Chapter 2: My Eyes Wandered
The knife was still on the counter. It lay between us like a third party to the conversation, one that never spoke but whose presence dictated every word. Mara trailed a finger along its handle, not looking at me. The hum of the dead fridge filled the silence.
“It would be simple,” she said. Her voice was quiet, almost conversational. “The world out there doesn’t want us. It sealed us in here to forget about us. It’s too cruel for something like what we have.”
I leaned against the cool refrigerator door. The metal was a relief against my throbbing temple. “What we have is the only thing that’s real.” The words were automatic, a catechism. I believed them. I had to believe them. If I stopped believing, there was just the peeling wallpaper and the whispering dark.
“Exactly.” She finally looked up, a faint, tender smile on her lips. It was the smile she reserved for my moments of clarity, when I echoed her thoughts back to her perfectly. “It’s too pure for that world. Too complete. So maybe… we should complete it. On our terms. Together. Before the hunger makes it ugly. We could stay perfect.”
My eyes drifted to the knife. I imagined its path. Quick. A final, definitive act of union. The ultimate proof of devotion. The thought wasn’t frightening. It was peaceful. Like stepping out of a constant, grating noise into a silent room.
“Together,” I echoed.
She picked up the knife. Not by the handle, but by the blade, pinching the flat between her thumb and forefinger. She offered me the handle. An invitation. A test.
My hand rose of its own volition. My fingers wrapped around the cool wooden grip. The weight of it was familiar and monstrous. She guided my hand, her touch gentle, until the very tip of the blade rested against the pale, fluttering hollow of her throat. I could feel her pulse tapping against the steel. A tiny, frantic bird.
“See?” she breathed. “It’s just pressure. A promise.”
Then, with infinite slowness, she turned my wrist. The handle twisted in my grasp until the sharp edge kissed the stubble on my own neck. Her other hand came up, cradling my jaw, holding me steady. Her eyes were vast and absorbing.
“Or here,” she whispered. “Symmetry. One cut for you, one for me. We’d hardly feel it. We’d just… fall into each other. Finally.”
My breath hitched. The metal was a line of ice. I felt a weird, detached curiosity. Would it be a scrape or a slice? A sigh or a scream? Then I let out a long, shuddering exhalation, a sound I realized I’d been making for weeks. A constant, internal scream deflating. “It would be… efficient.”
Mara’s calm chuckle was a ripple in the thick air. “Practical. That’s my love.” She released my hand, letting me hold the knife at my own throat. She watched, her head tilted, as if observing a fascinating experiment. The moment stretched. The knife trembled.
A skittering sound. Dry, frantic, and far too close.
Our heads snapped toward the pantry door, which stood ajar. The sound came again—a scratch, a scurry. Life. Impure, unwelcome, stubborn life.
Mara’s demeanor shifted in an instant. The tender solemnity vanished, replaced by a swift, predatory focus. She put a finger to her lips, her eyes gleaming. She moved toward the bag of rice slumped against the wall, the last of our bulky staples. She moved like smoke.
I lowered the knife, my heart now pounding for a different, older reason. Hunger.
She crouched, motionless. The skittering came again. A small, dark shape flitted from behind the bag, a darting shadow in the dim kitchen light. A rat. Plump from our scraps.
In one fluid motion, her hand shot out. Not for the rat. For my wrist. She grabbed it, her grip iron-strong, and yanked my arm forward. The knife in my hand became a tool, a spear. My own momentum, guided by her, carried the blade down.
There was a terrible, soft resistance. A piercing squeak, cut violently short.
The blade was embedded in the floorboards, pinning the thing through its middle. It writhed, a grotesque wet squirming, legs paddling air. Then it shuddered and was still. A dark trickle seeped out around the steel.
Silence returned, deeper than before.
Mara let go of my wrist. I stared at my hand, still clenched around the knife handle, my knuckles white. The rat’s beady eye was open, black and glassy.
Mara leaned close, her lips beside my ear. Her voice was a warm, intimate murmur, pleased and practical.
“See? We’re not done yet. We have extra food.”
She pried my fingers from the handle, one by one. Her touch was gentle. She worked the knife free from the wood with a soft thwick sound, leaving the small, limp body behind. She wiped the blade clean on her leggings, leaving a dark smear, and placed it back in my hand.
“Now,” she said, standing and brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “Are you hungry?”