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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

Once, he kicked me hard in the stomach. A corner of the playground, a dip in the brick. From the edge of the sky: a single wing tip, slicing into view.

My first kiss: a boy called Mike held his arm in front of a door, told me I couldn’t go back inside until I did it. The inside of his mouth was a watery cave, a place I thought I might never escape.

Somewhere at the back, near his throat: a clawed shape, moving towards me.

~

37

37

When I left the burger place, it was still light outside, the sky electric blue at its peak, softening as it curved, flattened itself against the town. I sat on a bench by the river, watched the water travelling beyond me, the ducks passively moved along its surface. When a rowing boat sliced past – the cox screaming through a microphone – I turned my head away. I waited until it was clear: no boats, no people. Just water, waiting.

I looked at the phone in my hands, my nails hooked around it. I lifted my arm and threw: such a small gesture, one second, less. A tiny moment, something that could be blanked out later. The razor. Pressing harder. The phone through the air, landing in the water, sinking quickly, easily. Gone.

I glanced around, to see if anyone was watching. Was this a crime? Throwing my phone away? Polluting the river. When I was a child, I was terrified I would accidentally steal things, that I would put things in my bag without realizing. I imagined the moment of discovery, the way I would be guilty, without even knowing it, without even trying.

If my dad caught me being naughty, there would be slaps on the backs of my legs, nothing major, the same as my friends had. The worst thing, by far, was her face. My ­mother’s disappointment was an energy source: it could power a whole country.

I’m sorry, Mama, I used to say, going to lie on my bed, the sting on my thighs the best thing I had – sharp, clear – the voices starting up their old routine. Disgusting girl. Stupid idiot.

She would tell me to pray to God whenever I got angry. To help me become a better person. My good girl. She liked me to be next to her at the altar, for us to lift our hands for the wafer together, our knees close on the velvet.

I always looked at the priest in that moment, had the worst thought I could manage. The pendulum of his cock and balls, swinging like a bell under his robes. The distant crusted cavities of his nose, the slimed alien of his tongue. I thought of pressing the wafer back into his throat, the way his eyes would round in surprise. I was never my mother’s good girl.