My fingers are paralysed. The knuckles have calcified and I can only move each finger from the root. Which makes manoeuvring the key enough to unlock the door notably difficult. It's like I've got Lego hands.

The rain only stopped after my phone had died which was around eight. It must be well past midnight by now and my clothes have frozen to my skin, my curls crusted to my temples and neck.

Sneaking in is nowhere near doable with the clumsiness of what I couldn't rule out as hypothermia. Turns out, any effort would be futile. Nicolás is sitting at the base of the stairs.

He snaps his head out of his hands as I open the door. I know it cricks his neck. Streaks of tears snag on the glow of the streetlights until I pull the door shut.

'Yell at me tomorrow.'

My voice turns to fog, the air in my lungs too cold. I doubt he can decipher a word from the chattering of my teeth.

I nudge off my trainers. I have no chance of bending over and picking them up to place them on the shoe rack. Even with Nicolás looking and undoubtedly already fuming at me, I leave them where they land. It's too dark for him to see that my clothes are soaked through but he must hear the slop as I move.

If I could, I would run. But that's not an option either. I wobble toward the stairs and him, repeating myself when I'm right beside him. 'Please just yell at me tomorrow.'

'Cece–'

'Please.'

I climb the stairs at the speed of a slug but Nicolás don't stop me. He doesn't need to stop me. He can just as well kick me out in the morning. He's going to. He thinks I started a fire at school—Cobham's mercy were a miracle; I can't expect two in a row.

He's going to kick me out. He's going to send me to Somerset. It won't take them long to figure out I'm insane-possessed-insane-possessed-born evil.

We would like to keep him under surveillance.

It won't take them long to lock me in. Forever. It'll be dark. And the wasps will be everywhere, sting everywhere. Holes. Holes for trillions of germs to crawl into.

I still lock my bedroom door. Nicolás can just as well yell at me tomorrow.

I know I should but now that my bed is in sight, I don't have the energy to break the clothes off my skin. I sink into the cradle and cocoon in the duvet as if it has any hope of warming me up. Only thing that'll happen is the ice will melt and soak my mattress through. Dying could be better.

Dying could be better than ending up in the dark with holes in my skin and holes in the holes, invitations for infection. I'll get sepsis. I'll get Necrotising fasciitis. Maybe I already have both. I've been outside all day with the cuts on my palms untreated.

My chest hurts. Maybe I have bronchitis. Maybe I have pneumonia. Shortness of breath is a symptom of both. I could die within the next few hours. I could die. I could have hypothermia. I could–

Knock. My heart jolts.

'¿Cecilio? Cece. Perdón. I warmed you soup and a hot water bottle. Could you unlock the door? I won't yell, lo prometo.'

It's a ploy. He hates me. Everything bad in his life is my fault and I keep making it worse. I've made him worry again. I've spoiled his night again.

Because you're selfish. And evil.

He waits. I don't move.

Beewolf's tarsal claws aren't sharp enough to cut through the duvet but the weight of its steps press into my shoulder as it rounds my body. He was happy before. He'll be happy again when I'm gone.

He's going to kick you out. He's had enough of you. He's going to kick you out. He's had enough of you. He hates you. Look what you've done to him. He's crying.

You're evil.

'I'll leave it here.' The spoon scrapes against the side of the bowl as Nicolás places it on the floor. 'Eat it when it's still warm, if you can... Que duermas bien. I love you.'

He hates you.

You don't deserve to eat. It could be poisoned. It's poisoned. He hates me. You don't deserve to eat. Don't you remember?

Remember. People who experience intrusive thoughts are ten times more likely to commit suicide. Fifty-five percent of people who experience hallucinations commit suicide. Suicide. Ten times more likely to commit suicide. More likely to commit suicide. To commit suicide. Likely to commit suicide. Commit suicide. Commit suicide. Commit suicide. Suicide. Suicide.

Because you're what?

Evil.

Born evil. They couldn't even dissect it out of you. No doctor would be able to either. You're not possessed by evil; you are evil.

It can't be fixed. I was born evil. I will die evil. I deserved it. I deserve to be locked in.

But I don't want to. I don't want to. I don't want to be stuck in the dark with nowt but holes. Stingers and holes and cannibalising flesh. I don't want red, fire, hurt. I'm selfish.

I'd let them take me if I wasn't selfish.

            I don't die.

The dark slowly seeps out of my room as the sun dips its toes in through the window and I'm still frozen in place. My clothes are still wet. My hair is still wet. The water has bled through the mattress and now drips into a puddle on the floor. Drip.

One second. Two Seconds. Three seconds.

Drip.

I'm not dead. I should be dead. If I wasn't selfish, I'd be dead.

My body flares when I push myself out of bed. Every step is a leg torn and regrown, my hip joints screaming with agony. I undo the locks and ease the door open.

Nicolás (surveillance!) jolts awake and immediately flushes red. He has fallen asleep sitting against the wall but clearly didn't want me to catch his (we would like to keep him under) surveillance because he stumbles awkwardly to his feet and don't meet my eye. He too is still in his clothes from yesterday.

'You didn't eat your soup.'

It's poisoned. He knows you're dangerous. In a glitch, he's dead. Blood everywhere. What if–? He knows you're evil. He's going to send you away.

'I'm not hungry.'

It's not a lie, per se. I think I'm too hungry to feel it.

'You don't look well.' He raises a hand and I flinch. Nicolás steps back and tucks his hand to his side. He's afraid of me. 'I can phone you ill if you've got a temperature.'

'Go to school.'

I step past him but, as if stitched to me with fishing hooks and wire, Nicolás follows me to the toilet door as I continue to mutter.

'Go to school. Get good grades. Go to school. Go to school. Exams. School. University. Job. Go to school. It's all you say. Ever. I'm fine.'

I lock the door but his presence haunts behind it. His pain oozes through it. It's all my fault. He was happy before.

'Okay. Well, I'll make you breakfast.'

'I'm not hungry.'

I twist the shower on. Leave it running so the water warms up as I shed the wet clothes off my body.

Nicolás is still pressed to the back of the door. 'Do you want me to help with your hair?'

My skin, which is normally the medium brow of a recluse spider, is blueish now. It makes the scar tissue on my thighs gleam like the glow-in-the-dark stars Lailah Paracha stuck to my ceiling cause I were afraid of the shadows. I wait but see no movement. The infestation is dormant.

There are insects under my skin. I can never catch one to identify it better but I know they scuttle and they wriggle, each the size of an incisor. Sometimes they pour out when my flesh is opened, rush to escape and disappear into the peeling linoleum in the corners of the bathroom. Other times, no matter how much I dig, they manage to burrow somewhere out of sight.

Either way, it never ends. They have gnawed holes into my muscles to incubate their eggs. There are always more than I can hope to kill. The infestation will end only when their host is no longer habitable.

It's surprising I still have all my toes and fingers. My hair is knotted beyond recovery. The curls have lost all definition to frizz.

'I'll just cut it off.'

'No! What? No, don't do that!' Panic makes his voice shrill. I swear I feel Nicolás press against the door like he intends to sink through it. 'I can help you untangle it. I have seen worse from Caleb. It'll be alright.'

I don't answer as I step into the shower. The hot water could tear my skin off and I bend over from pain, exposing my spine to its drilling. You deserve it.

Pachamama don't care about my spirit. I don't belong to Earth or my ancestors; I came out of something much more wicked.

Notes

Lo prometo: I promise.

Que duermas bien: Sleep well.