"At least you're not on the front page," Mary Eunice provided, weak and unable to offer comfort as she viewed the headline on the second page of the newspaper, which read, "Lana Winters Visits Grave of Murdered Ex-Lover," with a picture of their faces accompanying. The photograph flattered neither of them; the flash reflected on Lana's sunglasses, so her eyes looked like headlights, and Mary Eunice had a wide-eyed, panicked expression, lips drawn back over her teeth and squirming. "It could be worse, couldn't it?" You're not helping.

Brown eyes skimmed the article with haste, not lingering upon the words there, but her hands trembled with whitening knuckles where she clutched the paper. "Yeah. It could be worse." Her voice had a clipped tone, and Mary Eunice winced, averting her eyes. She's upset. Mary Eunice's tongue flicked to the roof of her mouth as she sought words. Don't. You'll just make it worse. Hand resting on her forearm, her fingernails dug into the skin there; she picked and loosened one of the scabs she had created with her anxious plucking. Lana, absorbed in the newspaper and the fury she had gathered against it, did not notice. "But it's still pretty damn infuriating." A scowl had etched upon her face, trenched there. "They didn't name you. You should be safe."

"From what?"

"Public scorn and scrutiny." Lana arched an eyebrow, lifting her gaze from the paper to Mary Eunice. "My fan club would get their panties in a knot, knowing I took you out of Briarcliff. They know what sort of place it is." Mary Eunice glanced down at her fingernails, the jagged ends she had tried to keep from biting. The urge to nibble on them jerked to life in her chest. You're awful. You make Lana's life awful. "People like that are more infuriating than the haters. They send so much damn mail—I would rather them leave me alone. Damn vultures. They're all damn vultures."

Should I say something? In the inflamed silence, Lana glaring down at the paper like she expected the words to change if she directed enough fury upon them. The dark voice surfaced in Mary Eunice's head once again, the one in Aunt Celest's tone. Of course you should, you moron. The Aunt Celest of her mind knew how to cut her down with a single curl of her tongue, just like Aunt Celest in her life. You're an idiot, Mary. You'll make a smart man a good, quiet wife one day. Her face screwed up to chase away the memory, and her tongue flapped to Lana, hoping to ground herself in reality if she participated in the conversation. "I'm sorry they're so awful to you." I'm sorry it's because of me. "What—What can I do?" The jagged edges of her fingernails pierced the skin of her forearm.

A heavy sigh fluttered from Lana's parted lips; she kicked up on the couch and flipped the paper closed, folded it in half, before she leaned against Mary Eunice's shoulder. The heat of her body sent a flush through Mary Eunice. Her heart skipped. I love it when you touch me. It makes me feel warm on the inside. What brand of friendship created the intimacy she felt for Lana, she wasn't certain, but she cherished it all the same.

A hand flicked against hers, wrapped around the softening heel of her hand and tugged it away from the open wounds she had created on her arm. "You don't do anything. You're here, where I need you." Lana smoothed the pad of one finger over Mary Eunice's bloodied fingertips; she turned her face away in embarrassment. That's a disgusting habit, she berated herself internally. "You pick when you're anxious. I don't want you to feel that way. What can I do?"

Lana's nose almost touched Mary Eunice's jaw bone. With their closeness, the abashed Mary Eunice fought a nervous trembling of her lips while seeking a response. "This makes it better." She managed it without stammering, much to her surprise, and she swallowed the collecting saliva in her mouth. "I like this."

A small, easy grin wormed its way upon Lana's lips. She lifted Mary Eunice's arm and slid underneath it, draping it over her shoulders. "I like this, too." Oh, goodness, I can smell her hair. The scent wafted up to her like fleshy, overripe strawberries. Mary Eunice could have burrowed herself into Lana's hair, could have lost herself there, could have gone into permanent hiding and never emerged. "What movie do you want to see tonight?"

"It's your birthday. You choose." The word movie sent a pang of panic through Mary Eunice, and she tightened her arm around Lana to banish the quell of nerves in her abdomen. She had no reason to fear doing something new as long as she had Lana by her side.

"You would make me choose anyway." The smile formed by Lana's lips and pearly teeth etched into Mary Eunice's memory, the reflection they cast, the nude hue where she sometimes wore lipstick. "We could see The Birds. It's a horror movie. Do you like those?"

Haven't we lived a horror movie? "I don't know. I've never seen one before. I think it would be fun." She smiled and curled her fingers in the empty air until Lana took them into a loose clutch. "A little bit like real life."

Lana laughed aloud, a wry, rueful thing, but still enough for Mary Eunice's smile to spread into a joyful grin. "Except when the scary is over, we get to drive away. We get to leave it behind." She traced the back of Mary Eunice's hand with her index finger. "In real life, it hitches a ride home and becomes a skeleton in your closet." The dark words didn't make her smile ebb, eyes returning to Mary Eunice's face. "Or it crawls into your bed and becomes your best friend."

Best friend. Mary Eunice beamed, unable to withstrain her joy even at Lana's mild, sarcastic quip. "To be fair—I was invited." You're an idiot. Of course you're friends. What else would you be? Enemies? The dark thoughts softened the temporary brightness from her eyes, but they could not banish all of the happiness curling in her tummy. Lana's touch evoked so much from inside her; even the blackest of her hateful inner voices could not measure against the love she felt for Lana.

Resting her head on Mary Eunice's shoulder, Lana's eyes drooped closed. "Does this bother you?"

"No." I love it. I want it to last forever.

"Good." A stifled yawn emerged from her parted lips, followed by a satisfied hum. In the silence, Mary Eunice watched as Lana's chest rose and fell; she didn't dare move, afraid of violating the reverie. Is she asleep? Mary Eunice tucked a lock of her chestnut hair behind her ear, and Lana didn't stir. She carried the uneven rhythm to her breathing. Yes.

Mary Eunice eased Lana's head into her lap and laid both hands upon her side. Exhaustion nibbled at her toes; she had risen so early to prepare everything for Lana's breakfast that it now caught up with her. But she's so worth it. One hand smoothed over Lana's hair. The image of Lana's nude silhouette remained implanted in her brain. Lana's worth wasn't the beauty exhaled from her body—it was in her friendship, her intrepidity, her loyalty, her courage, her love. Lana was worth so much more than her body. And all of her is beautiful.

A drawling snore awoke Lana, and she fluttered her eyelids. "Huh?" Dusk had consumed the living room, orange and shadows leaking through the windows. The light of the sunset reflected off of Mary Eunice's golden hair, giving it a strawberry hue. Her neck had wrenched backward. Parted lips uttered a snore and a wheeze. "You're going to break your neck like that." Lana lifted her head from the squish of Mary Eunice's thigh. I didn't mean to fall asleep. What time is it? Mary Eunice didn't stir. She must be exhausted.

The clock on the wall had a small hand closing in on the seven. We're going to be late for the movie if we sit around much longer. Her stomach growled. Lana rolled off of the couch, careful not to disturb Mary Eunice, and mopped a hand through her hair to straighten it out. Her clothes had wrinkled in her nap. Streaks and imprints of fabric lined her skin in pink flushes. With a sigh, she took one of the decorative couch pillows and lifted Mary Eunice's head from the back of the couch to tuck the feathered fluff under it. "Mm." Mary Eunice grunted, face shifting, but after a moment, she quieted again.

Lana went to the bathroom and straightened out her hair with the brush before she called to order the pizza. "Okay, I'll pick it up. Thanks." Behind her, in the living room, some quiet mumbles uttered from Mary Eunice, unintelligible. "Hey, sunshine. Time to wake up."

Another long snort drew forth, words forming with more clarity. "Gotta… feed the raspuhs." What? Lana pursed her lips. What's she saying now? "Mm—hope they're okay." She's dreaming yet. As Mary Eunice's head lolled back again, the pillow slipped from beneath it, and she banged her head on the wooden frame of the couch; a loud, hollow sound echoed, and Lana flinched. Mary Eunice scrambled upright. "Ow—my neck—" Both of her hands flew to the back of her head, one cradling the impact zone while the other rubbed the nape of her neck. "Lana?"

"I'm right here." Lana approached her. "Are you okay? I didn't want to wake you. You looked so peaceful." Until you almost broke your skull. She extended her arms when Mary Eunice staggered to her feet, swaying with dizziness. "Hey, take it easy. Did you have a bad dream?" She caught Mary Eunice's hands in hers.

"No—er—sort of—I guess—" Blue eyes fluttered wide and scanned the room, not lingering on Lana's face but searching beyond, the walls, the carpet. "I—I just wasn't sure where I was, for a little bit." Goosebumps erupted over the pale flesh of her exposed arms. "I thought you weren't here—for some dumb reason, I guess."

It's not dumb. Lana bit back the comforting words as she reflected on her experience of the morning, searching the home for Mary Eunice in an irrational panic that some man had come to kill them both. She did not intend to admit her fears and weaknesses to Mary Eunice. "Are you okay?" she repeated instead. One of her cold hands left Lana's to press against the back of her head. "Here, turn around. Let me see." She wheeled Mary Eunice around with gentle hands upon her shoulder and pushed her head forward, parting the thick golden hair to look underneath it; it had a silken texture, hearty but soft. Lana could have run her fingers through it for hours and savored its luster. "Where does it hurt?"

"It doesn't, it's fine." Mary Eunice's words came in a slurred mumble as she shuffled in embarrassment. She tried to twist back around, but Lana held steady. With gingerly fingers, she probed the back of Mary Eunice's head. The lump protruded. Mary Eunice cringed when Lana touched it. "It's fine," she repeated. "I'm fine." When she attempted to turn again, Lana released the soft hair from her grasp and allowed it to flow back to Mary Eunice's back. With downcast eyes, Mary Eunice's right hand plucked at the sleeve of her left arm, rolling it up.

Before she could break the skin with her fingernails, Lana stilled her hands. "Don't. Don't do that." She tugged the sleeve back down, leaving Mary Eunice to fidget. "Don't hurt yourself. What's wrong?"

Her lip plucked between her teeth; she didn't meet Lana's gaze in spite of Lana searching her for the eye contact. "I don't know. I don't remember." She squeezed Lana's hand, blue eyes on the places where their knuckles interlocked to form the mountainous range of fear seeking comfort, pain seeking reprieve, exhaustion seeking rest, all those things found in their combined grasp. "It doesn't hurt. It's sort of—I don't know." Her pearly teeth worrying her lip drew Lana's attention, the white on nude pink. "I don't mean it to hurt. It makes me feel better." It shouldn't make you feel better. "Most times, I don't realize I'm doing it."

Lana ran her thumb across the ridge of their hands, along the few veins and bones she could feel beneath the flesh without severing. She doesn't remember. But the dream had upset her. Like settling her foot on a sheet of ice and praying for it to hold steady, she asked, "Does the word 'rasper' mean anything to you?"

The instant it left her mouth, she knew she had overstepped her bounds; Mary Eunice's face drained of all color so even the faint dusting of freckles across her nose became visible. Her lips parted into a tiny, puckered O, hands gaining a tremor. "I—I—They were—" She closed her mouth to swallow. Don't speak. Wait for her. Give her time. Lana tucked the tip of her tongue between her two front teeth so she wouldn't interrupt while Mary Eunice processed. "Dr. Arden, he liked to make these—pets. Creatures."

"Make them?" Lana echoed. Her eyebrows quirked together, befuddled by the words, by the concept of creation. The tall, lean Dr. Arden sprouted into her mind with his black silhouette and shiny scalp. She had always found him odd and disconcerting, but she had never thought him dangerous. Clearly, you've absolutely no measure of who is dangerous and who isn't.

The bitter voice shushed when Mary Eunice stammered, "He—He sometimes took really ill or bad patients—the ones who were behavior problems for the sisters—and nobody saw them again. Except me." She gulped. The muscle of her tongue moved through the curve of her lips, raking across her teeth. "I—I fed them for him, outside, in the woods. He let me see what he did to them. They turned all blistered—they forgot who they were—they would eat any meat they came across."

Lana's belly flipped as she remembered the zombie-like figures she had encountered in the forest with Kit and Grace on the night they tried to escape, the way Kit had shrieked more like an eagle than a man when he pled for them to run away, run back to the asylum—for they found hell preferable to being devoured like Clara's broken body. Mary Eunice studied her face and entered a brief silence, uncomfortable, but when Lana didn't press, she continued, "We called them the raspers because of the way they breathed, all heavy, like someone with pneumonia—or really bad asthma."

Lana tugged her a little closer, congesting the space between them. "I know. I saw them." I had forgotten how afraid I was then. So much fear, different fear, other fear, and deep loss had plagued her; she had lost track of all the things she had experienced in Briarcliff, every abuse. The crackling of electricity in her brain muffled her memories, the good and the bad. She lost the shape of her cell in Briarcliff, the tone of Wendy's voice, the flavor of the semen Spivey flung at her, the fleshy flower between Wendy's legs and its savory scent.

"You did?" The disbelief hollowed Mary Eunice's expression; she became so empty when she lost faith and joy. She was fullest when she prayed. She is best when she is farthest away from you, Lana reminded herself. The measuring hint stung her innards. "When—Why? Did they hurt you?"

A smile chased the soft snort Lana allowed to pass through her nose. The sense of urgency she might have once wielded against Dr. Arden and all the evil things at Briarcliff did not come to her, vanquished by the priority of comforting Mary Eunice. The evil at Briarcliff had gotten what it deserved, and the more she wrote, the faster she could reveal all of the perversions behind those walls. "No. I saw them when I tried to run away with Kit and Grace—when there was a storm. I don't know if you remember that at all." I don't know if you remember what you did to Clara's body. Lana had no intention of bringing that to light; if Mary Eunice didn't know, she could remember in due time with no aid from Lana.

"Yes, I…" Her brow fuddled with distress. "I remember." She retreated into herself, and Lana allowed her hands to slip away as she folded herself into a tight hug, afraid or unwilling to maintain their physical contact. A flush of pink tinged her cheeks. "That was when I—behaved untowardly—in front of Dr. Arden."

Lana chuckled, free, releasing it from her chest. "I would have loved to see the look on his face. Poor man probably thought he had entered another dimension." She said poor man but did not mean it; Dr. Arden deserved every shock and trip he encountered in his path of life. She hoped the demon inside of Mary Eunice had frightened him. The trance-like emptiness of Mary Eunice's expression did not fade as she clutched her own arms and gazed down at the shag carpet. "Are you okay?" Lana pressed, delicate, gentle.

Her eyelashes fluttered. Have they always been so long? "Of course. I'm with you." She used the words as an answer too often, but each time, Lana's heartbeat skipped into her throat, pulse flicking into her neck and tongue. She places too much faith in you. You are not her God. You will make mistakes. They will destroy her. "I always know I'm okay when I'm with you."

The derogatory thoughts reverberated in her mind, but she did not let them stifle her smile, her comforting words to Mary Eunice. "C'mon. We've got to pick up the pizza."

Dark gray clouds blurred the sunset when they parked in front of the tall white billboard; the movie hadn't begun yet. Mary Eunice waited in the car, face pressed almost to the window, straining to see Lana, who had slipped off to the restroom and concessions. In the pickup truck next to them, a young couple had already tangled themselves into passion, exchanging tongues like phone numbers. Gross. Mary Eunice shrank back. The scent of the pizza wafted up from under the seats where Lana had hidden it from the staff.

The sunset dimmed the field more until the blue-gray haze left only Lana's silhouette discernible when she reentered the vehicle. "They didn't have bottled water. I got you a 7 Up." She rolled the window down and picked up the speaker, spinning the button, but with nothing projecting, no sound came out. "Oh, great. We're next to the passion pit." Lana leered at the teenagers in the pickup truck, but neither of them noticed her.

"Oh—thanks." Mary Eunice opened the soda as Lana picked up the pizza and plucked it apart. "At least they'll be quiet, won't they?" A cool breeze rustled through the car, and she shivered, tugging at her sleeves to warm her hands. The projector whirred to life, and on the billboard, a young woman entered the scene with seagulls sailing behind her in a flurry.

Lana turned the volume on the speaker all the way up and scooted closer to Mary Eunice so it wouldn't deafen her. "If they're not moaning and groaning the whole time." She dug into a piece of pizza with her teeth and grunted, gesturing for Mary Eunice to take a slice, which she did reluctantly. "The reviews on this were pretty good," she commented, both eyes trained on the big screen.

The suspenseful sounds of chattering birds and soundtrack kept Mary Eunice's eyes down to the floorboards of the car, flinching at each sudden crash or crackle from the speaker. When things quieted, she peered up at Mitch and Melanie, wound into one another with exchanged kisses. Has romance always been this dull? Through the sleeve of her sweater, her hand picked at the scabs on her arm, absent and unconscious while she observed the man and woman, tangling tongues like the teenagers in the truck beside them. They just met a few days ago. There's no reason for them to be so passionate. Besides, what about Annie? She's Melanie's friend. Melanie ought not go around like that.

Once she realized she had begun to criticize the romantic entanglements of a couple fictional characters in a movie that had otherwise bored her, she shoved the running commentary out of her mind and rubbed her fingers off on the napkin in her lap. Thunder cracked through the sky; lightning blurred the picture in white for a moment. "Shit—it's gonna storm." Lana rolled up her window as much as she could so the cold breeze no longer rattled them.

On screen, Lydia crossed into her neighbor's house. Clutter littered the scene, and Mary Eunice tensed with the distant rumble of thunder in real time, muscles drawn taut with the combined imposed terror of the incoming weather and the camera sweeping over the corpse. The eyeless sockets stared at the audience; when Lydia's scream tossed through the soundtrack, Mary Eunice jumped out of her seat. Lightning burst through the black sky. A squeak shrilled from her chest. Her fingernails dug into her skin until the soft scabs broke once more.

Like a proprietary cat crawling into its owner's lap, Lana nestled beside her and took her hand. "It's a little chilly." Mary Eunice curled into the embrace. But you're warm. As the character fled back to her vehicle, away from the mangled corpse, Mary Eunice did not relax; she cast her eyes back down to the floor of the car so the film wouldn't startle her again. Lana massaged the roughened part of her hand. "I thought you said you were okay with a scary movie."

"I thought so. I was wrong." Lana laughed and leaned against her shoulder, the soft of her cheek resting there, her hair mingling with Mary Eunice's. In the darkness of the car, only the light of the projector and occasional lightning reflecting on Lana's face, the colors of their hair were indiscernible, equal hues of gray like in a black and white picture, so she could not tell which strands belonged to her and which belonged to Lana. I like it most this way. When her body became so close to Lana's, when she no longer knew which parts belonged to her, her love for Lana smothered the fear imposed by the storm.

As rain began to patter down on them, Lana flicked on the windshield wipers to keep the picture clear. Some of the other cars cranked and left the field while those who had rested in lawn chairs packed up into their vehicles. The cab light in the pickup truck next to them flicked on, attracting Mary Eunice's gaze; the girl's bare bosom flashed as she scrambled back into her brassiere. Tears ran down her pink face, all streaked and blotchy. "Shit," Lana murmured at the screen, having not seen the distressed teenager. "I think they're about to get eaten by birds."

Blood trickled out of the boy's nose when he sat up and took the wheel. The cab light flicked out. She shouldn't feel like that. What did he do to her to make her cry like that? Another rocking crash of thunder ripped her out of her reverie; she recoiled, and the pickup truck drove away, the silhouettes of the passengers drawn apart from one another. "Hey, it's okay. It's just a little weather." Lana folded both of her hands over Mary Eunice's. The right clutched hers in a grasp while the left traced the mountains and crevices they created, the knuckles and veins.

Her left hand curved to press to the tender veins inside of Mary Eunice's wrist, measuring her rapid pulse while Mary Eunice fought to keep from panting. "You've got a firing squad for a heart." The pads of her fingers rested there for a moment longer as Mary Eunice ducked her head, ashamed at the fear provoked by the storm. "Do you want to go home?"

"No, I'm fine." Mary Eunice squeezed Lana's hand in a gentle flex, grounding herself. The rain showered upon them and muffled the audio from the film. "I want to see how the movie ends."

A dark chuckle rose from Lana's lips, and she nodded back to the screen. "Well, I can tell you that. Horror movies are always similar." Mesmerized, Mary Eunice watched the reflection of the light on Lana's face. "The blonde girl and the guy are going to end up together at the end—they're both safe. The girl will probably be injured so he can swoop in and save her, but she'll survive. The kid is safe, too. A director would never risk deterring an audience with a dead kid."

It also reflected on her teeth. Her breath brushed Mary Eunice's cheek. "The brunette is definitely going to die, probably in a horrible way, to remove romantic conflict for the man so he doesn't have to choose between her and the blonde. Given the context of this movie, I'll guess the birds will disembowel her."

Mary Eunice cringed at the prospect of having her innards torn from her body, and her right hand covered the squishy flesh of her belly beneath her sweater like a bird might shatter the windshield and pluck out her organs at any moment. "The only fate that's uncertain is the older woman. She may live or she may die. If she dies, she'll go out with a bang—sacrificing herself for one of her children and delivering some dramatic last line about seeing her husband again. If she lives, she will remain another woman reliant on the leading male character for survival. So now you know how it ends."

The thunder's arrival came in a rumble rather than a window-crushing crack, and Lana eased nearer, hands shaking the fear from Mary Eunice before it could claim her. Mary Eunice swallowed. "I don't want Annie to die. I like her."

Lana bumped her head against Mary Eunice's shoulder. Her face glowed. How does she remain so calm? How does this not bother her? With all she's seen—she finds humor in this. "You'll have to direct movies, then, if you want female characters who aren't the needy, dispensable shadows of men." The lightning gave her an ethereal beam. She's just like an angel. "Why do you like her? She's meant to come between the two main characters. You're not supposed to like her."

"She reminds me of you." You're prettier, and you wouldn't give up your whole life to chase a man, but of the available characters—The bright giggle worming from Lana's chest froze Mary Eunice's thoughts from a flowing stream into a glacial chunk. "Why do you think that's so funny? I think she's very nice."

"Oh, she's fine. Yes, she could be me if I were much more attractive and cared anything for men or for children." Thunder shook the earth and sky, Mary Eunice jerking in surprise. "It looks like everyone's leaving." The wind whisked through the field in a heavy gale. The car rocked on its tires. Lana struggled to remove her hand from Mary Eunice's tight, white-knuckled grasp. "We better go. I'm not dying in a tornado to see a bad horror movie. Hey—it's okay. It's just some weather. Let go." She tugged her fingers loose from the place where they had interlocked like rusted metal machinery that had gone ungreased for too long.

Mary Eunice hiccuped in surprise and snatched free. "I'm sorry—" She folded her arms into one another, each hand burying into the crook of the opposite elbow. "I don't like storms."

"I'm aware." Lightning ripped the sky like a sheer curtain beneath a cat's claws. The static flared in the air as it struck a light pole; their hair stood up. Mary Eunice coiled into a frightened ball and squashed her hands over her ears to muffle the explosion, vibrations rolling through the hollows of their chests and skulls. "Jesus fucking Christ!" With her knees tucked up to her chest and her face buried into them, she didn't dare move to look at Lana. Her throat swelled with the heart leaping into it. But hands pawed around her body like a monkey grappling a branch. "Here, I'm right here. Shit, my ears are ringing."

Lana's voice carried a muffled echo, shouting from the opposite end of a long, winding tunnel. The car rocked when she cranked it and drove away from the blank billboard; the picture had vanished, projector either no longer operating or extinguished by the theater employees. She kept the flat of one hand resting on the middle of Mary Eunice's back, clutching her, rubbing in circles of attempted comfort. The patter of the rain became a sideways sheet, smashing against the windshield and reflecting the headlights no farther than a few feet in front of the vehicle.

The mingled mud and gravel flung up into pavement, quieting, so Lana's words were audible when she asked, "What's wrong?" No, I don't want to talk about it—I don't want to think about it. The memory bulged her dry tongue into a stagnant flab; she had not revisited it in years. Her lips made a watery line. "Sister?" Her stomach heaved with the title, and she gulped to keep from vomiting. I can't, Lana—don't make me. "Mary Eunice?"

The word, her own name, swallowed her into an underbelly of unvisited memories, blackness shrouding her tiny bedroom. Outside, the wind howled and battered against the window panes. The little girl through whose eyes she viewed the scene tucked the covers up tight to her chin, but when thunder shook the walls, she could not restrain the bleated plea. "Mama! Mama!"

A lantern cast a long shadow of the woman on the wall as she entered the room. Mama bent at the waist. A strange expression drawled across her face, absent, eyes not focused upon her. Her long hair hung haggard and tangled, gown rumpled and unwashed, but to Mary Eunice, she was the most beautiful woman alive. "Mary Eunice." Her tone held a hollow tone. A slur punctuated her string of words, almost unintelligible to the five-year-old mind. "We talked 'bout this. Sleep in your own bed." She would learn, many years later, that her mother had already taken the drugs which poisoned her mind and cast her into a sleep from which she would never awaken. "Remember what Father August says."

"Give your problems 'n fears to Jesus," Mary Eunice repeated like a mantra. But thunder pealed over the home once more, and she folded her knees up to her chest, hands fisted into the blankets. "Mama, please! I'm scared!"

"No. G'night." Mama began to close the door to the bedroom, face peering downward at the carpeted floor.

"Wait, Mama—Mama!" The door slammed closed with a clumsy stumble of the adult, leaving Mary Eunice on the other side. A broken sob wrenched from her, and she raced from the bed to slam against the wooden frame. "Mama, please!" she wailed. Her tiny fists pummeled the unforgiving wooden surface. "I love you! Mama, I'll be good, I promise!" Lightning lit the room and shrouded her into darkness again, so heavy she could not see the gleam of the doorknob to free herself from the prison, and she sank onto the floor, back propped up against the door.

The storm raged and her awareness hazed; when she snatched awake from the frigid grip of sleep, goosebumps ridged her arms and legs, and the tips of her toes stained a white-blue. The thunder had dulled from sharp cracks of a whip to steady, distant rumbles. The wind's shriek transformed into a frightening siren's song, a lullaby sung by a malevolent stranger seeking the hand of a child. Mary Eunice leapt to her feet and wrested the bedroom door open. She fled through the dark of the hall into the ajar door of her mother's bedroom; her parents had once shared it, but that was a long time ago. "Mama?" Mama lay with her back to Mary Eunice on top of the covers, dark hair streaming out behind her.

Mary Eunice fought to lift herself onto the bed. The first time, her weak arms gave out, and she fell onto her bum on the floor. Grunting, she used her foot on the edge of the bed frame to haul her body onto the mattress. "Why aren't you under the blankets? It's so cold." The lower portion of Mama's arms had discolored, purple and blue, like bruises. Mary Eunice lifted one of them. The limb almost refused to bend, all stiff like a thick stick, and she wormed her way underneath it.

The coldness of her mother's body stung her. Her skin didn't feel like skin; it had no natural warmth to it. Mama's scent had dissipated, replaced by something bitter underlying. "Mama?" she whispered, doubting herself now. "Are you okay?" She touched the frigid, colorless cheek. "Mama, wake up." She's going to be mad if you wake her up. She's going to make you go back to bed. "Mama! Wake up! Mama!" But the stiff corpse did not move, could not move, permanently arrested by the kiss of death and the taste of two empty bottles of pills.

Give your problems and fears to Jesus. "Dear God, please wake up my mama so she can get under the blankets and get warm again." Big tears formed in her eyes. "Please make the thunder 'n lightning go away so it's not all dark and scary and cold. Please make Mama warm again. Please make her wake up! Please wake her up!" Each plea grew louder, less patient, more desperate, until the words lost all of their coherence. The wind faded, but her wails did not.

When the neighbors heard her screaming, they called the police. "Don't! I don't wanna! Don't take her away!" The officer shifted her onto his other shoulder so she couldn't see the bed anymore. "I just gotta wake her up! Jesus will make her better!" In the blur past his head, two more men spread a long white sheet over the body. She never saw Mama again.

The frigidness of the memory melted at the embrace sucking her, her face burrowed into a moving chest, a beating heart against her cheekbone; it throbbed too fast, the ribs expanding with a lost rhythm. A chin rested on top of her head, and thin arms wrapped around her. Like a child, the lap and arms enveloped her, but her legs spilled out, unable to fit into the awkward fold. A shudder chilled her to the depth of her bones. Rain poured and popped on the metal roof of the car, but the motor had died.

"Sister, you're scaring me." Lana. But Mary Eunice kept her eyes pinched closed. Heat smothered her face, all the streaky snot there from the sobs she had lost, fleeing from her chest after the crack of lightning cast her back into Annapolis, back into her mother's bedroom. She released no more of them now. Her throat burned like she had screamed. Maybe she had. "Are you okay?" I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. The mantra repeated like from a parrot's tongue; instead of an adjective berating herself, she formed the phrase and focused on it. She didn't know. Her psyche swam between the small child looped under a corpse's chilled arm and an adult nun burrowed in the embrace of a sinner, the only one who had ever cared enough to hug her. "Do you hear me?"

A jerky nod followed. Through Lana's chest where she pressed her ear, she heard the whoosh of air from lungs; the sigh tickled the hair atop her head. "You're here with me. You're safe." Safe. I'm with Lana. I'm always safe with Lana. In Lana, she had found a sanctuary, a loyal protector. Her breath quivered, but her tears did not continue to fall. She had exhausted all of them. "Did you remember something?"

Yes. Mary Eunice didn't trust her voice. Nothing about her deserved trust, not her voice, not her arms, not her legs, not her hands, not her faith; all of them would fail, had failed her before, had failed Mama and Aunt Celest and Molly and even God. You are a failure. She nodded with another jerk of her head.

Lana's hand lifted her chin up from the safe tuck against her chest and wiped the tears from her cheeks. The wet eyes dared to flicker open and land on Lana's face. She had shed her jacket; it rested in a snug drape over Mary Eunice's shoulders. "You're still shivering. Can you walk? We should go inside and warm you up."

She peered up at the house through the spray of heavy rain against the windshield. We made it home. The trip had vanished before her eyes, consumed in the past. "I'm okay." The wind ate the bare whisper like a famished wolf leaping onto a defenseless animal, but Lana understood, read her lips. Neither of them surged into movement. Lana held her in that cradled position, arms coiled around her, and her eyelids closed. Behind them, a red-eyed demon had made its imprint, glowering at her. Jesus didn't save her. Jesus has never saved anyone. He won't save you. He won't save Lana.

The inhuman voice sparked her eyes wide into flight, and as she tensed, so did Lana, bracing herself for the next wave. Her lower lip rocked between her teeth and tasted of blood. A breath rattled in her throat, forming a series of broken grunts. Stop it. You can't even speak, you idiot. Lana smoothed a hand over her hair. "Let's go inside." Wind buffeted them all the way into the house, somehow at their fronts and their backs in the same gust. Lana held her upright through the shrieks of the wind, and they entered the living room. Lana stripped her of the sodden outer coat and smothered her in the throw off of the back of the couch. "Stay. I'll be right back."

True to her word, Lana returned in the blink of an eye with Tylenol and a glass of red wine. I can't. The objection died on Mary Eunice's tongue when Lana wrapped them both in a long comforter. "Drink it. It will calm your nerves." It must've been really bad. Lana had never offered her alcohol before, always respecting her faith and her objection to drunkenness. "Just relax. I'm right here. I've got you." The wine tasted like underripe grapes, sour toeing the line of bitterness. Her lip curled as she choked on it, forced it down into her stomach. "Good, good." Lana's hands roamed her, claiming her back and her shoulders and her waist and her hair, unable to linger on any place for too long. Mary Eunice closed her eyes. When those cruel red eyes gleamed back at her, she thought of Lana's face, the soft depth of her brown eyes.

"Good. You're okay." Lana took the glass from her once she had drained it. "'For I know the plans I have for you,' says the Lord," she quoted. "'Plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.'" Oh, Lana. A tender finger tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "I don't know many Bible verses. All the years in church didn't do as much as I had hoped." A weak smile touched Mary Eunice's face. One of Lana's thumbs smeared across her lips, curved into her dimple, mapping it. "There she is. There's that smile. Do you feel better now?"

"Mhm." Mary Eunice rested her head on the curve of Lana's collarbone, and Lana's arms held her in a fortress of strength and safety. Her eyelashes brushed the soft underside of Lana's jaw. "'M sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your birthday."

The fingers combing against her scalp almost made her keen with delight. Must be the wine. Her inhibitions had shrunk down to miniscule pebbles lining the bottom of a calm pool of water. "You didn't ruin anything," Lana assured her. "You scared me half to death, but that's another matter." Don't be silly. You're not afraid of anything. "I thought you were having a seizure."

Shameful blush crawled over Mary Eunice's neck and cheeks. "I'm sorry." Not a seizure. Just a conniption. Her stomach hiccuped with embarrassment, twisted with the influence of the alcoholic beverage, and she gulped to ensure she kept it down. Airy Mary can't hold her sherry. It's wine. Wine doesn't rhyme. "Are you okay?" You scared her. You're terrible. Stupid stupid stupid. The dark inner voice, the one she always carried with her to tear down her self-esteem and pride, distorted in pitch, first sinking low into the bass, then high in the treble. The shredded syllables shrank the grip of her self-hatred.

Soft lips pressed into Mary Eunice's hair, and Lana inhaled, long and deep. "I'm fine." She uttered the words like a prayer against the helix of Mary Eunice's ear. "Remind me to have a mental breakdown on your birthday, and we'll be even-Steven." A giggle, girlish and nervous, fluttered from Mary Eunice's throat; whether induced by Lana's teasing words or the sensation of her moist breath against Mary Eunice's cold skin, she wasn't certain. "When is your birthday?"

"I dunno."

"You don't know?" Lana repeated. A quirk appeared between her eyebrows, furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean, you don't know?"

Mary Eunice shrugged, but trouble twirled upon her lips, a twist as she considered the events and the memory. "After Mama died, I went to an orphanage for awhile, and then Aunt Celest came and found me—but in all of that, they lost my birth certificate." Lana's hand had stilled on her shoulder, in her hair, and Mary Eunice took it to toy with it. "Aunt Celest thought I was born in March or April, so she decided we would celebrate it on Easter every year." A yawn built in the heavy hollow of her throat, but she resisted it, swallowed it. "It was easier that way. Fewer dates to remember for all of us."

She had not assuaged Lana's concerns; the frown upon her lips remained, a mingling of concern and pity. Mary Eunice gazed down at her hand to memorize the bending of knuckles and veins in its back. With her fingertips, she mapped those bumps and gaps in the bones. Lana's silence carried through and swelled in Mary Eunice's stomach, tossing into a quickening pulse. But when her voice came, it was shy, unusual for Lana's intrepid nature. "Can I give you a day?"

Taken aback, Mary Eunice blinked and searched Lana's eyes for reason. Nothing laid there but the warmth and affection with which Lana always regarded her. "Why?"

"Because you deserve a real birthday. I want to give you a real one."

"Mm… Okay." Mary Eunice could not think of a reasonable argument, and with Lana's smell and touch so close to her, cradling her broken spirit, she saw no reason to object to Lana's whim. "Whenever you want, then." You need to ice the cake. Her lower lip wormed between her teeth as she listened for the wind outside; it rattled the windows, but with the curtains drawn and the living room cast in darkness, she could forget the storm. The heat of Lana's body protected her from facing the weather alone. She would never clutch a cold, stiff corpse again.

Lana shifted to tuck her feet up beside her on the cushion of the couch. "Do you like April fourteenth? Is that okay?" Mary Eunice nodded, eyes half-closed. One of Lana's hands caught her cold cheek, supporting her head, meeting her eyes. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

No. Mary Eunice had never learned the word. Lana wore an invitation under her nose, extended it like a hand to be clutched. And Mary Eunice did want to tell Lana. She had never told anyone. She didn't view the memory often enough, and it burned her like the touch of a demon pinning her wrists and ankles together. "It was a long time ago," she hedged. The urge to pick at her arm reared its head, so she tightened her hold upon Lana's hand to keep it stifled.

"It wasn't about Briarcliff?"

"No. It was my mother." Outside the home, thunder cracked again, and the lamp light flickered but did not die. The temporary darkness, or perhaps her words, sent Lana curling up against her, bodies curving into one another with the long blanket forming a cocoon around them. In the fort of shared body heat, the weather could not touch them. "It was storming when I found her—her body."

Her eyelids fluttered downward. The lightbulbs clicked in unison, so when she opened them, she saw nothing. In spite of the sudden darkness, Lana didn't interrupt her. "I didn't understand why she wouldn't wake up, why she was so cold and stiff…" Each time Lana's chest rose against her body, it reminded her of Lana's vitality, of her soul, of her presence. She won't leave. I'm with her. I'm safe. "I prayed for her to come back, but she didn't. She didn't wake up at all."

The wine had numbed her, so she didn't cry; she had exhausted her tear ducts in the car. Lana pressed another tender kiss to the top of her head, into her hair, and she lingered there in their warm embrace. The rest of the house had begun to cool without electricity, but each of them served as the other's space heater. "I'm sorry." Lana murmured the words against Mary Eunice's skin, like she would absorb their emotion into her very flesh. "I can't believe you have seen so much and still are so soft." She toyed with Mary Eunice's hair between her fingertips. "The world has been so cold to you. You didn't deserve any of that."

"The Lord never gives us any more than we can carry." Mary Eunice closed her eyes and focused on the place where her skin touched Lana's, the heat pulsing between them, the tingling of her nerve endings triggered by Lana's nerve endings, every synapse firing to remind her Lana held her. "I need to ice your cake," she murmured. "It'll get stale."

"I put bread on top of it before we left. It'll be fine."

They rested in a lull, Mary Eunice listening to Lana's heartbeat and all of the things it meant. When the lights came back on, Lana stirred. She had dark, wrinkled circles beneath her eyes, punctuated areas where she needed sleep. "I'm going to take a shower." As Mary Eunice's eyes fluttered wide, lips puckered into a protest, Lana shushed her. "Five minutes, okay? I'll be right out. It'll be fine."

It's not safe. Mary Eunice's sleepy blinks and befuddled mind could not object, so as Lana stood, so did she, lumbering into the kitchen where she whipped up the icing as instructed in the recipe book with copious amounts of sugar, milk, butter, and a slip of vanilla extract. It came out smooth and creamy, and she slathered it onto the cake with a butter knife in a thick, white layer. I hope it tastes alright. It'll have to be good for Lana to eat all of it.

She clicked the lid onto the cake pan and started toward the couch to pick up the blanket; mid-step, the light died once again. In the sudden blackness, her heart leapt into her throat. The sound of the shower pulsing through the walls also vanished. The power went out. It's fine. It's nothing you haven't seen before. With the determination thrusting her further, heart swelling into terror, she seized the comforter and fumbled for its edges to fold it up. All of the things she could not see unnerved her fingers; invisible eyes fixed upon her, peering from the walls, the ceiling, the curtains. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Don't be ridiculous. You're too old to be afraid of the dark. How many nights did you stay alone in the dark at Briarcliff?

She had clung to her book of matches too many nights, room illuminated by wax candles, broken window leaking frigid air into her chambers; too many nights, she had patrolled the hallways with an oil lantern, not because she was assigned duties, but because even the company of bedlamites was preferable to no company at all. Too many nights, Dr. Arden had welcomed her to his office and stayed with her in favor of returning to his own home; too many nights, Sister Jude allowed her into the kitchen to mix tomorrow's dough and watched her with sleepy eyes and tousled hair beneath her coif, her hard manner of love coming with long toiling hours and sharp quips. And on the worst of the nights, when she dared rouse no one else, she found Pepper, and they worked together in the library, sorting papers and magazines, Mary Eunice making one-sided conversation while Pepper occasionally grunted or hummed or provided an answer in her own language. I always found love—even broken love.

In spite of all those things, all those people building her, she thought she appreciated Lana most of all. Lana had no ulterior motive for looking after her, and Lana's love felt the most pure and unadulterated and soft. Nothing bound Lana to her, no church vows or unfulfilled libido. Lana acted of her own goodness, and Mary Eunice reciprocated all of those feelings. The sight of her face made her heart skip and her belly squeeze and filled her with such overwhelming affection, a cup which spilled over continuously. This love isn't broken. It's the best I've ever known. I am so blessed, and I must give thanks always. The Lord has provided. Lana is the greatest gift I have ever received. With the folded comforter draped over one arm, she placed a hand over her chest where her heart quelled beneath the skin, throbbing, racing, flushing with the thought of her friend. She is so much more than a friend.

"Sister? Where are you?" Lana's feet made no sound on the carpet as she wandered with her arms extended in search of her. She found Mary Eunice's arm, the blanket folded over it. "Are you okay? The batteries in the flashlight are dead. I can't see anything."

"I'm fine," Mary Eunice reassured. Lana did not relinquish her but instead led her by the hand back to the bedroom, feet squishing into the shag carpet. "Will the things in the fridge be alright?"

"They should be. It doesn't usually stay off for very long." When they folded themselves beneath the covers of the bed, Lana's arms held fast to Mary Eunice, a child clinging to a teddy bear. "I've got you," she assured. She's protecting me, Mary Eunice realized. Lana had staked a claim and guarded it fiercely, wet hair sharing Mary Eunice's pillow. The notion spread a smile on Mary Eunice's face. "Sweet dreams," Lana wished her.

"G'night," Mary Eunice murmured. "I love you." Lana's nose pressed into her pulse point, closer than anyone had ever held her before—and how freely Lana did it, how effortlessly, like closing the spaces between their bodies was no trouble at all, like she preferred when they filled the empty air. Moist lips gave her a flush kiss upon the cheek, providing the only answer Mary Eunice could have hoped for. She touched Lana's hair, combing her hands through its brown shade; with its luster beneath her fingers, she eased into sleep.