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Back The Harpy Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. The Harpy
  2. Also by Megan Hunter
  3. Title Page
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. The Harpy
  8. Part I
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. 16
  25. 17
  26. 18
  27. Part II
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. Part III
  36. 26
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. 39
  50. Part IV
  51. Acknowledgments
  52. Back Cover

Am I a good woman? The rare prize the Bible talks about, precious above jewels. I know I am not.

But I know other things too: how easy it is to leap from your life: as easy as your first step, your first period, the first time you let a man exist inside you, feel your body grip him, keep him in place.

~

14

14

For a few seconds after I woke up, I forgot it all. Without words, with only the sun-­bleach of a peaceful mind, I knew that Jake was downstairs making tea, that soon they would all be on the bed, and we would talk about school and clubs and playdates that week, the boys yelling approval or hatred, lying down like puppies to have their tummies tickled.

In these few seconds Jake had not fucked anyone else: our world had not changed at all. I reached my hand across the bed, felt the coolness under the pillow next to mine. I remembered.

Last night, after Jake said it – That’s what you want, isn’t it? – he’d held out his hand again, showing me the nail marks, deep pink crescent moons, a pattern across his lifeline. The marks were clear, indisputable: it was deliberate, this time.

You can do it again. You want to.

You’re drunk, I’d told him. Go to bed.

I’m not drunk. I’ve only had one whisky. He’d held his palm up again, like my dad used to, a wide thing to aim for.

Punch me, my father would say, when I was angry with him about some trivial thing. You’ll break your hand like that, he’d say, moving my thumb to the right position.

Last night, I looked at Jake’s skin, shining in the kitchen lights. There were so many details, so many pathways. I thought of all the times I had kissed his fingers, rubbed them against my own.

Look, he’d said, I know how much I’ve hurt you. I’m so, so sorry, Lu. I don’t know how else to say it. A deep breath here, a gathering. But you can – you can hurt me back. He’d lowered his hand, but kept his eyes on me.

Why don’t you just try it, see if it helps? He was almost pleading.

You can do it a few times, he’d said. How many? Three?

He was smiling, very slightly, his eyes glazed, the muscles of his face tensed. It sounded like a joke. But somehow I knew – through the alcohol, the blur of his hands on my wrists, my fingers pressed down on his skin – that Jake was completely serious.