NOW

Crack.

Someone claps their hands together; the sharp smack of skin on skin jolts me out of my deep sleep.

I open my eyes and cringe at the harsh white light that comes in through the window. It’s snowing. It’s bright. People think snow equals cold, but when the sun reflects off white snow at the right angle, it can burn your skin to cinders.

There is something burning me, just by coincidence. Not the bright reflection of snow.

A pair of blue eyes. A frown.

Damon. My stepfather, standing in my bedroom doorway, his hands still pressed together.

I suck in a breath and sit up with a start; my head spinning. I’m wearing an oversized T-shirt that smells faintly like the guy I fucked last night; and in front of me, my stepfather’s eyebrows rise in disapproval.

“Good morning,” he says, equal parts amusement and disdain. “You’re finally awake, party animal.”

I rub my eye with the heel of my palm. I feel smashed, worn, like I’ve been run over. My entire body feels achy and dull, my head stuffed full of wool, and somewhere at the edges of my memory, I remember swallowing pills, the taste of their bitter residue still faint on my tongue. Jesus. My wrists ache, faint bruises ringing them. I hold my right hand in my left, counting the five fingertip-shaped bruises that punctuate my pale skin. Four on one side, one on the other. Four fingers and a thumb. I wonder how I’d explain them. If anyone will ask. Most likely, nobody would even notice the way my skin has been marked as large, hot hands held me tight and still.

Damon clears his throat pointedly. I forget my wrist and look back to see he’s fully dressed for work, the gold star affixed to his sheriff’s uniform glinting in the light. He’s clean-shaven and smells like pine needles and mint, his cologne drifting over to me from where he stands in my bedroom doorway. I catch a glimpse of that boyish innocence beneath his stress lines, his worrisome demeanor. I wonder what he’s worrying about today. It’s always something with him.

“What time is it?” I ask. My voice comes out low, hoarse. Did I drink last night? The taste of stale whiskey lingers in my mouth, confirming my suspicions, and I have to stifle the overwhelming urge to scrape my tongue with a corner of the bed sheets. Just picturing the bottle of Jack makes my stomach twist. Don’t puke. Do-not-puke.

“Almost eight.”

Almost eight? Shit! I lift the covers to get out of bed; my underwear’s gone. I freeze, setting the blanket back over my thighs. I see him glance at my lap, what looks like suspicion sparking in his blue eyes. He takes a step toward the bed, and for one horrific split second, I imagine he is going to rip the blankets off me and see what I am – or rather, what I’m not – wearing. And if that happens, he’ll flip his shit.

Fate decides to intervene, though. Thank you, universe. I hear the static buzz of a two-way radio, and Deputy Chris McCallister’s voice sounds in the kitchen downstairs. Damon hears it too, freezing mid-step.

We continue to stare-off, his curious eyes pitted against mine, as the radio crackles to life again. The voice more urgent. Sheriff King, do you copy?

“Downstairs in five, Cass,” Damon says with an air of reluctance, giving my lap one final glance before he turns and leaves. A moment later, I’m out of bed and pulling fresh panties over my bare legs, my skin rising in gooseflesh to greet the frigid air. Gun Creek is the coldest place in Nevada, and it only gets colder after Thanksgiving. Soon, the pass forms ice and it’ll be dangerous to drive on, just like it is every year.

Just like the year of the accident.

Coffee. I need coffee.

I locate my pajama bottoms, stuffed down into my blankets as if they were kicked off in a hurry. Kicked or pulled, it’s all the same. I’m sore down there, and although I can’t remember much of the act itself, I’ve got a fairly good idea about what happened. It was quiet, but it definitely wasn’t gentle.

I traipse downstairs, the tight feeling in my chest expanding with every step. Running late is a cardinal sin, according to my stepfather. Everything must be perfect. Everything must be on time. All the time. He frets if things are out of order. If things are messy. If things are not on time. I am a creature who is always messy, always out of order, never on time.

The staircase stops at the entrance to our kitchen. We’ve got one of the bigger – and older – houses in Gun Creek, one of the original gold mining ranchers. Every window is large, rectangular, and framing a picture of mountains and empty tundra and snow.

It’s beautiful to look out there if you’re in a good mood. If you’re not, it’s utterly desolate, miles of blank space waiting to swallow up your soul.

I’m not in a good mood.

“Hey, daydreamer,” Damon says, breaking my thoughts. He’s sipping coffee from an old Mickey Mouse mug my grandfather bought for me when I was eleven and we went to Disneyland. Something stabs me in the gut. I wish he wouldn’t touch that mug. That’s my fucking mug. Leo’s in jail and my mom is in a coma, and now I can’t even drink coffee out of the mug my dead grandfather gave me. My grey mood turns black, always balanced on a knife’s edge, and I grit my teeth together as anger stirs in my gut.

I never used to be prone to rage, but I’m not the girl I used to be before all of this.

“I made you cereal.” He pulls out a chair and points to it. “We’ve got ten minutes.” I do as I’m told, acting every inch the sullen stepdaughter. He tells me all the time that I need to curb my attitude, but my attitude is just about the last piece of me that’s still hanging on. After the accident, after Leo went to jail and Mom was just gone, I had a lot more…. Salt. I was feisty. I threw tantrums. In public.

You should be nicer to Damon, more than one person has said to me. He’s doing the right thing, taking care of you all these years while your mother’s been sick. Fuck those people. My mother isn’t sick — she’s dying. I’m twenty-five years old with a brain-dead mother and a waitressing gig at the local diner. I’ve got nothing. And I don’t give a fuck about being nice.

Damon sits across from me, pointedly eyeing my unbrushed rat’s nest of blond hair and my bare cheeks. His hair, by contrast, though short, is neatly combed, his badge shined, his shirt pressed.

“You look like shit, sweetheart,” he says casually.

I dig my spoon into the bowl and suppress a gag. The last thing I want to eat is something full of milk and sugar. My churning stomach needs dry toast, or saltine crackers, or preferably nothing at all.

“You smell like a fucking pine forest,” I mutter around a mouthful of Froot Loops. Damon’s aftershave situation definitely isn’t helping my stomach. I stare down at the brightly colored cereal in my bowl and imagine myself down a well, or floating in a lake, just like Karen. I don’t know why I’m thinking of Karen now, not nine years after she turned up in Leo’s well.

“Don’t swear at me,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “It’s not ladylike.”

Getting drunk-fucked in the middle of the night and not being able to remember is pretty unladylike, too, but I don’t mention that. My life would be pretty miserable if I started talking about that. I throw my spoon down after two mouthfuls and stand up, in search of coffee. The pot’s been brewed a while ago, and the treacle brown liquid inside is lukewarm at best, but it’s better than nothing. I take another mug out of the cupboard and set it down on the sink, watching a moose wander by outside as I pour my liquid crack cocaine and take a sip.

“You’re losing weight again,” Damon says, interrupting my daydreaming and moose-watching. His voice softens. “I worry when you don’t eat.”

He wants me to keep eating. I sit back on my chair with great reluctance, washing cereal down with giant mouthfuls of coffee, even though I’m fairly sure what I’m eating is completely devoid of nutritional value. I drink two cups of caffeine just to get through my breakfast, all the while being watched carefully by Damon’s bright blue eyes. Another thing he frets about. Plates with food left on them and girls who don’t eat enough. He told me once how he was never allowed cereal as a kid. How he never had enough food. How I should appreciate him buying it for me. If he knew that I throw up almost everything that passes my lips - with the exception of alcohol, of course - he would be very upset, indeed.

“Thanksgiving’s next week,” Damon says. “Did you get the turkey organized like I asked?”

I nod. I’m lying. I haven’t. I will. Damon’s a traditional guy, wants the roast turkey and all the trimmings. I hate turkey. To be truthful, I hate food in general. The little I do eat to keep up appearances I purge as soon as I can. It’s comforting to be in control of some part of my life; and besides, the thinner I am, the less tits and ass I have, the less attention I get from the male population. I’m almost androgynous, with cheekbones that could cut glass. Except for the long hair I can’t bear to part with and my tits that, while small, refuse to disappear entirely no matter how hard I restrict my calorie intake.

“Pick up the prescription from the pharmacy?”

“Yup.” I left it on the hallway table, like always.

“Did you get the wood chopped?”

My stomach twists nervously. Damn. All week I’ve been walking around in a state of semi-anxiety, knowing I’ve forgotten something. “I’m planning on doing it tonight,” I say quickly. “I was busy with the shopping.”

Damon’s face turns from dispassionate to frustrated.

“You’re useless,” he mutters.

“Really.” I roll my eyes.

“Cassie. You can’t even get out of bed in the morning without being reminded. You’re like a child. A retarded child.”

“You’re supposed to say ‘intellectually disabled.’ It’s more PC.”

He slams his palm down onto the table, hard enough that my cereal bowl dances. “Do you know how goddamn hard I work to keep this house paid up? To keep your mother’s nursing bills paid up? To buy fucking prescriptions of that shit that keeps her alive?”

I swallow cold coffee, unmoved by Damon’s martyr speech. I work just as hard as him, turning tables, pulling double shifts whenever I can, pouring every cent I earn into Mom’s medical care, the bills, this falling-down house. So I don’t care about poor Damon.

For the first time this morning, I notice his face is puffed out on one side, and there’s a small cut above his right eye.

“What happened to your face?” I ask.

He glares at me.

“Get dressed,” he says, making a face after he drains his last inch of coffee. “Coffee machine’s broken again.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the operator,” I say, leaning over to the counter and lifting the lid on the machine, slamming it down again so it locks properly. After a moment, dark black coffee starts to flow into the pot underneath. “There.”

Damon stares at me, unimpressed. “Hurry. Up. Or I’ll take you to work as you are.” He gestures to my pajamas.

“I bet the customers would love that,” I reply, pushing my chair back and standing. I jump as a hand curls around my upper arm and yanks me so my upper half is bent across the table.

“That’s not funny,” Damon grinds out, his face inches from mine. “You want everyone thinking you’re the town whore?”

“No,” I say softly.

His hand squeezes tighter. “You know what happens to girls who act like whores?”

“Yeah,” I say, meeting his steely gaze. “I’m thinking it’s pretty similar to what happens to girls like Karen.”

“Karen?”

“Murdered Karen,” I clarify.

“I know which Karen,” he snaps, rubbing his hand along his jaw. “Why the hell would you bring that poor girl up after all these years?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. She’s the first town whore that came to mind. Unless you count Mom before she got knocked up with me.”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. Then, apparently done, Damon drops his grip and I hurry upstairs.

In my room, I drag jeans and a clean long-sleeved work shirt on, scraping my long blond waves up in a messy ponytail. Function takes place over form in winter, at least for me. I don’t have the energy for all that bullshit preening and careful wardrobe selection that some other girls do. Girls like Karen Brainard. They put so much effort in and look where it gets them. Taken. Raped. Murdered.

---

In the bathroom, I don’t bother with makeup. Makeup draws attention, and the last thing I want is for anybody to look at me too closely.

Some days I feel like I’m made of glass, my clothes and my hair and my downturned eyes the only things that stop the light from getting in, from showing the world what’s happening within me. Who’s touched me. Who’s been inside me.

Nobody can ever know the things I’ve done.

Besides, I’m barely making it through the days without the added burdens of mascara and blush.

I brush my teeth listlessly, my brain smashing relentlessly inside my skull – I wish I could remember what pills I took last night.

I really don’t need to add liver failure to my list of this year’s achievements, but I think if I have to go to work with this noise inside my head, I might pass out before the lunch rush even begins.

I spit toothpaste out, grateful that at least the cereal taste has been burned away by mint-flavored chemicals, and find a bottle of aspirin in my top drawer. I shake a pile of the tiny white pills into my palm and toss them into my mouth, swallowing them dry. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, all hard angles and sour expression, the light smattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose the only thing that colors my lily-white skin. We don’t exactly get an abundance of sun up here in winter.

“Let’s wrap it up!” Damon yells from downstairs.

My head throbs on cue. I take my iPhone from the charger beside my bed and see missed calls from the diner, a worried text. Whatever. I’ll be there soon enough.

Steeling myself, I give one last glance to the face in the mirror, slap a knitted cap over my hair, and take the stairs two at a time, flying past Damon and to the front door. I grab my bag from the coat hook and sling it over my shoulder, eager to get out of this house and away from this for a few hours.

I try the door. Locked.

My stomach sinks.

“Cassie,” Damon says behind me. “Aren’t you forgetting something? Sleeping in doesn’t excuse you from chores.”

I’m tired. I’m so, so tired. I’m twenty-five years old and I’m just as hollow as the woman down the hall, the one whose body carried me for nine months, the one whose body no longer carries anything - not even her own soul.

Still facing the door, I swallow back an argument.

I drop my backpack off my shoulder and turn to face him.

“Sometimes I think you’d let her starve if it weren’t for me reminding you.” Damon hands me the liquid nutrition mix prescription and I take a deep breath, holding it between my palms as I approach the breathing corpse down the hall. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I would let her starve. Anything’s got to be more humane than keeping her alive all these years when she really should have died in that creek.