Such Sharp Teeth E-Book

Rachel Harrison

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

A witty, moving tale of monsters and modern life from the award-winning author of Cackle and The Return. For readers looking for a story of sisterhood, complicated families and love with a bit more bite...Rory Morris isn't thrilled to be moving back to her hometown. There are bad memories there. But her twin sister, Scarlett, is pregnant and needs support, so Rory returns to the place she thought she'd put in her rearview. After a night out at a bar where she runs into Ian, an old almost-flame, she hits a large animal with her car. And when she gets out to investigate, she's attacked.Rory survives, miraculously, but life begins to look and feel different. She's unnaturally strong, with an aversion to silver—and suddenly the moon has her in its thrall. She's changing into someone else—something else. But does that mean she's putting those close to her in danger? Or is embracing the wildness inside her the key to acceptance?This darkly comedic love story is a brilliantly layered portrait of trauma, rage, and vulnerability.

Leseprobe

CONTENTS

Cover

Praise for Such Sharp Teeth

Also by Rachel Harrison and Available from Titan Books

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

Dedication

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

Acknowledgments

PRAISE FOR SUCH SHARP TEETH

“Rachel Harrison has written a witty and wholly original exploration of lycanthropy, trauma, and the monsters that reside within all of us, if we dig deep enough to find them. Such Sharp Teeth is an incredibly compelling read that’s full of horror and heart. It’s the werewolf book I’ve been waiting for and I can’t recommend it enough.” Alexis Henderson, author of The Year of the Witching and House of Hunger

“Rachel Harrison’s razor-sharp prose cuts straight to the bone. With its quick-witted dialogue and acutely human regard for its cursed characters, Such Sharp Teeth solidifies her spot as the alpha author of heartfelt horror.” Clay McLeod Chapman, author of Ghost Eaters

“No one is writing horror that explores the intricacies of femininity like Rachel Harrison. This brilliant story is about accepting your identity, your past, love, friendship, and family… all wrapped up in a deeply satisfying and scary monster tale. Such Sharp Teeth is as irresistible as the pull of the full moon—I couldn’t tear myself away.” Mallory O’Meara, bestselling author of The Lady From the Black Lagoon

“Wonderfully witty and wild. It’s also heady and daring in how the story explores friend and family dynamics, the anger women aren’t allowed to express within our culture, and the wounds that transform us against our will. The next full moon I see, I’ll be rooting for Rory.” Paul Tremblay, author of The Cabin at the End of the World and The Pallbearers Club

“A sarcastic pair of goth sisters, a small town, horrible mother-daughter relationships, and a big helping of nasty, gnarly body horror. Werewolves! Loved it.” Ally Wilkes, author of All the White Spaces

“At turns heart-warming, heart-rending, and a little monstrous, Harrison’s latest gives anything but your typical big bad wolf story. Such Sharp Teeth runs slick with bone-crackling wit and cunning, but don’t be fooled by that grin; this wolf has a bite.” Hailey Piper, Bram Stoker Award®-winning author of Queen of Teeth

“With prose as sleek as a wolf in full stride, Such Sharp Teeth feels at once like a classic werewolf story, and something delightfully new. It’s a breathless, poignant, blood-and-flesh-licking tale that asks: when our distractions and coping mechanisms are shredded away, who–or what–are we? And it confirms once again that Rachel Harrison is horror’s poet laureate of quarter-life dread and existential transition.” Nat Cassidy, author of Mary: An Awakening of Terror

Also by Rachel Harrison and available from Titan Books

Cackle

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Such Sharp Teeth

Print edition ISBN: 9781803363912

E-book edition ISBN: 9781803363929

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First Titan edition: May 2023

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Copyright © 2023 Rachel Harrison. All rights reserved. Published by arrangement with Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

For my pack

I

Moths flutter around the fluorescent bulb as it blinks into the dark outside the bar. I lean back and lift my gaze to the night. There’s no light pollution out here, and the stars are fierce. The moon is full, so I give it a wink.

“Did you just wink at me?”

Ian’s so tall he blocks out the moon. When he’s in front of you, there’s nothing else. He’s all there is.

“I did wink,” I say. “But not at you. Sorry.”

“All right,” he says. “Glad we cleared that up.”

“Apologies for any confusion.”

He doesn’t say anything else. He turns away from me to exhale, releasing a calm river of smoke toward the parking lot.

“Are you disappointed?” I ask him. “Did I give you false hope for a second there?”

“Well, yeah, but I’ve had false hope since we were thirteen, so I’m used to it,” he says, turning back toward the light so I can see his good-natured grin.

It’s been so many years since I last saw that grin. My heart begins to thump mutinously inside my chest. Maybe his hope isn’t false after all.

All right, then. Time to go.

“I should head home. My sister will be jealous if she thinks I’m out having too much fun while she’s stuck home. Sober.”

“Tell Scarlett I say hello,” he says.

“I will,” I say, patting my pockets to check for my wallet, my keys. “Happy we ran into each other. Good to see you.”

“Yeah,” he says. “We should run into each other again while you’re still in town.”

I search for a cool, noncommittal response among the assortment I store readily under my tongue. I fumble. My lips part but offer nothing.

“Or not,” he says, shrugging his massive shoulders. He pushes his glasses up his nose, the same squarish black Ray-Bans he wore in high school. Behind the thick lenses, his eyes are a striking, unusual blue. Cobalt.

“No, yeah,” I stammer. “I mean, yes. Of course.”

Horrifying.

“You good to drive? I can give you a ride,” he says.

“I’m good. One beer. I can walk in a straight line for you, though, if you like. ABC’s backwards.”

“Could you?”

“I’m shy.”

He laughs.

“All right.” I take my car keys out of my pocket. I slip my index finger into the key ring and flip them around. “Good night.”

“Bye, Rory.”

I’m curious if he’s watching me as I walk to my car. The restraint it takes to not sneak a glance over my shoulder. Shameful.

I’ll leave this part out when I tell Scarlett.

If I tell Scarlett.

Despite her current situation, she seems to have retained her position as a hard-core romantic. She’s like Mom. If I tell her I bumped into Ian Pedretti, forget it.

I get into the car and turn the heat on, thawing myself from the October chill. I pull out of the parking lot, stealing a quick look in my rearview.

Ian is still there, finishing his cigarette.

*   *   *

I forgot about the mist. There’s an ever-present mist that skulks around here like a townie. It tumbles down from the mountain, seeps out of the woods, and slathers itself across the dull suburban landscape. It might be the only defining quality of my hometown. Persistent mist.

Even with my brights on, there’s negligible visibility. I drive slowly around the winding curves of Cutter Road. I used to know it by heart. I could drive it in the dark no problem, but it’s been a long time since I’ve been back. I didn’t think it was something I could lose. I thought that the map of this place was etched into me, that I could navigate from muscle memory, but I guess time erases the things you least expect.

A yawn crawls out of me. It’s dramatic about it. The heat has me sleepy. I need to stay awake and alert for the five minutes it’ll take me to get back to Scarlett’s. Doesn’t seem like too monumental a task, but after years of being able to zone out on the subway, passively observing stops and the occasional kerfuffle, the additional attention required for driving seems like a big ask. I turn off the heat and crack open the windows, hoping the fresh air will keep me honest.

In comes the signature campfire smell of autumn, but also something else. Something more potent and less appealing. I sniff.

It’s wet animal.

The distinct scent of damp fur.

It’s overpowering. I consider closing the window, but then my phone chimes.

My eyes obediently flick over to the illuminated screen, and . . .

Thud.

Time leaps ahead, dragging me by the neck. It leaves me with my lungs convulsing, a hideous screeching in my ears. My seat belt is tight, at my throat like a knife.

My car is facing in the wrong direction. I inhale, and it’s just burning rubber.

I hit something.

I hit something.

The sound, that grievous thud, replays loudly in my head. It’s relentless, with a severe disorienting urgency.

I pull at my seat belt, attempting to loosen it, so I can breathe, but it’s dead set on anchoring me in this hellish moment. I feel around for the button with a trembling hand. I find it eventually, and the seat belt releases with a fast snap. I open the car door and stumble onto the road.

The cold pulls me out of the fog of my shock. I do a quick examination of my body. Extremities seem to be intact. I feel my face. Aside from the wide gape of my mouth, there’s nothing concerning. I move my neck side to side.

I’m fine.

Car? Not fine. My front bumper, the grille, whatever, is now so deeply indented, it’s the shape of a V.

What did I hit? What could possibly cause that much damage? A deer?

I clench my teeth and take a minute to allow the reality to fully set in, as much as I’d prefer to hang out in the cozy palm of denial. I brace myself for the inevitable cycle of emotions. Anger at myself for being an irresponsible driver, frustration at the situation in general. Remorse for the animal I almost certainly killed.

I wasn’t speeding. I was going only thirty, thirty-five at most. But if the sound and the state of my car are any indication, RIP. I guess I should check to make sure I don’t abandon a concussed house pet, some freshly maimed family dog. If that’s what I hit and there’s a chance that it’s somehow still alive, that means there’s a chance I can save it.

I turn toward the road. Mist curls in all directions; it peels from the night like the skin from ripe fruit. There’s a glittering black smear on the road, mostly eluding the reach of my headlights. I step toward it, holding my breath, preparing my apology to Spot or Bambi.

My presence disrupts the mist, and between my headlights, aggressive starlight, and a cruel, gawking moon, I can see the mess I’ve made.

I can’t even tell what kind of animal it is. Or was.

It’s inside out. The impact must have skinned it somehow because there’s no evidence of fur. Giant worms of intestines unravel across the road. The wet abstract of organs contrasts against the pale shock of bone. It’s a shapeless horror. An absolute massacre.

“I’m sorry,” I tell it, searching for some hint of its identity. There’s a lot of it, whatever it is. Too much. Guessing a deer? I scan for antlers.

There’s a lump. I squint, stepping deeper into the haze. My eyes adjust, and I can see that the lump is fur. A neat mound of fur. Beside the mound, staring up at me with dead glassy eyes, is a head. I was right. It was a deer.

How is this possible? I was not going over thirty-five. And even if I was . . .

Something possesses me to reach out and hover my hand over the carcass. It’s cold. There’s no heat coming off it, no warmth at all. I just hit it. If it just died, wouldn’t it still be warm?

I linger over the deer, wondering, until I realize I’m not required to turn in an autopsy report. It’s not a mystery I need to solve. I killed it. I feel bad; that’s it. My punishment is I’ll likely never be able to stomach meat again. I’ll be a vegetarian and a conscientious driver.

I sigh and straighten my legs.

I pause to listen. I hear something. Labored breathing. A sharp inhale followed by the slow rip of an exhale. It repeats.

I bring my hand to my chest. Its surf is steady. Rise, fall. Rise, fall. It contradicts the sound. But if I’m not making it, what is?

There’s an onslaught of darkness, confusing me for all of two seconds before I realize something has passed in front of the headlights.

Until I realize I’m not the one who killed that deer.

I turn around.

It eclipses the headlights, concealing itself in darkness. I can make out a vague outline, trace an enormous mass sliced from shadow. It suddenly shifts between the headlights, uncoiling itself. The light scalds my eyes, forcing a brief retreat into the refuge of my head. I’m tempted to let them stay there, to leave my eyes closed and maybe just never open them again, never face whatever it is in front of me. But something else—maybe survival instinct or curiosity—wins out.

I open my eyes, and at first they struggle against the brightness. All I can see is that whatever’s there, positioned between me and my car, it’s standing upright.

A bear. It’s a bear. It’s the size of a large bear. It’s got four limbs. A head. Fur.

I blink, and the scene comes into focus.

I’ve never seen a bear like this. Its proportions are weird.

It stands on the pads of its feet. They’re not really paws. They’re big but narrow, and they’ve got fur, only it’s sparse, and where there’s none, grayish skin is stretched tight over thin splinters of bone. Its toes are each about the size of my fist, and from them extend thick black nails, sharp, almost like talons. Its legs are long. Slim pale muscles slither around exposed bone, fur detaching in certain places, like around the knees. The legs have a disturbing bend to them. They’re not straight. They won’t straighten. They’re hind legs.

It’s slouched, concealing part of its torso. There’s fur missing there, too. Its skin has been pulled too taut; there are obvious rips where the thing is fleshless. I can see a sickening twist of ribs and spongy insides, but most of it is shadowed by the curtain of its arms. The thing pulls them forward but leaves them limp. They dangle down past its knees.

Its hands are marred. Leathery tangled mitts. Bones peek through recessions of fur. Its giant knuckles are bald. Its fingers have way too many joints; they bend and unbend and bend.

I look up at its head.

A whiteness escapes its wide-open jaws. Froth pours through its fangs. Beyond its snout, two red eyes bore into me. The color of them, it’s unreal.

It can’t be real.

Did someone slip something into my beer?

I feel the skepticism creep across my expression, my eyebrows sinking, eyes narrowing as I study the thing standing in front of me. My doubt releases me from my fear, and for a moment the creature isn’t real and I’m safe.

It must sense this, because it rears back, head up, opening its chest to the sky, arms wide. I can hear the awful creak of its jaw as it unhinges to an alarming degree, the separation between its teeth staggering. It begins to scream. The torturous pitch funnels ice into my veins. It’s agonizing.

The scream splits, harmonizing with itself. It’s like there’s more than one voice.

Animals shouldn’t be able to scream like that.

It’s going on forever. I don’t know if it’ll ever stop. Should I run? Why haven’t I already started running?

The thing finally stops screaming. It collapses onto all fours. It turns to me, and the clarity of its red gaze is unnerving. I understand.

It’s angry. I hit it with my car. I interrupted its dinner.

And it’s starving.

I run.

I take off into the mist. I’m a runner but this is different. Running for your life is different. It sucks.

I’m vulnerable on the road. There’s nowhere for me to hide. If another car comes, it’s more likely to hit me than be able to help me. I veer into the woods.

The wet carpet of moss swallows my footsteps. I dodge branches, hop over rocks. I know it’s following me because it’s not stealthy. It doesn’t need to be because it’s huge and fanged and fast. It’s got that predator confidence. It knows it can catch me because it’s the predator. And I’m prey.

It’s not the first beast to see me this way. Might be the last, though.

My thoughts distract me. My run becomes increasingly reckless. A wayward arm smacks a cluster of low foliage. The rustle is thunderous.

I can’t think. I can’t think about what’s happening. I can’t stop to conjure the image of what’s hunting me, pause to marvel at the horror of it. No time for How? or Why? or What the ever-loving fuck? Its snarls cleave the quiet; its hot breath is at my heels. Any hope of escape is obliterated. I’m not going to outrun the thing. I can’t. I’m not getting home to my sister, who needs me. I can’t go any faster.

Is this it, then? My final thought: This is as fast as I can go.

*   *   *

I spit dirt and blood from my mouth. The pain is disorienting. I’m facedown. The gentle creep of insect legs along my cheek is the only sensation I can decisively identify. The rest is just nebulous torment.

My ankle, maybe?

The brutal bloom of heat on my shoulder interrupts my analysis, and I’m flipped over onto my back. It’s done easily, like I have no weight, like it’s nothing, like I’m nothing. My body is not a factor, except right now I know it’s the only factor. I go rigid.

It looms above me, the moon providing a direct spotlight, a wraithlike glow. Honestly, I could do without it. Fuck you, moon. I don’t need my death by large inbred animal to have good lighting. Dark would be fine. Preferable.

I could close my eyes, but it’s kind of hard when the thing looks the way it does.

I can almost hear the chiding of my future self, if there were to be a future self. Or maybe it’s the chorus of outsiders who might someday read about what happened to me and wonder aloud, “Why didn’t she?” “Why didn’t she wriggle away?” “If it were me, I would have punched it in the face!” “I would have fought back!” “I would have screamed!”

Why didn’t I? Why don’t I?

Because I can’t.

I can’t.

It lowers itself down. It sniffs me, starting at my feet. It’s removed my boots, or they’ve come off somehow. Not sure. I can see now that my ankle is twisted, bloody. My jeans are torn to shreds. They were my favorite jeans, too.

The soft twitch of my grin meets a salty wetness. I’m crying.

Scarlett.

I’m grateful we never had that special twin thing. We were disappointed as children that we didn’t have that connection. She broke her collarbone at a soccer game, and I was across town having the time of my life sleeping over at Ash’s. Double-fisting s’mores and dancing along to music videos on MTV. No phantom pain. No nothing.

Right now I hope she’s on the couch reading, or sketching, or strumming absentmindedly on her guitar, feeling no pain. No twin telepathy. No inexplicable, all-consuming, utterly devastating fear.

As long as she isn’t feeling what I’m feeling.

The soul-eviscerating terror of staring into the red eyes of this thing. It’s so close to me now, its blood-slick snout pressed to my chin. It’s definitely not a bear. Whatever it is, it’s not natural.

In a swift, savage motion, it buries its face into my side.

The scream that escapes me is bloodcurdling, so monstrous that the creature unclamps its jaws and shoots me a look of what’s maybe surprise. I can feel each puncture wound from each individual tooth with unfortunate lucidity. It stings, it burns. It’s a shin on the corner of the coffee table, a bone you know is broken right away. It’s a rally of all the pain I’ve ever felt, doused in acid. The hurt is transforming my mind. I can’t stop screaming.

The thing is no longer deterred by it. It returns to slurp at the pulp of my wound.

“No!” I’m screaming. “No!”

Blood bubbles from my mouth. A sobering cold begins to inch its way through me. Everything darkens.

“No!” I sputter the word into multiple syllables. My mouth is flooding, tongue drowning in thick tangy blood.

It pulls away fast, taking some of me with it between its teeth. Strips of my skin dangle from its fangs. It stands and turns toward the sky, toward the dark of it. Fat clouds shroud the moon. It’s completely lost, concealed from view.

My whimpering returns its attention to me. It looks down at me and cocks its head to the side. The movement has a certain innocence about it.

But then the clouds pass, and the moonlight returns with its menacing sheen. The thing growls at me, its thin lips rippling, gory fangs bared.

And just as it descends toward me, another animal decides to hurry by, maybe thinking the predator is preoccupied. Whatever the animal is, it must be more appealing, because the thing dashes after it, leaving me alone in the clearing, in a patch of bright silvery moonlight.

My breath collapses. I try to tilt my head down to see how bad it is. My entire side is covered in blood. It’s been gnawed. Bitten. Butchered. The violence of it weakens me. Maybe it’s the blood loss, or it could be the profound devastation over having had this done to me, having been vandalized in this way.

The carelessness, the disregard for my body, for my life. It’s robbed me of my strength, my resolve. I let my eyes close without the faith I’ll open them again.

*   *   *

I’m awakened by a rough pink tongue slobbering over my face. My drowsiness is slow to fade, my consciousness faltering.

A yell ruptures my stupor. I’m abruptly, terribly aware of my circumstance. There’s a smiling spaniel panting just above me, and beyond it stands a woman in running clothes with her hands covering her mouth, horrified by the sight of me.

“Are you okay?” she asks, hysterical. “Are you okay?”

It’s such a stupid question.

My voice is hoarse, but I manage to speak.

“I don’t fucking know,” I say. “Call nine-one-one.”

II

Scarlett doesn’t say hello. I don’t see her come in. She just appears, her long blue hair in a perfect braid draped over her shoulder. Her roots are dark, her dye job growing out for the first time in forever. She wears all black. Patent leather jacket, coordinating combat boots with the buckles. Her bump is obscured by a flowy tunic. She looks me over, tapping a black coffin nail on her naked bottom lip. No makeup. That’s the tell.

“You should see the bear,” I say.

“I did. It’s in the other room telling the police you hit first. Is that true?”

“Can neither confirm nor deny.”

“All this over some honey,” she says in her cool, enigmatic tone. I like to think that’s exactly how I sound.

She lowers herself into the chair at my bedside, wincing all the way down.

“You feel okay?” I ask her.

She gives me one of her most disdainful stares.

“Just kidding,” I say, hands up. “Honestly, I don’t even care.”

“You’re the one in a hospital bed,” she says. “Can we maybe talk for a sec about how I thought you were out getting laid and instead you were playing tag with a wild animal? What the fuck, Aurora?”

“I’m getting Aurora’d? How am I in trouble?”

“Why would you get out of the car?”

So it begins.

“Scarlett,” I say, mirroring her cold stare. It’s easy since we share a face.

She sighs, her head falling forward as she pinches the bridge of her nose. “What would I have done if I lost you? If you were killed by a bear?”

She doesn’t know that’s the wrong question. What would she have done if I had been killed by a monster?

It was a necessary lie. Had I told anyone the truth about what happened in the woods last night, that I was attacked by a massive fanged mystery beast, I’d likely be carted off to a mental institution. No one would believe me. I can’t blame them. I barely believe it myself, and I was there. I know what I saw, and still . . .

It’s a particular form of torture that I wish I were alone in, though I know I’m not. For some reason I can never fully trust my own experience. I’m always treating myself like an unreliable witness. I offer no empathy, only an endless cycle of interrogation.

Did I really see it? Or did I make up a fantastical creature to dissociate from reality? Wouldn’t that make sense?

“Rory,” Scarlett says.

“I was coming home from the bar and I hit something. I worried it was a dog. Some sweet golden retriever wearing a red bandanna and, like, a collar with tags that say, ‘I’m loved.’ I got out to check, and I guess maybe actually I hit the bear, or pissed it off somehow. Here we are.”

“You’ve been back here for two weeks,” she says. “Two weeks.”

“I know,” I say. “It could sense it. Bear was like ‘Sweetie, go back to Manhattan.’”

“I’d understand,” she says, tapping her nails on the arm of the chair. “If you want to go back. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

“Hey. No,” I say. “I’m not going anywhere. This doesn’t change anything. I’m here.”

“I woke up to the cops at the door. I don’t ever want to wake up to a knock like that again.”

I can’t freak out because she’s freaking out. One of us has to be calm. It’s a rule.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Honestly, would rather be here. Rather be the one in the hospital bed than sitting beside it.”

She stares at me for what feels like forty-five minutes.

“What?” I ask finally.

“You can’t shrug this off,” she says.

I shrug. It hurts.

“Aurora.”

“Twice in one morning!”

“I’m serious. This is traumatic.”

“You know what’s traumatic? Is there anything worse than the moment before the disinfectant? You know it’s going in. You know it’s going to sting like a motherfucker. The anticipation. The worst.”

“Yeah, well, I’m over here, knowing I’m going to have to give birth, so . . .”

It’s been around five months since she told me, and I still can’t figure out how she’s feeling about it. Scarlett isn’t one for sentiment, so it’s possible she’s concealing her excitement behind her typical nonchalance. On the subject of babies, both of us have always been a lukewarm I-don’t-know-maybe. I wasn’t totally shocked, especially considering how long she and Matty had been together, but it also didn’t feel like good news.

It’s possible his absence was impending, and that’s why Scarlett was never keen to share sonogram pics and shop for onesies. She’ll talk about it when she feels like talking about it, if she ever feels like talking about it.

“My favorite sisters.”

Seth struts into the room in his white coat, clipboard under his arm, pen behind his ear, looking like the epic nerd he’s always been.

“Doc,” Scarlett says.

“Ashley wanted to come by, but she’s stuck at home with the little guy,” he says. “How are you feeling?”

“Amazing,” I say.

“Me, too,” Scarlett says. “Thanks for asking.”

“I just really wanted to see you,” I say. “Bear was an excuse.”

Seth closes his eyes, something he often does when Scarlett and I are being ourselves. It’s a technique he’s developed over the years we’ve known him. He closes his eyes and takes a moment to fortify himself against our collective bullshit. His eyes were closed throughout the entirety of the maids of honor speech that Scarlett and I gave at his wedding. He married our best friend, and that lifelong commitment included us by default. He knew what he was getting himself into.

He opens his eyes. Courageously. “You’re very lucky.”

“Since I was a little girl, I hoped and dreamed I’d someday be the victim of a bear attack. And now here I am. Imagine?”

He shakes his head. “Minor cuts and scrapes. Could have been much worse.”

It was much worse. The pain echoes in my side. The sound, I can hear it clear as day. The bite. Teeth breaking skin. The initial gnaw. I was torn open, mercilessly. Easily. And the smell of it. The smell of animal. The smell of blood. The taste of it in my mouth.

I can question what I saw, but I can’t deny what I felt. A burning, raging hurt. It’s not what it was in the moment, but it’s still there writhing under the surface.

Yet somehow.

This morning, when they wiped away the dirt and dried blood, the damage wasn’t significant. A constellation of shallow cuts. It wasn’t a distinctive bite mark. It wasn’t a distinctive anything.

They said most of the blood was from my head, from where I hit my head, but even that cut, just above my hairline, was measly. Didn’t even require stitches.

My ankle is swollen, scratched, but the scratches are faint. Unapparent.

I don’t know how I could invent pain like that, how I could conjure that type of suffering, those specific, unfamiliar sensations. But I don’t have any evidence. Nothing to prove what I really went through or how it felt. Nothing visible, nothing tangible. I can feel it. The damage is there, but it’s ghost damage, haunting my body like it’s a goddamn Victorian manor. No one can see it but me. No one knows it’s there except for me.

I adjust the neck of my hospital gown.

“Can I go now?” I ask.

“Yes, you can go. You can take some ibuprofen. Change the bandages tonight, or first thing tomorrow morning at the latest. This ointment on your head and your side,” he says, handing Scarlett a white tube. “I can come by the house tomorrow afternoon and take a look. See how you’re healing.”

“Do you make house calls for all of your patients or am I special?”

“You’re special,” he says. “I’m very glad you’re okay.”

“Are you, though?” I ask.

He closes his eyes.

*   *   *

On the drive home, Scarlett and I stop for chai lattes at the shiny new Starbucks. We drink them at one of the tables outside, despite the drizzle. We enjoy our beautiful view of the parking lot.

“How long did they say?” I ask. We’re talking about my poor car, the one I got just days ago.

“Three weeks,” she says. “But who knows? You’re welcome to share mine, but then you’ll be trapped at the house while I’m at work. Might want to get a rental.”

“Balls.”

“Yep,” she says, removing the lid of her cup to sip.

Usually, she does this to preserve her perfect red lip, but she’s not wearing any lipstick. It’s so rare to see her without it. I’ve been living with her for two weeks and this is the first time I’ve seen her face bare. It’s the first thing she does when she wakes up. Washes her face, brushes her teeth, applies lipstick. Then the black cat eye, of course, her precision immaculate.

Sometimes she’ll offer to do my makeup. Whenever she does, I always say yes.

“Is it like doing your own?” I asked her once.

“Kind of,” she said. “It is but it isn’t.”

When I’ve got on the red lip and black eyeliner, we look the same. Except my hair isn’t blue. I guess hers isn’t either, technically.

“I thought of you last night,” I say, watching the parking lot. A titanic SUV attempts to back into a space that is for sure too small. “About how I was relieved we don’t have that twin thing. Where we can feel what the other feels.”

“Yeah, I slept through the whole thing,” she says. “I used to be a night owl. Lately I can barely make it past midnight.”

“Midnight is late.”

“No, it isn’t,” she says.

I can tell she doesn’t want to talk about what happened last night, which is a relief, because I don’t feel like talking about it either. I don’t want to think about it. What I want is to enjoy my chai latte without reliving my suffering. To sit in this suburban parking lot on this overcast day with my sister and just be.

“You know who I ran into last night?” I ask.

She looks at me. “If you say a bear . . .”

“No, no,” I say. “Ian Pedretti.”

I get an instant grin.

“Ian Pedretti,” she singsongs. “He was so in love with you.”

“I know.”

“I see him around all the time. He filled out. He was so gangly in high school.”

“Yep.”

“What did you guys talk about?” She rests both elbows on the table and bats her lashes at me.

“Politics,” I deadpan.

“Hey,” she says. “Please?”

“I don’t know. Just caught up. Nothing earth-shattering,” I say, hiding my face behind my cup. “I had every intention of enjoying a beer by myself, Scout’s honor. He just happened to be there.”

“You’re squirming,” she says.

“I’m not. I’m holding perfectly still.”

The SUV has indeed successfully backed into that space. I crane my neck to behold its wizard driver.

“How’d you leave things?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to see him again?”

I shrug, and it’s that writhing pain. It hasn’t gone away, but it had dulled to the point I could ignore it. Until now.

“What?” Scarlett asks.

“Nothing.”

“Are you faking pain to get out of this conversation?”

“I wish.”

“You want to go home?”

“No,” I say. “I’m fine.”

“You should go out with him. Really go out with him, not just to hook up.”

The optimism. She gets it from our mother, who covets romance above all else. We were raised by a woman who honestly believes that men are the key to happiness, no matter how many times they’ve proven otherwise. No matter the fuckup. No matter how heinous the offense.

“Yeah, maybe,” I say, instead of Are you out of your goddamn mind?

“Okay, that’s a no,” she says. “Why? He’s super nice. Good sense of humor. Attractive. A musician. And he’s not some rando you met out. You know him. He’s a good guy.”

“Ah, yes. A good guy.”

She pops the lid back onto her coffee cup and begins to wipe the table, which is pointless because it’s raining.

“I know what you’re thinking, and I don’t want to talk about it, but he isn’t a bad guy.”

“Sure. Matty is right up there with Mister Rogers. He’s Clark fucking Kent,” I say.

This is the first time she’s brought him up since I’ve been here, and it’s the first time I’ve said his name out loud since finding out he bailed on my pregnant sister. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

Pain ignites my side. It’s so intense, the world blurs for a moment. It burns white.

“All right,” Scarlett says, putting her palms flat on the table and pushing herself to stand. “I’m taking you home.”

“But I want to stay in this Starbucks parking lot forever,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m in excruciating pain.

It’s not as bad as it was a second ago. It was a bizarre flare of absolute anguish.

Scarlett scoops up the cups and napkins and walks them over to the trash. I follow her to her car, a black Prius with a series of tarot card bumper stickers. The image of the moon card catches me. Two dogs bark at a stern moon; behind them, what’s maybe a scorpion emerges from a river. I stop to study it further, and an invisible nail drags itself up my spine. I shiver.

“Coming?” Scarlett calls to me from the driver’s seat.

“Yep.”

We stop at the grocery store for ingredients, and when we get home, I sit at the kitchen island as Scarlett makes bread.

“You should be lying down,” she says, violently kneading a pale slab of dough.

“I like watching,” I say. “It’s relaxing.”

“You know what’s relaxing?”

“Lying down.”

“Very good.”

I draw a smiley face in the flour on the countertop.

“Helpful,” she says. “You know, you don’t have to hang out for my sake. I don’t need constant supervision. You being here is enough. Just knowing you’re here. I’ve never lived alone. It was . . . I don’t know. It was weird.”

When Scarlett was eight, mom accidentally crushed her fingers in the car door without realizing. Scarlett cried quietly the entire drive to the mall, not saying a thing about it, cradling her injured fingers in her lap. I noticed only as we pulled up to Macy’s. She’d spent twenty minutes suffering in silence.