Page 6 of Envy
It’s the same with the others. They each flourish under the title of their sins, like the punishing Princes of Hell rising from below, while I wither and rot, consumed by mine. Like a corpse being gnawed on by maggots. Trapped in the confines of my own coffin while everyone else has already hoisted themselves out of the grave.
“The new girl is arriving today, right?” Dominic asks, reappearing at the edge of the room, freshly showered. He tugs on a navy blue shirt and runs a hand over his cropped hair, kicking up the fresh scent of soap and leather. Tattoos cover dark skin, winding along his arms and curving up the sides of his neck the way mine do. His white smile flashes as he rubs his hands together with wicked anticipation. “I can’t wait to introduce myself.”
Erik snorts, glancing up from his phone. “As if she’ll be looking at anyone else when I’m in the room.”
“No fucking this up for Tempest,” I cut in. “She wants to make a friend.”
“She has us.” Erik shrugs, glancing at his phone again as another text sounds.
“And Sloane, that girl with dark hair and gorgeous fucking eyes,” Dominic purrs, licking his lips. “If only the two of them would give me a chance…”
Erik narrows his gaze for a moment before grinning. “My point exactly. Tempest has more than enough friends. Besides, the new girl is one of those uptight religious girls from the sound of things. She probably wears a cross and bathes in holy water. I doubt she’ll last a week before I have her on her back.”
“No fucking the new girl,” I growl, stalking toward the showers as a team of men in hazmat suits enters from the left.
In most situations, I wouldn’t give a fuck if they each took turns, but Tempest has been withdrawing. The princes are known for our ruthlessness and efficiency in getting shit done, collateral damage be damned. We accomplish what we set out to do and don’t give a fuck how bloody our hands become along the way.
Most are afraid to look at us, the tattoos covering our bodies acting like a warning of sorts. Fear is necessary to win the game, but Tempest never wanted to be dealt a hand. It’s true she’s made a few friends at school, but nobody she felt comfortable enough to hang out with more than a handful of times.
“Tempest is more important than getting your dick wet,” I say, tossing my blood-splattered shirt on the pile of clothes to burn as I head toward the showers. “Choose someone else.”
“Fine,” Erik whines as anotherdingsounds. “Tempest says she’s expecting us before dinner.”
Of course she is.
Ding.
“And we have to help the new girl move.”
4
EVIE
My fingers flex as I lift the last of the boxes and start up the concrete walkway for what feels like the hundredth time. Late summers in the San Diego heat are no joke, but I do my best to ignore the beads of sweat trickling down my neck.
I find the single step that leads to the porch, unable to see the ground as I shift the box, my arms trembling with the effort of balancing it. Just when I think I’ve got it, the end of my skirt tangles beneath me, sending me toppling forward. The cardboard box crashes to the ground, books spilling out in every direction.
I let loose a string of curses that would earn me an exorcism from my father and repress the urge to scream. A sharp sting pricks along my knee, small drops of blood welling across the scraped skin. Great.
Moving would be so much easier if I didn’t have to wear the cardigan and this stupid fucking skirt. If every inch of my body didn’t have to be covered for modesty’s sake. My entire closet is like this. Skirts and pants have to reach my ankles. Tops must have sleeves to the mid-arm and be loose. Some of the womenin church enjoy the restriction, choosing to forgo everything but approved dresses. But me? I’d kill for a set of shorts right now.
Gentle caws of seagulls mingle with the boisterous noise of people along the sidewalks. Some are headed in the direction of the university, but most are wearing sundresses with swimsuits beneath, enjoying the afternoon without a care in the world.
How do they do that? I have the art of smiling and laughing down to perfection—the careful tilt of lips, the forced burst of breath at just the right moment—but these women aren’t putting on an act. Most of the time I can pretend I’m normal, but there are moments like this where I realize other people are existing in real time. Walking and talking and breathing as if they genuinely want tolive.
Is that something that can be taught? A fake-it-till-you-make-it type of situation, or are some of us just damned? Maybe I am one of the forsaken. Something was lost in translation when the Almighty God created me. Or He looked at the makeup of my soul and decided that was it. Before I’d even had a chance to live, I’d been cast out. No shiny light of peace and happiness for me.
That’s fine. I’m better suited for darkness anyway.
I maintain the façade as best I can, fooling my family and the church, but the truth is I take after my namesake in the worst way. They tell me Eve is the ultimate sinner—the first woman, meant to be pure and good, expected to listen and obey, to heed warning and submit—but she fell.
They want me to hate her. It’s been pushed down my throat so many times. Eve is evil.Womenare bad, especially without a man to lead them. The awful things they say about her twist and tangle with my self-loathing and haunted past. But I don’t want to believe them anymore.
I repeated the scripture each morning, the pages of my personal bible worn and stained from how often I was forced toread. I wore loose clothing—I still do—covering my body, keeping my dark red hair tied back in a single, simple braid or hair tie. And I stay as quiet as possible. But I never could stop my mind from wandering. From wishing for a way out.
The thin, scabbed cuts across the inside of my forearms are a testament to the shadows I couldn’t leash. Just a scratch. Just enough to take the edge off. The way the sliver blade slices through my pale skin, the bright scarlet streaks—the pain and wrongness of it all—it calms the chaos of my mind. And yes, I know how unhinged that is, but those moments are the only spots of color in my otherwise grey world.
Brushing myself off, I grab the edge of the box and start tossing in the books that have spilled free.Thank fuck this is the last of my stuff, I think as I push the door open.