Page 122 of Famine

There, I’ve covered close to the first half of my life. The better half, if I’m being honest.

“After his death, I moved in with my aunt.” Now I pause.

Famine is waiting for me to continue.

I begin to stroke his hair, more to comfort myself than him.

“Life with her was …” I search for an appropriate word that won’t dishonor the dead, but then I can’t find any. Finally, I shake my head. “Unpleasant.”

“Why?” The Reaper’s tone is carefully neutral.

“She used to beat me—for everything.” She had a horse whip she kept around for this very purpose. “I couldn’t do anything right.” I still feel an old, dull burn of shame when I remember her constant disappointment.

“Most of the time, I’m relieved that she’s gone,” I admit, the words making me feel guilty.

“You mean to tell me you feel somethingotherthan relief?” Famine says, and I can hear the surprise in his voice.

I frown. “Of course. She was my aunt.”

“So?” Famine says. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“She cared about me … in her own way.” She gave me a place to sleep, food to eat, and clothes to wear. It wasn’t a joyful experience, but it was something.

The horseman makes a disbelieving noise.

“What?” I demand. “You don’t think she did?”

“Not enough, flower, not nearly enough,” he says. “Then again,” he adds, “I shouldn’t expect any better from the likes of humans.”

“People aren’t all bad,” I say.

The Reaper readjusts himself a little, groaning as he does so. “Clearly you’ve never been tortured by them.”

I press my lips together. He has a point. We’re in the middle of a field hiding for our lives, and the men after us don’t just delight in death—they enjoy a good dose of suffering too.

The two of us fall to silence, and we stay that way for a long time. I continue to stroke his hair. In the distance, I hear the pound of more horses’ hooves. The two of us go utterly still. But, like the first time I heard the noise, these riders don’t stop to check the field.

Once the hoof beats fade away, Famine says, “You never finished telling me about your life.”

I glance down at him. “I know you like stories, but I’m not sure mine is what you’re looking for.” There’s no justice, no peace and harmony, and except for the cameos Famine makes, there’s nothing particularly supernatural about it.

“It’s exactly what I’m looking for.”

I try not to read into that statement, or the way he’s looking at me as he says it. I’m going to start thinking that this man is really, truly interested in me, and that’s a dangerous assumption to make when it comes to the horseman.

I exhale. “I don’t want to tell you about it,” I admit. I give myself a little credit for being honest.

“Why?” the horseman asks curiously.

I look away. “I’m not ashamed of what I did for a living, but …” But in some ways I am.

“Elvita found me shortly after I arrived in Laguna.” I was hungry, destitute and full of so much guilt. In my mind, I had destroyed Anitápolis. “She had an eye for desperate, broken girls.

“She took me back to the bordello, gave me food and a bed … in return for work.” I pause. I enjoy talking about sex when I’m the one wielding it over others; I don’t particularly enjoy discussing it when I’m the one who’s the victim. “She … trained me for a couple weeks,” I say.

Famine has grown awful quiet.

“It’s a shock to see sex like that.” I wasn’t completely sheltered, but I’d never been in a brothel before either. “And at some point, I joined in …” I take in a deep breath. “And that’s what I did for the last five years. I serviced men and women in most ways you can imagine—and some you probably can’t.”