Razor Blades

It was a rare night that all three of us ate dinner together.

Obviously unaware, Eris had taken Mom’s old seat in-between Dad and I at the circular table. The television had been left on in the living room, filling the mostly-quiet meal with a dull hum.

We were nearly three months into Eris’s stay, and life had stabilized in a beautiful way. I was never alone, not anymore. Even the daily miseries of school were eased by the knowledge that I would always be able to commiserate with Eris when all was done. It was almost summer vacation, anyways.

Dad had made lasagna, even going so far as to buy a bright silver-wrapped loaf of garlic bread and task me with the responsibility of heating it up in the oven. I had done admirably despite the challenges. Throughout dinner, my skin itching and sweating under my hoodie, I kept an eye on Eris’s plate, hoping she was enjoying it. It meant that I noticed what Dad obviously hadn’t— Eris hadn’t eaten anything.

“Mr. Krepshaw, I’ve been worried.” Eris put down her spotless fork.

Dad looked up, his mouth full. He said, after chewing, “Not to sound too repetitive kiddo, but please call me—”

“David. Sorry.” Eris nodded. “I’m worried that I’m taking advantage of you.”

Did Eris have an eating disorder? I wracked my brain, trying to remember if I had ever actually seen her put food in her mouth, chew, and swallow.

“What do you mean?” Dad asked.

“I mean, I’ve already stayed here longer than planned. And Mother is showing no signs of a quick recovery.” She knitted her fingers together. They didn’t look bony at all.

Sure, Eris was skinny. But she was, like, normal person skinny. I’d seen the pictures of girls starving down to the bones, counting their ribs. Eris didn’t have anything like that. She looked healthy.

Her skin was totally clear, nearly bone white, and I knew she didn’t wear concealer. It was just her natural state, to always look like she walked off a photo shoot. She had the kind of face for it, the cute pixie nose and big beautiful eyes. Even her neck was beautiful; my eyes traced down to her collarbone, where strands of loose hair fell over her shoulders, above the seam of her low-cut top.

“I have an uncle in Vienna who may tolerate me for a while. With your permission, I could go and stay with him until Mother’s out of the hospital.”

Wait, what? Eris’s words ripped me back into reality.

Dad was looking at her with a soft, sad look. “Is that what you want?”

Before Eris could reply, I grabbed her arm. “Eris, please don’t go! We want you here, really. It wouldn’t be the same if you just. . . left!”

“Lauren, sweetie, don’t pressure her.”

“But Dad—!”

“Eris, why don’t we talk alone for a bit?”

My nails dug into Eris’s fleshy arm. Dad gave me a long and hard parental look.

“I would like for her to stay,” I said, then stalked away.

I didn’t stray far. I paced around in my socks, at first at the bottom of the stairs and then closer and closer to the kitchen until I could hear their voices.

“You’ve done so much for us, taking care of Lauren at such a difficult time,” Dad said. “She really looks up to you. I think she’s been starved for female role models since her mother moved away.”

“She’s a sweetheart.”

“To you, maybe!” Dad laughed. Then, “Sweetie, I can see you. Go to your room.”

Crap.

I slouched in front of my monitor, trying to occupy myself with anything but what was being said downstairs. I laid my arm in front of the keyboard and cushioned my head with it. I tapped the arrow keys with my right. I read an article about a man preparing an underground shelter for the apocalypse, and scrolled down to the comments. 

The stairs began to creak. I straightened up, staring at the door. Eris’s shadow slipped past. I waited, my whole body tensed, for her to come inside. But the seconds melted into minutes. I rose to my feet and knocked on her door.

“Ophelia?” Eris said.

“Y-yeah.”

“Come in.” 

I was terrified to open the door to the sight of her packing, the bed stripped, mothballs strewn across the floor. But of course that wasn’t the case. Eris was sitting on the bed in a pair of shorts and t-shirt, a bottle of sparkly black nail polish in her hand.

Her eyes softened at my entrance. “Aw, Ophelia sweetie, you look like a scared kitty.”

“Sorry.”

“Come on.” She patted the bed. 

I obeyed, though I still struggled to look at her. I bounced my heels together, legs dangling off the side. Eris began to rub my shoulders. “Don’t be so sad, dearest. I’m staying.”

“Really?” I looked up.

“Of course!” Eris laughed. “Your dad is too kind.”

“I know.” I tucked my knees to my chest and swung to face her. She grabbed my ankle and tugged. I fell backwards, the back of my head hitting the bed frame.

“Hhww— what are you. . . ?”

She began to peel off my sock. Her cold hands made my skin prickle, and I laughed. She unscrewed the top and set the nail polish bottle precariously on the covers. 

As she started painting my nails, I went quiet, leaned half back like an unfolded beach chair. I was terrified of moving too much and spilling the nail polish all over the bedsheets, so I remained still and watched Eris work. Her head was tilted down, her bangs and edges of her hair feathering out, staticky in the air. She looked almost. . . shy; like a blushing bride.

She was almost finished by the time I spoke. “Why do you act so different when it’s just the two of us?” 

Eris returned the cap to the bottle. I pulled myself into a sitting position, careful not to move my feet.

“What do you mean?” she said. 

“I mean, like—” I bit my tongue. “You talk different. And you’re always smiling, even when there’s not. . . anything funny.”

She was smiling even as I said so. “You’ll learn someday.”

“But I want to know now!” I slapped my hands against the covers. Before the outburst was even out of my mouth, I became horribly embarrassed. Throwing a tantrum like a stupid little kid. 

But Eris was calm. I held my breath as she leaned down, blowing on the wet paint. 

She said, “Have you ever been to a ball?”

“Um. . .” The switch in topic had thrown me off course. “I’m going to the eighth grade Snowflake Dance?”

“I’ve been to a ball before.”

“Oh.” I stared down dumbly. “What was it like?”

“Well, I can hardly remember it.”

My head tilted, thinking. “Did you go as a little girl?”

Eris continued, “The things I remember most are the gold ceiling, and all the beautiful girls in their gowns. . .”

“Where was this?” I giggled. “Disneyworld?”

“Ophelia. Listen to me.” She took my hand. Her thumb slinked under my sleeve and brushed the inside of my wrist, where— 

I jerked backwards, ashamed.

Eris said, “There will come a time when you will learn the whole truth about me, and these precious moments together will forever turn a new color.”

What?

“You will learn to love me, or you will hate me. But nothing else. I won’t allow it. Ophelia. . .” She leaned in, her face filling my vision. “At this first ball, I met a boy who loved me very much.” 

I swallowed.

“We danced the whole night through. I refused anything further. I have no interest in men. But love—” She pressed her hand over mine. “Love is selfish, and it is always painful. So when the night was over, I was brought crying to his bed.”

I felt very hot. Fire ants were crawling along my cheeks.

“He took what he wanted,” Eris said. Her hair was partially hanging over her flushed face, reflecting in her eyes and turning the irises muddy black. “And I was never the same.”

I had started to cry. But Eris still held my hands, so I couldn’t wipe my face. “Why— why are you telling me this?”

“Oh, my little night sky,” she cooed. With her thumb, she began to wipe away my tears. She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to mine. It felt like an ice pack against my flush skin. “I need to tell you. It’s only fair that you understand the source of my sorrow. To know me deeply.”

“Why would I need to. . . ?” I already wished I hadn’t known, hadn’t had to imagine Eris. . . like that.

“Because,” Eris said. “I love you.” 

It rained the whole night. 

I lay in bed, half curled in a pile of blankets. I pressed my ears to the sheet and bit into the side of my hand. The rain dripped off the rooftop, pattering against the gutters. Dad was walking around downstairs; I could barely make out the creak of the floorboards as he paced restlessly, frustrated by someone on the phone.

Just the other day he had come to me in confidence, sat me on the couch while Eris slept and informed me that he had woken up to find his razor disturbed. I hadn’t spoken. I stared at him frozen; the only thing I could do was scratch at my arms, my nails bitten down to nubs. It did nothing to ease the growing knot, the horrid tingling that filled the bottom of my stomach.

“You’re growing up,” Dad said. “I’m sorry that I hadn't thought of it before.”

I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood.

Dad continued, “Tomorrow I’ll stop by the store and get you one of your own.”

“For what?”

“. . . so that you can shave your legs.” He shifted uncomfortably. Not for the first time, I wished Mom was near for these things and these things alone. “If that’s what you want, that is.”

“Yeah!” I nodded too fast. “Thanks, Dad.”

Lightning flashed. Outside, as the sky had simmered into night, the rain had grown into a true storm. I whimpered, grateful no one was around to hear. I curled around to face the wall and grabbed the blankets in my fist. I covered my head.

Though I knew for certain the nightmare would come again, it never got any easier. After the first time, it had settled into a pattern, an unmistakable calling card. For weeks, it had come every night like clockwork— my door opening like a maw, letting the darkness in. And worse. 

I woke up in my cocoon, unable to see but knowing that I was not truly awake. If I pulled the covers away, it would look the same as always: my room but not my room, the sky an angry red out the window. 

I’m not going to look, I decided. I attempted to steel myself, but my muscles were like Jello. I squeezed my eyes closed, as if that would somehow let me glide back to true sleep.

This time, I noticed that the darkness had a sound. It hissed like an old radiator, the pitch at the edge of human ears. I didn’t need to see to follow its path through my door, filling my room to the edges until it condensed at the foot of my bed.

The cat huffed, its breath throaty.

Go away, go away! My lips mouthed the words, though they never passed further. You don’t want me, I’m asleep.

My bed rocked. The creature began to purr, beleaguered but constant. It was far too heavy to be a cat anymore, too big too big. It padded over my covers, coils groaning with each leaden step. It loomed over my side. Its breath began to slow, weaning away into nothing.

The steps began to pad back the way they had come. Maybe it was done. Maybe I had fooled it. My jaw loosened.

A human hand pulled back the covers. 

My room was fluorescent green. Kneeling on my bed was a female figure arrayed in stark white, her head turned down and black curtain of hair before her face. Her pale hands dropped the blanket. I scrambled back until I hit the wall. She crawled forward to curl those long fingers around my neck. Her mouth pinned me to the headboard, into my throat.

I woke for real with my back on the hardwood floor. The back of my t-shirt had hiked up, and the spot where bare skin touched the surface was sticky. My room was normal again, but my heart thudded in my chest so fast I worried it was going to start spewing blood. The nightmare lingered. There was nothing there but I could feel the evil cat curling up on my abdomen, pawing under my clothes. I was vibrating with it, sick, sick. 

Slick with sweat, I stumbled to my feet to my desk. I wrenched open the drawer with a single tug; it felt as if I had dislocated my arm. I reached in, shuffling through piles of CDs and notebooks, old toys I had broken but not thrown away.

Inside my diary I had hidden the only thing that had succeeded at scaring the animal away. Too incoherent to do it any other away, I flung open the journal and let the blade fall right into my palm.