Sunday mornings in the Miller house meant oversize breakfasts and weekly planning, and this Sunday was no different. As everyone filled a plate with scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, Missy's mother had the refrigerator calendar ready to go, highlighters lined up like soldiers. Scheduling was serious business. Missy thought her mother would have been an excellent wedding planner.
Actually, Missy was amazed she could think at all. There was exhaustion, and then there was absolutely wrecked: the sort of fatigue that vibrates in the marrow of your bones and makes you feel like you're dragging a thousand pounds. Missy, so wrecked that junkyards would have begged her for scrap metal, took a sip of coffee and hoped that this sip would be the one that shook her out of her near coma. She had to muddle through breakfast. Somehow. She let out a jaw-cracking yawn and nearly spilled her coffee. Blinking hard, she scrubbed the sleep from her eyes. If she passed out in her eggs, Sue would never let her hear the end of it.
But then, her sister was oddly quiet. As Missy sipped, she glanced at Sue, catching her in the act of glaring sullenly at her. Sue's nostrils flared, and then she abruptly looked away, as if the platter of buttered toast were of the utmost interest.
Whatever. As long as Sue sulked quietly, all was right with the world.
"Ready," her mother declared. "Who's kicking it off?"
Missy managed not to roll her eyes. Her dad would go first, as he did every Sunday brunch. Then her mom. Then it would be her turn, and Sue, ever the darling baby girl, would go last. That's where the best was, right? And that's where the fabled nice guys were. Sue would get the nice guy and make their parents blissfully happy, and Missy would be left to fawn over Death—who was many things, but definitely not a nice guy.
No, not a guy at all. A concept in a rock god's clothing.
Missy's mouth twitched into a smile as she imagined Death running his long, cold fingers over her, making music on her body. Would his kisses be cold? Or would they be hot enough to burn away her fears, to turn her dead face to ash and reveal her soul to the world?
Her father started talking, and that got her to stop thinking about Death (especially about doing things with Death that would have made her parents faint). Missy feigned interest as her dad explained in painstaking detail why he'd be working late every night, all thanks to the office launch in two weeks. Next up: her mom, all fired up about a big meeting with company muckity-mucks on Tuesday morning. The girls would have to make their own dinners on Monday night, said Mom, because she would be at the office until God only knew when.
In other words, Missy and Sue would be alone tomorrow night. The unspoken "Don't destroy the house" was very clear. The sisters made the appropriate "You can trust us" noises.
The next ten minutes were all about their parents getting into How Important their work was, and how much it meant to them that the girls understood just what was at stake. What's to understand? Missy wondered as she smiled blandly and nibbled a slice of bacon. Her parents worked hard. They succeeded. She got it. She didn't know why they always seemed so apologetic, even when they were practically glowing with accomplishment. That was just stupid. Do what you need to do, and don't feel bad about it.
Then again, it would be nice if her folks had time to see her at one of her games.
When it was her turn, Missy ran down her list quickly: soccer practice after school every day except Tuesday; games on Tuesday and Saturday; tests scattered throughout the week.
"You should think about doing some volunteer work," her father said as he poured a glass of orange juice. "That will look good when it's time to apply for college."
"Dad's right," said her mother, highlighting like crazy. "Find something you're passionate about and get involved."
"Like the teen crisis help line," her sister said, sweet enough to send a diabetic into shock. "I can't think of anyone who can relate to troubled teens better than you, sis." Her smile said "I care" and her eyes said "Drop dead." It was quite the trick.
Missy saluted Sue with her coffee cup, making sure to leave her middle finger extended just enough for Sue to see it.
"What a marvelous idea!" That was her father, terribly pleased.
"Absolutely," crowed her mother. "Melissa, you'd be a natural. Terrific suggestion, Susan."
Sue grinned as if she'd won a shopping spree at her favorite shoe store.
Missy smiled tightly and thought of what it would feel like to kill Sue. Slowly. "I'll think about it."
Then it was her sister's turn to wow everyone with her jam-packed schedule for the week. Missy stopped listening once Sue started babbling about a bake sale to raise money for Cheer. As if any of the cheerleaders dared to eat anything with carbs in it.
SHEEP, War whispered. LISTEN TO IT BLEAT.
Missy finished her breakfast and smiled at her sister, thinking about taking the Sword and carving away Sue's life. The lies, first—the plastic face she presented to the world (nothing at all like Missy's own dead face), the one that showed her as perky and cute and a team player. Then the intentions: the surface goals of good grades and being a dutiful daughter, baring her true self to the world. Her sister would scream over getting dirty. She would scream out of indignation.
And then, when the steel cut deep, she would simply scream.
Missy sipped her coffee, and smiled, and pretended to listen to her sister as War whispered in her mind.
***
"Here."
On her bed, Missy looked up from her pre-calc textbook to see Sue waving a piece of paper in front of her. "Ever hear of knocking?"
"Ever hear of closing your door if you want privacy?"
"Get that out of my face." She slapped at the paper, but Sue kept holding it, shoving it right at her. Glaring at her sister, Missy plucked it out of Sue's hand. It was a phone number scrawled on loose-leaf paper.
"That's the local teen crisis hot line," Sue said. "You should call them."
Missy, safe behind her dead face, drilled her gaze through her sister. Blood should have spattered on the door. "I said I'd think about it. I don't know if I have time for volunteer work."
"Who's talking about a job?"
Anger throbbed behind Missy's eyes.
Sue crossed her arms and thrust out her hip, playing at indignation, and her mouth pulled down in a pout. "Call them. Maybe they can talk sense into you."
"I'm fine," Missy said, voice flat.
Her sister moved faster than Missy would have guessed possible—one second she was standing over the bed, the next she had Missy's right arm in her hand and was pushing back the shirtsleeve.
"You're not fine," Sue hissed, spitting fury. "You look like you ran into a lawn mower."
Missy yanked her arm away, her head pounding in a drum solo. She wanted to scream, to hide, to shove her fists against the wall until her bones shattered. She needed to take her razor and cut herself until all she felt was sting and bliss, sting and bliss. She had to atone for her sins in blood. Blood washed it all away and left her clean. Pure.
Taking a deep breath, she shoved everything into the glass jar of her heart, pushing it all down before she did or said something she would regret.
Because oh, she wanted to do something. She wanted to grab Sue by her hair and slam her face against the wall until her features were nothing but a red, lumpy blur. She wanted to peel away those judgmental eyes and yank out her sharp tongue. She wanted to hit her, and hit her, and hit her until her sister's body was little more than tenderized meat.
YOU COULD, War murmured. YOU COULD DO IT SO EASILY.
Sue was staring at her as if she were a rabid dog that had crapped on the carpet—her eyes brimmed with disgust and fear and caution, and something else, too, something that Missy couldn't pinpoint.
HURT HER.
Sue sniffed loudly. "Get some help. You think I want to be the sister of an emo cutter freak?"
Control, Missy told herself, breathing deeply. Control. She sealed the glass jar and tucked it away. Her dead face in position, she leveled a blank gaze at her sister. "I don't give a damn what you want. Get out of my room."
Sue's shoulders tensed. "Not until you promise to call the hot line."
"Fine." Missy sat up, dropping her textbook onto the bed. Enough, and more than enough. She was a Horseman of the damn Apocalypse. She didn't have to sit in her room and take crap from her little sister. She stood up, forcing Sue to take a step backward. "You stay," Missy said. "I'm going downstairs."
As she walked past Sue, Missy bumped her—a nudge of her shoulders, just enough to push her sister aside. She didn't have to; there was plenty of room to have maneuvered around her. But she had wanted to. Just a little bump, a push, a quiet statement that warned her sister not to ignore her. Actions, after all, spoke louder than words.
And oh, that action had felt good.
Missy was at her bedroom door when Sue shoved her, hard, on her back. Missy staggered, her arms wide, and for a crystalline second she hung on the precipice, startled, poised to fall. Missy reached out, and War took hold. An instant later, she planted her feet, two cushioned thumps on the carpet. Hunched forward, knees bent, she stood there, breathing heavily as her vision tunneled to two points of red.
Her sister pushed her. In her own room.
Hairline cracks sprouted along the glass jar, thorn-sharp.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Sue shouted. "You don't bump me! You don't walk away and bump me!"
The cracks spread, lattice-like, until they covered the jar.
"You hear me, freak? I'm talking to you!"
The jar shattered, and Missy let the Red pull her under.
HURT HER, War crooned, the voice hypnotic, insistent. HURT HER BADLY.
Slowly, Missy pivoted until she was facing Sue. She smiled, showing teeth. It was the smile of whimsical murder, of gleeful slaughter.
Her sister's face went ghost white.
"Get out of my room," Missy said very, very softly. "Or I'll hurt you. Badly."
Sue ran. A moment later, a bedroom door slammed shut. On the heels of that, their mother's voice called out, scolding fiercely about slamming doors.
Missy's smile twisted into something cruel as she silently closed her bedroom door. Too easy. For all of her attitude, Sue was just a Barbie trying to be a Bratz doll. Sue had no urge to hurt anyone, to strip away falsehoods and leave the truth naked and bleeding. Violence was just a word to people like her. When it was time for fighting, they were the first to crumple.
SHEEP, War laughed. THEY'RE SHEEP. EASILY LED. EASILY FRIGHTENED.
Sue had definitely been frightened. Her fear had filled Missy's nostrils, had given her a sugar rush.
FEAR IS SWEET, War agreed. BUT TERROR IS ADDICTIVE.
That made Missy pause, and the smile slipped from her face. Did she want her sister terrified of her?
OF COURSE YOU DO.
No, she didn't. So why was her fist clenched so tight that it was trembling? Why did she want to lash out and break whatever was in her way?
Missy hugged herself, told herself that this fury would pass, that it wasn't filling her and spilling out of her pores. That she could handle it.
That she didn't need the blade.
BUT YOU DO, said War.
Missy closed her eyes and saw Sue's horror-stricken face. She bit her lip and imagined her hands stained with Sue's blood.
No, she thought, desperate. No. This isn't me.
BUT IT CAN BE, War said. WE CAN BLEED THE WORLD DRY.
And the truly horrific thing was, Missy wanted to do exactly that.
Her eyes popped open and she lunged to her closet. No more thinking; no more whisperings and urges and thoughts she couldn't control. She yanked the door open. No more visions of Red drowning the world as she held her Sword aloft. Missy grabbed her lockbox and fumbled it open.
No more words.
She took out her razor and pulled back her sleeve and slashed a line in the bend of her elbow. And she did it again. And again. She did it until the anger bled out and her arm was dripping and numb and her hand shook so much that the razor slipped from her fingers. It landed on the carpeted floor with a muffled thud.
SEE? War whispered. YOU DO NEED THE BLADE.
Sobbing, Missy pressed her sleeve against the hungry wounds. She waited for the small bit of serenity to come over her, to wrap her in strong arms and rock her until everything was calm.
She waited a long, long time.
Finally, she let out a miserable sigh and began to clean up.