{"id":8295,"date":"2016-01-01T11:24:26","date_gmt":"2016-01-01T16:24:26","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/cemeterydanceonline.com\/?p=7311"},"modified":"2016-01-01T11:24:26","modified_gmt":"2016-01-01T16:24:26","slug":"the-hands-that-hold-the-lies-that-bind-by-damien-angelica-walters","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.cemeterydance.com\/extras\/the-hands-that-hold-the-lies-that-bind-by-damien-angelica-walters\/","title":{"rendered":""The Hands That Hold, the Lies That Bind" by Damien Angelica Walters"},"content":{"rendered":"

Cemetery Dance Online Exclusive Fiction<\/span>
\n\u201cThe Hands That Hold, the Lies That Bind\u201d
\nby
\nDamien Angelica Walters
\n<\/strong><\/h2>\n

The thorn breaks through Callie\u2019s skin, rising from her left shoulder like a small, jagged periscope. There\u2019s no pain, no blood, only a strange sensation creeping the length of her spine. The barb, about the length and width of a fingernail, is a shade darker than her skin, its shape a tiny shark\u2019s fin, the skin around it slightly ridged. <\/span><\/p>\n

She covers her mouth, holding in a laugh because it\u2019s not funny. It\u2019s not funny at all. She takes a deep breath, stares at the posters\u2014the Avengers and Star Wars\u2014on her bedroom wall for a long time, then at her shoulder again. The thorn\u2019s still there. This time she does let out a laugh because it\u2019s ridiculous. Lots of weird things happen when you\u2019re twelve\u2014pimples, breasts, boys snapping your bra strap in class, your dad leaving and moving to the opposite side of the country\u2014but thorns aren\u2019t one of them. At least they\u2019re not supposed to be.<\/span><\/p>\n

Her laugh stutters to a halt. She has a thorn. In her shoulder. Call Mia, she thinks. But two months ago when Callie got her period in Ms. Llewellyn\u2019s class, Mia told everyone. More than half the girls in seventh grade\u2014including Mia\u2014already had theirs. It shouldn\u2019t have been a big deal, and Callie still doesn\u2019t understand why Mia did it; they\u2019ve been best friends since preschool. This, though? This puts her in freak territory. <\/span><\/p>\n

The tip of the thorn is bone hard and sharp and probably would\u2019ve cut through the strap of her tank top if it emerged beneath it instead of next to it. The shivery feel in her spine returns. She bares her teeth, growls softly, then shakes her head. Growling? That makes her an even bigger freak. Tears burn in her eyes, and she squeezes her lids shut to try and hold them in. This can\u2019t be happening. \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCallie?\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

Callie\u2019s gaze snaps wide-eyed to the doorway. Her mom\u2019s face goes still and sheds its color. Instinctively, Callie covers the thorn with a cupped palm, but it\u2019s too late.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d her mom says, her face dropping its mask, turning all flint-hard eyes and twisted lips. \u201cDon\u2019t touch it.\u201d She moves so fast that Callie steps back until her legs hit the edge of the mattress, panic flooding her mouth. She wants to get away from those eyes, that mouth, but there\u2019s nowhere to go.<\/span><\/p>\n

Her mom\u2019s face shifts again to something with slightly less menace. \u201cOkay. We\u2019ll take care of this. Everything will be fine,\u201d she says, her eyes darting around the room. Then she nods, as though in answer to some silent question, and grabs Callie\u2019s upper arm, fingers digging in hard. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMom, let go, that hurts.\u201d She can\u2019t remember the last time, if ever, her mom touched her this way, or even with anything other than a brief hug. Even before Dad left. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBe quiet and come with me.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

In the bathroom, her mother lets go and points to the toilet. \u201cSit.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhy?\u201d Callie says, rubbing her upper arm.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBecause I said so.\u201d Her mom\u2019s eyes are fire, her mouth a whip.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat if I don\u2019t want\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSit!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie closes the lid and sits, knees pressed together, mouth dry, while her mom rummages in the medicine cabinet and pulls out antibiotic ointment, an adhesive bandage, and tweezers.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat are you going to do?\u201d Callie asks.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat needs to be done.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie covers the thorn again.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI said don\u2019t touch it!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The tears return, and Callie\u2019s heart races so fast she\u2019s afraid it will leap from her chest. \u201cWhat is it? And why are you\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI said be quiet,\u201d her mom says between clenched teeth.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNot until you tell me\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cEnough! It has to come out. This isn\u2019t debatable. It has to come out now before it can take root.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

Sorrow glitters in her mother\u2019s eyes, too, and that isn\u2019t new\u2014she\u2019s been crying almost every day since Dad left\u2014but these are different somehow. \u201cTake root? What do you mean?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Her mom presses the back of her hand to her mouth, but Callie hears a sob trying to escape, a strange, animalistic sound. The hardness flashes in her eyes again.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMom, I\u2019m scared,\u201d Callie says. \u201cDid I do something wrong?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

The harsh edges fall from her mother\u2019s face as quickly as her hand falls. \u201cNo, no, nothing like that. The, the, <\/span>it<\/span><\/i> has to come out, that\u2019s all. Everything will be fine. I promise.\u201d She brushes hair from her forehead and takes up the tweezers.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI can do it,\u201d Callie says.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo. I\u2019ll take care of it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

But her mom pauses, her fingers trembling, the tweezers a few inches above Callie\u2019s shoulder. Silence hangs heavy and thick. Then her mom starts humming, a strange rhythmic sound that makes the hairs on the back of her neck rise. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMom?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She doesn\u2019t respond. Puts tweezers to thorn. Callie glances away. It feels as though her mom\u2019s pulling something out from deep inside, and it burns both fire and ice. Callie tries to hold in a cry. Tries and fails. Her mom hums louder, but Callie hears something else, something she can\u2019t define. A voice, yet not a voice, and it\u2019s not coming from her mom. Then it\u2019s gone, and the only things she\u2019s aware of are an ache in her shoulder and a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Eyes glassy, her mom squeezes a pearl of antibiotic ointment over the now bleeding wound and affixes the bandage before Callie can get a closer look. \u201cThankfully, it was a small one. It shouldn\u2019t even leave a scar,\u201d she says with a smile so artificially bright and cheery that Callie recoils. <\/span><\/p>\n

Her mother seemingly pays no attention. Callie reaches for the thorn, now discarded on the edge of the sink, the wider end speckled with blood, but her mom gets to it first. Their gazes lock and hold. Again, the false smile.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d Callie whispers.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s nothing. We don\u2019t need to talk about it. Everything\u2019s fine now.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt isn\u2019t nothing. It was inside me, and I don\u2019t even know\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo one, not even Mia, can know about this.\u201d She grabs Callie\u2019s arm again, gives it a small shake. \u201cDo you understand?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBut\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDo. You. Understand?\u201d Her fingers dig in deeper with each word.<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie nods. \u201cWill it happen again?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Her mom flinches but leaves the bathroom without answering, taking the thorn with her. Callie rubs her arm, where her mom\u2019s grip left bright red fingermarks, and then her shoulder. She nudges the bathroom door shut with her foot and peels one end of the bandage free. The wound, already beginning to scab, looks normal, as far as scratches go. What scares her more than the unanswered questions, the strange anger, or what she thinks she heard, is that her mom was upset and angry, but she wasn\u2019t surprised. Not completely.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie taps her pencil on the kitchen table. Her homework is long finished, leftovers warmed and eaten. <\/span>Working late<\/span><\/i>, her mom\u2019s text message said. Callie wanted to talk to her this morning, but she was already gone when Callie woke up. As if <\/span>that<\/span><\/i> wasn\u2019t suspicious at all.<\/span><\/p>\n

She runs her index finger across the bandage. What if another thorn pops out? What if it happens in school? What\u2019s she supposed to do, run out of class before anyone notices? Right. <\/span><\/p>\n

She\u2019s already looked online. She found a couple of books with the words <\/span>girl<\/span><\/i> and <\/span>thorn<\/span><\/i> in their titles, including one she already has\u2014and it has nothing to do with random thorns popping out of anyone\u2019s skin\u2014and a bunch of tattoo pictures. She didn\u2019t really expect to find anything saying hey, here\u2019s what you do when thorns start growing out of your skin, but it would\u2019ve been nice to find <\/span>something<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n

If her dad were still here, she knows she could talk to him about it. He wouldn\u2019t brush her off or treat her like a little kid (or pretend a thorn was nothing major, nothing to talk about); he never did. Chest aching, she rests her head on the table, thumbing the edge of her open sketch pad. She misses the way he hugged her at night before bed, the way they\u2019d sit next to each other on the sofa reading. She misses hearing his voice, misses hearing him call her <\/span>punkin<\/span><\/i>. She doesn\u2019t miss the fights he had with her mom, or the way he worked late a lot, and maybe he didn\u2019t talk to her as much when things got really bad, but that wasn\u2019t her fault. You don\u2019t divorce your kids. You <\/span>don\u2019t<\/span><\/i>.<\/span><\/p>\n

She cocks her head closer to the wound. Listens. After a few minutes, she makes a face. What was she expecting anyway? Whatever she thought she heard was probably her imagination. She pulls off the bandage. Digs her thumbnail in and hisses in pain as she scrapes off the scab. No matter what her mom said, she wants a scar. There <\/span>should<\/span><\/i> be a scar.<\/span><\/p>\n

When her mom finally comes home, she\u2019s wearing her I-had-a-bad-day-at-the-office-and-hate-everyone face, and her eyes are still wearing the hard, flinty veil, so Callie keeps her mouth shut. Even though she worked late, her mom\u2019s makeup is perfect and her clothes aren\u2019t wrinkled. She\u2019s all high cheekbones, sharp comma collarbones, and fair hair.<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie\u2019s round-cheeked, soft and dark, her eyes a touch too far apart, her mouth a little too wide. Maybe not ugly, but not pretty, not like her mom. She doesn\u2019t really resemble her dad either. One time he joked that she was the mailman\u2019s child, and her mom got mad and didn\u2019t talk to him for the rest of the day. Callie thought it was funny but knew better than to say so. <\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Hi, Dad, it\u2019s me, Callie. Um, school\u2019s going good I guess. I hope your new job is too. Is it really warm there? Do you get to go and swim in the ocean? Probably not because you\u2019re so busy with work, but <\/span><\/i>I<\/span> would if I were there, even if I were super busy. Anyway, I wanted to say I love you and I miss you. Call me back soon, okay? <\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie sleeps late on Saturday morning, and when she goes downstairs, her mom\u2019s outside, still in her pajamas and robe, smoking a cigarette, something she only does when she\u2019s really stressed. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMom?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She exhales a plume of smoke before she turns around. \u201cWhat?\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCan we talk about the, the\u2026\u201d Callie lifts her shoulder, tips her chin in its direction.<\/span><\/p>\n

Her mom shakes her head. \u201cNo.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what you said last night and the night before, and the night before that you wouldn\u2019t even talk to me. Why can\u2019t we talk about it?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s gone, isn\u2019t it? Go inside, Callie. There are waffles in the freezer.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBut I thought I heard\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cEnough!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She turns away but not before Callie sees her face twist into the angry mask. Callie stomps inside. All she wants is to know what\u2019s going on. Why can\u2019t her mom tell her the truth? She digs under the bandage again, not even wincing when she peels off what\u2019s left of the scab. <\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

The wound leaves a small scar. Callie wears tank tops and keeps her hair in a ponytail, but if her mom notices the mark, she doesn\u2019t say a word. Not that she\u2019s said much of anything at all lately.<\/span><\/p>\n

The house is way too quiet with only the two of them, as though her dad packed all the conversation in his suitcases and tucked the laughter and smiles in carefully taped boxes. Callie told her mom that once; she pursed her lips and said it was better than all the arguments. But Callie would rather have all the fighting in the world than the empty space where her dad should be.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Mia\u2019s mom brings them glasses of apple juice and grilled cheese sandwiches with the crusts cut off. When she leaves the bedroom, Callie and Mia both roll their eyes, but it doesn\u2019t stop them from eating or drinking. <\/span><\/p>\n

Mia flops on her stomach, crumbs sticking to her lower lip. \u201cDid you see Vivica today?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, why?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHer cousin pierced her cartilage, here.\u201d Mia points at the top curve of her ear. \u201cHer mom apparently had a fit and grounded her for forever, but she let her keep the earring in. Isn\u2019t that dumb?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie shrugs. \u201cIt\u2019s Vivica\u2019s ear. If <\/span>she<\/span><\/i> likes it\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMy mom would kill me. Yours would kill you, too. Hey, what\u2019s this?\u201d She pulls a sheet of paper out of Callie\u2019s math book. \u201cDid you draw it?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, but it\u2019s nothing really.\u201d Callie says, pinching the inside of her cheek between her teeth. The drawing shows a girl with thorns on her shoulders and arms. Thorns big enough to impale someone with. \u00a0\u00a0\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Mia outlines the figure on the paper with her finger. \u201cShe\u2019s cool. Is she a superhero or a villain? Are those things part of her costume or part of her?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know. She\u2019s just something I made up.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cShe looks bad-ass, like Black Widow, only better. You should totally draw more. Maybe make a real comic with her.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhatever. Can I have it back? I need to get home.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBut it\u2019s early.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie tucks the drawing in her book. \u201cYeah, but I told my mom I\u2019d do some laundry before she got home.\u201d She keeps her eyes downcast so Mia won\u2019t see the lie within.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBor-ing.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cBetter boring than my mom pissed off,\u201d Callie says. <\/span><\/p>\n

She takes her time walking home, not that it matters. Mia only lives two streets away. Callie passes a bunch of little kids playing on a front lawn, their mothers watching from the porch. On her street, Will Brecht is riding his bikes in lazy figure eights from sidewalk to driveway. He\u2019s her age, but he goes to private school. Their dads were friends, but their moms, not so much. <\/span><\/p>\n

Her phone buzzes and as she\u2019s pulling it out of her pocket, it slips and tumbles into the grass. Insects dance on her spine, and the tip of a thorn emerges on the inside of her wrist. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh,\u201d she whispers. \u201cOh, no.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

It doesn\u2019t hurt, but it\u2019s bigger than the first one\u2014half the length of her thumb and nearly as wide\u2014and it looks sharper, too. The creeping sensation grows stronger, radiating out to her shoulder blades.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCallie, you okay?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She blinks in the sunlight, hears a low sound coming from deep in her throat. Will is on his bike in front of her, his face screwed up in confused amusement.<\/span><\/p>\n

She blinks again and shivers. \u201cJust dropped my phone.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou sure?\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Will bikes away, casting several glances over his shoulder that she pretends not to see, and she forces herself not to run. Once safely inside her house, she drops both phone and backpack on the kitchen floor and half-sits, half-falls, into a chair, shaking. Pinching the thorn between finger and thumb, she gives it a tug. Hisses in a breath. A tiny drop of blood appears at one corner, but the thorn stays put. <\/span><\/p>\n

Freak, freak, freak, she thinks. But another part of her, a secret voice deep inside, says, no, not a freak. Something else. Something different. She barks a laugh. Right. She texts her mom: <\/span>It happened again. Will Brecht almost saw it. Now will you talk to me?<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

I\u2019ll be home as soon as I can<\/span><\/i>, comes the reply. <\/span>Stay inside until then.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

What does she think Callie\u2019s going to do? \u00a0Run around showing it off?<\/span><\/p>\n

When her mom rushes in and sees the thorn, her face turns inscrutable. (At least it\u2019s not angry.) Callie has the tweezers, a bandage, and the ointment already on the table. Good little soldiers awaiting their mission. <\/span><\/p>\n

Her mom starts humming. This time, Callie watches the whole thing. Her mom doesn\u2019t yank the thorn out straight, but bends it a little to the side, pulling hard enough that her knuckles turn white. Callie swallows the pain and hears the not-voice again. It\u2019s as quiet as the echo of a whisper, but it\u2019s definitely not her imagination. As soon as the thorn is completely out, it falls silent. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMom, what <\/span>is<\/span><\/i> that? What\u2019s wrong with me?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Her mom exhales sharply, wipes away the blood, and applies ointment. \u201cNothing\u2019s wrong with you,\u201d she says, but the words sound as though she\u2019s choking on them.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes there is. I have thorns. I\u2019d call that something super wrong. Am I sick? Dying?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, you\u2019re not sick.\u201d She puts on the bandage. Scoops up the paper tabs and the thorn. \u201cAnd you\u2019re not dying. It\u2019s not like that.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSo what is it then? I\u2019m not a kid anymore, and I have a right to know.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAll you need to know is that they have to come out, and that eventually they\u2019ll stop.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhen?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know. A few years maybe.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie snorts, knowing her mom hates it when she does. \u201cSo I\u2019m supposed to what, not worry about it for a few years? Not say anything? I mean I can\u2019t ask anybody else, right?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Her mom grabs her arm, even tighter than she did the first night. \u201cYou can\u2019t say anything to <\/span>anyone<\/span><\/i>. Do you understand me?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie yanks her arm away. Stands so fast the chair clatters to the floor. \u201cRight. Say nothing, and what if it happens when I\u2019m in school or with Mia? Say nothing? Be a good girl and run home to Mommy? I bet Dad would talk to me about it. I bet <\/span>he\u2019d<\/span><\/i> tell me the truth.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Her mom makes a sound that\u2019s half-sob, half-laugh, and Callie races upstairs, slamming her bedroom door shut behind her, frustration snot-thick in her throat. She stays in her room the rest of the night, ignoring her mom when she calls her for dinner. Funny how she doesn\u2019t call a second time.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

When the second wound begins to heal, Callie scratches it open so it will scar too. \u201cHello?\u201d she whispers when blood starts to flow, but the only thing she hears is the wet scritch<\/em> of the scab tearing free.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie\u2019s in Mr. Andersen\u2019s English class when the third thorn emerges, just below her navel. Spine still shivery, she reaches beneath her t-shirt, pretending to scratch. The thorn feels smaller than the others, but it\u2019s still razor-sharp. A sound creeps into her throat; she shoves it down before it can escape. She should ask to be excused and call her mom, but she doesn\u2019t. No one can see the thorn where it is, plus she has a science test after lunch. Her mother\u2019s face swims to the surface; she pushes it away. Fear traces a cold spiral on the nape of her neck, but it doesn\u2019t feel terrible. Not exactly. \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

When she gets home, her mom texts that she has to work late. Once she <\/span>does <\/span><\/i>get home, Callie thinks about telling her, but when she opens her mouth the only thing that comes out is a short, clipped, \u201cHello.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Hi, Dad. It\u2019s me, Callie. I, um, I know you\u2019re busy with work and stuff, but maybe you can call me when you\u2019re not so busy? I miss you a lot. A whole lot. <\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

One day turns into two; two turns into three. The thorn doesn\u2019t grow any larger, doesn\u2019t change color, doesn\u2019t do anything except force her to sleep on her side instead of her stomach. She\u2019s careful to wear loose-fitting t-shirts and lower slung jeans. Careful, too, not to touch her abdomen when her mom\u2019s around. <\/span><\/p>\n

On the fourth day, Saturday, her mom\u2019s sitting at the kitchen table, hands curved around a coffee mug. On the placemat are tweezers, a bandage, ointment. Callie pretends not to see them, but her heart beats heavy and her palms go damp. She opens the refrigerator, takes out the orange juice.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhere is it?\u201d her mom asks, her voice soft.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d Callie says over her shoulder, as she pulls out a glass.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t play dumb with me, Callie. Where is it? I know it\u2019s somewhere. I can see it in your eyes. I can\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t do this. Where is it?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie pinches her lower lip between her teeth, turns around, and lifts her shirt.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhen?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYesterday.\u201d Callie keeps her face as still as possible.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYesterday when?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know. After dinner sometime.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAfter dinner.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cUh-huh.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI was here after dinner. Why didn\u2019t you say something?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie shrugs.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cThis isn\u2019t a game, Callie. You have no idea what could happen.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHow could I since you won\u2019t tell me?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Her mom\u2019s mouth goes all lemon pucker, but she doesn\u2019t say anything, just picks up the tweezers with shaking hands. \u201cNo, don\u2019t sit down, stand there and hold still.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie crosses her arms, glaring at her mother as she kneels. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat were you thinking? I told you they had to come out.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019s Callie\u2019s turn not to answer, but it\u2019s a short-lived victory. Her mom hums and the tweezers tug, the pain bright and sharp. Callie squirms, biting back a yelp. The voice, if it <\/span>is<\/span><\/i> a voice, whispers something low and unintelligible. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHold still a minute more. There.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

The end of the thorn glistens with Callie\u2019s blood and something that resembles an eyelash thin tail. Her mom\u2019s gaze darkens. \u201cAre you sure it was last night?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes Mom, it was last night.\u201d Callie punctuates her words with a roll of the eyes. \u201cSo will you tell me now what\u2019s really going on?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Her mom wraps the thorn in a napkin and tucks it in her pocket. Covers the wound with the ointment and bandage. \u201cNo. You\u2019re too young.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cRight. But I\u2019m not too young to have it happen. It isn\u2019t fair not to tell me, it isn\u2019t fair for you to be all pissed off about it when I don\u2019t even know what\u2019s wrong.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe are not having this discussion. I\u2019ve told you everything you need to know.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve told me nothing.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAnd that\u2019s all you need to know.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI heard it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou heard nothing.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cRight. Sure. If Dad were here\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWell, he isn\u2019t. He left us.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, he left <\/span>you<\/span><\/i>, Mom.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cOh, honey. He left us both.\u201d Her mom looks as though she wants to say something else, but she closes her mouth, shakes her head.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s busy, that\u2019s all! He\u2019ll call me once he isn\u2019t. I know he will.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Her mom reaches out, but Callie moves before she can make contact. She storms from the kitchen and stomps up the stairs as hard as she can. Her dad did <\/span>not<\/span><\/i> leave her. <\/span>She<\/span><\/i> wasn\u2019t the one who argued with him all the time. <\/span>She<\/span><\/i> wasn\u2019t the problem.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

When the final bell rings at school, the hallways become a river choked with broken branches. Callie pushes through the crowd to her locker with Mia at her heels. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cAre you okay?\u201d Mia asks.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, why?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t know. You seem different, that\u2019s all.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cDifferent how?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know. Just different.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie makes a sound low in her throat. \u201cSo helpful.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSor-ry,\u201d Mia says. <\/span><\/p>\n

Callie touches her abdomen, tracing a finger over the ridge of bandage below her shirt. \u201cIt\u2019s just stupid stuff with my mother.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWant to come over and do homework?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cSure.\u201d Callie almost hopes a thorn shows up for Mia to see; then her mom will <\/span>have<\/span><\/i> to tell her the truth. But she thinks of the kids at school, what they\u2019d say, what they\u2019d do, and pulls a face. \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Her mom\u2019s still at work when she gets home. Surprise, surprise. In the bathroom, she puts her nose close to the mirror. Thinks of Mia\u2019s words. Same old face in the mirror, though. Same Callie. And she isn\u2019t sure if she\u2019s hoping to see something different or not. <\/span><\/p>\n

Instead of finishing her English homework, she draws another girl with thorns and uses a red pen to add drops of blood. When her mom finally comes home, she hides the picture in her underwear drawer. <\/span><\/p>\n

All night, she catches her mom looking at her. Not regular looking, but looking too long and too hard, and every time, Callie fights the urge to run and check the mirror again. She ends up retreating to her bedroom and runs her hands along her arms and legs and torso. Nothing out of place. Nothing different. No thorns.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie tosses and turns, unable to fall asleep. She kicks off the sheets. Flops on her stomach. Her mom\u2019s television is still on, which wouldn\u2019t be a big deal if she shut Callie\u2019s bedroom door after peeking in on her. (Callie could\u2019ve told her to shut it, but she was pretending to be asleep.)<\/span><\/p>\n

She climbs out of bed and pauses at the door to listen. It isn\u2019t the television. It\u2019s her mom. She creeps down the hall, careful to avoid the spot near the bathroom where the wood creaks. Her mom\u2019s door is open a tiny crack because the latch broke a month ago and Callie\u2019s dad\u2019s the one who always fixed stuff. Her mom\u2019s sitting cross-legged on the bed, facing away from the door, a small box open beside her.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cLeave her alone,\u201d she says. \u201cPlease.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

A voice says something in return, too low for Callie to hear the words, but she recognizes the voice. \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou <\/span>can\u2019t<\/span><\/i>. She\u2019s all I have. She doesn\u2019t deserve this. Please let her go, let us both go.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Another response Callie can\u2019t hear. Her mom drops something into the box, closes the lid, and she gets up, box in hand. Callie retreats to her room, her arms all over goosebumps and anger threading through her veins.<\/span><\/p>\n

Why does the voice want her? <\/span>What<\/span><\/i> does it want? And why won\u2019t her mom tell her the truth?<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

After school, Callie drops her backpack on the kitchen table and heads to her mom\u2019s bedroom. There used to be a framed picture of Callie and her dad on the dresser, and another one of her parents together, both wearing wide smiles, but the pictures are gone now, only dusty lines showing they\u2019d ever been there at all.<\/span><\/p>\n

One by one, she opens the drawers, checking underneath the clothes and in the corners, being as careful as possible not to mess anything up. There\u2019s nothing under the bed but storage boxes full of winter clothes. She finds things in her mom\u2019s nightstand she\u2019d rather not see and almost leaves the room, her cheeks flaming.<\/span><\/p>\n

One side of the closet contains her mom\u2019s clothes; the other, only white plastic hangers. An empty suitcase, winter boots, and a box of old photographs of her mom as a child sit on the top shelf. She huffs out a breath and crosses her arms, tapping the nearest shoe box with her toes and dislodging the top, revealing not shoes but more old photos. The box next to it holds shoes, as does the one next to that. But in the far corner, almost buried by the hems of hanging dresses, she finds another box of photos and hidden under the pictures, a small wooden box that rattles when she shakes it.<\/span><\/p>\n

Inside, resting on the bottom, are the thorns. But there are too many, way too many. No voice, though. Only a brittle, whispery sound as the thorns slide over and around each other.<\/span><\/p>\n

She scoots out of the closet and dumps the thorns on the floor. They\u2019re all varying sizes and shades, all sharp. There\u2019s a wet shimmer on the bottom edge of one, and her finger comes away streaked with red. She\u2019s pretty sure it\u2019s blood, but no way she\u2019s going to taste it to check. <\/span><\/p>\n

It isn\u2019t one of her thorns, of that she\u2019s sure. Hers are a different color. Only one, the one from her abdomen, has the little tail and her stomach twinges. She takes the thorn that came from her wrist, easy to tell because it\u2019s so big, and lowers it to her skin, lining the edges with the scar. <\/span><\/p>\n

A shiver traces a figure eight down her spine, and the scar opens, with neither blood nor vein within but a vast darkness. The space between the almost-connection wavers; the voice drifts into the air. A lullaby, a promise of something else. The sensation in her back intensifies, hot and cold at the same time, a touch shy of pleasure, a whisper from pain. The voice gathers weight, its presence in the air a strong perfume, and then it whispers her name. <\/span><\/p>\n

She cries out and pulls the thorn free. For one long moment, it won\u2019t come loose, tethered by an invisible force, and for an even longer moment, she doesn\u2019t want it to. Then the force gives way, as though severed with a blade. She rocks on her heels, and her skin closes, the scar exactly as it was. Heart pounding, she uses one of her mom\u2019s scarves to sweep all the thorns into the box. <\/span><\/p>\n

Did all the other thorns come from her mom? If so, she has to know what they mean. And why would she keep them if they were so bad? Callie rubs her wrist, then yanks her hand away, afraid her skin will open again and swallow <\/span>her<\/span><\/i> up. <\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Hi, Dad. It\u2019s Callie again. I guess, I guess call me back when you can? I really miss you. Oh, and there\u2019s something really important I want to talk to you about. Mom won\u2019t tell me anything, and I know you will, even if you don\u2019t really know. Just call me, okay? Please? \u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie\u2019s washing her hair when her fingers find the thorn in her scalp. Her hands drop to her sides, and she stands still beneath the spray. She last washed her hair two days ago, and this morning when she brushed it, the bristles caught on what she thought was a tangle. Has the thorn been there the whole time? She rinses the rest of the shampoo without touching her hair, and pads to her mom\u2019s room clad only in a towel, tweezers in hand. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI have another one.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Her mom\u2019s mouth works, but nothing comes out. She nods, scrubs her face with her hands. \u201cLet me have the tweezers.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNot until you tell me what they are.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCallie, it\u2019s late and you have school tomorrow. We don\u2019t have time for this.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIt isn\u2019t that late.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe this weekend\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cRight, and I\u2019m supposed to believe that?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCallie\u2014\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTell me what they are, what they mean! Just tell me this one time, and I won\u2019t ask again!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Her mom\u2019s shoulders slump. \u201cThey don\u2019t mean anything,\u201d she says in a dull voice.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t believe you. If that was true, then you wouldn\u2019t be so upset.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll tell you this much,\u201d her mom says in a quiet mouse-whisker voice. \u201cIf we leave them in, they\u2019ll change you. They\u2019ll destroy you. Please, no more questions tonight. Let me take it out and have done with it.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

Callie bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood, but she keeps her mouth shut while her mom parts her hair. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cWe won\u2019t be able to put a bandage on it, but it\u2019s a small one so it should be okay.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cFine.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

Humming tunelessly, her mom yanks out the thorn, and the voice whispers one word: <\/span>Liar. <\/span><\/i>Her mom\u2019s mouth tightens for a brief moment and her cheeks turn pink, but she says nothing. Nothing at all.<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

The letter from her mom to her dad is marked <\/span>Return to Sender<\/span><\/i>. Callie traces her dad\u2019s name on the envelope, knowing she shouldn\u2019t open it, but her mom won\u2019t know if she throws it in the trash afterward. She carries the letter to her room; shuts and locks the door.<\/span><\/p>\n

Michael:<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

For the record, Callie still doesn\u2019t know the truth. She wouldn\u2019t be trying to call you if she did. If I\u2019d known this was the way things would end up, I would\u2019ve told her from the beginning that you were her stepfather.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

I know I said I didn\u2019t want you involved in her life, but I was angry. We both said a lot of hurtful things. I never thought you\u2019d take off and move away. <\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

What you\u2019re doing is cruel. She loves you. You\u2019re the only father she\u2019s ever had. <\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Lydia<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

Callie rocks back and forth on her bed, holding the letter to her chest. It can\u2019t be true. It can\u2019t be. He <\/span>is<\/span><\/i> her dad. He\u2019s always been her dad. Her mom\u2019s lying, like she is about the thorns. Sobbing, she calls her dad, but he doesn\u2019t answer\u2014he\u2019s busy with his stupid job and she hates hates hates it\u2014and she\u2019s crying too hard to leave a message. <\/span><\/p>\n

She wipes her eyes, shreds the letter into bits, and races into her mom\u2019s room. Returns to her room, thorn pinched between thumb and index finger, and shuts and locks her door again. Holds the thorn above the scar on her wrist until the space between wavers and her skin opens. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cTell me what you are. Tell me the truth,\u201d she whispers into the darkness. \u201cPlease.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

On Friday nights, Callie\u2019s mom always drinks two glasses of wine. Callie pulls the stopper from the half-empty bottle in the fridge and pours in the sleeping pills she pilfered from the medicine cabinet at Mia\u2019s house and crushed with a meat tenderizer. She only took two pills; she doesn\u2019t want to hurt her mom, just make sure she goes to sleep, and she doesn\u2019t know how quickly they work. In the movies they work in an instant, so her mom might never get to the second glass.<\/span><\/p>\n

After dinner, her mom pours a glass before she dons her pajamas and curls on the sofa with a book. Callie sits on the other end, her own book in hand, sneaking peeks from the corner of her eye. When the glass is nearly empty, Callie extends a hand. \u201cI\u2019m going to make popcorn. Want me to refill your glass?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYes, thank you.\u201d Her mom\u2019s voice sounds sleepy, but Callie can\u2019t tell if it\u2019s regular sleepy or not.<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie puts the popcorn in the microwave and opens the fridge. Some of the pill dust has settled to the bottom of the wine bottle, and Callie shakes it until it\u2019s all mixed up again. Still awake, her mom takes a sip when Callie gives her the glass, makes a small face, but takes a second sip a few minutes later. <\/span><\/p>\n

When the glass is still two-thirds full, her mom touches a hand to her forehead, darts a look, all creased brow and heavy lids, at Callie. Callie tosses popcorn in her mouth, tries to pretend it\u2019s an ordinary night.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cCallie? What\u2026\u201d her mom says, her words slurred.<\/span><\/p>\n

Her eyelids flutter shut. Callie tosses the bowl of popcorn on the table and runs upstairs. When she returns, her mom is still asleep, her mouth slightly open. Callie\u2019s hands shake as she lifts her mom\u2019s pajama top. There, on the skin of her abdomen, almost hidden by the faint tracery of stretch marks, are tiny scars. The voice told the truth.<\/span><\/p>\n

She takes a thorn from the box and holds it above her mother\u2019s skin, moving it slowly from side to side. One of the scars open, revealing the same darkness Callie saw in her own. She hesitates a moment and the voice says, \u201cDon\u2019t worry.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Her mom\u2019s eyes open. She tries to lift one hand, but it flops back down. \u201cCallie? What are you doing?\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

Callie sets the thorn in place, grabs another. \u201cThey said you\u2019d be okay. They said if I did this, they\u2019d leave me alone.\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cNo, oh, no,\u201d her mom says, her words tangled and thick. \u201cThey only tell you what they want you to hear. Listen to me\u2026\u201d Her head lolls against the sofa cushion, and a soft moan slips from her lips even as her eyes close once more. Callie continues to return each thorn to its proper place. When the box is empty, her mom moans again, louder this time, and her mouth works. \u201cYou have to, to take them out before\u2026\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Callie bites the side of her finger. Watches. The air fills with a low hum punctuated with small cracks. Her mom\u2019s body twitches. Her eyelids snap open and inside them, neither iris nor pupil, only an oily, moving darkness. The thorns begin to grow, twisting into knots as they extend into vines, and Callie scrambles off the couch, her heart racing. This isn\u2019t right. This isn\u2019t what the voice said would happen. She grabs for her mom, almost touches her, but the vines split once, twice, three times, waving in the air as though caught in a breeze and pushing her hand away. <\/span><\/p>\n

They wrap around her mother\u2019s limbs and torso with the sound of sandpaper on stone, and it doesn\u2019t take long before her mother is completely covered. And still the vines twist and grow.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMom!\u201d Callie shrieks. \u201cMake it stop!\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

She didn\u2019t know. Her mom has to believe that. She didn\u2019t know. She tries to grab the vines, but they slither from her grasp. The tips melt into the air, creating a dark outline, like a doorway to somewhere else. Her mom\u2019s hand breaks free from the brambles, and their fingertips touch.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cHold on, Mom. I\u2014\u201d <\/span><\/p>\n

Callie hears a cry, a muffled <\/span>hurry<\/span><\/i>, and the vines make one last twist. The black rushes in, Callie\u2019s ears pop, and then her mom is gone. The black hangs in the air, then it vanishes, too. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t know. I\u2019m sorry, so sorry. Come back, Mom, okay? I want you to come back.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

She sinks to the floor, tears coursing down her cheeks. No. Everything will be fine. She\u2019ll fix it. She\u2019ll make it right. She holds a thorn against her wrist. <\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou have to giv***e her back,\u201d she says. \u201cPlease, I want my mom.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

But the scar remains shut, the voice silent. <\/span><\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

We\u2019re sorry, the number you\u2019re trying to reach has been disconnected. Please check the number and try your call again.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

\"Damien-Angelica-Walters-Author-Photo\"Damien Angelica Walters\u2019 work has appeared or is forthcoming in various anthologies and magazines, including <\/em>The Year\u2019s Best Dark Fantasy & Horror 2015, Year\u2019s Best Weird Fiction Volume One,\u00a0Nightmare Magazine, Black Static, and <\/em>Apex Magazine. She was a finalist for a Bram Stoker Award for \u201cThe Floating Girls: A Documentary,\u201d originally published in <\/span><\/em>Jamais Vu<\/span>.<\/span> <\/em>Sing Me Your Scars<\/a>, a collection of short fiction, was released in 2015 from Apex Publications<\/a>; <\/em>Paper Tigers, a novel, is forthcoming in 2016 from Dark House Press<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n

Writing as Damien Walters Grintalis, her short fiction appeared in magazines such as <\/em>Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Strange Horizons,\u00a0and<\/em> Interzone, and a novel, <\/em>Ink<\/a>, was released in December 2012 by Samhain Publishing.<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

She\u2019s also a freelance editor and, until the magazine\u2019s closing in 2013, she was an Associate Editor of the Hugo Award-winning speculative fiction magazine, <\/em>Electric Velocipede<\/a>. She lives in Maryland with her husband and two rescued pit bulls.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Cemetery Dance Online Exclusive Fiction \u201cThe Hands That Hold, the Lies That Bind\u201d by Damien Angelica Walters The thorn breaks through Callie\u2019s skin, rising from her left shoulder like a small, jagged periscope. There\u2019s no pain, no blood, only a strange sensation creeping the length of her spine. 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