Skin of a Sinner

by Avina St. Graves

“I’m sorry, Princess. I didn’t mean to wake you.” It’s him. He’s here. He’s back.

He left me, and he didn’t say goodbye. He promised me that we would always be together, and he left

Three years ago, to the day, he showed me that I was no one. That’s what hurts the most, because he wasn’t just anyone; he was everything to me.

“You’re crazy. You’re fucking crazy.” “I prefer the term ‘artist,’” he quips.

“It’s me,” he pleads, cupping my tear-stained face to pull me closer. “It’s your Mickey.”

She also likes to bring me snacks. I know it’s a bribe because I’ll do anything for a Pop-Tart.

In my defense, the teacher called me a menace when I wasn’t being one. So I showed him what a real menace looked like.

our spot.

Her shoes are holey. A church would be jealous.

“Eat.” I shove the whole container in her direction and grab her untouched sandwich.

“I thought you shouldn’t share food.” “Shut up. You don’t count.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I try to save her from feeling bad. “I don’t like the name anyway.”

I’ve never liked my name. No one has ever said it with any sort of love or care. It’s thrown around like some kind of insult.

The hold she has on me the second she laughs is immediate. I’ve never heard anything like it. There’s joy in there, but something more. It’s like the feeling I have when I finally have a meal or when the sounds in my head stop.

I guess life comes full circle; Roman, the man who used to keep Marcus at bay, will be the one who kills him.

But I’d rather have scars on my body than my soul.

“You fucked with my girl.” Roman chuckles darkly, glancing at me before saying, “And you should never fuck with my girl.”

The Roman I knew would burn the entire city down before letting someone who hurt me walk free.

At least her hair isn’t so ridiculously wonky anymore. She means well and tries her damn best, but I usually end up redoing it for her before we walk to school.

Every morning, I hold my breath to see if she tried braiding it because, unless she brings a hairbrush, there’s no way I can salvage it.

I’m unsure if she still thinks about losing her mother’s earrings, but I do. Every day.

Then the first sign starts; the loud wheeze in her breath from the change in season.

I rummage around the front pocket until I find what I need, all while Bella wheezes between coughs.

She never remembers to take it like she’s meant to. And it’s fall, the worst time of year for her.

What if Mitchell, her new foster dad, tries to hit her? He hasn’t done it before, but it doesn’t mean he won’t start. Or, what if she has a nightmare, can’t find Mickey Mouse, or has a panic attack again? Or if she forgets her inhaler?

Two days. She’s gone for two days. That’s nothing. That’s like… Like… Forty-eight hours. I can count down or something.

We never used to be able to high-five without one or both of us flinching, so when she hugged me for the very first time two years ago on my birthday, it was like I saw the light. Then, when she hugged me last year, I’m pretty sure I understood why people find religion.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve been hugged—that I can remember—and Bella takes both places.

The one thing I refuse to take off laying on the floor amongst the drops of crimson. The last thing I got from her. The bracelet. I broke it. Bella’s bracelet.

I remember wondering if my parents were finally playing with me as they lowered me into the freezer, then thump before I was trapped in the coffin.

Once I’m out, I can see Bella and she’ll make it all better. No. Wait. She’s fucking gone, too. She left me like my parents did. She didn’t even say goodbye. No. She’s coming back. She’s going to open the door and let the light in. She has to come back. I need her.

Roman’s fingers disappear beneath the hem of my top and dip into the waist of the pajama shorts he gave me four years ago.

“Just as I thought,” he rasps. “Fucking soaked.”

“Better than I remember,” he mutters against my neck. “You’ll regret letting me feel your cunt coming all over my fingers. I promise you, next time, I’m breaking you on my cock.”

“Don’t worry. If you break, I’ll put you back together. If you run, I’m running right behind you. If you burn, I’ll burn with you.”

black-and-red embroidered friendship bracelet peeking out beneath his long sleeve shirt. He still has it.

We had a list of all the podcasts we wanted to listen to, then every day, we would plan which one we’d listen to that night as we fell asleep under a different roof. He said it would be like we were right next to each other, hearing the same sounds and learning the same things.

Before sleep pulls me under, I hear him ask, “Do you remember what I told you, Bella? Do you remember what I promised you?” Of course I do. I could never forget his promise.

I’m bad at math, but lately, I’ve been really fucking good at it. 43 weeks. 301 days. 7224 hours. That’s how long she’s been gone.

She doesn’t need to say it. Somebody hurt her. Somebody laid a fucking hand on her. I don’t care who he is; he’s a dead man.

“You will never be alone again. I swear on my life. Wherever you go, I’ll be right there. We’ll always find each other. I’m not going anywhere. It’s a promise. We’re forever, Princess, and nothing will ever come between us. Do you understand?”

“Say it.” “We’re forever.” “Swear it.” “I promise I’ll never leave you again.” I grin. “Why?” She narrows her eyes, but wipes her tears away as she raises her chin. But all I can see is the string bracelets fastened to her wrist. Not one. Two. “Because you’re a crazy asshole, but I love you for it.”

Her delicate fingers fiddle with one of the string bracelets around her wrist—the red-and-black one that’s an exact replica of the one I broke—and she unfastens it. Time seems to slow as she grabs my hand and fastens it around my wrist. She was wearing me. She was wearing me. She was wearing me. She was wearing me.

“I’ve held on to it since then.” “You…” She’s completely beet red as she blinks a couple more times at my outstretched hand. Bella clears her throat and sits up straighter. “You can’t afford it.” “Money can’t buy everything.” Translation: I stole it.

Bella is sentimental, and I want to give her something that will withstand beating a window or running away from the cops—if she ever needed to. If we’re ever separated, a part of me will always be with her, around her neck and near her heart.

She deserves so much more than the shit I put inside the locket.

She runs her finger over the right side of the locket, where there’s a picture of Mickey Mouse that I cut out from a magazine. On the left, in small handwriting, it says “Roman (aka the real Mickey).” This way, it isn’t just me who’s kept close to her heart, it’s her mother, too.

Our kids will probably be just as obsessed with the rodent.

Tradition is tradition. Every year that has passed and that will come, she’ll be getting a Mickey Mouse item. No ifs, ands, or buts.

All I want to do is impress him, when I’ve quite literally done every embarrassing thing possible in his presence. I drooled all over him when I fell asleep on him two years ago, threw up on him once when I got car sick, went through an acne phase, and tripped over my feet more times than I can count. Oh God, and when I was twelve, I thought I was an amazing singer and tried serenading him by singing “Love Story” by Taylor Swift. He even caught me rehearsing it beforehand. But that’s not the worst part. My rehearsals involved a complete dance routine.