Read Online Living Dead Girl by Elizabeth Scott - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Elizabeth Scott
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water rushing over her and washing her hair till it squeaked when she ran her hands down it, parents sighing why do you have to be so clean?
It was like she knew, in a way. Like that water was grace and soon she would not be able to find it. Soon nothing would make her more than what she was.
Nothing would make her whole.
41
RAY IS READY IN THE MORNING. HE wakes me up early, before the sun is even up, taking me by the hand--circle around the wrist, his fingers overlap my bones easily--to the shower.
"Today's the day," he says. "I want you to look special for our little girl."
He does not want me shaving the hair on my legs or under my arms, other Alice tried something, I think. Ray once talked about red water and Alice's hurt wrists in his sleep, anger waking him up and sending him crush-crashing into me.
Sometimes I think if I could meet other Alice I would hold her head under water myself.
He hands me a cream to use and I stare at its bright label as I smear it on me; strange, strong odor, flowers and something that makes the inside of my nose burn. He would wax me all over but it costs a lot, and Ray believes in saving. Plus my stinging legs and armpits, when smooth, will still never equal the tenderness of the stripped skin between my legs, so what would there be for him to savor?
He does not like to see me with the cream on, does not like the smell or the reminder that my pink nightgown used to drag along the floor, leaving a trail behind me. Now its end rests almost at my knees, and the lace trim that once ran around the collar is worn down, rubbed away by washing and Ray's hands tracing over it. Tracing over me.
He packs while I wait for more bits of me to fall off, and when I am done I wash the smell off and pick up the shampoo after he pounds on the door and says, "And wash your hair too!"
When I am done he checks my hair to make sure it is clean enough, and then has me sit and comb it while he shaves. He talks about the money, which he's already gotten out and packed, the maps he's bought, the places we might go. Nevada. New Mexico. Arizona. Somewhere big enough for him to get a job.
Somewhere that will never notice us, our newness when we come in, our wrongness as we walk around. Hetells me what he will do to Annabel and how I will hold her hands and maybe even help him, turning around to hold my hand, stroke my fingers. Shaving cream on his face, a little cut on his throat.
"You'll smell like her," he says, eyes gone far away. "We all will."
I pull the comb through my hair. Ray makes sure I use conditioner so it won't tangle. He says he wouldn't like to cause me any pain.
His mother cut knots out of his hair, scissors leaving tiny silver scars on his scalp. He showed them to me after we came here, after he found me walking down the road toward the highway, thumb out like I wanted a ride.
Two days after we moved into Shady Pines, and I thought, I can't live here. I can't.
He drove me all the way to 623 Daisy Lane when he found me, stopped the truck--brand new, I bought it just for you he said, you were supposed to wait for your surprise and you didn't, now get in. He drove right by the house and told me what he'd do to the people inside.
Then we drove home. He pulled over, Exit 56, I remember the sign, nothing but trees and a closed gas station, and got me out of the truck. Into the woods. Smash crash into the trees, dirt grit bugs twigs in my face, my mouth, my head slamming into the ground over and over again.
His hands in my hair.
His voice. You won't leave me. You won't leave me. You won't leave me. Say it.
I won't leave you.
Not ever?
Not ever.
Back to Shady Pines, and I thought, I can live here. I thought, and then, after a while, I just started watching TV. It made the days pass faster.
Easier.
42
RAY CALLS IN TO WORK, SORRY, FAMILY emergency, sick brother out in Pennsylvania, not in Philly, he wishes, but out west, near Pittsburgh. He practices before he calls, makes me
It was like she knew, in a way. Like that water was grace and soon she would not be able to find it. Soon nothing would make her more than what she was.
Nothing would make her whole.
41
RAY IS READY IN THE MORNING. HE wakes me up early, before the sun is even up, taking me by the hand--circle around the wrist, his fingers overlap my bones easily--to the shower.
"Today's the day," he says. "I want you to look special for our little girl."
He does not want me shaving the hair on my legs or under my arms, other Alice tried something, I think. Ray once talked about red water and Alice's hurt wrists in his sleep, anger waking him up and sending him crush-crashing into me.
Sometimes I think if I could meet other Alice I would hold her head under water myself.
He hands me a cream to use and I stare at its bright label as I smear it on me; strange, strong odor, flowers and something that makes the inside of my nose burn. He would wax me all over but it costs a lot, and Ray believes in saving. Plus my stinging legs and armpits, when smooth, will still never equal the tenderness of the stripped skin between my legs, so what would there be for him to savor?
He does not like to see me with the cream on, does not like the smell or the reminder that my pink nightgown used to drag along the floor, leaving a trail behind me. Now its end rests almost at my knees, and the lace trim that once ran around the collar is worn down, rubbed away by washing and Ray's hands tracing over it. Tracing over me.
He packs while I wait for more bits of me to fall off, and when I am done I wash the smell off and pick up the shampoo after he pounds on the door and says, "And wash your hair too!"
When I am done he checks my hair to make sure it is clean enough, and then has me sit and comb it while he shaves. He talks about the money, which he's already gotten out and packed, the maps he's bought, the places we might go. Nevada. New Mexico. Arizona. Somewhere big enough for him to get a job.
Somewhere that will never notice us, our newness when we come in, our wrongness as we walk around. Hetells me what he will do to Annabel and how I will hold her hands and maybe even help him, turning around to hold my hand, stroke my fingers. Shaving cream on his face, a little cut on his throat.
"You'll smell like her," he says, eyes gone far away. "We all will."
I pull the comb through my hair. Ray makes sure I use conditioner so it won't tangle. He says he wouldn't like to cause me any pain.
His mother cut knots out of his hair, scissors leaving tiny silver scars on his scalp. He showed them to me after we came here, after he found me walking down the road toward the highway, thumb out like I wanted a ride.
Two days after we moved into Shady Pines, and I thought, I can't live here. I can't.
He drove me all the way to 623 Daisy Lane when he found me, stopped the truck--brand new, I bought it just for you he said, you were supposed to wait for your surprise and you didn't, now get in. He drove right by the house and told me what he'd do to the people inside.
Then we drove home. He pulled over, Exit 56, I remember the sign, nothing but trees and a closed gas station, and got me out of the truck. Into the woods. Smash crash into the trees, dirt grit bugs twigs in my face, my mouth, my head slamming into the ground over and over again.
His hands in my hair.
His voice. You won't leave me. You won't leave me. You won't leave me. Say it.
I won't leave you.
Not ever?
Not ever.
Back to Shady Pines, and I thought, I can live here. I thought, and then, after a while, I just started watching TV. It made the days pass faster.
Easier.
42
RAY CALLS IN TO WORK, SORRY, FAMILY emergency, sick brother out in Pennsylvania, not in Philly, he wishes, but out west, near Pittsburgh. He practices before he calls, makes me
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