We are Wormwood by Autumn Christian Read Free Book Online

killer. Terrance Fleur said
I pushed Charlie into the river because there was no loyalty among weirdoes. He
knew I kept a stash of matches in my coat pocket; I lit them and threw them at
the teacher’s back when I got bored. According to Terrance, with his buckteeth
and dirty, ginger-colored face, this meant I was capable of anything.
    Some nameless jock pushed me against the lockers and lifted
up my skirt. He asked me with his fat, bruised mouth dripping tobacco spit, my
hair pulled taut, if I liked to fuck corpses.
    “Do you want to find out?” I asked, my voice soft, cheek
against the cool metal lockers.
    He let me go, but that didn’t keep him from tongue-lashing
me in the hallways, leaning over to whisper, “Suck my dick?” in math class.
    My English professor made me stay late after class. I
assumed to lecture me about not reading the Great Gatsby, or to send me to the
principal because I’d burned a hole through his favorite leather jacket.
Instead, he suggested counseling.
    “I’m over it,” I said.
    “We’re not talking about Charlie.”
    “Then what are we talking about?”
    “I’m talking about you.”
    “I try to avoid that.”
    “Exactly what I’m talking about. This kind of unacceptable
behavior,” he said, “your antisocial tendencies.”
    If only I had a goddamn cigarette. I’d blow smoke into his
mouth until his lungs burst.
    “I don’t want you coming back to class until your behavior
improves.”
    His face was like a horse’s face, lean and panicked, with
eyes too big for his head. I took a step towards him. He reached for the phone
on his desk, ready to call for help. A teacher like him never had an adolescent
daughter.
    “I’ll think about it,” I said.
    I blew him a kiss and left.
    I knew that, instead of helping me, he wanted to bind me in
chains, take me to the bridge of the river, and command the river to give
Charlie back and take me in his place.
    Charlie’s parents didn’t invite me to the funeral. Behavioral scientists, so inconsiderate. The morning of his
funeral service, I sat on the church steps in a velvet-black dress stolen from
my mother. In my arms I held a bouquet of tiny blue flowers I picked in the
woods for Charlie.
    I leaned my head against the thick church walls and listened
to the preacher speak. I couldn’t make out any his words behind the door, but
they were probably something like:
    “She could have saved him, but she didn’t. She’ll burn in
hell for this. There’s no special place for daughters of schizophrenics, God
didn’t account for that one. But don’t you worry, my little lambs, we can throw
her in with the fornicators.”
    The organ music started to play and the pallbearers, holding
an empty casket, dragged themselves out of the double doors of the church. The
rest of the mourners followed behind, including Charlie’s frazzle-haired
parents who pretended not to see me. Charlie’s six-year-old cousin picked up a
rock and threw it at me. It narrowly missed my head.
    “Go away!” he said, and threw another rock.
    It struck me in the stomach. I dropped the flowers and ran.
    I searched for her in the woods. Around me insects buzzed
and fireflies lit up in the damp gray morning. I tore my hands trying to climb
into the skins of trees. I expected to find her in the hollow of a trunk, like
an unborn fetus. Or hiding with a child that resembled me, while crystallized
bugs squirmed in her lap.
    “Where are you?” I called out.
    I beat my fists against the trees. I sat down in the dirt in
Momma’s good velvet, tore at the grass, and tore at my skin. The trees were
unimpressed and too old to shudder at my tantrum. The noise of the woods noise
continued, clicking and clacking.
    Laughing.
    I often stayed at Phaedra’s house after Charlie’s death. She
let me throw knives at her old boy-band posters; I got to be a pretty good
shot. I could drink her mother’s vodka as long as I filled the empty space with
water afterwards.
    On her bed she