2. TWO

TWO

" W elcome home," my mom says as we walk through the front door.

My childhood home is a small, older, two-story Mediterranean-style house painted a shade of coral in a quiet neighborhood. Now that it's filled with empty nesters, it seems even quieter. Inside, everything is just as it was the last time I saw it. It shouldn't surprise me—it's been only months, not years since I was last here.

But so much has happened, and I'm entirely changed. How dare the rest of the world stay exactly the same.

"I guess I don't need to show you around," my mom says, setting her purse down in the kitchen. "Your things are in your old room. We had a hell of a time getting it all out of that storage unit—your dad had to get a court order. And don't even get me started on your car; I'll add the impound fees to your tab. It's parked on the street around the corner."

"Okay, thanks," I tell her.

"Teagan?" she calls as I begin to climb the stairs, her tone serious.

"Yeah?"

"Your new phone is on the bed. You won't be able to download any apps without a password."

I sigh. "And will this password be made available to me?"

"No, it will not," she says. "Once you get a good job, you can buy your own phone and pay your own phone bill. But for now, the purpose of that phone is to help you find a job. Same with the computer. I'll give you the wifi password, but you need to spend your time and our money looking for a job."

"I got it."

"Thanks for being so understanding," she says. "You're showing a lot of maturity."

"It's no big deal," I say, shrugging. And I mean that part. It's been a long time since I've been in control of my own life and how I spend my time. I'm getting used to the cage, even if it is cramped and uncomfortable.

"Your dad picked up pho from that vegan place you like in Fountain Valley. He should be home in about twenty minutes or so."

"Sounds great," I tell her. "I think I'll take a shower if that's okay."

She smiles. "You don't need to ask permission to bathe here…or eat or anything like that."

"Right…habit, I guess."

I turn, continuing up the staircase and then down the hallway to my old bathroom. My makeup case sits on the counter between the two sinks with a toothbrush and toothpaste set neatly on one side. On the other side, there's an eight-by-ten photo frame with an image that says, 'It's never too late to become something new.'

That wasn't there before. That one's just for me.

I turn the dial on the old shower and strip down while I wait for the water to heat up. Then, exhaling slowly, I step under the spray.

It's been so long since I showered under water this warm and pressure like this, so long since I've been touched by another human being that it almost feels like a hug. The realization alone almost brings me to tears, but I shake it off, trying to remember instead the girl who never cried, the one who ran on a healthy emotional diet of apathy and underlying rage released only in small, controlled amounts with little to no collateral damage. She wasn't happy—she was just okay—but okay is a lot better than I am now.

I wash and rinse my hair before noticing a small disposable razor sitting in the soap dish built into the shower wall. I haven't been allowed to have a razor; I haven't shaved my body hair in months. I lather up my loofa and start with my armpits before moving to my legs.

The cheap, dull blade doesn't move easily through the coarse hair on my lower legs; I take my time, going over the same spots two, sometimes three times. I feel it nick my skin when I run it over the curve of my kneecap, eliciting a hiss as I suck in a breath through my teeth.

Blood runs from the cut over my knee and down to my toes in ribbons of deep crimson. I watch how it paints my skin before running over the side of the tub and spiraling down the drain. I think, for just a moment, how beautiful it is—how I've missed the sight and smell of it, the taste. I run my fingers through it and almost bring them to my mouth before quickly turning and rinsing them under the spray.

No.

I can't do this. There's no power in blood, no beauty in it. There's no place in the world for a girl who fantasizes about the taste of iron on her tongue and waking up in sheets stained in scarlet—a girl who still dreams about the feeling of a new titanium blade sinking into soft flesh.

Nowhere without an electric fence anyway.

I try not to think about it as I finish shaving my legs and pubic hair. Then I towel off, bandage the wound, and throw on a pair of black sweats and a tank top before heading downstairs. I smell the food before I hit the landing, and my stomach rumbles.

"Hey, Teagan," my dad says. "Welcome home, honey."

"Thanks," I tell him. "Thanks for dinner. You have no idea how much I missed food."

"Hey, they had a really nice menu there," my mom counters.

"It was bland and repetitive," I say. I grab the container of broth first, then my noodles and veggies, and bring them to the table. "Like they thought if the food was too exciting, we might all get riled up and attempt a coup or something."

"Teagan…" she scolds, shaking her head.

"I don't want to talk about Rancho San Flores. That's fair, right?"

"I think that's fair, Jennifer," my dad says.

"Thank you."

I brush my long, dark hair behind my shoulders before I begin shoveling food into my mouth.

"My god, Teagan," my dad says, repulsion evident in his tone.

"What? I'm hungry. This is my first post-prison meal."

"Patrick—" Mom starts.

"No, it's not that, it's…god, it's worse than I imagined." His lip turns up as he continues staring, but I'm still lost. "You were my child . You've been mutilated."

My eyes drop to the deep scars on my chest, then back to the disgust on my father's face.

Refusing to cry, I bite my lower lip. "This is just what my body looks like now. All I want to do is eat my food and go to bed. Please? Can't I do that?"

"It is really hard to look at, Teagan," my mom adds. "You should go put a shirt on."

If they could see what this has done to me on the inside—if they could feel for five minutes what I've felt for months—they wouldn't spend another minute worrying about the scar tissue on my chest.

Not when the marks on my heart—on my soul—refuse to scar over.

"I'll just eat in my room." I almost choke on the words as I stand, push my chair in, and grab my bowl and chopsticks; neither of them stop me. "Thanks for dinner, Dad. Good night."

"Okay, good night," my mom says. "Your sister will be here at eleven tomorrow, so make sure you're ready."

"Ready for what?"

"Dress shopping."

I shoot her a puzzled look.

"Bridesmaid dresses, Teagan," she says. "If you want to be a part of the wedding, we need to get you a dress as soon as possible."

"Yeah, okay. I'll be ready."

I hold my breath until I get to my bedroom, closing and locking the door behind me. And there it is again—that painful tightening in my chest, the stinging behind my eyes.

Fifteen seconds. I'll give myself fifteen seconds to cry—just enough to take the edge off.

I set the food down on my desk, stand in front of my full-length mirror, and set a timer. Then, I brush my hair away from my shoulders again. I stare at the mutilated girl in the reflection, remembering how I thought this meant I was loved. But if I were loved, I wouldn't be alone, would I? I drop to my knees and weep.

But when the timer goes off, I stop, drying my eyes. I remember that I used to keep alcohol hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser. Assuming they haven't gone through my things, it should still be there. I feel around behind the clothes, relief washing over me when my hand closes around the neck of a glass bottle.

Ah, there it is. Cheap whiskey. Almost half a fifth.

I screw off the top and take a long, hard pull. And another.

I take the bottle with me to my desk, sit down, and eat my food. Then, I open my email.

14,912 New Messages. The number alone sends me into a spiral. My eyes quickly scan the unknown names and addresses of the most recent messages in my inbox, over subjects like "They're coming BACK," "DECLAN SPOTTED IN NEW YORK CITY," and "Teagan, I would do ANYTHING for you."

I can't help it; I click on that last one. It opens a set of photos—nudes—of a woman. Blood drips from her mouth and down her chin as she licks it from a knife. It sets off more than one visceral reaction. My nipples harden, and I feel that pulse between my legs as warm heat begins to pool at my center.

And my mouth waters.

"Nope," I say, closing the lid on the laptop and springing from my chair. "Can't do it. Can't do the blood thing." I shake out my hands, exhaling slowly, taking deep breaths as I pace in front of the desk. "Get your shit together, Teagan."

I need to live in reality. And my reality is that wherever Declan is, he left me; Luca is more than likely dead; normal people don't crave blood, and fucking around with bloodsluts and entertaining their fantasies and conspiracy theories is not going to help me move on with my life.

I sink into the chair, open the screen, close the email, and sigh, running my fingers through my hair. I consider, just for a second, going through them all. Just in case. Because…what if they have been trying to contact me?

But no. I know better than that. Still…

I double-check the lock on my door before putting on my headphones and trying to catch up on the news I've missed. Unfortunately, there isn't much fact involved—just a lot of speculation, false sightings, and missing people. A lot of names I've never heard of, a lot of missing loved ones they think may have gotten lost in the Gods of Tomorrow Blood Cult—that's what they're calling it because they have no idea what it really is.

But I know exactly what it is. And I've never seen any of these faces in my life.

And while the average fan has moved on and the news has been quieter lately—just like the residents at Rancho San Flores told me—the hardcore bloodsluts have created their own religion dedicated to Declan's so-called teachings. They operate online and stream Saturday evening services through YouTube, and they've filed for tax-exempt status.

And they've rented some land in Northern Idaho, where they're attempting to start their own utopian community. That must have been what the Jurassic Park nurse was so upset about.

I scoff. Wherever that self-absorbed asshole is, he's loving every minute of this.

And the signs. They all swear there have been signs. I mean, they're worse than the Swifties. All of these signs apparently lead to one thing—a secret concert in L.A. on the Fourth of July…because the fourth is Luca's birthday, his initials are L.A., and that was the day they were supposed to release their third album.

There are other things, too. These sightings, these images that are supposed to be Declan are far too blurry for me to say definitively whether it is or isn't. Even knowing every part of his body by heart—every curve, every angle—I can't say none of these are him.

I can't say that they are, either.

But in every photo, the people in these images are showing seven or four fingers. And I'm…

I'm drunk. My vision is blurry, my eyes are so heavy I can barely keep them open, but I'm not falling for this shit. I can't.

I bring the bottle to my mouth again, tipping my head back, but nothing comes out.

"It's okay, bottle," I say aloud, tossing it onto the floor. "I'm empty, too."

I push out of the chair and stumble into bed, passing out facedown and fully clothed on top of the covers.

I only wake once in the night to a room that's spinning on its side and limbs too heavy to move. And if I wasn't used to seeing people who aren't really there at this point, I might be alarmed when I see a dark silhouette wearing a gold mask looming over me. He kneels on the bed between my legs, fumbling with the tie on my sweatpants before working both them and my underwear down my legs and tossing them onto the floor.

My pussy is already wet and swollen.

He pulls his own pants down over his hips until his cock springs free, pumping it in his gloved fist as he looks down at me. I watch through barely-open lids until he takes his other hand and pushes my shirt and bra up to my neck, freeing my tits. Then, he spreads my legs wide and lowers himself on top of me, covering my mouth as he pushes the thick tip inside me.

I moan against his hand, arching my back as he fills me. Drunk hallucinations feel even better—even more real. I feel everything—the pain of the stretch as my pussy adjusts to the thickness, pleasure as it slips deeper and deeper inside me…

"I know you're awake, little monster," his muffled voice rasps into my ear. "You're too wet to be sleeping. Try not to scream when you come, or I'll have to slice Mommy and Daddy from top to bottom and fuck their insides instead."

He takes his hand away from my mouth, and I moan. "Oh, god…" Lifting my hips, I meet his thrusts with my own as he fills my pussy to the brim. "Declan…"

"I'm not Declan, you little slut," he says. He picks up the pace, slamming his cock into me now. "But you don't really care about that, do you? You don't care who I am."

"No," I whimper. I bite my lip to stifle a scream. It's been so long since I've been fucked, so long since my pussy's been filled like this, that I'm already on the brink of orgasm. I cover my mouth with my own hands as the pressure at my core threatens to unravel.

"There you go," he says. "Just keep your mouth shut, and your whore legs spread open for me." He groans again, fucking me hard enough that the headboard slams into the wall. If he were real, I'd be worried, like he said, about waking my parents and watching him slice them to pieces.

Since he's not, I just spread my whore legs and focus on what he's doing to my guts.

My heavy lids fall closed again, my legs shaking and my back arching off the mattress as the waves of pleasure roll through me, and I pulse around the imaginary masked intruder's cock. Maybe I'm still a little too loud because he grabs me by my throat and squeezes as he fucks me through it, then flips me over and forces himself inside me again, pushing my face down into the mattress until my air supply is so limited I see stars behind my eyelids.

Then, I sink back into oblivion.

"Teagan?" my mom's voice calls as she pounds on my bedroom door. "I hope you're just about ready. Blakely is going to be here in twenty minutes. Surely, you're not sleeping."

A putrid scent assaults my nostrils before I force my eyes open. Dried vomit runs from my mouth down the side of my comforter to the floor. I try to reply, but my mouth is like sandpaper, and barely any sound comes out.

I swallow hard, clear my throat, and try again. "No, I'm not asleep," I lie.

"Okay," she says. "I'll see you downstairs soon. There's coffee, but you'll probably have to warm it up now."

"Okay."

Once I hear footfall on the staircase, I roll onto my back to take inventory of this shit show. I remember last night; I remember drinking and falling asleep, I remember the man in the gold mask, but…

But now, I'm fully clothed. My shirt and bra are both in place; my underwear, sweats, and even my black Chuck Taylors are on and tied.

I don't even remember putting those on.

It wasn't real. Of course, it wasn't. I sigh with relief before reminding myself that lucid hallucinations like that aren't a good sign, and my imaginary friends weren't supposed to follow me home from San Flores.

The comforter is a problem, though. So is the smell.

I open the window before rolling the blanket into a ball, carrying it down the hall, and throwing it in the washing machine. Then, I turn into the bathroom, pull my hair into a bun, strip down, and stand under the spray. I'm stickier between my legs than usual, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything other than I haven't gotten laid in months and had a vivid sex dream.

I didn't take my pills yesterday, either. Of course…that makes sense. I'm used to being spoon-fed my medications instead of remembering on my own. I step out of the shower, towel off, brush my teeth, then pop two pills into my mouth and wash it down with water from the bathroom sink.

I throw on a pair of jeans with a t-shirt and apply some mascara and lipstick before heading downstairs.

"God, you don't look very good," my mom says. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I just didn't sleep much," I tell her. "I was having nightmares. Is there any cereal or anything?"

"Your sister will be here any minute," she says. "Better just grab a protein bar and a travel mug instead."

"Awesome."

As if on cue, Blakely walks through the front door. "Hey," she says. "Ready to go?"

"We're ready," Mom says. "I'll drive."

"I'm so glad we're doing this, Teagan," Blakely says as we climb into the Range Rover. "I'm really glad you're here with us."

It's superficial, and I know that. Still, I tell her, "Yeah, I am, too." I force something I hope looks like a smile before I bite into my protein bar and listen to my mom and Blakely go on and on about the wedding details during the twenty-minute drive, which doesn't help my hangover. I lean against the window and close my eyes until we pull into the parking lot.

"We went with lilac for the dresses," Blakely says as we get out of the car. "Which I know you don't love, but it'll look so pretty with your coloring, Teagan."

I'm not sure how to reply. Was there a time when I would have cared about the color of the dress I had to wear? I guess there was, but it seems so trivial now.

Some days, I can barely wash my face. All I can think about is Luca and Declan. I definitely don't care about the color of some fucking dress.

"I'll survive," I say.

Once inside, my mom reminds the woman in charge of the appointment of what we're looking for—something in lilac that we can buy now and have altered in time for the wedding in a couple of weeks. After the woman, Angela, grabs all the lilac sample dresses in my size or larger and puts them into a changing room, I strip down and indiscriminately step into the first one.

It's a ruched A-line with spaghetti straps; it'll need hemming, and it's maybe a little bit snug, but it's good enough.

"Honestly, this one's not that bad," I say, stepping out of the dressing room.

Angela gasps loudly, covering her mouth with her hand.

"Teagan…" Blakely says, shaking her head. "She can't look like that."

"It's okay," my mom says. "It's okay. I'm sure there's something in there with a high neckline or a—a thick halter, right?"

Around us, others have begun to stare, too.

"Holy shit, that's Teagan Townsend," one girl says, trying to get her friend's attention.

As a few of them pull out their phones and start taking pictures, I turn and dart back inside the dressing room.

My mom follows me inside, her expression twisted with frustration. "It's okay. One of these will cover them."

She frantically flips through dress after dress, looking for the one that will make me look like a normal girl, but there isn't one. None of them will cover the scars.

Frustrated, my mom grabs them all and tosses them onto the ground. "Angela!?" she calls, throwing open the changing room door.

"Yes?"

"These are all terrible. Don't you have anything with a high neckline or thick straps?" I back into the corner and try to make myself smaller somehow. She pauses, gesturing at the crowd gathering nearby. "And can't you get them away from us? Don't you all have anything better to do than to harass my mentally ill daughter?!"

"Ma'am, this is all we have. We spent hours searching our inventory to have these ready for you this morning."

"Well, look again!" my mom shouts before slamming the door shut. Then, she sinks down onto the bench and begins rifling through her purse.

"Mom…I'm not…"

"What?" she snaps.

I'm not mentally ill. "Nothing…"

Officially, my mom stopped smoking when I was twelve, but she keeps a stash of emergency cigarettes for times like these. I guess this is an emergency because she puts one in her mouth and fumbles with the lighter—right there in the dressing room.

"Mom?" Blakely calls. She opens the door just as Mom gets the cigarette lit and takes a drag. "Mom, oh my god, you can't—"

"Just shut the fuck up, Blakely."

"Can I have one?" I ask.

She passes me the one from her mouth, and I bring it to my lips and inhale.

"She said there's nothing. I'm sorry, I tried but…it's not going to work out, Mom."

"What's not going to work out?" I ask.

"You can't be in the wedding," Blakely says. "But you can pick a dress you like—something that covers you—and you can stand with the guestbook."

"Well, I like this dress," I tell her. "Can't I just wear this? Please, Blake?"

"No," she says.

"Well, what if she kept her hair over her chest like—"

"No! No, I'm not going to have her be a spectacle at my wedding. She's made enough of a spectacle out of us already. It's my day, so, no…sorry, Teagan. And you need to put that out, Mom."

Blake leaves the dressing room, and my mom locks the door behind her.

"You made her do this, didn't you?" I ask, watching my mom exhale smoke before passing me the cigarette again. "Why did you make her do this?"

"'Made' is a strong word," she says, shrugging. "I just want you to feel like you belong in this family, Teagan—that's all. And I want you to get better. I just…I don't know what I did. I raised you both the same. I don't know what happened."

"Nothing happened," I tell her. "You didn't do anything, Mom; I was just born this way. There's nothing to fix."

"Ma'am!" Angela says, pounding on the door. "Ma'am, you need to come out right now!"

"Don't come in! I'm naked, and I'm mentally ill!" I shout.

My mom inhales, choking back laughter.

"There is no smoking in this building! We have dresses worth more than cars in here!"

"Well, maybe you should think about that from an ethical perspective!" I reply.

"Don't make me call the police!"

"It's out," my mom says, extinguishing the cigarette against the dressing room wall. "Fucking cunt."

Maybe I did fall from her tree after all.

"I want a margarita. Do you want a margarita?"

I shrug. "I'm not going to say no."

"Get dressed," she says, leaving the room.

I step out of the bridesmaid gown and back into my own clothes, and then my mom and I walk to the car together, where Blakely has already retreated in shame.

"It's not personal, Teagan," Blakely says when I climb into the vehicle.

"It is," I tell her. "It's very, very personal, Blake. As usual, I don't expect you to understand."

"Teagan—"

"We're getting tacos," my mom interrupts. "And margaritas. We're done with this conversation."

We pull into the parking lot of a nearby Mexican restaurant and then follow the hostess through the empty, nearly dark dining room to our table. Mom immediately requests the largest pitcher of margaritas possible.

"Well, I approve of the lighting," Mom says after the server leaves. "It's great for privacy."

"Yeah, or if you're out with someone you're ashamed of," I say. "Perfect for dining with mistresses or disgraced family members."

"No one said they were ashamed of you, Teagan. Stop being dramatic," Blakely says.

"No, I'm just embarrassing and disgusting, right?"

"Stop it," my mom says. "Both of you—you're too old for this shit. Fuck, I'm too old for this shit."

I feel bad for her—maybe I shouldn't, but I do. She's trying, but I'm not Blakely. I just don't fit.

The server sets a pitcher of margaritas down on the table.

"Thank god," my mom says. "Can we get some guacamole and queso for the table, too?"

"Sure," the server says. "I'll be back with that in just a few minutes."

"I'm going to use the restroom," I tell them.

I leave the table and cross the dining room toward the bathrooms. The mariachi music playing at an acceptable decibel in the dining room blares loudly inside the small space. I use the toilet, flush, and begin washing my hands before something gold reflecting off the bathroom mirror catches my eye.

Turning off the water, I look up and see a tall figure dressed in all black with a gold mask casually leaning against the back wall, his arms crossed in front of him.

I roll my eyes and grab a paper towel.

"I know you're not real," I tell him. "You're not the first not-real person I've seen—or fucked for that matter—and I'm sure you won't be the last."

"Is that what you think?" his muffled voice asks.

"Yep," I say, pulling a paper towel from the dispenser. "Pretty sure the real masked assholes aren't allowed to talk, for one. And two, I was under the impression you all were a little stealthier than this. Chilling in a women's restroom? Really? Go fuck yourself, Bone Saw."

"I made you come. Hard."

"I wouldn't hallucinate sex that doesn't even get me off," I scoff. "I don't hate myself that much yet."

I toss the paper towel in the trash and leave the room, scolding myself for engaging with one of my delusions in public. If I want them to stop, this certainly isn't the way to do it. Maybe I should have specified that not only are hallucinations of my ex-lovers not to follow me home, but any and all hallucinations are unwelcome.

I slide into the booth across from Blakely and my mother. "Did I miss anything good?" I ask, taking a chip from the middle of the table and dipping it in the guacamole.

"You know what I just realized?" Mom asks. She and Blakely both have identical goofy-ass looks on their faces that weren't there before. I'm almost afraid to ask what I missed in the last five minutes.

"What?"

I reach for my margarita, but she pulls it away.

"This is your first drink!"

My eyes go wide. "I'm sorry—what?"

"Come on," she says. "Humor me. It's your first legal drink since you turned twenty-one."

I mean, sure, I guess—if you don't count the half-fifth of whiskey I threw back and threw up last night.

"Okay, fine. It's my first drink—very thrilling. May I have it back now, please?"

"Not quite yet," she says. She and Blakely take out their phones just as a few restaurant employees gather around the table and one places a sombrero on my head.

God damn it.

As they sing "Feliz Cumplea?os," my mom slides the margarita back to my side of the table, recording on her phone as I take my "first legal drink," downing nearly half in one go in an attempt to drown the embarrassment.

They're doing this to make me feel included—to make me feel like I belong—but they don't know me at all. And if you have to try to make space for someone—if you have to go out of your way and even then you have no idea how to do it, then maybe they just don't fit.

That's what's happening here. I'll never fit.

It's nothing I didn't already know, but still, when I left Rancho San Flores, a part of me did believe I could make it work. I thought maybe I could twist and bend my pieces until they snapped, and I'd fit into this box marked "normal" and find a way to be happy there.

After all, people in the box marked "normal" don't get high and kill people. They don't get duped by some psychotic rockstar douchebag into joining a cult and believing they're in love only to end up face down in the dirt alone or in jail.

Now, the thought of fitting in that box makes my throat close up; I can't breathe. And in case I needed one more reminder of just how far from normal I am, the masked man leaning against the doorframe of the darkened hallway across the room salutes me like an asshole.

I think I'm having a panic attack.

They finally finish singing and leave the table, and I go for my drink again, but my airway is so closed up at this point that I choke on it and end up spitting it back onto the table. I drop my face into my hands and try to will myself to suck in air.

"Whoa," Blakely says. "It's been a while since you had a drink—maybe slow down a little bit. You're not partying with rockstars; this is lunch with your mom."

"Jesus, Blakely, do you have to bring them up?" Mom asks, shaking her head.

I need help. Can't they see I need help?

I look up at my mother, hoping my eyes will convey the message, and her jaw drops.

"Mom, what's wrong with her face?!" Blakely asks.

"Oh my god!"

As my vision becomes spotty, I fall out of the booth and onto the floor.

"Call 911!" my mom screams, diving across the table for my purse. "Is there kiwi in this!? Where's her EpiPen?"

If I could speak, I'd tell her I don't have one, and I haven't had one since they took my bag in Wyoming. Since I can't, I just lie there on the floor and wait to die.

I can see the headlines now: Teagan Townsend, Infamous Sucker, Killed by a Mother Fucking Margarita.