Bitten

I can’t help but wring my wrists over and over where the handcuffs used to be. The skin that was eaten away there is starting to scab over, but I keep rubbing them off. I don’t mean to, but the itching drives me insane. I pull my sleeves down to hide the marks, because no one needs to see that. It’s not important.

Being locked up in that dark room for two months was the worst hell I could ever imagine. No sunlight. No fresh air. Nothing but cold concrete under my legs, and black, stale air that tasted like steam off a swamp full of alligator crap.

I thought I was going to die in that hole. That’s what they told me when they threw me in there, and after about three days, I started to believe them. The desperate screeching sounds from the cells beside me were enough to make me want to end it myself. But all I had was a case of bottled water, a loaf of bread, and cuffs that were so tight they chewed my skin to pieces every time I so much as took a breath. Not much I could do with that.

I sat in my own filth for a good week before the first guard came back to check to see if I was still alive. That was the first time in my life that I’d ever begged for anything. Couldn’t he see I was fine? Couldn’t he tell I’m one of the ones who’s immune? But he didn’t say a word. He just pulled out his pistol and put a bullet into the head of the thing that was once a person in the cell next to mine. I can still feel the constriction of fear in my chest and the sound of his boots clanking on the concrete as he walked away, leaving me chained to the wall, alone. I begged for him to come back and shoot me too, but he left me there.

A door squeaks open behind me, pulling me from my memories. I immediately draw my dad’s gun and swing around with it aimed and ready to shoot. I always keep it loaded and tucked into the back of my pants now. It’s not like my dad can use it from the bottom of the six foot hole he’s been trapped in for the last six years.

At least he was already dead when they put him there.

My girlfriend, Carrie, gasps. She presses her back against the bedroom doorframe and raises her hands, wide-eyed.

“It’s… It’s just m—me…” she sputters. I can tell she’s trying not to burst into tears.

I shrug an apology and tuck the gun back into my waistband.

You can never be too safe these days.

“I just came to check on you,” she says, not dropping her hands. Her back is pressed so tightly against the side of the door, that I can imagine her shoulder blades turning white from the pressure. She watches me with a well-rehearsed calm face, but she never really looks me in the eyes.

I miss the way she used to look at me. I used to have to piece myself back together when she’d glance up at me through those long black eyelashes, and as soon as I thought I had my dignity back in check, she’d smile. She’d smile, and it would slice right through me, and I’d have to start the process all over again.

I never got tired of that.

Now she only looks at me with darting eyes, like she’s afraid I’m going to rip her throat out. She’s yet to actually look into my eyes since I came home. I don’t blame her, I guess. The bites hurt just as bad as you’d expect them to.

“I’ll be fine,” I say.

I run my fingers through my hair—a nervous tick that I picked up from my father—and Carrie’s eyes lock in on my wrist. I know she’s looking for the bite, trying to make sure that I’m still not infected. It was supposed to have either turned me or killed me weeks ago, yet here I am, still unintentionally scaring the shit out of everyone.

“It’s fine,” I mumble. She quickly drops her gaze to the floor, embarrassed that I caught her looking.

“I made you some lunch,” she says. “Why don’t you come eat it? And you can leave the gun.”

I nod and she scurries out of the room like a scared cockroach. I don’t blame her a bit for being freaked out, but a hug from someone—especially from my girlfriend—would be nice. At least she still cares enough about me to feed me. Maybe there’s still hope for us.

 But there’s no way I’m leaving my gun.

I scratch an itching patch of skin on the back of my neck—probably a fungus I picked up in that disgusting hole—ignoring the handful of sticky scabs that fall off in my hand.

I follow her down the hallway to the kitchen, and we sit down at the table. She slides a paper towel-wrapped sandwich my way, and I nod in gratitude.

The day they finally let me out of the hole, she wasn’t there to take me home. They told her I died a few weeks before, I guess to ease her suffering. When I showed up at her front door, she didn’t think I was real. Apparently me being thrown into the hole for two months didn’t just screw me up.

Carrie lays her head down on the table and takes a shallow, shuddering breath. I take a bite of my sandwich and reach over to run my fingers through her hair. She used to like that, but she cringes away from me like I’m diseased.

“What?” I ask, a little too vehemently.

Carrie raises her eyes to meet mine, and for a split second, it feels like it used to. My lungs stop working. My heart stops beating. The entire world and everything in it freezes, controlled by her sapphire blue irises. But then she blinks all that away, and I feel dead again.

“I can’t let you stay here,” she whispers. “The guards… they told me they didn’t let you out…”

Shit. I sort of forgot about that. That day is hazy in my mind now. I vaguely remember the bodies littering the floor of the entrance of the hole, and wiping the blood from my chin as I climbed up the ladder to get out.

I couldn’t take the chance of something happening to Carrie. If I wasn’t going to die, I was going to get out of that hole. Something in me had snapped that day.

Carrie continues. “They were here a few minutes ago, looking for you. I told them you weren’t here, but they said they’re gonna come back with a warrant.”

Her blue eyes turn dark and her eyebrows crinkle in fear. “They said there is a mutation of the virus, and that you’re showing symptoms. They said I should be afraid to be alone with you.” Her voice drops to a whisper as she adds, “They said you’ve already killed some people. Tell me that’s not true.”

I can’t answer her because I can’t lie to her. I stare down at my hands. They’re not the same color they used to be. I compare them to Carrie’s and realize they’re not the same lively peach as hers. A grayish tint has started to leak through my veins and spread through my skin, like a bruise covering my entire hand.

No! I’m immune! That’s why I haven’t turned yet.

“I need you to leave, Aaron,” Carrie says, pushing herself up from the table. “Now.”

She crosses her arms over her chest and jerks her head towards the back door. The motion sends a rush of blood through her neck arteries, and for a split second, my mouth waters. Her skin smells so good. Delicious, almost.

I distract myself by scratching the itching patch of skin on my neck and come back with a palm full of scabs. Hmph. Maybe I’m not so “immune” after all.

“Carrie, that sandwich was disgusting,” I hear myself say as I inch towards her.

This isn’t me. What is happening to me? My vision is starting to blur and my skin feels like it’s going to crawl right off my bones and leave me a twitching skeleton on the kitchen floor. I stumble towards Carrie, reaching out for her to help me stand.

“I’m so sorry,” she sobs, as she pulls a small pistol out of the back of her pants. “It’s not him, it’s not him, it’s not him,” she chants to herself as she raises the gun and aims it at my head.

She meets my eyes one last time just before she pulls the trigger. And for the first time since I met her, I don’t even make the effort to piece myself back together.

Bud

I’ve always wondered what would happen if I stood in one spot at the beach for an entire day. With every wave that swallows my ankles, my feet slip a little deeper into the muddy sand, like the earth is trying to slowly devour me. I’m buried halfway up my calves now and I’ve only been standing here for an hour.

 

I stick my fingers into the pocket of my jeans to make sure the photo is still dry, even though I know I just checked it eleven and a half seconds ago. The feeling of the glossy paper against my fingertips makes my heartbeat falter.

 

I know the words that are written at the bottom by heart, but it makes me feel better to read them—to see his handwriting.

 

I pull the picture out of my pocket and unfold it. He gave it to me the day he left for college. It’s worn and tattered from being repeatedly unfolded and folded back again. Scrawled in tiny handwriting made messier by the fat-tipped black marker he’d used to write it, are the words, “I can always count on you, bud.”

 

I hate when he calls me that.

 

But I love it too. It’s a punch-in-the-gut reminder that he still thinks of me as a “little sister” type of friend, but it also makes me swell with pride to know I am the only person in the world that he has given a nickname.

 

The knot in my stomach rises and sticks in the base of my throat like a lump of biscuit dough. I want to keep my promise, but I’m not sure if I can.

I match the ends of the picture together and press my thumbs into the creases. I fold it into a tiny, neat square, and slip it back into my pocket before the ocean spray can stain his face.

 

I stare out at the ocean, my eyes not really focusing on anything in particular. Every now and then, the sun’s rays shine on the water just right, making it look like churning, liquid gold.

 

“Hey, bud!” calls the only voice in the world that can make my blood congeal in my veins. Another wave crashes into my legs, making me sink a tiny bit more. I try not to flinch when I hear two sets of feet tramping through the sand behind me.

 

He brought her. 

 I close my eyes for a second and focus on the feeling of the water pulling away from my skin. A line of tears catches in the clumps in my mascara, but I don’t want him to know that I’m upset. I trick my lips into curling into a smile and glance over my shoulder at him. I don’t bother looking at her. I know she’ll be gorgeous, as always, while I stand here, all freckled skin, and tattered jeans, and tangled hair, looking exactly like the reliable friend that I’ll always be.

I count how many steps it takes him to reach me as I stare out at the white caps on the waves. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5…

 

Any distraction to keep myself crying.

 

It only takes him ten galloping steps to make it to me. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me in close for a hug. I hold my breath. I don’t want to smell the scent of his fabric softener mixed with his skin—that scent of his that always makes me forget how to put together sentences—that’ll only make this worse.

 

“Hey,” I say. I pull away from him and cross my arms, trying to keep my voice from breaking.

He sees the fear in my eyes, I can tell. But he doesn’t say anything. He’d never say anything in front of her.

“How have you been, bud?” he asks, stepping away from me.  I try not to notice how his body leans toward hers, or how they move in perfect sync with each other, like dancers. I also try not to remind myself that only people who are in love do that. I’ve yet to look her in the eyes, but I don’t really care what she thinks of me.

 

Especially not now.

 

“Can I talk to you for a second?” I say, finally really looking at him for the first time in six months. Big mistake. I instantly feel like five thousand little blades have sliced open every freckle on my body. Curse those stupid, stare-into-your-soul eyes of his. The picture folded inside my pocket does him absolutely no justice.

I shoot his girlfriend a glance, and it comes across more “if looks could kill” than I mean it to. Her blonde hair catches in the wind and I hate her for being so beautiful.

She smiles sweetly at me and tucks a curl behind her ear. “I’ll stay here,” she says, nodding. “You two go catch up.”

 

Dammit, why can’t she just be a bitch?

He links his arm through mine, pulling away my invisible armor.  We walk a little ways down the beach, neither of us saying anything until she’s out of earshot.

 

“What this about, Ellie?” he asks. My lungs crinkle like tissue paper at the sound of my name on his lips. He never calls me by my real name.

I lay my head on his shoulder and squeeze my eyes tight. The roar of the waves and the bantering of the seagulls and the sound of the kids laughing and his hand on my arm—that is how I’ll remember this day. Not what’s about to happen next.

“I can’t be your friend anymore.”

 

There. I said it. My voice sounds tiny and insignificant on the noisy beach, but I know he heard me. I thought I’d feel better once it was out, but I don’t. I don’t really feel worse, either. I just feel numb.

We both stop walking and he takes a deep breath. Neither of us says anything for a moment, and I don’t move my head from his shoulder. I’m going to miss the way my cheek fits right into the curve of his muscle. 

“But you promised,” he says softly.

 

I groan. How can he throw that in my face? Things were different then.

“Is it because of Annie?” he asks.

 

I only nod. He already knew this was coming. He knew I was in love with him a long time ago. He grabs me and crushes me to his chest.

 

“I can’t lose you, bud,” he whispers against my tangled hair. “I can’t lose her, and I can’t lose you. It’s two different kinds of love, Ellie. I wish I could change it, but that’s just the way it is.”

 

I make the mistake of drawing in a long breath. He smells like summer, and sugar, and pine straw, and too many other things that I never want to smell again, yet I know I can’t live without.

Who cares if it’s not the kind of love I want? At least it’s love, right?

 

I pull away from his grasp and look up at him. Those stupid eyes. Why do I look into his damn eyes?

“Okay,” I sigh. “Never mind.”

 

Because I can never truly be free of him.

 

And he can never be free of me.

It’s not what I want.

But it’s better than being alone.

Second Chances

Missing someone who is not yours to miss is the worst kind of disappointment.

The metallic sound of the shovels stabbing into the earth makes my ribs thump. I’ve been as skittish as a wet kitten since last night; afraid that what was done wouldn’t stick. The dirt-covered men around me are working hard and fast, trying to get the job finished so they can go home to their wives and children and pretend that they weren’t a part of this.

“Work faster, girl!” the old woman squawks at me. She’s been scrupulously supervising us the entire time, not lifting one finger to help. She does spells only, I was told. She doesn’t get her hands dirty, with neither blood nor dirt. The hard part of the spell has already been completed—I only need her now to seal it for good.

I try not to jump out of my skin when she slaps a heavy, jewelry-covered hand against my back. I timidly glance up at her, but only for the smallest second. The skin on her face looks like tattered leather stretched across a skull made of knives. I'm afraid to look her in the eyes. She digs her claw-like fingers into the soft part of my new upper arm and lets out a low, guttural moan.

 “We don’t have all day, darling,” she mutters. Her voice sounds like a coffee grinder eating wind chimes. “Work. Faster.”

 I nod a little too quickly and stomp on the top of my shovel, pushing it into the ground. She stays close by and watches me with tiny, black eyes. Her silver hair lifts in the air every time the wind blows, and I have a fleeting feeling that she could fly away with the breeze if she wanted.

          I knew I had to help dig the grave. That was part of the deal. I just didn’t know it would be this hard. The hardest part is knowing that not just one, but two people are going into this grave.

And it’s my fault.

A blister the size of a quarter throbs against the wooden handle of my shovel, but I try to ignore it. Complaining has never gotten me anywhere.

I’m not used to these arms and legs and fingers yet, and it’s hard to convince my body to do the things it needs to do. I’d hoped—I’d prayed, actually—that my old memories would be gone in this new body, but they stuck to my soul like peanut butter to the top of my mouth, still constantly taunting me with images of his face. I should have known prayer and magic wouldn’t mix. It’s not like I deserved to forget, anyway.

"I said, work faster," the old woman hisses into my ear. Her breath is hot and sticky against my neck and it takes everything I have to not vomit into the grave in front of me. I can feel the immorality of what I've done rolling off her skin, and I'm pretty sure she feeds off of it like dessert.

One of the workers glances up at us, but quickly drops his eyes back to his work when the witch catches him watching.

I blink back the tears threatening to spill through my lashes and continue to shovel dirt out of the hole, as fast as I can.

Crying has never gotten me anywhere, either.

I push his stupid face out of my mind and think back to last night, when I saw my own new face for the first time. I stood in front of the mirror in the old witch’s ratty house, thinking, “Not me, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me, not me.”

The girl staring back in the mirror was not me.

 But she was. I was living in her body now, whether I liked it or not. I lifted my hand to my face and watched as she mimicked me.

            Not she. Me.

          I’m pulled back to the present when someone's shovel glances off of a root. The sound echoes through the makeshift graveyard, and several crows scatter through the trees. One of them lights on the tree branch above me. It cocks its head and watches me, like it knows what I did—like it knows what I sacrificed for a new beginning that never came. A gnawing feeling picks at the loose threads of my soul, and I can’t shake the idea that it does know what I did.

             The shovel falls out of my hands and I have to hold myself together so the shivers rattling my bones don’t make me come undone in front of all these people. I squeeze my eyes shut and ignore the old woman, who's shouting obscenities at me for dropping my shovel.

            I never meant to hurt him. But it happened anyway. I knew that there was no way I could get away with it, that the only way I wouldn’t be sentenced to the death penalty was for my body to die along with his. Only, I wasn’t quite ready to die yet. No one would ever know. No one believes in magic.

            The old woman smacks me in the face, forcing me to open my eyes and pay attention to her. My cheek stings like it has been lit on fire, but I still don’t cry. I don’t deserve the comfort of tears. She points to the two heaps lying next to the grave we’ve been digging.

            “It’s time, child,” she says. “You have to be the one to bury them or the spell won’t stick.”

            I try to take a breath, but it’s a ragged, shuddering thing, doing me no good.

            After the deed is done, and I watch the faces—my face and his—cover with clumps of dirt, I can’t help but question whether missing someone who’s not yours to miss really is the worst kind of disappointment. Maybe not being able to erase your memories, no matter how hard you try, is worse.

            At least I tried. But second chances aren’t always what they cracked up to be, after all.

Cracked

I think I might have finally cracked. Maybe tomorrow will be better.

I shove my ear buds into my ears and crank my iPod up as loud as it will go. I know it‘s bad for my hearing, but I don’t really give a damn. Ari used to always give me a look—the one with the raised eyebrow—when she caught me listening to music this loud. I would just roll my eyes to piss her off. But instead of getting mad, she would just smile at me like she knew I would turn the music down. I always did, of course.

I absentmindedly scroll my finger around the touch-dial, attempting to make the music louder, even though I know it’s already at its max. I stick the iPod into my hoodie pocket and take a deep breath. I hate coming to the cemetery, but I come here every day. It’s where she is, after all. The wind carries the scent of freshly cut grass and rotting funeral flowers, and the sun is too warm on my skin, and it’s all I can do not to scream. I want to scream. I want to scream. I need to scream.

Geez, Adam. Get a damn hold on yourself.

I bite my lip and try to turn my music up louder. Why won’t this stupid thing go louder?

I sit right down in the middle of her grave, not caring if anyone thinks it’s disrespectful. Ari wouldn’t care, I know it. I trace my fingers over the inscription on her headstone, even though I have it memorized.

Ariana Elizabeth Brown

09/13/1995- 09/03/2012

Dearly missed and dearly loved forever.

I hate the lame epitaph her parents chose, no matter how true it is.

I pull out a book and start to read, but a gnat flies right into my left eye. I throw my book down and rub the sting out of my eye, welcoming the darkness that comes when you press against your retinas too hard.

It takes a second for the world to come back into focus, and when it does, a shadow is covering me. I’m nowhere near any trees, so I squint up towards the sky to find out where it’s coming from. There is a person standing over me—a girl. I can’t see her face because of the glare from the sun, so I stand up.

“Can I help yo—“ I say, but my words stick in my throat like glue coated pine straw when I see her face. She looks exactly like Ari. A rush of blood fills my head and I think I might either throw up, or pass out, or both.

She smiles at me. It’s her. It has to be her. No one else has a smile like that. No one else can make my stomach turn like that. 

“Ari?” I whisper. It can’t be her. I must be seeing things. Maybe my little brother is right, and you can rub your eyes hard enough to cause brain damage. My brain darts back and forth between certainty and disbelief, and I can’t decide which emotion to stick with.

She eyes my ear buds, raises an eyebrow, and puts her hands on her hips. I immediately rip them out of my ears, not bothering to put them in my pocket. They dangle down the side of my leg like day-old deflated balloons.

“What—“ I start to say, but what can I say? I take a deep breath and try again. “What are you doing here?”

She doesn’t say anything. She throws her arms around my waist and presses her body against mine. We fit perfectly together, just like we used to. Her curves melt into mine like we are two puzzle pieces, and I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her. I need to kiss her.

No, what I need to do is back the hell away and run full-speed to my psychiatrist’s office. I’ve obviously lost my damn mind.

Ari’s lips brush my collarbone and I almost groan out loud. In that moment, I really don’t care if I’ve lost my mind. This is pretty good way to go.

“Come with me,” she mutters against my neck. Her words, dripping with desperation, leech my soul through my skin.

She intertwines her fingers in mine and pulls me back down to the ground. We sit cross-legged, our knees close, but not touching.  

“Where are we going?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. She lets go of my hand and slides her fingers through the grass, catching blades between her fingertips. The absence of her skin on mine makes me feel hollow. I need to feel it again. This girl is a disease, running through my blood like wildfire.

“You promise you’ll come with me?” she says, barely speaking above a whisper.

I will follow her anywhere. She knows that. But not until I find out what the hell is going on here.

“You have to tell me how you’re here. How can I see you? How can I feel you? Why are you just now coming back? Why not sooner? I—I…” I have so many questions for her, but she shakes her head with a smile creeping up one side of her lips. I always kind of hated that little half-smile. I always kind of loved it, too. 

“I can’t tell you that. I just need you to promise that you’ll come with me. I can’t stay here long.” She continues to play with the grass, refusing to look me in the eyes. I want to reach out and lift her face to mine, want to dive into those green eyes that I’ve missed for so long.

But I don’t. I’m afraid to.

“Of course I will,” I say.

“It’s not here, though… I can’t stay in this place anymore. I can’t breathe here.” She stares down at her hands and frowns.

I look at the grass she’s touching and see that it’s all turned brown. It’s withered and crumpled like all the water has been sucked from the ground. She finally lifts her eyes to meet mine, and they’re greener than I’ve ever seen them. They’re the chartreuse green of leaves in the spring.

They’re the color the grass had been just a few moments earlier.

I realize that she is definitely not a ghost. She isn’t human either. I’m not sure what she is now, but it can’t be good. I’m also not sure that I care.

I nod at her, and scoot closer so that our knees are pressed together. A smile teases the corner of her lips as she grabs my hand again and brings it to her mouth for a kiss.

“You’re sure you’ll go with me? You’re sure you want to leave everything behind?”

If wherever she takes me means that we get to be together, then I don’t care where it is or what I have to leave behind. She’s the only thing I ever wanted, anyway.

“Let’s go,” I say. I run a finger across her lips, smiling when she squeezes her eyes shut like she always used to do.

The earth suddenly shakes beneath us, jarring us closer together. Dirt, grass, and moss cover our feet and knees, and I try to brush it off, but it sticks to my skin like it’s been glued there.

“What’s going on, Ari?” I ask. My voice shakes, but not because of the uneasiness that’s thickening the blood in my veins—the ground is still rumbling and pitching beneath us.

The bramble continues to cover our knees, climbing up our legs like it’s alive, wrapping around my thighs like it’s trying to pull me into the earth to take root there.

“We’re going home, Adam. Isn’t that what you said you wanted?”

The ground shudders one last time and Ari and I are pressed together so tightly that I can no longer breathe. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind when she said she was going to take me with her. I guess I pictured heaven, or hell, or a cloud, or something, but I didn’t think the earth would swallow me whole.

I didn’t think her grave would swallow me whole.

I try to scramble away from her, but her fingers are wrapped around my arms so tightly that I might as well be pinned down by tree roots.

“I’m so glad to have you back, Adam,” Ari whispers in my ear as we sink six feet down into the cold mud of her grave. “You’ll be as dearly missed and dearly loved as me, I’m sure. But at least I have you now.”

I think I might have finally cracked. Maybe tomorrow will be better.