“I’m not a fool. Look at you, dressed up like a whore,” the man spits, pushing to his feet. “That’s not for me. That’s for him. Your new boss.”
The woman flinches. “No, Donny, that’s not true.”
“Don’t you fuckin’ lie to me!” The man’s bellow echoes off the walls of the tiny kitchen. “I see exactly what’s goin’ on and I’m not standin’ for it. You’re done. Call him tomorrow, first thing.”
“Okay. Okay, just calm down.” There’s a tremor in the woman’s voice, but she smooths it. “If you don’t like me working there, I can find something else?—”
“No.”
“No?”
“You’ll stay home with the boys from now on. Saves us the hassle of daycare.” His voice drops low. “Never liked the idea of you workin’ anyway.”
The woman takes a shaky breath. “I need to work. I need a paycheck.”
“Why? We get by fine with my cut from The Banshee.”
“That’s your money, not mine. It’s only right I contribute?—”
“Why? Huh? Why do you need your own money, G? You makin’ plans I don’t know about?” He rises slowly from his seat, hand still clutching his empty glass. “You planning to fuckin’ leave me?”
“No, of course not.”
“Don’t you fuckin’ lie to me!” he roars. “Don’t you even try, Georgia. Fuck!”
The boys in the next room are crying now, but the man doesn’t seem to notice. He’s lost in his rage. His hand lifts and he hurls the glass clear across the kitchen, aiming at the wall behind his wife’s head. It shatters into a million pieces, missing her by mere inches, showering the stovetop with razor-sharp shards.
For a moment, there is only the sound of the boys’ tearful hiccups. They are in the doorway, watching. The older boy, only six, has an arm looped around the two-year-old’s middle, holding him up. Snot streams from his nostrils as he looks at his mother.
“Mommy?”
“It’s okay, bub. Go back to your cars. I’ll come play in a minute.” The woman takes a long breath, then looks at her husband. “I’ll call my boss and let him know I won’t be back tomorrow.”
“Good. Now, clean that up.” The man sits back down. “And get me another fuckin’ drink when you’re done.”
The woman moves to get the broom.
To pour the drink.
To make the call.
…but not until she’s checked on her boys. Because they come first. They will always, always, always come first.
I slammed back into my own head with a familiar breath-snatching violence. The purple sparks cleared as I blinked, hard. More cleared as I did it again. Then again.
God, of all the inopportune times to have a vision…
I never particularly enjoyed losing control of my faculties. I even less enjoyed doing it when I was at the mercy of someone like Donny O’Banion. It was one of the reasons I did everything I could to avoid human touch.
Touching objects was risky enough. When I touched something inanimate that was infused with emotion, like the soldier figurine, there was always a chance I’d spark a vision. But those spiritual echoes paled in comparison to living, breathing triggers.
Human beings were brimming with emotion, a limitless source of longings and memories and urges and instincts. Sure, not every touch was enough to send me careening into the land of purple-sparks. But more often than I was comfortable with, one errant graze of my fingertips on someone’s skin could vault my consciousness into their psyche.
And that was a risk I simply could not take.
The last of the purple sparks cleared, but I still felt weak as a newborn kitten. To everyone else in the room, I’d been unconscious only seconds. To me, it seemed like a year had passed. I was still in Donny’s arms, but he was no longer restraining me so much as holding me up. His grip shifted to hold me slightly away from his chest, so he could examine me.
“What the fuck?” he muttered, eyes on my face. He looked (rightfully) confused. I had, after all, just gone from a kicking, fighting hellcat to a limp-legged rag doll.