Just as I begin to ease into the silence, I feel it. The slither, the lifting of my skin, the rising of all my body hair.

My skeleton freezes in place. I can't move. Can't turn my hand over to see the protrusion I know is there. It squirms along my palm. The infestation. The evil.

I have to get it out.

You can't get it out. There's no getting it out. You were born evil.

No–

Don't you think that's why they left?

The parasite burrows back into my palm, squeezes between hollow carpal bones. But it's still there. I feel it like food between my teeth.

Nicolás has tweezers on the second shelf of the toilet cabinet to pluck his eyebrows with. If I can break the skin open, I might be able to pry the evil out.

Don't you think that's why they left? Beewolf repeats. Because you were born evil?

They didn't have any problems with Nicolás. It was only after I were born that they had to leave. Maybe they could tell. Maybe I was born with voids for eyes and two rows of teeth. Maybe they thought they could love me into sanity until they eventually had to give up, had to run away without a trace so I wouldn't be able to find them.

Maybe they didn't leave at all. Maybe I killed them and my brain has just suppressed the memory.

And what if you liked it?

Nicolás would've covered it up. He'd do that for me. He always does everything for me.

But he's next.

I bet you'd enjoy it.

'Stop it!'

Hands close around my wrists to wrench them apart. PAIN! Fuck, it hurts. A serrated burn. My right palm is bleeding, the fingernails of my left hand tainted red.

I look up. The lid of the chickpea tin sticks out his neck, blood pumping out in the beats of his heart.

'I'm fine.'

This isn't real.

Not yet. But I bet you'd enjoy it.

No, I wouldn't.

I bet you'd enjoy it.

No, I wouldn't.

I bet you'd enjoy it.

No, I wouldn't.

I bet you're going to do it. Because you're evil. Are you even human?

Are you?

My palm hurts. The pain shoves more and more thoughts out of my mind until it hurts so much that tears pinch my eyes.

That doesn't prove anything.

You're not human and they know. They're coming. Can't you hear? They're going to lock you in. You need to prove you're not evil yet.

I lunge to my feet. The chair falls over as I rush out of the kitchen. Up the stairs.

The blackout blind is pulled down and my room is pitch dark when I slam the door shut. I don't need light to put the locks in place: the latch guard, the chain, the bolt.

They're coming. They're coming. They're going to drown you. They're going to drown Nicolás. Everyone is going to die and it's your fault.

If you don't prove you're human, if you don't prove you're not evil.

I tear my rings off with enough force to pull a finger with them. They scatter across the floor.

Three times. Ten sets of three. Do ten sets of three.

Dropping on the edge of my bed, I spark my zippo. The flame spits and coughs until it lights the room.

I raise my left hand and hold the fire for three seconds under each section of my pinky, then each section of my ring finger. One. Two. Three.

Next.

Shut, open, fire. One. Two. Three. You did it wrong. Again. Do it again.

'Cece?'

They've caught you. I tried to tell you but you never listen. Shut, open, spark. Again!

'Cece, are you alright?'

Three times. Do it three times. Three times on each finger. 'Could you just say summat so I know you're...?' Ten sets of three.

Shut, open, fire.

You did it wrong. Start over. Again. If you don't, they'll catch you. They'll drown you.

Let us pray.

'Cece?'

My attention breaks. I look at the door. His voice is shattered like glass, broken but full of sharp edges. Blood (HURT) must dribble from his mouth at each word.

What if I open the door? What if I let him hug me? What if I let him–?

You'll kill him.

The parasite worms in my palm. Maybe if it burns hot enough, the evil will die this time.

Fire. Pain. Red.

'Cece?' The door handle rattles, and when it won't open, rattles more frantically.

(–REDREDREDRED–)

I switch the lighter into my left hand, crying out at the pain that flares all the way to my skull. Freshly blistered skin rips off my thumb when I roll the sparkwheel.

One. Two. Three. Open, shut, spark. Or everyone dies.

Hurt. Red. Flame.

Hurt. Red. Blood.

'Could you please unlock the door?'

We would like to keep him under surveillance.

One.

You'll kill all of them.

Two.

Three.

'We've talked about this.'

You were born evil.

'Cece, I–!'

Yank the door open. Nicolás stumbles but catches himself before he falls over the threshold, vigilant not to enter my space without invitation.

I glare at him either way. 'What?'

My facade fails: the shaking of my hands would be visible from ten metres away. Nicolás reaches for my forearm, handling it like glass—no, like an explosive. He turns it over and his relief rots. Burns are oil spills on my fingers.