demon - camren

three

There was blood on her hands. Not in a metaphorical, figurative sense, although of course there was that, too, but in an actual, physical sense, there was actual blood on her actual hands, and it was proving surprisingly difficult to wash off. Camila scrubbed furiously, looked at the result, and then scrubbed again. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that her hands were quite small. If the rest of her body could have been in proportion with her hands, then maybe she wouldn't have been such a target.

These were the thoughts that occurred to her as she was scrubbing the blood away. "Camila?" came her mother's voice from beyond the bathroom door. Camila looked up at herself in the mirror above the sink – wild-eyed and panicked. "Yes?" she called, keeping her voice as steady as possible. "Is everything okay?" "Everything's fine, " Camila said. "I'll be out in a minute." Camila listened to her mother hesitate, then walk away down the hall. She turned off the faucet and examined her hands.

For one ridiculous moment, she thought they were still bloodstained, but then she closed her eyes and shook her head. The frantic scrubbing had turned them both redraw, that's all it was. No need for her imagination to be going into overdrive on this one. There was enough to freak out about as it was. She put the toilet seat down and sat, taking deep breaths, and examined the facts. Yes, she had seriously injured that guy, but she had been acting in self-defence and she had been outnumbered. She really couldn't see how the cops wouldn't be on her side about this – if only she hadn't injured him quite so dramatically.

Camila frowned. What was his name? The name of the guy whose face she'd destroyed? Brandon, that was it. She was glad she remembered it. For some reason, it felt important that she remember his name after what she'd done to him. She hadn't meant to do it, and she hadn't a clue how it had happened. She'd heard stories about adrenaline, about what it could do to the human body. Mothers lifting cars off toddlers and stuff. It was, she supposed, possible that adrenaline had granted her the sheer strength to shatter bones on contact, and anyway how much strength would it really take to bite through a finger?

The very thought made her want to throw up again. She stood, and examined herself in the mirror. Her skin was pale and blotchy and her hair was a tangled, frizzy mess. Her eyes – hazel, with flecks of gold, and the only part of herself she didn't hate – were red-rimmed from crying. She went to her room, changed her blood-splattered T-shirt for a top that the lady in the store had said would flatter her figure. Camila wasn't so sure she believed her, but it was a nice top, even if it didn't look especially good on her. She realised her hands were trembling. She sat on the edge of the bed.

Of course they were trembling. She was in shock. She needed help. Advice. Comfort. For the first time since she was a kid, she needed her parents. "Ah hell, " she muttered. It was worth a try. She heard them in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches to dinner. Camila crossed the hall, walking with heavy, leaden feet. The house was filled with the aroma of duck, cooked to perfection, and usually this would have her belly rumbling. But the only thing her belly was doing now was housing a whole load of fluttering butterflies.

She tried to remember the last time she'd talked to her parents about anything important. Or the last time she'd talked to them about anything. She couldn't. Her mouth dry, she stepped into the kitchen. Alejandro was checking the duck in the oven. No sign of Sinu. Camila could feel her courage begin to falter. She needed both of them in the room at the same time. She couldn't do this with only one. Could she? Or was this a condition she was setting for herself purely to have an excuse to back out? And, just like that, her courage deserted her. Relief sapped the rigidity from her joints and she sagged, stepped backwards without Alejandro even realising she'd been standing there.

She walked back to her room. Maybe she could bring it up over dinner, provided there was a lull in the conversation. The two-way conversation, of course, as Camila was only rarely asked to contribute an opinion. There probably wouldn't be a lull, though, but even if there was this was hardly an appropriate topic. After dinner, then, or later tonight, or— Camila stepped into her room but Sinu was already in here, the blood-splattered Tshirt in her hands. "Whose blood is this?" her mother asked.