Countless Haints, Pt. 4

'Riah was right.  And wrong.

Madi was curious, probably too much so for her own good, and she'd gotten herself into trouble more than once by snooping where she didn't belong.  But she wasn't stupid, and—contrary to what 'Riah might have said—the threat of death was plenty to keep her from following her father to the Gathering.

Whatever that might be.

For the rest of the day, Madi avoided Pa, partly because she didn't want him to suspect anything (he could read her expressions and tone of voice the way he read that Bible of his) and partly because she knew she'd never be able to look him in the eye.  His words echoed in her brain.

"Maybe it's easier for you," Pa had said, "because you ain't her father."

And 'Riah had answered, "Neither are you."

What could that have meant?  Madi wanted to believe she hadn't heard the men clearly.  She wanted to believe 'Riah was "talking on," as her father might say, spinning a wild yarn with about as much weight in the real world as any one of his haints.  Only, his voice had sounded differently—more serious somehow—and Madi knew that he was speaking what he believed to be the truth.  And, after all, haints were a little more real than she had believed when she crawled out of bed that morning.  She felt as if the whole world was unraveling around her, and sooner or later it would all come undone and spill into … nothingness.

Around supper time, Pa knocked on the door to her room.

"Madi, your supper's gonna get cold, girl."

She sat on the edge of her bed, quietly.  He still sounded the same, but at the same time, she barely recognized his voice.  Tears blurred her vision.  She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Madi?"  The doorknob turned.  The door started to creak open.  "Supper's—"

"I'm not hungry," Madi snapped.  She jumped to her feet and took a step away from the door.  If she could have kept walking, through the wall, into the shadows, into the nothingness, she might have done so.  Instead, she faced the corner, not looking towards the door.  If Pa entered the room, she wouldn't look at him.  She couldn't.  Even though she wanted to beg him to explain what she'd overheard, she knew the words would never crawl from her throat, and she didn't know if she'd ever be able to face him again.

The door did not open.  Pa's footsteps, as he walked down the hall, were slow and shuffling.

Madi's stomach growled.  No matter what she said, she was starving.  She hadn't eaten a bite since breakfast, but it hadn't crossed her mind until she smelled pan-fried potatoes, okra, and cornbread.  Pa almost never cooked a meal, but tonight he was either cooking in honor of his daughter's birthday, or he was feeling guilty.  Either way, the food smelled delicious.  Madi's mouth watered, but she refused to set foot outside her room.  If she was lucky, there'd be something left over, and she could sneak to the kitchen for a bite after Pa was …

Gone.

The thought settled on her like an early frost across the grass.  She wanted Pa to be gone.  Gone.  Because she couldn't face him.  Gone.  Because of his secrets and his lies.  Gone.  Because he wasn't her father anyway, and she didn't care if he ever returned.

The frost turned to darkness, and Madi's thoughts became bloody.

And surely there's a way to get rid of him and make sure he stays gone.  Forever.

Her breath caught in her throat.

No, she thought.  No.  No.

She spoke the word—"No!"—to give it form, to make it real.

The frost—the darkness—receded, leaving an emptiness in its wake.  Shock and shame and sadness filled the void, and when it overflowed, Madi started crying.

That isn't me, she thought, as she threw herself onto the bed and buried her face in the pillows.  That isn't who I want to be.  And yet the thought had come so naturally to her.  In the moment she began to wish her father harm, it felt right.  It terrified her that she could even think such thoughts—let alone relish them.  She wept into the pillow, her sobs wracking her body.  She cried until there were no tears left.  At last, she slept.

And she did not dream.