filtered end between his lips.

He said, "I'll be waiting, maker. You know where to find me."

When he inhaled, although never lighting the end, his cigarette glowed orange at the tip. He tilted his head back and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

And then he was gone.

Donny looked at her closed hand and opened it. What James had previously pressed into her palm was no more, and instead there was a small metal skull, no larger than the head of her thumb. It had a prominent forehead and large eye sockets, its supposed mouth looking sucked-in and toothless. The little trinket was an aluminum fetal skull. Donny knew because she was the one who'd made it.

Donny was glad she was the only person in The Bookstore, because she threw a tantrum. By the time she was finished with setting her anger loose, she was sitting on the ground, her back leaned up against the back corner of the employment area behind the counter. Both stools were knocked over, having had been kicked, and there was a pile of books strewn by her feet she'd purposefully knocked over. She'd thrown the skull somewhere and had no intention of retrieving it any time soon.

Her hands were trembling, her knuckles scuffed up and bloody.

She dried her cheeks and eyes with the sleeve of her tee-shirt, aware and embarrassed to the fact that she'd begun to cry. She sniffled and stood up.

Donny regarded the backs of her hands. They quivered, teetering every so slightly. Every time she bent her fingers, the shredded skin on her knuckles stretched and rubbed, making them a painful shudder that tingled up her arms to her hairline. When she tried to pick up a book from off the floor, the weight of it strained the muscles in her hands, making it look as if she had Parkinson's disease. It was a terrible comparison, but that was the only likeness she could collate it to within that moment.

So she dropped the book and walked out from behind the counter. Donny didn't trust herself to pick anything up, so calling Mrs. Quinlan to send her a heads-up that she would be having an early leave was a no-go. The only option was to leave. To go home and rest.

Donny did neither of those, and instead headed to the back of the store. All the way in the back, past another doorless entry covered with a beaded curtain and the storage room, was an extension of the store. It was a descent-sized room, only made smaller by the bookshelves that lined the walls. Two couches faced each other, perpendicular to Donny as she stood just beyond the threshold, and between them was a coffee table. A few books were propped up for advertisement in the center, a couple of wireless lamps were settled on either side of the books.

There were no pillows or quilts, but Donny made due as she laid herself down on one of the couches. She sprawled herself out, extending her legs and made herself as comfortable as she could, flipping over on her right and left until she finally settled on her left, her back pressed against the leather mesh wall behind her. Her arms were bent, her hands tucked to her chest.

Donny closed her eyes, but couldn't fall asleep right away. But after a moment's wait, she drifted off into a fitful sleep. The stinging pain from her hands allowed her conscious to remain present, but her mind wandered.

She wasn't dead, but she wasn't alive either. She was a ghost with a beating heart.