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“No,” Emrit says, the first time Daisy asks. They recoil at the very thought, feeling sick, dirty under Daisy's pleading gaze, and shiver like the twisted villain they grew up seeing in the mirror was pressing cold fingertips to the nape of their neck just to remind them it still exists.
“No,” they say again, as if Daisy might not have heard the first time – as if they did not hear it themselves the first time, or doubted it – and run before Daisy can do more to protest.
⊹ ࣪ ˖
“No,” Emrit says, the second time Daisy asks, softer now, more used to the idea and less full of thorns. The warmth of a hand ruffling their hair and a voice full of praise and love drowns the sound of their self-hatred. But still, something fearful grips them, the same way they know a cliff is not a gradual fall.
“I can’t,” they say, looking at the exhaustion hugging Daisy's frame, the pain lurking in her eyes, and wishes they could.
⊹ ࣪ ˖
“No,” Emrit says, taking one of Daisy's hands into theirs and squeezing it. The defeated bent of her shoulders matches their own on their worst days, and they would do anything for her if she could be asking for anything else. But even a temporary and artificial joy, calm, or peace brings something distasteful to their tongue, much less the theft of it all, and the word ‘yes’ sits acrid and acidic in their mouth.
“I’m sorry,” they say, guilt itching underneath their skin. They reach out and pull Daisy to them, an awkward imitation of the comfort they have been given before, at a loss for what else they could offer. It isn’t enough, they know. They can’t give enough. “I’m sorry.”
⊹ ࣪ ˖
“Okay,” Emrit says, loathing the now familiar look on Daisy's face, loathing the way their hands had a layer of grime they could not wash off, loathing how guilt and dread clung stubbornly to the edges of their conscience. They could steal anyone else’s emotions — pluck that terror, that despair, that revulsion, that shame out like an apple in an orchard — but their own. “Just this once.”
The liver cut out can heal and regenerate whole, but accumulation scars it irreparably. It couldn’t clean their blood free of the dirt spoiling it; there was too much, too much, too –
They understood, really, the want to erase it all.
There was something crawling in the back of their throat, nausea swimming in their esophagus, like eating something evil that wants to come right back out and tear them apart. But it didn’t tear them apart, just settled down down down into their stomach, struck deep into their liver, and left Emrit as they were, looking at Daisy.
What was one more sin to swallow?