Read Online Shatter My Rock by Greta Nelsen - Free Book Online Page B

smile for the second
it takes me to notice the Food Mart sales flier in his hand. From the way he
concentrates, I know my fears have come to roost.
    When
he finally sets his gaze to mine, I search it for hatred, frustration, disdain.
“What?” I say, mimicking the perplexed way his features contort. “What is it?”
I have not the means to envision what Eric Blair has done.
    He
offers me the flier but no explanation.
    “What
is this?” I say again. But, of course, I know. The letters are the same—those cut-out,
mismatched, crazy ones—but the words have changed. In a quizzical tone, I read,
“He has my eyes?”
    “I
was hoping you could…”
    At
least fate has left me some wiggle room. I shrug. “No idea.” I hand the flier
back as if it doesn’t concern me. “Where’d that come from?”
    “The
van.”
    “In
the garage?” The idea that Eric Blair has penetrated my private realm alarms
me.
    Tim
nods.
    Suddenly
the image of Owen’s empty crib flashes through my mind. I want to run to him,
assure myself that he is safe. But I can’t let on. “That’s strange.”
    “Who
would do this?” Tim asks with hurt in his voice and eyes.
    I
suggest, “Some crackpot.” I shove a handful of wrapping paper into a garbage
bag and turn toward the kitchen. “Who knows? It doesn’t even make sense.”
    There
is marked relaxation in Tim’s demeanor, as if the fact that I have voiced a
denial erases Eric’s evil deed. “Lock everything from now on,” he instructs, the
protector in him surfacing. “And no more babysitters.”
    Part
of me wants to laugh. Jenna is the only one we’ve trusted with the kids outside
of Tim’s parents, and I doubt she would act as a conduit for Eric Blair. But
Tim doesn’t know that. “Agreed,” I say. And I mean it. It’s time for us to
close ranks around this little family of ours.

Chapter 7
    I
am in a dark place, and no matter how I try, I cannot bring the light.
    The
presence that inhabits this place with me emits pulsing signals that translate as
raw sexual desire, the distillation of carnal lust.
    My
conscious mind aims to erect a wall, block these pulses out. Yet my feral
core—that weak spot where my wiring reaches back to antiquity—objects, craves
the satisfaction that is proffered.
    I
need not speak this desire, though, because IT already knows. So IT begins to
please me: a trail of wetness around my ear; hot breath to my neck; a feather’s
touch at one nipple, then the other.
    I
tell IT to stop, leave me be. But IT knows my denial is transient, equivocal,
fragile enough to be ignored.
    And
so IT does. With reckless hunger, IT ravages. And I allow IT.
    But
soon I wish I hadn’t. Because when the light comes, I see what I am complicit
in, the depravity to which I have consented. And IT’s face is Owen.
    I
bolt upright in a cold sweat, the urge to vomit pressing its way through my
throat and into my mouth.
    Tim
rolls over and slings his arm across my lap. Gently, I roll him back and slip
out of bed, drape my bathrobe over my shoulders and scuff my way into my
sheepskin slippers.
    But
there’s nowhere to run. As much as I wish to disappear, hit the reset button,
erase what has been done, the facts remain: Owen is here and I love him, Eric
Blair be damned.
    The
bathroom is cold this time of year, especially in the morning, the heating
system among the few things in this historic home yet to be lovingly brought
into the twenty-first century.
    I
swing the medicine cabinet door open and zero in on the Percocet bottle, the
source of my malaise. Considering the pain it’s dispensed, I shouldn’t have to
think twice about tossing it. But its loss gives me pause. A stronger person
would curse it out, demand retribution, vow to exact revenge.
    But
I love these pills, the effortless way they mask what hurts, how they protect
me when nothing else will.
    Yet
they must go. I flip the toilet lid and dump the twenty or so tablets that
remain into the bowl, then flush. This is not