Face Of The Monster

***22***

Phoebe Kim is not okay and she knows it.

Her hands are shaking all the time and her forehead is slick with sweat again every time she touches it. She is nervous; when people touch her she jumps and apologizes and laughs it off. She hasn't been hungry in days. She sleeps less and less with each night that passes.

Phoebe Kim is not okay but she can't bring herself to seek out help. Her psychiatrist would not prescribe her anything, but Phoebe can't blame him; she didn't tell him the entire story. She said she'd been anxious, that she'd been seeing things. She didn't say that the 'things' she saw touched her, talked to her, plagued her. The doctor had simply shaken his head and told her she needed more sleep, less stress. Told her to come back in a few weeks, see if it had gotten better after some relaxation.

She wishes she had told him. But she knows that if given the chance to, she won't. There is something forbidden in her suffering. The ghost is hers as much as she is his.

The only person Phoebe has told is Lars, who now sits quietly in the corner of her office, tidying up the yellowing files that have been rotting in her file cabinets since she started renting this space. There is a keep pile and a trash pile for every drawer. She will go through the "trash" later, keep some things and throw the rest away.

She doesn't know quite why she chose Lars of all people, but she appreciates his reaction to her confession. He did not try to send her to the mental hospital, nor did he dismiss it as her imagination. Rather, he sits with her and talks whenever she asks him to.

Talking helps, sometimes. He can only have so much power over her if she ignores him completely, attention focused elsewhere. But he always manages to weave his way back in again, distracting her back into his soft, unwelcome embrace.

It is Friday evening, the sun just beginning to set in outside. Phoebe is already dreading the ride home, alone with the boy. She shudders. He is here now, standing beside her, cold fingers in her hair. She feels gutted with his touch, emptied out and stomped on.

Phoebe has always been a firm believer in her body being her own. She does not like people touching her inappropriately, does not appreciate violation of her boundaries. If she tells someone not to touch her, she expects them to abide by her rules.

The boy is different. He has no rules, no laws. Phoebe must share her body with him whether she likes it or not.

Scary thoughts cross her. What if he is going to possess her? What if he is assessing his new body, surveying her? She flinches, hard enough that Lars looks up.

"Are you okay?" he asks. He is already out of his chair, coming toward her. "God, Feebs. You're so pale."

She lets him gather her up out of her sweat-damp chair. He wraps her in his arms, solid and warm on Phoebe's skin. "I want him to go away," she whispers.

"I know."

A car honks in the parking lot, the happy little noise that means it is locked. It must be Emma. Phoebe told her to come in whenever she had time. They haven't seen each other since Sunday. Phoebe itches to immerse herself in Emma's troubles, to forget her own for awhile.

Lars smooths her hair back, his young face full of an ancient tenderness. "I'll be right out there if you need me," he says and kisses her gently on the forehead. Phoebe holds him there for a moment with his lips on her skin. It feels nice to be taken care of, to be loved with someone's full attention like this.

They break apart. Lars goes to greet Emma and Phoebe sits back down at her desk, settling back into the throbbing pain her life has become.

She listens to the voices outside her door, wishing Emma would come in faster. Now that they are alone, the boy becomes more aggressive. He curls himself into her lap, touching her neck and her collarbone with hungry fingers. Phoebe leans back, trying to escape his cold, rotting breath.

"Phoebe?" Suddenly, Emma is in front of her desk. "What's going on?"

Phoebe leans forward again, trying to assume a nonchalant expression. "Emma, hey. I didn't even notice you came in."

Emma gives her a look, eyebrows pulled together. "Why were you doing that?"

"I wasn't doing anything." Phoebe stands up, breathing a sigh of relief as the boy falls to the ground. Feeling warm with her momentary solidarity, she takes Emma by the elbow and leads her to the couch. "How are you doing? I feel like I haven't seen you in forever."

Emma doesn't seem convinced, but she says, "I'm doing pretty awful. How about you?"

Phoebe is also doing pretty awful, but she doesn't say so. "What's the matter?"

"Well, Isabel and her spawn have set up a pretty permanent camp in my living room, so there's that. Isabel's already talking about signing Juan and Tiago up for soccer camp together. Ugh, I can't deal with them all summer. I can't. I'll kill them."

"Emma." Phoebe takes one of her hands, squeezing it gently. "You don't mean that."

"I do. Sofia? She was climbing all over the deck the other day when I got home which I explicitly told them not to do." Emma's features tighten with contempt. "And I swear, it took all the self control I had left not to push her right off and let her crack her skull on the driveway."

Phoebe is minorly worried, but she won't report this conversation. She knows Emma. She's upset, so she's saying these things. She would never actually hurt anyone, let alone kill them. Phoebe thinks. She reminds herself that she doesn't know Emma inside and out; there could be a child murderer buried deep down in there. "Maybe it can be a good thing, Emma," she says. "You have to try to stay positive. Maybe Juan and Tiago can be friends. Maybe you can be friends with Isabel."

Emma makes a face like she just took a swig of vinegar. "Trust me, if you knew her, you'd agree. She should crawl back into whatever hole she came out of. The world doesn't need her. At all."

Phoebe makes a mental note that she shouldn't let Emma go so long without coming to see her. She gets increasingly violent when they are apart.

She starts to touch Emma, but the boy has gotten back into her head. He gets between them like a screen. Phoebe watches Emma's face, wondering if she can feel the icy chill of his hand on her thigh, the biting cold of his chest against her shoulder.

Emma doesn't react. Phoebe feels momentarily disappointed. Emma goes on, "She's one of the worst people I know, honestly. She doesn't think about anyone but herself. And she's an awful mother. I mean, you'd have to be to raise children like those."

The boy sidles behind her, wrapping his legs around her torso like an affectionate lover She tries not to shiver as his hands slip under her shirt. "At least she cares about her brother," Phoebe says. "That's a redeeming quality, isn't it?"

She doesn't hear what Emma says next. He touches her stomach, making her insides go cold. She feels sick with it, nauseous. He fingers the back of her bra, breathing on her neck. Phoebe hears the noise come out of her throat before she can stop it. She is gasping, gasping for air.

"Phoebe? Phoebe! Are you okay? Can you breathe? God, you aren't having a stroke, are you? Please, Phoebe, I can't take another. Open your eyes, I'm begging you."

Phoebe feels Emma's warmth seep past the coldness of her ghost. She clings to the other woman, stifling sobs in Emma's neck. She sinks her fingernails into her back, refusing to let the ghost pull her away this time.

When she realizes Phoebe is crying, Emma's tone changes. She becomes apologetic, consoling. Her voice is motherly and calming in her ears. "Oh, honey, I feel awful. I should have asked. You poor thing. Tell me what's the matter."

But even now with her consoling arms around Phoebe's middle, the boy has still wormed his way into their embrace.

In that moment, Phoebe wants him gone with such force that she is willing to do anything in order to be rid of him. She wants her body back, wants her life back. She winds herself around Emma, anchoring herself to her solid, living friend. She doesn't tell her about the boy. He covers her mouth every time the words start to come out.