Scratch, scratch, scratch. She felt her nails break the skin.
Humiliation washed over her. She inched backward, away from her tormentor. What was happening to her was her own fault. She’d sinned somehow, brought this upon herself. She was the one who was evil. She had instigated God’s wrath. She alone could atone. “Go away,” she whispered again, clawing more frantically at her arm.
“Faith, don’t,” he warned, his voice horrifyingly soothing. “Mutilating yourself won’t change anything. I’m here to help you. You know that.”
Help her? No…no, no, no!
She wanted to crumble onto the floor, to shed her guilt, to get away from the itching.
Fight! an inner voice ordered her. Don’t let him force you into doing things that you know are wrong! You have will. You can’t let him do this to you.
But it was already too late.
Close to her now, he clucked his tongue. In a rough whisper, he said, “Uh-oh, Faith, I think you’ve been a naughty girl again.”
“No.” She was whimpering. There it was…that horrid bit of excitement building inside her.
“Oh, Faith, don’t you know it’s a sin to lie?”
She glanced at the wall where the crucifix of Jesus was nailed into the plaster. Did it move? Blinking, she imagined Jesus staring at her, his eyes kind but silently reprimanding in the semidarkness.
No, Faith. That can’t be. Get a grip, for God’s sake.
It’s a painted image, that’s all.
Breathing rapidly, she dragged her gaze from Christ’s tortured face to the fireplace…cold now, devoid of both ashes and the mirror above it, now an empty space, the outline visible against the light green paint. They said she broke the mirror in a fit of rage, that she’d cut herself. That her own image had caused her to panic.
But he’d done it, hadn’t he? This devil whose sole intent was to torture her? Hadn’t she witnessed the act? She’d tried to refuse him, and he’d crashed his fist into the looking glass. Mirrored shards sprayed, hitting her, then crashed to the floor like glittery, deadly knives.
That’s what had happened.
Right?
Or not? Now, feeling the blood beneath her nails, she wondered.
What is happening to me?
She stared at her bloodied hands. Her fingernails, once manicured and polished were broken, her palms scratched and farther up, upon her wrists, healed deep gashes. Had she done that to herself? In her mind’s eye she saw her hands wrapped around a shard of glass and the blood dripping from her fingers…
Because you were going to kill him…trying to protect yourself!
She closed her eyes and let out a long, mewling cry. It was true. She didn’t know what to believe any longer. Truth and lies blended, fact and fiction fused, her life, once so ordinary, so predictable was fragmented. Frayed. At her own hands.
She inched backward, closer to the window, farther from him, from temptation, from sin.
Where was her husband…and her children; what had happened to her girls?
Terror burrowed deep into her soul. Confused and panic-stricken, she blinked rapidly, trying to think. They were safe. They had to be.
Concentrate, Faith. Get hold of yourself! Zoey and Abby are with Jacques. They’re visiting tonight, remember? It’s your birthday.
Or was that wrong? Was everything a lie? A macabre figment of her imagination?
She took another step backward.
“You’re confused, Faith, but I can help you,” he said quietly, as if nothing had happened between them, as if everything she’d conjured was her imagination, as if he’d never touched her.
Dear Lord, how mad was she?
She spun quickly, her toe catching on the edge of a rug. Pitching forward, she again caught her reflection in the window and this time she saw him rushing forward, felt his hands upon her.
“No!” she cried, falling.
Glass cracked. Shattered.
With a scream she fell into the dark nothingness of the hot Louisiana night.
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by
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Copyright © 2006 by Susan Lisa Jackson
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ISBN 0-8217-8122-7
Lisa Jackson, Fatal Burn
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