I Pressed My Hand to the Wallpaper While Mother Watched the Blood Run Down

Evelyn stood between Milo and the double doors like she had grown out of the wood herself. Her arms were down at her sides, her pulled-back hair was tight enough to pull at her eyes, and her sleeveless maroon dress did not move even when she breathed. The hallway was dim and too warm. The low light caught the brass handles behind her and made them glow a little. Milo stood a few feet from her in his dark top with his shoulders squared up, the way he stood on the playground when older kids tried to take his ball.

Nobody was yelling. That was the worst part. Evelyn did not have to yell. She just stepped sideways every time Milo shifted his weight, blocking him from the doors, and kept her eyes flat on his face until he stopped moving.

I was five that winter and afraid to make the floor creak.

I had pressed myself back against the wall to get out of their way. The wallpaper was rough under my palms. Little red flowers and green leaves on a yellowed background, the pattern repeating and repeating until it made my eyes hurt. My light long-sleeve shirt stuck to my back with sweat. I could hear the heater ticking somewhere down the hall and I could hear my own breathing too fast through my nose. I kept my hand on the wood trim because it was solid and cool and it helped me stay still.

That was when I felt the edge.

At first I thought it was just a seam where two strips of the paper met. My fingertips found a ridge to the right of my hip. I did not look down right away because I did not want Evelyn to see me moving. Then the ridge gave a little under my thumb, soft where it should have been hard, and a piece of the flower pattern lifted. I looked.

The tear ran straight up and down, about as long as my arm. The paper had split open and curled back on both sides like dry skin. Inside it was dark. A clump of blonde hair pushed out through the slit, caught on the torn edge. It was long and pale and dusty, tangled together. Below it, a thick line of dark red ran down the wall. It was wet at the top and drying darker at the bottom. It had soaked into the light background of the paper and stained the red flowers almost black. A slow drop moved at the lower edge while I watched and then stopped.

I stared at it and forgot to breathe. The hair was the same color as mine. I knew because a strand of my own had fallen forward over my shoulder when I leaned, and there it was side by side with the hair in the wall. Mine was clean and brushed that morning. That other hair was dull and stuck together with the red. I lifted my hand off the wood trim without thinking and then put it right back on because I needed to hold on to something.

Milo saw my face change. He glanced away from Evelyn for just a second. His eyes dropped to the wall beside me, to where my fingers were digging into the trim, and then to the tear. I saw him see it. His mouth opened a fraction and then pressed shut. His whole body went still in a different way than before, not confrontational now but locked. He looked from the blonde lock back to me, to my hair, and I knew he had made the same match.