I flinch at the sound of her name, but I can’t see any sign that Esme might be in this house.
“Where is she?” I ask. I can’t figure out why this woman’s name feels familiar to me.
“How about I check your wounds first?” she suggests. “Would you mind sitting down for me?”
“Yes, I would mind,” I seethe. I’m about to totter over if I’m not careful, but I refuse to show weakness. I ball my hands into fists and focus on staying upright.
“There’s no need to be churlish,” she says with a mild sigh. “I am the one who saved your life. Well, Esme and I.”
She moves towards me, but I growl at her and she freezes. Just then, I pick up a bitter, rancid smell that fills my nostrils and threatens to make me retch.
“What the fuck is that smell?” I demand.
“My poultice,” Aracelia explains. She extends a long finger towards the mass of bandages covering my abdomen. “It’s meant to help you heal.”
“Heal?” I repeat. “It fucking reeks.”
God, everything hurts so badly. I can barely think straight.
She scrunches her face up and I can see that I’ve offended her.
“Where are my clothes?” I ask, realizing suddenly that I’m butt-naked in the middle of what I assume is this woman’s living room.
“On the clothesline. I had to wash them because they were covered in blood. If you’d like, I can get them.”
She disappears into a door around the corner before I answer.
I turn on the spot, trying to figure out why this place strikes a familiar cord with me. Flowers in vases and jars and perched on windowsills, incense burning in every nook and cranny, a small table with Tarot cards spread out across the top…
And then it hits me.
When Aracelia reappears, I limp back around to face her once more.
“You’re the woman who gave Esme a reading,” I say. It sounds like an accusation.
“I did,” Aracelia agrees. “I also dabble in midwifery and natural cures.”
I glance down at the green goo that seems to be oozing out from under my bandages. “I need to get this shit off me.”
She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t. It needs time to do its’ job. And you need to rest.”
“I can’t fucking rest,” I bite back. “I need to get Esme and—”
“Esme is gone.”
I freeze. My eyes fly to her face, searching for signs that she might be lying. She stares back at me, unblinking.
“What did you say?” I grit.
“She left a week ago,” Aracelia replies. “She took the car and drove off.”
She didn’t say it, but I can hear the underlying message nonetheless: She’s not coming back, either.
She left me here. She ran.
For good.
I snatch my clothes from her hands and start getting dressed. I can feel her watching me, judging me, probably glad that Esme left me as unceremoniously as she has. I don’t stop until I’m fully dressed. My clothes feel as if they don’t belong to me, like I’ve donned a second skin that’s not my own.