Sealed

Today is the day that I might die. I never thought I‘d hope for my own death, but if it will save countless others, then it must be so.

“Alina?” my mother calls from her bed. Her voice chokes on the end of my name, and she falls into one of her coughing fits that have been growing steadily worse and more frequent.

I fasten the last button on my jacket and quickly pull on my warmest pair of boots.

“Alina… please… come in…. here,” Mother manages to wheeze out between her gagging coughs.

I run into her bedroom, breathless by the time I reach her side. I fear that every time she has one of these fits that it may be her last. She is so small under the covers that I can barely make out her tiny frame. Before she got sick, she was a strong, muscled warrior of a woman, but now the outlines of her bones peek through her crepe-thin skin.

I pick up the tin cup of water from the table beside the bed and pull the covers away from her face. I try not to cringe at the deep purple circles that run around her eyes. Mother looks up at me with a smile, despite that fact she knows she’s dying.

“Where are you going, baby?” she asks. She reaches up to run her fingers through my hair, and I feel a twinge of guilt. She doesn’t know what I’m about to do, nor will I tell her.

“I’m just going to see Ethan off. He’s in the Fight today.”

Her eyes immediately snap to attention. “That’s today? It can’t be time for that already…”

Her voice trails off, and the sparkle disappears from her eyes. I know I’ve lost her for now. Her lucidity never lasts very long these days. It’s why I have to win the fight. I need her to have the money pay for her treatments so she can finish her research and figure out how to stop this monstrosity forever. My life will cost nothing. Hers will cost everything.

I squeeze her hand and lean down to kiss her on the cheek. Despite being sick, she still smells like lavender.  I don’t want to leave her, but I have to. I can’t be late today. Plus, I still have to go tell Ethan goodbye.

As I pick up my gloves and slide my cold-numbed hands into them, someone taps lightly on the front door. I already know it’s Ethan by rhythm of it—only he knocks that way. I swing the door open with a smile, glad to see him—even if it may be the last time. But my smile instantly falls when I see the look on his face.

He knows.

I wasn’t going to tell him either.

“Alina. You cannot do this to your mother,” he pleads, barging through the front door and slamming it behind him.

We’ve already had this conversation, and he knows it’s the only way I will ever be able to get enough money for my mother’s medicine. I just never told him that I was serious about going through with it. Someone from the council must have called him. They don’t like it when women participate, even though it’s not illegal.

“I’m not doing this to her, I’m doing this for her,” I say. “You know good and well she’s the only one smart enough to figure out how to save everyone and stop this mess.”

His face crumples, and for a split second, my decision to Fight wavers. I don’t like it when he looks at me like that. It makes my blood go cold. I don’t blame him for being upset with me, but it’s my decision and mine only. I’ll sign my life over to the Council with a fingerprint of my own blood, and I will be sealed to them until I’m no longer breathing. Hopefully, anyway.

Because in the Fight, the only way to win is to die.

            Ethan steps forward and circles my waist with his hands.

            “Please,” he says, even though his mouth doesn’t open. He doesn’t need to speak right now. I know those eyes of his better than my own, and that is exactly why I refuse to look into them right now. I can’t let him influence my decision.

A piece of hair falls in front of my eyes and he lets go of my back to tuck it behind my ear. His fingers linger at the base of my chin, and his lips are so close to my own that I can feel the electricity of his skin burning in the air between us. I finally lift my eyes to his and it is the biggest mistake I ever could have made.

      Ethan pushes me against the wall and cups my face in his hands. He kisses me gently, like I am the only thing in the world that matters. He sucks my bottom lip into his mouth and I have to gasp for air, but it doesn’t do me any good. Not even oxygen will help me breathe properly at this point.

      "Ethan," I murmur against his mouth. His lips leave mine and travel to my cheek, down my chin, onto my neck. Soft, little kisses that barely feel like kisses at all.

      "Ethan, stop it," I say again.

      His body stiffens and he immediately pulls away. There are only about two inches of space between us, but it feels like miles.  Everything has changed. He knows he can’t save me from this anymore than I can save my mother without medicine.

      “I have to do this. You know I do,” I whisper.

      He swallows hard and takes another step away from me. I hear the faintest whisper of a “goodbye,” as he steps out of the door and closes it behind him.

      Panic wells in me as the realization of what I’m about to do seeps into my soul, and I know that I can’t let it end like this. I can’t let him leave like that. I yank my front door open, my mouth open with his name on my lips, ready to yell for him to come back. But a piece of paper crumpled on the top porch step catches my eye. 

      I lean over and grab it, carefully unwadding it as I stand back up. It’s a picture. A picture of a house scrawled out with a purple crayon. A picture that I have seen a million times before, hanging on the corner of the refrigerator. It’s a picture that I drew when I was five years old. But there’s now a bloody thumbprint on the bottom left corner.

      I drop the paper and sprint down the steps and into the yard. By the time I reach the town square, I lineup has already begun. I spot his brown, curly head at the front of the line, thumb poised and ready to bleed on the scroll of Fighter’s names.

      “Ethan!” I shout. “No! Please!”

      This was supposed to be me. I was supposed to be the one to save her. This isn’t okay. I try to push my way through the thick crowd, but there is no way I’ll make it to the front to stop him in time. He raises his head just in time to look at me as he presses his bloodied thumb onto the long scroll.

      He nods. Shrugs. Mouths, “I love you.” Then steps into the arena.

      And the Fight begins.

Ruby Red Psychosis

I turn off my car and absentmindedly rub the keys between my fingers. I don’t need to drive anymore. It’s about to happen. Too bad I have no earthly idea where I am. The snow is coming down pretty heavily now, and I figure I better let my therapist know that I won’t be making it to our session today. I am about to change, after all. My cell phone is dead though, so I'd pulled over at the first phone booth I saw. They’re few and far between these days, but this particular one is painted red, as if to shout to passersby, “I WORK! USE ME! I’m much safer than talking on your cell phone while you drive!”

            I climb out of the car, shivering a little as I jog towards the phone booth.  It’s too damn cold for anyone to be out here today, including me. A gust of icy wind slithers into my jacket, slipping up the holes around my wrists, down the opening around my neck, through the slits in the fabric that hug my buttons. I shove my hands into my pockets, even though they don’t really offer much warmth. I should have brought some gloves, but I don’t think I even own any. Guys like me don’t need gloves, because guys like me usually stay inside when it’s ten degrees outside.

 My coat flutters around my hips as the wind sneaks through the crack in the door, blowing small flurries of the falling snow into the booth with me, dusting my shoes like powdered sugar. As I grab the phone, someone bangs on the door. It’s a pretty girl with curly brown hair and a smile that matches the color of the phone booth. Her cherry red lips look like something I’d like to taste, but I don’t have time for that right now. I’ve got to get somewhere safe before I change.

Her eyes, which are the color of a dull nickel, slowly rise to meet mine.

“Where the hell did you come from?” I ask.

As I wait for her reply, I blow into my hands and rub them together, hoping that will warm them up a little. She frowns. Without a word, she reaches out and takes both of my hands between her own.

“Why don’t you have on gloves?” she asks me as she slowly starts to massage some warmth into my fingers.

It takes me a second to be able to force my mind to produce words. Her hands feel like the scalding heat of a flame on my near-frozen skin. My muscles are starting to twitch and clench under my skin, and it throws off my concentration. I need to get out of here.

“I… um… I just needed to make a quick call,” I finally manage to choke out. I slowly pull my hands away from hers and shove them back into my jacket pockets. “Didn’t think I’d need them for such a short time.”

“You live around here?” she asks.

I shake my head. “I have no idea where I am, actually. I just started driving, and this is where I ended up.”

She smiles and takes a deep breath. “This is probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but you look like you could use a hot meal and a nap. I actually followed you here because I saw how you’d been weaving all over the road. I think… I think I can help you.”

Her voice trickles to a whisper and her gaze falls to my chest. She looks… hungry, or something.

“But I don’t even know you,” I say with a smirk. “What if you’re a rapist or a murderer?”

She raises an eyebrow, and looks me up and down. My 6’3 frame next her small one is almost laughable. “Yeah. Like that’s even possible.”

“Ok, ok. How do you know I’M not a rapist or murderer?”

Her red lips curl into a grin. “I can see the best and worst and people. And like I said, I think I can help you.”

There’s something about her—something that’s drawing me to her, something I can’t put my finger on. I figure it can’t hurt to have a pretty girl make me some soup and crash on her couch for the night, so I follow her out into the snow. Everything else can wait.

***

A cloud of dust flies up from the floorboards, as she drops her purse onto the floor of her tiny, old cabin, but the girl walks right through it. It blankets her silhouette like a choking hand, but she doesn’t seem to notice, or care. The cabin is unbearably hot, like the way her hands felt when they melted into my skin earlier. It isn’t pleasant at all. It’s like an electric shock to my system after being in the intense cold outside. The musty smell of the old cabin turns my stomach.

I really shouldn’t have let her bring me here. I’m about to change. I thought I could fight it for another day, but I don’t think I can. I don’t want to hurt her, or anyone for that matter. But the itching inside my bones is starting to get worse

            “Um…miss?” I say.

She snaps a glance over her shoulder. “It’s Jana.”

“Right. Jana. I think you should leave for a little while. I can’t… I can’t be… around people right now.”

I can barely finish the last sentence because my teeth are starting to shift and dance inside my gums, and the pain of my body contracting like a dying spider tears me from the inside out.

“Really…” I try to force the words through my lips. “You need to go. Now.”

The change of cold to hot so quickly has been my undoing. It has never affected me so quickly before. I close my eyes and fall to my knees as agony shoots through every cell in my body.           

Hands—hands as hot as fire—grab my cheeks, and pull me back to my feet.

“Man up, dude. I’m here to help you,” she says, her voice dark and low like it was sipped from a cup of fine espresso and spewed through her lips. How does she know what I am?

“Nobody can help me… This… curse… is permanent. I don’t want to hurt you, just go, ok?”

Her fingernails dig into my cheeks and pop into my skin like needles. I can vaguely feel a warm stream of blood run down my face. That doesn’t help with my problem. It just makes every hair on my body stand on edge. A shudder rips through me and I can’t stop shaking. It’s about to happen, I can feel it bubbling in my veins. This is always the worst part.

            Oh so I’ve always thought.

            Her hand explodes through my chest and wraps tightly around my heart. I fall to the ground again, and this time she lets me. She falls with me, landing on top of my torso as she squeezes her damn furnace fingers around my heart. I can’t even make a sound, a scream, a whine, anything, because her other hand is gripping my mouth like it’s been welded there.

            Fire rips through every pore, every vein, every breath, and I wish I would just die already. It’s not fair that I have to feel this pain.

And then she’s gone. I take a gasping, gulping breath and pull my hand to my chest, which is slick with my blood. But there is no hole, no wound at all. I press my back into the cold hardwood floor, and imagine my skin taking on the shape of the grain, my spine speckled and dotted with knots where limbs used to grow.

One of the boards has a sharp, unsanded corner, and every time I take a breath, it picks at the skin in the curve of my lower back. The slight irritation is the only thing keeping me awake at this point. I want to pass out, but I know I don’t really deserve that peace. I let my hand slide off of my stomach and onto the floor. I don’t even flinch when the blood on it spatters little droplets onto my side.

It suddenly starts to itch inside my heart like it used to inside my bones right before I would change. I lose myself in a coughing fit, and I’m afraid that this will make me explode into million pieces.

I squeeze my eyes shut, and when I open them again, I’m standing in a red phone booth. My coat flutters around my hips as the wind sneaks through the crack in the door, blowing small flurries of the falling snow into the booth with me, dusting my shoes like powdered sugar. As I grab the phone to call a cab since I have no idea how I got here, someone bangs on the door. It’s a pretty girl with curly brown hair and a smile that matches the color of the phone booth. Her cherry red lips look like something I’d like to taste, but I don’t have time for that right now. I’ve got to get somewhere safe before I change.

Cloaked

My father will not let me be beautiful.

             "Beauty is for silly girls," he says. "Beauty only causes pain to others."

             I avoid my reflection in the mirror as the familiar burn of embarrassment turns my cheeks a shameful red. My hair falls over my face and I let it stay there; the less of my face that anyone sees, the better. I know that that he relishes in the fact that I will never be beautiful. The doctors said they could fix my skin. They said they could turn the thick, leathery scars that covered my face and arms into skin that I could be proud of again.

But Father told them no. He told them that the scars would remind me of who I really am inside; that they would remind me of what we both lost the day of the accident. The scars are my lifelong punishment for my mother’s death.

             Of course everyone teases me at school.  Teenagers are usually merciless when it comes to pointing out other people's imperfections, and I had enough of them to fuel their entertainment for the rest of their immature lives. As I wash my hands in the girl’s bathroom, I feel the presence of another person walk up beside me. I avoid eye contact as usual, never wanting to give anyone a direct line of vision to my hideous face.

             "You know that Gabe will never go for you," I hear a sharp voice say to my right. I inwardly cringe and look out of the corner of my bad eye. I already know that it's Marilee, but I want to know if she is looking at me. The accident changed her as well, though her physical appearance was as beautiful as it had always been. Only her soul had been damaged that day.

             As always, she is staring straight ahead, avoiding me as she slowly runs a brush through her perfect blonde curls. I let my gaze fall back to the sink, and wash all the soap bubbles from my hands, ignoring her statement. I hope that she will let it drop, but it's in her newly defined personality to drive the knife a little deeper.

             "You know that he would never date a beast like you". She drops the brush into her purse and turns to leave. But not before she leans over and whispers in my ear, "So stop staring at him. You're only embarrassing yourself."

             She smacks her lips and leaves the bathroom, her platform heels clacking on the tile floor behind me. When I am finally alone again, I force myself to look in the mirror. Out of habit, I immediately want to look away, but I don't give myself that pleasure. The glass windshield had shattered into my skin, slicing it open like a ripe grapefruit. The right side of my face had looked like something akin to a lump of raw hamburger meat for months after the accident, and Marilee had felt sorry for me for a little while. Now she just shuts everything out so that she doesn’t feel anything at all. I run my fingers over the jagged lumps on my face, and watch as a single tear zigzags its way through the scars. It's my fault that I look this way. It's my fault that Marilee turned into a cold bitch. And it's my fault that my mother died. I pull the hood on my black jacket as close to my face as possible so I can block out the world and get through the day as best as I can. What else can a beast do?

***

After school, I begrudgingly climb into Father's car. He picks me up every day and drives me straight to our house on the outside of town, furthering my outcast status. I am allowed to go nowhere but school and home, school and home, school and home. The pattern grew old and annoying very quickly, and I frequently think about sneaking out after he passes out every night. But where would I go? I have no friends. Marilee was my best friend before the accident, and she has since turned everyone against me. Nobody wants to be friends with the town beast.

When we get home, I go straight to my room. Father and I have as little contact as possible with each other since Mom died. Having finished all my homework in study hall, I have nothing to do but read; just the way I like it. I settle into my latest favorite novel, when I hear the thundering rumble of a car.

 I walk over to the window and see a black Mustang sitting out front. My heart flutters in my chest because I know that Gabe drives a Mustang. But there’s no way he would be coming to see me, right? Surely he is just pulling over to send a text message or something. But the driver's door swings open and I watch in amazement as he climbs out.

Gabe.

             Gabriel Bell, the hottest guy in school, is standing in front of my house. I watch him indecisively walk back and forth between my house and his car, and I bite my lip in desire. I habitually let my hair fall over my face, wondering what in the world he is doing here. I watch him for a moment longer, and he finally begins walking up the pebbled path to my front door. I can read the curses spewing from his lips as he mumbles to himself.

What could that be about? I wonder as I fly down the stairs to answer the doorbell.

"Hey, Emmy," he says. My heart flutters as fast as a humming bird's at the sound of my name coming from his mouth. He knows my name! "Um, can I come in? We need to talk about something.”

"Of course,” I squeak. I cringe at the sound of voice because it seems to have gotten lost somewhere inside my throat. I know that there will be consequences if he comes in, but his eyes seem to have locked into mine, and I can’t help it. No one ever looks me in the eyes, and it’s like he doesn’t even see my scars.

I step aside and let him come in, hoping that he doesn’t sense the danger in my house. If Father finds out that he is in here, I will never be able to see daylight again.

“Can we go to your room?” Gabe whispers, and I am suddenly afraid that he knows my secrets. “I don’t want your dad to know I’m here.”

My voice lost again, I nod at him and begin climbing the curved, wooden staircase.  We enter my room, and I am suddenly glad that I keep it clean. Gabe makes himself at home and plops down on my bed. He looks so perfect there; like he was made to be a permanent ornament in my room.

“Emmy,” he starts, sounding like he doesn’t want to say what he is about to. “I have something to tell you.”

His sea green irises are burning into mine and I can’t look away. After years of not seeing my reflection in another pair of eyes, it’s like a drug to me.

He drops his gaze and stares at my carpet for a few moments, so I decide to break the aching silence. “Um, Gabe? Why are you here?”

“I… I am the one who killed your mom,” he finally whispers, so low that I almost don’t hear him.

“No. I fell asleep and hit a tree. No other cars were involved.”

He lifts his eyes to mine again, and I am suddenly not so sure that I am right. “I was drunk. I shouldn’t have drove, but I did. I didn’t see you, and my car must have drifted over into your lane, and I freaked out and left the scene… It’s… It’s all my fault.”

My legs suddenly feel like noodles and I fall to the floor. I don’t feel it; I only hear the thump my body makes as it lands in the plush carpet. For years I have blamed myself for killing my mother, and it was never my fault.

Gabe is beside me immediately, carefully cupping his hands on my face, crying for me. He wants me to feel better. He wants me to forgive him.

I want to scream at him. I want to tell him to take his hand off me, to never ever touch my scars, but it is too late.

I hear another thump as he hits the floor beside me. A single tear runs out of my undamaged left eye, and I roll over to face him. I run a scarred finger over his lips and consider kissing him. I have never kissed anyone before. But I can’t bring myself to kiss a dead person, no matter beautiful he is.

I hear footsteps in the hallway and my door slowly creaks open. Father lets out a disappointed sigh behind me, but I ignore him. I just want to lay with my beauty for a little while longer before they have to take him away.

“Emmy, how could you let him touch you? You know why I had to do that—why I had to curse your scars. Beauty only causes pain to others.”

I continue to ignore him, hating him with every fiber of my being for doing to this me. I hear his heavy footsteps retreating down the hallway, probably going to get a shovel. Gabe’s green eyes stare eerily back at me, and I can’t help myself. If no one can touch my scars without dying, then I will never get my first kiss; my lips were torn into pieces during the accident.

Father won’t let me be beautiful. He doesn’t want me to fall in love and end up filled with emptiness and horror for the rest of my life like he is. So he cursed my scars so that anyone that touches them meets the same fate that my mother had to face all those months ago when I—no, when Gabe—killed her. But what Father doesn’t know, is that I have cast a curse of my own. He forgets that he’s not the only one with special blood running through his veins.

I lean over Gabe’s face, careful to not touch him until the moment that I choose for our lips to meet. I hover over him for a second, trying to will myself to not do what I am about to do. It’s wrong. But I can’t help myself. I softly press my lips against his.

Gabe suddenly gasps for breath, and he violently throws me backwards into the wall.

He stares at me in horror. “What have you done?” he chokes out. He knows what he is now—that he’s no longer human. He knows I have turned him into something dark.

A slow smile spreads across my leathery lips, and I crawl towards him, cupping my hands around his face, just as he had done to me earlier. “Don’t worry, my beauty. Now we can be together forever. Now we will always have each other to love without consequences.”

He grimaces and pulls away from me, but I know he will come around eventually. He will have to. Being undead is never easy. But now I have my beautiful Gabe who will have to stay with me always. The curse that now wraps around his un-beating heart will be forever bound with the curse that intertwines in my scars.

Beauty and the Beast. Two hearts forever lost in a scarred world.

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.