And So She Burned

8. Claws of the Mind

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved, in secret, between the shadow and the soul. ---Pablo Neruda.

I shook my head, trying to shove the idea of Mr. Greysen brutally cutting into my mother's throat out of my mind. Mr. Greysen did not kill my mother—it was just a one time thing.

But if he did kill her . . . he will pay.

Red hot rage tore through me, finding my heart where I store my fear and my pain and what I love and everything else, good or bad, that lies in between.

I looked around the kitchen, with its tile and dark wooden cabinets, the picture window on the other side of the room barely giving in any light from the sky, darkened with rain.

My jaw shook from clenching it so hard. My whole body trembled along with it, in fact. I felt as though my pain was fuel to my anger, as though my body were going to break apart from it.

I can't do this to myself.

As I stood in the middle of the kitchen, looking outside at the falling rain and the lonely forest, I schooled my face into nothingness, an impression of a blank doll. You only feel what you allow yourself to. If I could shove my emotions into a box, push them away and only let as many as I needed in, then I could keep myself from letting anger and carnage—the lack of justice of the person who killed my mom—in. I would keep it from burning my heart into an unfeeling crisp, even if it meant ignoring my emotions.

I couldn't let myself feel nothing. So I made myself feel less.

Vivid emotions make us human, and without them . . . without them, none would cry but for the pleasure of hot tears and the sharp taste of salt and mimicked pain. So I would keep them, at least the ones I wanted. I clamped down hard on the pain and shoved it away.

I braced my arms on the counter, letting everything but confusion drain out of me and into a cage made of the iron will of a girl with a dark past.

The marble was cool on my hands, and I took deep breaths, the radio still playing distantly and quietly.

I let myself focus on the sharp and bright sound of faint bird chirps, soft but discernible, familiar and annoying at times, but comforting.

The not-so-silent silence of the world pushed the past farther away, a much needed release. The mind is a thing of old and ancient power, and it will do whatever it takes to calm itself down.

And then I was okay. The tension drained away, and I felt better.

I stopped myself from thinking about mom, and only thought about what the hell was going on.

How had I known what happened to that poor girl Mr. Greysen killed? How did I know what she looked like and how did I know what he would do to her?

It was time to find out.

Maybe it was just an odd coincidence? No, that wouldn't work. The timing and the dream itself were much too specific.

Maybe I just think I had that dream, and I made it up when I heard about the murder? I vividly remember the scene playing out in my head, and I was thinking about it even before I heard about it on the radio.

I tried more scenarios, but none of them seemed right. If I couldn't logic my way out of this, then what was I supposed to do? Ignore it?

That would have to do for now. I would figure it out later. For now . . . I was going to call Cece.

But first, I took a short break from panicking and cleaned up the spilled water with a towel. My socks were irreparably soaked, so I grabbed a woolly pair from the basket we kept by our shoes in front of the door.