Modern Wicked Fairy Tales: Complete Collection (19 page)

Well, Mr. Neiman wouldn’t have to pound on
the floor anymore when she was playing The Ramones too loud while
she was in the shower, or when she and Sam got a little too
exuberant during sex, would he? They used to laugh about it, the
memory so painful it was like an open sore, imagining the two of
them naked and panting and giggling in the dark as Mr. Neiman
pounding his cane on the floor.

The truth was, Sam liked it when she was
loud, and she saw no reason not to indulge him. She knew just what
turned him on. In fact, she’d gotten the sounds and movements down
to a science, and had learned to throw in a new sound or moan or
some dirty talk on occasion to change it up and give him a little
thrill.

Rose opened the box of razor blades,
removing one from the package and contemplating its sharp edge as
she remembered Sam’s question after sex the night before. It was
the first time he’d ever brought it up. Maybe she would have
offered him the truth in the beginning, if he’d asked. That’s what
she told herself as the level of the hot water rose around her in a
cloud of steam and the thick pulse of blood through her veins
pounded in her ears.

I deserve this.
Rose traced a finger
down her arm from her wrist to her elbow, shivering at the
sensation.
I earned it
.

Maybe if she’d been honest with Sam—honest
with herself—things would have been different.

Instead, for two years, she had let him
believe a lie. Hell, she’d lived that lie for him, with him. It
hadn’t been difficult, not really. It wasn’t as if she’d lied about
how she felt about Sam—she loved him, always had and always would.
It wasn’t as if she’d cheated on him with someone else, or had a
scary former life or some big secret buried in her past. There were
no skeletons in her closet waiting to pop out and surprise
anyone.

It had seemed like such a small thing—an
innocent white lie. She had never imagined that her admission would
lead to this—to losing Sam forever, to a pain beyond any she’d ever
known, to a despair so vast she could do nothing but attempt to
escape it, running away from the pain and seeking a distant,
shimmering point in the distance that could only be her own
end.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” she whispered, feeling hot
tears on her already wet cheeks, salty on her lips, as she pressed
the edge of the blade against the tender skin of her wrist, testing
its sharpness and her own vulnerability. A bright spot of blood
bloomed immediately from the miniscule cut, assuring her that her
skin was permeable, that the line between life and death was very
thin. She was glad.

“Hard and fast,” she whispered, studying the
pale blue roadmap of her veins under the tender, thin covering of
her skin. “Straight down from wrist to elbow.”

She didn’t wonder what Sam would say, or
what her mother and father would think. She wasn’t thinking of
anyone or anything else at all. Her whole being was consumed with
an emotional pain so far beyond this realm of existence she was
sure she’d already left this world. This final act was just a
matter of course, like completing an electrical circuit.

The doorbell startled her, forcing the blade
in a little deeper, the red flower of blood on her wrist spreading.
Rose looked up at the bathroom door, closed but not locked, shocked
by this intrusion. She had given them all plausible excuses about
being alone right now—her mother, her father, her aunts, the
multitude of family who had flown into town to see her walk down
the aisle today—and of course, she had turned off both her home and
cell phone.

“Rosie?”

Oh no!
She knew that voice. It was
her aunt Poppy, knocking and ringing the bell. Her family had
obviously conferenced and decided to send Poppy over see if poor
little Rosie was all right.
Well no, to tell you the truth, I’m
not all right. I’m broken. I’ve always been broken. No one could
every want me or love me or—

“Rosie!” The voice was closer. Poppy had let
herself into the house! Rose cursed herself for not locking the
front door. “Rosie? Are you okay?”

If only it was Sam…

That was her last rational thought before
she did the inevitable, the blade far sharper than she’d ever
imagined. She didn’t make it from wrist to elbow—less than halfway,
but the cut was a good four inches long and quite deep, slicing
between all the tendons and ligaments, finding the artery with
lucky precision. That was all she could do—pain like a white hot
poker shot through her arm and her hand spasmed uncontrollably, her
fingers turning to claws. She couldn’t help the scream, although
she tried to hold it in—it felt ripped from the raw hollow of her
throat, a bright, inhuman sound echoing off the white tiles.
Looking down, she saw her own arm as if someone had turned it
inside out, blood bright red and pulsing from the wound into the
warm water around her.

“Rosie!” The door flew open and she saw her
aunt’s wide eyes, had just enough time to register her horrified
expression. “No! Oh no, Rosie, nooo!”

Her last thought was that she wished it had
been Sam who had either burst in to save her—or perhaps witness her
death. She really didn’t care which. She had just wanted it to be
Sam.

* * * *

“I didn’t even think they sold transferable airline
tickets anymore.” Rose’s mother handed them back to her daughter,
frowning as she scanned the airport. Rose knew she was looking for
her ex-husband, Rose’s father, who was due to show up to see his
daughter off. “Late as usual,” her mother whispered under her
breath, but Rose heard and winced.

“I think it’s a sign!” Poppy slid an arm around her
niece’s shoulder, patting the girl’s head with her other hand. Rose
let her do it, even though the gesture made her feel five years
old. “You were meant to go to St. Bart’s after all.”

Rose didn’t say anything. Telling Poppy how much pain
that statement caused her wouldn’t do anyone any good. What did it
matter that she should have used those tickets for her honeymoon
with Sam? They had come in handy, that much was true. And Sam… She
closed her eyes, swallowing and looking away, pretending interest
in seeing the planes taking off and landing outside the window.
Thinking about Sam was still too painful. That hurt far more than
the scar on her wrist—eighty-seven stitches later.

“There’s your father.” Her mother was readying
herself, mouth puckered, arms akimbo, foot already tapping on the
airport carpet. Rose ignored her mother’s reaction, smiling as the
tall, handsome man in a suit strode toward them, a congenial smile
spreading over his tanned face, showing more lines than Rose
remembered.

“There’s my princess!” Her father swept her into his
arms and hugged her tight, and this, too, make Rose feel small—but
she didn’t mind. He set her down and kissed her forehead, asking,
“How’s my girl?”

“Fine, Daddy.” Rose smiled, realizing they’d had the
exact same exchange while she’d been lying in a hospital bed two
months ago, her arm still heavily bandaged, her head fuzzy from the
morphine.

“You’ll love St. Barts.” He turned, acknowledging
Poppy for the first time but clearly avoiding meeting the glaring
eyes of his ex-wife. “Won’t she, Sis?”

“I think she’ll get just what she needs in St.
Barts,” her aunt agreed.

Rose glanced between her parents, wondering how that
much hostility could still exist between two people after twenty
years of being divorced. She’d long ago given up trying to
reconcile them or even to try to keep the peace. They were
adults—she couldn’t control the way they behaved, even if that
behavior resembled two children.

“Are you sure you packed enough?” Rose’s mother eyed
her daughter’s carry-on. “Isn’t this supposed to be for a
month?”

“They have laundry facilities,” Poppy piped up,
intervening quickly. “They’re boarding.”

“Well I guess this is it.” Rose offered a tentative
smile to both of her parents, taking one of each of their hands,
making some sort of bridge.

Her father said, “You have fun,” and kissed the top
of Rose’s head and her mother squeezed her hand and said, “Get
better, okay?” illustrating the vast difference between her parents
and her relationship with both of them in one brief moment.

Rose let her parents’ hands go and leaned in to give
her aunt a hug, whispering, “Thanks for everything.”

She had once wished it had been Sam who burst into
the bathroom that night, but she didn’t wish that now. Poppy had
taken charge—twenty years of nursing experience took over, of
course, but it wasn’t just that. Her aunt had protected her from
then until now, staying with her at night after she was released
from the hospital, and ultimately finding the unorthodox treatment
center she was heading to now.

The truth was, Rose didn’t want to die anymore. But
she wasn’t quite sure she wanted to live either. It was a strange
place to be, like walking through life like you didn’t belong, as
if it was all someone else’s dream. Maybe this place really would
help. At least, Rose figured, it couldn’t hurt.

She waved to her family as the flight attendant took
her boarding pass, seeing them gathered into a little trio of
worry. Even her father look perplexed and unsure, an expression she
hadn’t seen on his face since that first day in the hospital when
he saw the enormous bandage on her arm.

Rose settled herself into her seat
on the plane, stowing her carry-on in a very small overhead
compartment and wondering at the safety of the tiny aircraft. The
seats were narrow, just two on each side of the aisle, and
regardless of who she would be sitting next to, it would be close
quarters.
It should be Sam.
But she didn’t want to think about that. Instead,
she took out her Kindle and enjoyed her window seat, her eyes
unfocused on the words on the screen.

“They’re going to make you turn that off during
takeoff you know.”

Rose glanced up, experiencing a
horrible, dizzying sense of déjà-vu—except it wasn’t an image of
something that already happened, but something that
should
have happened. Sam
was taking a seat beside her, stowing a briefcase under the seat in
front of him, just as he would have if this had been their
honeymoon flight.

That’s not Sam!
She had to remind herself of that fact as she put her Kindle
face-down in her lap, attempting to smile at the man who resembled
her ex-fiancé so much they could have been brothers, if not twins,
as he reached down to get something out of his bag.

“But we can sneak in a little
reading time before then, huh?” He winked and showed her a tablet
device. “Those Kindles are great for reading at the beach, but I
gotta have my
Angry
Birds
.”

“Angry…birds?” She gave him a quizzical half-smile,
shaking her head.

“It’s a game,” he explained, swiping
his finger across the touch screen. “An app, actually.” He glanced
at her, seeing the quizzical expression growing more confused. “An
application.” He laughed. “You’ve got a Kindle, so you’re not a
Luddite…how is it you have never heard of
Angry Birds
?”

He turned the screen to show her three fat cartoon
birds in front of an empty nest with question marks over their
heads.

“I kind of outgrew video games when I was a kid.”
Rose shrugged, watching as the man used a slingshot to fling one of
the birds toward a structure with round-faced green animals trapped
in it. “I think the last video game I played was Space Invaders on
Atari.”

He laughed, handing the tablet to
her. “Oh well here—you have to try
Angry
Birds
.”

“Really?” She looked doubtfully at the game.

“Just pull back the slingshot and shoot.” He
demonstrated by leaning over and using one finger to do so,
flinging a fat little bird into the air.

Rose followed his lead, getting a little thrill when
the structure tumbled and a little green animal inside was
obliterated, leaving a score in its wake. “Why are the birds
angry?”

“They’re mad at the pigs,” he explained.

“Oh, those green things are pigs!” She peered closer,
seeing the resemblance now. “Why are they mad at the pigs?”

“The pigs stole their eggs.”

She laughed as another structure tumbled to the
ground due to her new, amazing sling-shooting ability. With just a
swipe of her finger! “Pigs like eggs?”

“They must.” He smiled. “But the Freudian in me would
say all that pent up rage must have something to do with the birds’
mothers.”

Rose went to hand the tablet back to him but he waved
her away. “Play! But be careful, it’s addictive.”

“It is,” she agreed, starting another level,
introducing herself without even looking up. “I’m Rose, by the
way.”

“Matt,” he replied, leaning his seat back with a
sigh. “Nice to meet you, Rose. What takes you to St. Bart’s all by
yourself?”

“Oh I’m…going on vacation, of course,” she lied. “How
about you?”

“Going home.” He winked. “I’m one of the, oh, I don’t
know, eight-thousand or so permanent residents of the island.”

“Lucky you,” she commented, moving on to level three.
The structures were getting larger and the pigs she had to
eliminate by flinging the angry birds at them more numerous.

“I am,” he agreed happily, putting his hands behind
his head and closing his eyes, stretching his long legs into the
aisle. .The gesture reminded her so much of Sam that Rose swallowed
the emotion rising in her throat, trying to concentrate on the game
in her hands.

“Damnit,” she swore softly as she ran out of
birds—but the pigs survived, the structure still intact.