Ch.16

Charlotte was still sitting at the kitchen table when Mac came home. The stove clock told her it was well after midnight, as the near empty bottle of whiskey in her hand should have told her not to engage Mac while she was intoxicated. Liquid courage had her standing up from the table, turning to face her brother as he closed the door.

"You're a bastard," she slurred by way of greeting. Mac raised an eyebrow at her, frowning as his eyes tracked the bottle clasped in her hand.

"The fuck are you still doing up?" Charlotte moved toward him, taking another gulp of the amber liquid.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she hissed, glazed eyes glaring daggers. "Why are you such a sick bastard?" Mac grabbed at the bottle, jerking it from her grasp and slamming it onto the counter. Charlotte stumbled, barely catching herself against the table before she hit the ground in a drunken pile.

"What are you talking about?" Mac was, for once, genuinely confused and that frustrated him beyond belief.

"The girl, Mac!" Charlotte raged throwing her fist out crookedly as her vision swam a bit; it connected with his chest just barely. "The girl you didn't remember, the girl you raped!" Her fist continued to pound against his front, frustrated and sloppy punches. None of them hurt, but the act was starting to make Mac mad. He tried to grab her wrists, stop her fists, but she pulled away. She took several steps back, but fear wasn't her guide. Fury lit her hazy pewter eyes, brighter than he'd seen even in Walter.

"You're a monster," she whispered, "Did you picture me? Was it some horror-show way to punish me cause I don't "get wet for you" anymore?" The words were Rick's; Mac remembered confiding in his brother one night a month or so back while he'd been drunk.

"Charlotte," Mac growled in warning, beckoning her to him with a finger.

"Fuck you!" She spat. Her hand came to the whiskey bottle again; her left hand this time, allowing him to see that her knuckles on that hand were poorly wrapped in what once was nude colored gauze. It was stained red now, some little lines trailed down her arm from beneath. Dry blood trails.

"Charlotte what the fuck did you do to your hand?" Concern tinged his words, Charlotte smiled. It wasn't a bright or happy grin, but grotesque as she lifted the wounded hand. He tried to move closer, but with every step he took forward, she moved two back.

"Are you worried Mac?" the words were harsh and mocking. He thought she'd back herself into the wall, trapping herself, but she circled the table that awful smile still plastered on her lips.

"Charlotte, what did you do?" she looked down at the bottle, still gripped in her uninjured hand. Her smile turned down as she swirled the liquid contents. Her eyes flicked up to his again, and her smile returned. He didn't realize what she was planning until the bottle was flying through the air toward his head. Mac ducked to the right and the glass clattered to the floor, cascading in rivers of booze and shards. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Mac shouted. Charlotte slinked up to him, coming close enough to wrap her arms around his neck.

"What's wrong with me?" she breathed against his ear. "I've been thinking about that. You want to know what I decided?" Mac's hand squeezed her hip sharply. "You broke me," she murmured breathily, the pain drawing a moan to her lips. "You tore me apart and then you did it again. You used that girl to satisfy all those sick thoughts you've had since the first time you saw me. All those perverse fantasies you could never act out." His hands shoved her back, one hand staying clamped around her wrist like a vice and the other coming down across her cheek with a resounding smack. Her lip split and blood welled in her mouth. Charlotte cackled through the pain, wiping her good hand across her lip. She watched as blood pooled on her pale flesh.

"You hate it because it's the truth," she taunted, flinging droplets of blood from her hand to his cheek. Mac's tongue swiped out, catching some of the droplets from the corner of his lip, than stalked toward her again, intent on violence. But Charlotte was in the living room before he'd taken five steps.

"Don't you dare," Mac warned as she opened the door. She leveled that terrible smile on him again, jingling her keys as her final mocking gesture before she swaggered out of the house and gracefully as she could manage in her less than sober state. Mac heard her truck door slam, followed by the rumbling of the old engine sputtering to life. He didn't go after her, telling himself that he didn't care what happened. He didn't clean up the kitchen either. He moved down the hall to the bedroom, stopping in the doorway as his eyes scanned over hand printed trails of blood on the walls around the bathroom. He moved forward slowly, coming to the bathroom. Shards of glass littered the linoleum floor; little pools of blood smeared and sent pieces of glass floating. The mirror above the sink was gone, the first aid kid spilling across the blood and glass covered floor.

Jesus Christ.