Carl laughs. He wears a purple bathrobe that belonged to his father like the gun he raises.
“You’re a stupid cunt,” Carl says in plain old language. I feel my old self in my fingers as I reach for my pack. He skips toward me as my knee bleeds and bleeds. It hurts very badly. I’ve felt much worse, but it’s so hard to remember anything other than what’s now when you’re hurt now.
After Carl and I broke our war-god pact and our friendship, we became sworn enemies. It happened because Carl didn’t like how I acted like I was stronger than he was. Also, I think, because he was bored. One day he caught me off-guard and knocked me out with a shovel. When I woke up, I was chained to a tree and I didn’t have any fingers on my left hand. I was, like, “Sheesh.” That was the beginning of a very, very long day. It had been lifetimes since anyone had been able to hurt me like that, and I realized how bad I had been, and for how long, and how I wasn’t going to do anything like that ever again.
But now, with my knee exploded, I’m thinking about how I want to make Carl sip broth made from his own bones. I point the gun at my brother. Even after all this forever, it’s something I do not like to do. Even if it’s to save him from Carl, who will do things so, so much worse. Even the old me didn’t kill Ike. Which is probably why he had such a hard time for a while. It was lonely for him: a boy in a dead town and his sister the bringer of all pain.
“No you don’t!” Carl says, and I try to pull the trigger. There’s a bang and it’s not from my hands and then the world disappears and I leave my brother in the hands of the worst person on the planet.
You are safe. You are protected. Continue contributing to the efforts by living happily.
I wake up. I grab Mom’s knife and hold it in my hands.
Good torture feels like it will never end. You never forget it. I wonder what happened to Ike as I brush my teeth and shower and stuff my knife into my fanny pack. Carl is great at torture. Carl knows what he’s doing because Carl learned from me, and I might be the best ever at that stuff. I imagine what Carl did to Ike, and I know he’s been through the kind of pain that will never leave him.
I go to Mrs. Nagel’s place. She’s just so fragile and weak. Still. Always. Her breathing sounds like struggle, and even though she’s sleeping, there are lines around her eyes like she’s concentrating hard on something. I open my fanny pack and take out the knife. I put the blade against Mrs. Nagel’s neck. The metal reflects a sliver of light against her skin as her throat grows and shrinks, carrying air in and out of her body badly. It’d be so easy even if she weren’t so sick. She was the easiest out of everyone. She only woke up when the old me wanted her to. When I wanted her to know what was happening to her, which was a lot of the time. I take my knife back, tuck it into my pack, and go downstairs.
I squeeze lemon into elderflower tea. When I climb back up the stairs, Mrs. Nagel is awake, and she looks at me with eyes that are tired and warm. I put the hot mug on her nightstand.
“Ama,” she says, and she scoots up in her bed. She tries to take a deep breath but can’t. She smiles and motions for the box of tissues that is always on the floor. Such a big difference it would make if it was just on her nightstand, if she could just have that one thing be easy and simple. Instead that little thing, it’s magnified by a million, and it makes you just want to cut your own head off that she can’t just have that one thing be right for once.
“Hey, Mrs. Nagel,” I say.
“What’s wrong?” she says. It chills me to hear her ask. Even though it’s been a long time, not a lot of people say things like that to me. Most people are afraid of me. A lot of them hate me and they should.
I climb up on the bed behind Mrs. Nagel so she can lean back into me and I can massage her temples to help with the headaches. I say, “I feel like maybe I liked the old me better. The old Ama. It was easier. And maybe the new Ama isn’t doing anything.”
Mrs. Nagel blows her nose. “New Ama?”
“Yeah, you know. Me now,” I say. “Like how I’m not killing everybody or torturing anyone or whatever.”
“And that was the old Ama who did that?”
“Yeah.”
“And what’s the difference between the two?”
“The old me did everything one way. And only thought about one person. Now I try to help everybody instead of killing them.”
“I see, but what changed?”
“I used to be afraid,” I say. I watch her breathe and listen to see if her heart is beating faster, if she is afraid. She is not. “I know I can’t take it back. I know I’m the worst person who ever lived. I know that. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m only scared of me.”
“I see, and that means you’ve been two people?”
“I’m better now. And I’m sorry. But sometimes something in me—like right now, it’d be so easy.” I continue to rub softly, but it’s true. I can’t stop imagining how easy it would be to crush Mrs. Nagel’s neck. Like crumpling a piece of paper. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean that,” I say. “I want everyone to feel happy and supreme and infinite. That’s the new me.”
“Hmm,” Mrs. Nagel says.
“How can you not see the difference?” I say, trying to keep my voice down. “I’m so much better now. I am.”
“I think you’ve done a fine job. People come visit me so often since you changed. And it’s true that in the past you were a terrible witch.”
“Exactly.”
“But I think there’s only one Ama. And I think I’m talking to her.”
“I’m sorry. For all of it,” I say.
“You should be.” Mrs. Nagel points to the bathroom, which means she wants me to give her a towel with warm water for her head. I do it. Then we’re quiet for a long time. I sit with her through the Horn. Then she falls back asleep. I sit with her for a while more. When I jump back home, the sky is already gray and the hot rain is already falling. Also, a bike I know belongs to Carl is set down on the grass. All the bikes on Kennedy belong to Carl. I pull my knife out. I climb up and slide inside my bedroom window and creep downstairs. Carl is sitting at the table. My father is making pancakes, swaying at the stove. And Ike is at the table too, with his legs crossed in his chair and his back to me.
“There she is,” my father says. I’m thinking I have the angle: I can leap across the kitchen table and get to Carl.
“Why is he here!” I say. “Ikenna, I’m sorry, I tried.”
“Don’t worry, I was fine,” Ike says.
“You got to the gun? You got out?” I ask.
“No, I told Carl I had some info for Robert and he let me go see him.”
“Udon Rosher Carl jilo plam,” Carl says. It means “Carl, the great destroyer, spared the weakling.” He is in his robe with the shirt over his head. His one exposed eye stares at me and only me.
“Oh,” I say.
“It’s been so long. I asked Carl if he wants to watch the Flash with us. Remember when we used to do that? Remember, we would watch on the wall?” my father asks.
“Why are you here now?” I ask. I’ve gotten close enough that I know I have a good shot at him.
“I’m here to kill you and make your family watch,” Carl says. I can see his hunting piercer is at his feet. My father turns and stares at Carl.
“Carl,” my father says. “You used to be an okay kid. If I could, you know what I would do to you?”
“Yes, sir,” Carl says.
“Okay,” my father says. It’s true. With me and Carl, it’s better not to try to stop us when we want to do something. Everyone knows that by now. I smile because my father defended me and has been killing me less and less lately.