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. 

Thirty-Nine and Counting

Sam nudges his shoulder against mine. “Are you gonna do it?”

I take shuddering breath and poke my head over the edge of the cliff. I don’t say anything. I don’t think I can say anything. My voice is frozen in my throat like wad of gum.

“Come on, Suze,” Sam says, shrugging his shoulders like he always does. “It’s just water.”

“Then why don’t you jump in?” I ask, stepping away from the edge of the cliff. I turn and walk back towards my jeep, licking away the salt that’s settled on my lips from the heavy, humid air.

I walk quickly, but it only takes seconds for Sam’s long stride to catch up to mine. He gently grabs my arm and brings his lips down to my ear. “You promised,” he whispers. His breath tickles my neck in a way that pulls my focus from the matter at hand.

I stop walking. My feet sink into the sand, and the heat from the July sun has warmed the sand crystals so much that I can feel them burning through my shoes. We really shouldn’t be out here. It’s not safe this time of year.

I gaze up at Sam. A slight huff of wind dances through his hair, making his curls change shapes. Ugh. Why? Why do I have to be the one to save his mom?

Because someone has to take care of her while she recovers, and it should be her own son, right? Right.

“Close your eyes,” I grumble.

The biggest of smiles lights up his face, and he crushes me into his arms. I breathe in his scent one last time—red roses and pine trees—before I push myself away from him. I can’t let him get to me like this. He doesn’t notice my contempt, though, and he turns away from me as I start to strip off my clothes.

When I’m standing in nothing but my white slip, I walk over to the edge of the man-made cliff again. I peer down at the water below me, where a single white steeple protrudes through the black rippling water. It used to be a city before the flood—a city built with homemade magic and voodoo, and the water swirls with it now. Legend says that if one person jumps into the water, he or she can choose a dying person to save.

No one speaks of the costs, though. This is what I’m afraid of.

Another small gust of hot air whips my hair around my shoulders, and I’m frozen, despite the horrible heat. Sam’s lips suddenly brush against my bare shoulder, and I close my eyes and lock that feeling into my memory.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against my skin.

And I then I jump.

…………………………………………………………………..

So far, I’ve died thirty-six times.

Water wraps around my body like a choking hand. It fills my mouth, nose, eyes, and ears, and I hate how it’s a part of me now.

For thirty-six days, I’ve been trying to get myself out of this house. The day I jumped was the day I died the first time. The angry waves instantly pulled me under the surface and claimed me for their own.

The second day, I opened my eyes to find myself floating inside an ancient Victorian house. I’d seen pictures of houses like these in my history lessons, but I never knew they would be so perfectly preserved under the soggy weight of the water. Yet, a crystal chandelier glinted in the filtered sunlight, throwing rainbows on my arms. I wasn’t very good at holding my breath that day.

I hope Sam is happy with his mother.

I swear that today I’m going to make it out of this house. I just know that if I can get out, I can make it to the top and survive for good. Maybe that’s the key—I just have to make it back to the surface and Sam and I can be happy again.

I push my hands through the water and kick my feet, so that I’m face to face with the front door. I grab the brass handle and turn it, yanking it with every ounce of strength in my bones.

 A string of fire inside me races from my heart to my veins, making my pulse thrum harder as my body tries to push more oxygen to my brain.

Yanking on the door does me no good. I know this, yet I keep trying it. It always seems like the best option until I remember that it won’t open. Dying over and over makes you forget things.

I start to feel dizzy and the reflex to breathe is so impossibly overwhelming that I don’t think I can hold my breath for a millisecond longer. My white slip billows around me as I pump my legs and swim over to the window beside the door. I’ve only got 42 seconds before I die again.

I kick my foot into the glass, not caring when a string of red liquid slithers up through the water and into my hair. Who cares if I cut my leg as long as I get out?

28 seconds.

I kick the windowpane again, trying to make a hole big enough for my body to fit through, but the black spots dancing in front of my eyes make it difficult to focus on what I’m doing.

…………………………………….

So far, I’ve died 37 times.

I open my eyes and my first instinct is to breathe, but I know better by now.

But why should I even bother? I have no family. Sam was more worried about his mom than me, so would he even be happy if I made it back?

The worst part of drowning isn’t even the water choking your entire body. Or the terrible headache you get from the lack of oxygen. Or the feeling that your lungs are going to jump out of your throat. It’s the silence. It’s just so damn quiet down here.

 I take a breath.

……………………………………..

So far, I’ve died thirty-eight times.

I don’t how many times this is going to happen, but I swear, this time, I’m going to Get. Out. Of. This. House.

I kick the window over and over until I’m certain the hole is big enough for my body to fit through. A billowy cloud of blood surrounds me, and I’m sure this isn’t good for my survival rate, but hell. What’s a girl supposed to do? I squeeze myself through the jagged hole.

The burn in my chest is starting to grow too intense, so close my eyes and kick for the surface. I don’t know how long I swim upwards, but the sudden burst of exertion makes me start to fade after a few moments. I can’t die this time. I can’t.

I open my eyes and plead with the water to let me go. I know the sky is near, I can feel it. The light is growing brighter, but I can’t hold my breath any longer.

I have to.

But I can’t.

The cotton candy color blue of the sky is so close—SO CLOSE, that I know I’m going to make it.

 I KNOW it.

………………………………………………

So far, I’ve died thirty-nine times.

I hope Sam is happy with his mother.

Inbetween

My heart quickens as the rain pouring on my roof turns into the clattering sound of hail. Furious wind wraps around my house like squeezing fingers, and the boards squeak and moan. This house is so ancient it wouldn’t surprise me if it could be easily crushed like a pack of crackers.

      Stop being paranoid, Thea. It's just a storm.

      Another flash of lightning cuts through my dark room, and in that tiny second, I swear I see a face looking through my rain-spattered window.

      Nope, nope, nope. I tell myself. There’s no way someone is out there in that storm. I need a serious reality check.

I pull my comforter over my head—just to be safe—and shove in my earbuds to block out the sound of the screaming wind chimes outside.

      My iPod lights up the dark cave of my blankets as I scroll through the songs. I finally settle on Lady Gaga. Surely her weirdo music can drown out the noise. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ignore the feeling of the walls of our hundred-year-old house rattling.  A siren shrieks through my room, and for a few seconds, I think its part of the song. But I realize—too late—that it’s the tornado siren.

      I punch the pause button and yank out my earbuds. The room has gone still. The only sound in the world is the wailing siren piercing through the trees. Maybe the siren is wrong. The storm has basically stopped.

A roar louder than the siren detonates from the sky before I have the chance to move an inch.

Glass shatters. Metal squeals. Wood cracks. My house is exploding into splinters around me, and I can't do anything but hunker down in my bed and cover my face.

      The deafening wind yanks me from my bed and pulls me across the room, dragging me like I weigh nothing. I try to stand, but the floor disappears from under my bare feet. I'm afraid that if I open my eyes, I'll get an eyeball full of debris, so I keep them shut. But I'm certain that I'm no longer inside my house. I'm not even sure my house is a house anymore.

      My body is whipped around like a rose petal, curled in ways that it's not supposed to bend, but I can't stop it. I don't have any control over myself. I try to hug my arms to my chest, but they're ripped away, taken in whatever direction the wind wants to blow them. Something slices across my cheek and I cry out in pain. I open my eyes with out thinking, and I'm astonished at what I see.

      I'm inside of it.

      The tornado that plucked me out of my house has not let me go yet. It's dark, but lightning bolts are flashing around the funnel like a strobe light. Pieces of metal and wood swirl past me, and I try to tuck my head down to avoid them. But the wind tosses me around and shakes me loose. Furious pressure tugs at my limbs, like I'm going to explode the way my house did.

      I hold my breath. I know I'm going to die soon, and I wish it would just happen already.

      This is an awful way to die.

      Then as suddenly as it started, it stops, and I'm falling. But I don't have far to fall, so when I hit the ground, it doesn't hurt as bad as I expected. I lie still and try to catch my breath, expecting the wind to pick me up again. It's raining—drops bounce off my forehead and run down my face.

      What the hell?

      I slowly turn my head from side to side to make sure that my neck still works. I wiggle my fingers and toes. Thank God. Nothing is broken. In fact, besides the burning cut on my right cheek, I think I'm okay. I sit up and open my eyes. The rain is still coming down in sheets, but the wind has subsided for the most part. As I brace myself to stand up, my left hand touches something smooth. I hold it up and laugh as I realize what it is. My iPod.

      It’s too dark for me to be able to see where I am, so I climb to my feet and start walking. Surely the tornado hadn’t brought me far, and I can find a neighbor’s house and call my parents.

I can’t believe I just survived a freaking tornado.

I stick my iPod in the pocket of my sweat pants, and trudge through the muddy grass of someone’s front lawn and rap on the front door. A blue moth flutters around the yellow glow of the porch light. I look closer at the moth and realize that it’s not a moth at all. It’s a tiny bird with brilliant blue feathers and a tongue as long as a frog’s. It flitters about, snatching the bugs around the bulb into its mouth with a quick snap of its tongue.

      How weird. I’ve never seen a bird like that before.

      The door swings open and I am face to face with the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. She stands two heads below me, which I’m used to since I’m pretty tall. The girl peers up at me with eyes the color of sapphires. They glitter as the reflection of the tiny bird’s beating wings pulsates in her irises. Her red hair is almost orange, but it suits her creamy skin.

      “Who are you?” she asks with narrowed eyes. I’m sure I’m a mess after what I’ve just been through, so I don’t blame her for being suspicious.

      “My name’s Thea,” I say. She waits for an explanation. “This is going to sound really weird…”

      The girl puts ahand on her hip and gently shoos away the bird that is now flapping around her head. She looks up at me, her fingers clenched around the edge of the wooden door so she can slam it in my face if she needs to.

      “Who sent you, Thea?” she asks warily.

      “Um… No one sent me here. I was sort of dropped here. Out of the sky.”

      A nervous laugh spills through my lips as I realize that my explanation makes absolutely no sense. The small girl doesn’t seem amused though. She looks… afraid.

      “You’re not from Inbetween?”

      “No,” I say, shaking my head. My soaking wet hair slaps against my cheeks, stinging my cut. “Wait. What in the world is ‘Inbetween’?”

      The girl pokes her head out of the door, looks around, grabs my wrist and yanks me inside.

      The inside of her house is as tiny as she is. It’s sparsely decorated with a small couch and a coffee table made out of a tree trunk.

      “I’m Cinda,” says the girl, closing the door behind me.

      “Do you have a phone I could borrow? I need to call my parents.”

      “Sweetie, I don’t think you’ll be able to reach your parents from here,” Cinda says as she gently grabs my arm.

      A deep feeling of dread spreads through me as I think about the fact that I’ve never seen a house like this anywhere near my neighborhood. Where am I?

      “I live in Lawrence, Kansas. How… far am I from there?”

      Cinda’s nose crinkles.

      “Thea,” she says.“I’m sorry, but you’re not in Kansas anymore. You’re Inbetween.”