Erica stood in the elevator, hunched over, hands gripping the shining bar. Her eyes were shut, desperately holding the tears that threatened to pour over. Knuckles white, she took in deep, shuddering breaths.
She glanced up in the mirror and saw her red, blotchy face and quickly lowered her eyes again to the thin, brown carpet. Scrabbling in her pockets, Erica found a crumpled tissue and pressed it to her eyes. Any moment, the elevator would stop and she would be forced to walk out and face them. She knew what they would say, what they would do to her, because she had said it and done it to others, never thinking it would happen to her.
Erica remembered the head-spinning music that seemed to flow in her blood, until her entire mind was overwhelmed by the events and she could only act, pushing, screaming in laughter, shouting insults in a slurred voice. The girl - who had it been? - stumbled around the room, tears streaming down her face, struggling not to lose it, but they had wanted her to lose it, wanted her go crazy. And then finally she had, screeching in what had been the most hilarious way, fear overflowing in her glazed eyes.
It had been funny at the time. Didn't the girl deserve it? Of course she did. There was no question about it, and besides, that's what happens. The girl shouldn't have been so stupid.
But now it wasn't funny. Because this time, it was Erica who was the pig going to the slaughterhouse. She forced herself to breathe slowly. Don't panic. Panic will make it worse. The very least she could do was hold herself with dignity.
She turned to the elevator and squinted at the glass. Still another fifteen seconds before she arrived. The elevators had gotten much slower with age, but since the World Revolution of 2012, and the resulting diseases and smaller wars, no one remember how they worked. No one remember how anything worked. Eventually, she had heard, the elevators and all other technology would stop working.
But that was the last thing she had to worry about now.
10 more seconds.
Erica suddenly crumpled to the floor, her legs so weak and rubbery. She tried to stand up but couldn't, and suddenly everyone was laughing and screeching, shouting at her. But how could they? She was in the elevator, she hadn't arrived yet! She shook her head, and suddenly retched at the sudden movement, but the voices were gone.
Slowly crawling away from the pool of vomit, she managed to stand up, clutching the bar. 7 seconds.
Was there a way to get out? Eyes wild, she looked around but the elevator was impenetrable. The pre-revolutionaries were good at what they did. Erica clawed at the walls but they wouldn't yield. Sobbing, she pounded on them, kicked them, and screamed as loud as she could but nothing happened. 4 seconds.
What would they do to her? Would it hurt? Would she feel pain as she lay there, or just fear? The voices crowded her head again and she gripped it with both hands. "Go away, go away, go away!" she yelled. "Stop it!" 2 seconds.
2.
1.
It was time. But the doors wouldn't open. The glass display was stuck on 1. Her heart fluttered and she smashed her throbbing fist against the wall. Erica rubbed her smarting eyes, trying to get rid of all the tears but they wouldn't go away. And then suddenly she couldn't see anything. She was blind, the world was dark, the voices were screaming, and yes, there was pain, pain that started deep inside her and reached out to her fingertips, burning flames licking at her flesh. Frantically, she tried to wipe them off, but they wouldn't go, and the pain, the scorching heat, it was all too much and she dissolved into nothing, screaming and wildly wondering how this could be happening to her, and when this would be over, if it would ever be over, if she could always be like this and it would never ever go away.
The elevator dinged. She blinked and looked at the glass display. 1 second. There was still 1 second. Why wouldn't it go away, why was the ding still lasting, how long would this second go?
1 second. That's all it took to die, to kill, to make, to destroy. Erica hoped she would die at that very moment, just fall over and never wake up again, but she continued to breathe, her heart continued to beat. What had happened to that girl? Did they kill her? Or just destroy her? Where was she now, where did those people go?
Where would Erica go?
She looked up. 1 second.
Pain rippled through her again, and she gasped, sweat trickling down her pasty skin. She slumped on the floor, body twitching, whimpering.
One second, the voices whispered. One second one second one second one second one second one second.
No.
One second. One second. One second. One second.
"No!" she screamed, her voice escalating into the highest notes a human voice had ever reached, and then higher still, until suddenly her eyes rolled and she lurched forward, choking.
Her hands slammed against the glass display. It cracked with a bang. Grunting, blood dribbling out of the corner of her mouth, she slid back down to the floor.
One second.
Huntress and Her Assassin Pt. 1
I am a huntress. I always was, and I always will be. There was never a beginning. I don't know if an end will come, but I haven't met it yet. They've called me different names over the years - vampire, witch, werewolf, fairy, mermaid. I am none. I am simply a huntress, and there is not much more to it.
There are other huntresses. Like me, they hide in plain sight, finding their victims, hunting them, and then disposing of them. I don't know what makes good prey; I only know what it looks like. When I walk down the streets, casually gazing at individuals strolling by, I sometimes twitch when my amber eyes fall upon a certain one. I get a feeling, a blood-rushing, pulse-pumping, heart-pounding feeling that the person right there will be my next prey.
I don't question the feelings I get. Instinct is instinct, and should be put to good use. My prey has varied over the years. Sometimes, it is small children, most notably a young girl so long ago. Her hair was like spun gold, glowing in the sweet sunlight, and her eyes were an enigmatic grey. She liked to play, this Maryanne, running around all day in her frocks, hating to have to go inside and learn to sew. I hunted her for years, lurking in the darkness, my pale face expressionless as she skipped rocks across the river, or hiding among the twisted branches of the trees as Maryanne chased her brother.
Often, her frocks and dresses would be muddied from her various exploits, resulting in a scolding from her governess. But she didn't care. She matured into a headstrong woman, and her parents tried to force her to marry an obnoxious young man. At least, she thought he was obnoxious. To me, all humans are foolish and trivial, with their useless emotions and silly beliefs and superstitions.
Maryanne fell in love with a handsome but poor man. She was entranced by his looks and "elegance", not aware of how much money he gambled. When she married him, her parents cut her off from the family, but what did she care? She thought she had the world in her palm.
It was then, twenty years after finding my prey, I knew it was the right moment. My partner, my assassin - it was his turn. He crept into her house one night, cheeks flushed with excitement, and struck.
She did not scream very loud. Some humans yelled so loudly it was a wonder no one heard. But of course no one ever does.
Why should they?
There are other huntresses. Like me, they hide in plain sight, finding their victims, hunting them, and then disposing of them. I don't know what makes good prey; I only know what it looks like. When I walk down the streets, casually gazing at individuals strolling by, I sometimes twitch when my amber eyes fall upon a certain one. I get a feeling, a blood-rushing, pulse-pumping, heart-pounding feeling that the person right there will be my next prey.
I don't question the feelings I get. Instinct is instinct, and should be put to good use. My prey has varied over the years. Sometimes, it is small children, most notably a young girl so long ago. Her hair was like spun gold, glowing in the sweet sunlight, and her eyes were an enigmatic grey. She liked to play, this Maryanne, running around all day in her frocks, hating to have to go inside and learn to sew. I hunted her for years, lurking in the darkness, my pale face expressionless as she skipped rocks across the river, or hiding among the twisted branches of the trees as Maryanne chased her brother.
Often, her frocks and dresses would be muddied from her various exploits, resulting in a scolding from her governess. But she didn't care. She matured into a headstrong woman, and her parents tried to force her to marry an obnoxious young man. At least, she thought he was obnoxious. To me, all humans are foolish and trivial, with their useless emotions and silly beliefs and superstitions.
Maryanne fell in love with a handsome but poor man. She was entranced by his looks and "elegance", not aware of how much money he gambled. When she married him, her parents cut her off from the family, but what did she care? She thought she had the world in her palm.
It was then, twenty years after finding my prey, I knew it was the right moment. My partner, my assassin - it was his turn. He crept into her house one night, cheeks flushed with excitement, and struck.
She did not scream very loud. Some humans yelled so loudly it was a wonder no one heard. But of course no one ever does.
Why should they?
Shedded Promise
Nicky struggled to sit up on the tangled sheets of the bed. His clothes, a dark green t-shirt and torn jeans, were rumpled and so filthy his skin crawled. Cradling his head in his hands, he wondered exactly how much he had drunken the night before. There were beers and wine bottles and vodkas...a moan escaped him as his head pounded furiously. Gingerly, he slid off the bed and onto his feet, and glanced at the clock. 9:52. He was way late to school, but what did it matter? Maybe he wouldn't go at all. After all, there was that civics assignment Nicky had neglected over the weekend. But then again, if he was at school, it was less likely he would think about - no. No, no, he couldn't think about it, shouldn't even let his mind wander there. Just forget about the party.
Groaning, he stumbled into the bathroom and turned the water on as strong and hot as he could. Nicky's entire body felt dirty in a way that went beyond plain grit, and he scrubbed as hard as he could with the bar of soap, until his flesh turned bright pink, and then harder still.
The previous night had started out great. He and Russ drove over to Tony's house, and it was huge. Big, white, and parent-less. What could be better? When they walked in at 8:30, the living room was already packed with sweaty teenagers. Apart from the people, it was sparsely decorated, with just a thick white carpet (that wouldn't stay white long), an elegant grand piano, a sofa, and a glossy plasma TV that currently showed a chick flick. Music blasted from an expensive stereo perched on a small table, loud and obnoxious songs that bounced off of Nicky's eardrums.
He grunted and squirted half the bottle of shampoo into his hair. Shouldn't think about it. Couldn't think about it.
They had wandered into the dining room, with a long mahogany table and thin, creamy white table cloth. A cracked plate surrounded by scattered blobs of melted cheese and pepperoni was in the middle, beside a dancing girl. She wasn't amazingly beautiful but still attractive, with her deep brown eyes and shining black hair. A closer look showed her skin waxy and eyes flat. Within a few minutes, the stoned girl staggered off the table and landed hard on the floor. Nicky winced, before he was handed a can of beer from Russ. "Good stuff, this," he'd said, grinning. "Drink it up, Nicky!"
"Drink it up, Nicky," Nicky repeated to himself, slipping out of the shower. "Drink it up, drink it up, drink it up. Bet you're regretting that now." Suddenly realizing what he was saying, he stumbled over to the sink, gripping both sides of the porcelain, and gasped, struggling to hold back the vomit that threatened to come up. "No," he panted. "No, no, no."
The kitchen had been dark, filled with just a couple of boys and girls, a few of which where lying motionless on the floor, saliva dribbling out of their mouths. Russ and Nicky carefully picked their way over the bodies, grinning stupidly at each other as they did so. He felt looser and more relaxed with the beer, and grabbed another one from a table as he passed by. A lovely girl wended her way over and then shoved herself into his arms, giggling coquettishly. "Nicky," she crooned. "Hi there, Nicky."
Gagging, Nicky stumbled out of the bathroom, steam following him, and ran into his room, where he pulled on a fresh set of clothes. Despite this, he still felt indescribably grimy, but that wasn't something he could wash away. He shoved a few random papers into his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and hurried down the stairs.
Slurping his own beer, Russ chuckled. "You gotta chick, Nicky," he slurred. "She's a hot one." Snickering, he wandered off while Nicky tried to detach himself from the girl.
"I'm Delilah," she giggled, reaching up to stroke his face. She handed him a bottle of red wine, urging, "Try it, Nicky, it's French. Bet you've never had French wine before."
Shrugging, he took a swig, and spluttered. Delilah tittered. "Who'd have thought French wine was so strong?" she muttered, almost to herself, before bursting into laughter again. "Try it again! Try it again!"
Nicky slammed the front door behind him and quickly walked down the sidewalk. Pausing, he studied his reflection in a glass window. His face was pasty and there were heavy shadows beneath his eyes. Rubbing them, he turned away, his throat feeling strangely raw.
The bottle of wine was lying, empty, on the floor, while Delilah sat on Nicky's lap in the living room, laughing loudly. With every drink he had, she seemed more and more gorgeous, until Russ stumbled by. "Delilah," he slurred. "Hey there, Delilah." And then they were both laughing, laughing and snorting something strange. Russ reached out and offered one to Nicky. "Take a hit."
"Take a hit," Randy was saying. Nicky blinked and saw him holding out something. "You look awful. This will make you feel a lot better, believe me, man."
"Go away," Nicky snapped, walking faster.
Randy held up his hands reproachfully. "All right, all right, whatever."
Nicky had fallen asleep on the couch, and when he woke up, he saw Delilah and Russ kissing passionately. "Hey!" he shouted. "Leggo of her, man. That one's mine."
He gasped and fell against a tree. "You okay, man?" Randy asked in concern. "Do you have like diabetes or somethin'?"
Russ sniggered and kissed her harder. Nicky lunged and punched him as hard as he could. Laughing while holding his bleeding nose, Russ shoved him aside.
Nicky moaned and slipped to the ground. Randy was saying something but he couldn't hear.
Reaching for a heavy book, Nicky hit Randy's head. Again. Again. Again.
"Again!" he suddenly shouted. Randy was fumbling for something in his pocket.
Again. And again. And then suddenly Russ or was it Randy or was it Delilah or was it Nicky was lying on the floor, and Russ or Randy or Delilah or Nicky wasn't moving, and Russ or Randy or Delilah or Nicky wasn't breathing.
And then Nicky's head cleared and he vomited, vomited all over the floor and furniture, so hard and so fast he thought he would die, maybe it would be better if he died, but he didn't, he kept living and breathing.
"Hey, man!" Randy was shouting. "Oh, God, what did you eat?"
No one really noticed; they were too stoned or drunk or simply not caring. Nicky dragged the body outside, tripping and stumbling and sobbing.
Gasping, Nicky crawled forward and started digging with his bare hands. "What are you doing?" Randy asked in bewilderment. "Man, I'm calling 911, okay? They'll be here soon, all right?"
Nicky dragged the body all the way over blocks and blocks and blocks, a messy trail behind them and then stopped in the grass. He dug with a stick, a shallow, clumsy hole.
Clumps of dirt flew out and there was Russ, lying, and Nicky began screaming. "Oh, shoot," Randy breathed. "Oh, oh, oh man."
Nicky turned to Randy, his eyes red. And he knew what he had to do.
Groaning, he stumbled into the bathroom and turned the water on as strong and hot as he could. Nicky's entire body felt dirty in a way that went beyond plain grit, and he scrubbed as hard as he could with the bar of soap, until his flesh turned bright pink, and then harder still.
The previous night had started out great. He and Russ drove over to Tony's house, and it was huge. Big, white, and parent-less. What could be better? When they walked in at 8:30, the living room was already packed with sweaty teenagers. Apart from the people, it was sparsely decorated, with just a thick white carpet (that wouldn't stay white long), an elegant grand piano, a sofa, and a glossy plasma TV that currently showed a chick flick. Music blasted from an expensive stereo perched on a small table, loud and obnoxious songs that bounced off of Nicky's eardrums.
He grunted and squirted half the bottle of shampoo into his hair. Shouldn't think about it. Couldn't think about it.
They had wandered into the dining room, with a long mahogany table and thin, creamy white table cloth. A cracked plate surrounded by scattered blobs of melted cheese and pepperoni was in the middle, beside a dancing girl. She wasn't amazingly beautiful but still attractive, with her deep brown eyes and shining black hair. A closer look showed her skin waxy and eyes flat. Within a few minutes, the stoned girl staggered off the table and landed hard on the floor. Nicky winced, before he was handed a can of beer from Russ. "Good stuff, this," he'd said, grinning. "Drink it up, Nicky!"
"Drink it up, Nicky," Nicky repeated to himself, slipping out of the shower. "Drink it up, drink it up, drink it up. Bet you're regretting that now." Suddenly realizing what he was saying, he stumbled over to the sink, gripping both sides of the porcelain, and gasped, struggling to hold back the vomit that threatened to come up. "No," he panted. "No, no, no."
The kitchen had been dark, filled with just a couple of boys and girls, a few of which where lying motionless on the floor, saliva dribbling out of their mouths. Russ and Nicky carefully picked their way over the bodies, grinning stupidly at each other as they did so. He felt looser and more relaxed with the beer, and grabbed another one from a table as he passed by. A lovely girl wended her way over and then shoved herself into his arms, giggling coquettishly. "Nicky," she crooned. "Hi there, Nicky."
Gagging, Nicky stumbled out of the bathroom, steam following him, and ran into his room, where he pulled on a fresh set of clothes. Despite this, he still felt indescribably grimy, but that wasn't something he could wash away. He shoved a few random papers into his backpack, slung it over his shoulder, and hurried down the stairs.
Slurping his own beer, Russ chuckled. "You gotta chick, Nicky," he slurred. "She's a hot one." Snickering, he wandered off while Nicky tried to detach himself from the girl.
"I'm Delilah," she giggled, reaching up to stroke his face. She handed him a bottle of red wine, urging, "Try it, Nicky, it's French. Bet you've never had French wine before."
Shrugging, he took a swig, and spluttered. Delilah tittered. "Who'd have thought French wine was so strong?" she muttered, almost to herself, before bursting into laughter again. "Try it again! Try it again!"
Nicky slammed the front door behind him and quickly walked down the sidewalk. Pausing, he studied his reflection in a glass window. His face was pasty and there were heavy shadows beneath his eyes. Rubbing them, he turned away, his throat feeling strangely raw.
The bottle of wine was lying, empty, on the floor, while Delilah sat on Nicky's lap in the living room, laughing loudly. With every drink he had, she seemed more and more gorgeous, until Russ stumbled by. "Delilah," he slurred. "Hey there, Delilah." And then they were both laughing, laughing and snorting something strange. Russ reached out and offered one to Nicky. "Take a hit."
"Take a hit," Randy was saying. Nicky blinked and saw him holding out something. "You look awful. This will make you feel a lot better, believe me, man."
"Go away," Nicky snapped, walking faster.
Randy held up his hands reproachfully. "All right, all right, whatever."
Nicky had fallen asleep on the couch, and when he woke up, he saw Delilah and Russ kissing passionately. "Hey!" he shouted. "Leggo of her, man. That one's mine."
He gasped and fell against a tree. "You okay, man?" Randy asked in concern. "Do you have like diabetes or somethin'?"
Russ sniggered and kissed her harder. Nicky lunged and punched him as hard as he could. Laughing while holding his bleeding nose, Russ shoved him aside.
Nicky moaned and slipped to the ground. Randy was saying something but he couldn't hear.
Reaching for a heavy book, Nicky hit Randy's head. Again. Again. Again.
"Again!" he suddenly shouted. Randy was fumbling for something in his pocket.
Again. And again. And then suddenly Russ or was it Randy or was it Delilah or was it Nicky was lying on the floor, and Russ or Randy or Delilah or Nicky wasn't moving, and Russ or Randy or Delilah or Nicky wasn't breathing.
And then Nicky's head cleared and he vomited, vomited all over the floor and furniture, so hard and so fast he thought he would die, maybe it would be better if he died, but he didn't, he kept living and breathing.
"Hey, man!" Randy was shouting. "Oh, God, what did you eat?"
No one really noticed; they were too stoned or drunk or simply not caring. Nicky dragged the body outside, tripping and stumbling and sobbing.
Gasping, Nicky crawled forward and started digging with his bare hands. "What are you doing?" Randy asked in bewilderment. "Man, I'm calling 911, okay? They'll be here soon, all right?"
Nicky dragged the body all the way over blocks and blocks and blocks, a messy trail behind them and then stopped in the grass. He dug with a stick, a shallow, clumsy hole.
Clumps of dirt flew out and there was Russ, lying, and Nicky began screaming. "Oh, shoot," Randy breathed. "Oh, oh, oh man."
Nicky turned to Randy, his eyes red. And he knew what he had to do.
Doubles
The snow crunched beneath my feet, as I trudged towards the large, gray building, almost as gray as my eyes. "I don't feel like going to school," Addie whispered. "Why don't we skip it today?"
"No," I replied firmly, hefting my backpack. "We're not skipping school and that's final."
She pouted. "Why not?"
I sighed exasperatedly, brushing the dull brown hair out of my eyes. "I've told you, I'll get in trouble if we skip. Besides, I don't like having to make up work."
Stumbling over a rock, I reached out to a pole to stop my fall. "It's all right for you," I continued. "You don't have to do a thing - I do all the work!"
Rolling her eyes, she answered, "Hey, it sucks for me too, Noreen. It's sooo boring to watch you do all those assignments, and you won't even let me out."
"You know why I can't," I snapped back. "First of all, what if my parents saw what they think is me wandering all over town doing who knows what? Second, you know I get really dizzy and sick when you're gone too long and you always stay out for hours."
A short boy with rumpled black hair approached, grinning. "Hey Noreen!"
"Hi Alex!" Waving, I hissed, "Don't say anything, Addie."
"I will if I want to," she grumbled, and I mentally glared at her. "Hey," she protested. "I didn't ask to be inside of you my whole life. How do you think I feel all the time, not being able to live?"
Alex attempted to smooth back his hair as he started walking beside me. "What's up?"
"I finished my science fair project," I answered, adjusting my mitten. "So what's up with you?"
Addie snickered suddenly, and fear flashed inside me for a moment. She didn't normally act up in front of other people. Raising an eyebrow, Alex replied, "Not much. What's so funny?"
"Uh, nothing. Just thinking about a joke. You wanna hear it?"
He shrugged. "Sure."
"Oh, not this one again!" Addie groaned loudly. "She tells this all the time."
His eyebrows furrowed. "What?"
I laughed weakly. "You like my ventriloquism? I've been trying to throw my voice but it's not really working out."
"You do that scarily well," Alex said. "I swear I didn't see your lips move at all."
"Yeah well, I've been practicing."
Addie suddenly shouted a string of profanities that I didn't even know, and my cheeks flushed. Staring at me oddly, Alex shoved his hands in his pockets. "Are you okay, 'Reen? You never curse."
I fiddled with my watch, nerves rattled. "What is wrong with you?" I murmured as viciously as I could. "Settle down, would you?"
"Scared, huh?" she purred. "You don't know what I can do."
He glanced around as we pushed through the heavy doors. "What are you doing, Noreen?"
"Sorry, I, um - "
Addie interrupted, "Why don't you go away and stuff yourself with more chocolate, fatso?"
His eyes flared and he abruptly turned and walked away. "Call me when you're going to act like a normal person."
Ignoring the stares around me, I ran into the bathroom and locked myself in a stall, making sure that no one was around. "What was that?" I yelled. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I want to get out," she screamed back. "I'm sick of it in here, and I want to get out!"
"You can't! You know it'll kill me!"
She seethed for a moment, her anger rippling through me, before shouting, "Good! I hope it does!"
Chills trickled down my spine, and she suddenly stumbled out, a copy of me. White flashed in front of my vision, and I slid down to the damp tiles, sweat coursing down my face. "Addie," I said hoarsely. "Get back."
The world spun rapidly and I rested my head against the cold metal of the door, feeling like I'd blow away in any second. My throat was suddenly parched and my mouth dry, and everything ached. She sneered at me. "How would you like to live inside of me, freak? Not be able to control anything, not be able to live your own life?"
I moaned quietly, dark bruises appearing on my pasty skin. "You can do that," she said. "You'll live that way. Alive, but then again, not really." Addie tossed her hair. "I'll be different from you. I won't let you regain control. Believe me, Noreen, things will be different."
"Stop," I whispered, squinting up at her. The lights were so bright all of a sudden.
She stared back at me contemptuously. "Or you can die here. You see, I don't need you. I'm strong enough to survive on my own, half a soul."
I cradled my head in my hands. "No, you can't," a voice rasped. It couldn't be mine, could it? I couldn't be me, not this whimpering, dying girl in a bathroom stall. "You'll be okay for a while, but you can't live long. A month at most, then you'll start to..." I coughed. "Then you'll start to fade, until you're gone."
Addie smirked. "You just want control. Your petty tricks won't work. Goodbye, Noreen." She sauntered out and strode down the hall, and I swallowed, with difficulty. Blood dripped out of my mouth and splashed on the floor, and I studied my mottled skin until everything went black.
"No," I replied firmly, hefting my backpack. "We're not skipping school and that's final."
She pouted. "Why not?"
I sighed exasperatedly, brushing the dull brown hair out of my eyes. "I've told you, I'll get in trouble if we skip. Besides, I don't like having to make up work."
Stumbling over a rock, I reached out to a pole to stop my fall. "It's all right for you," I continued. "You don't have to do a thing - I do all the work!"
Rolling her eyes, she answered, "Hey, it sucks for me too, Noreen. It's sooo boring to watch you do all those assignments, and you won't even let me out."
"You know why I can't," I snapped back. "First of all, what if my parents saw what they think is me wandering all over town doing who knows what? Second, you know I get really dizzy and sick when you're gone too long and you always stay out for hours."
A short boy with rumpled black hair approached, grinning. "Hey Noreen!"
"Hi Alex!" Waving, I hissed, "Don't say anything, Addie."
"I will if I want to," she grumbled, and I mentally glared at her. "Hey," she protested. "I didn't ask to be inside of you my whole life. How do you think I feel all the time, not being able to live?"
Alex attempted to smooth back his hair as he started walking beside me. "What's up?"
"I finished my science fair project," I answered, adjusting my mitten. "So what's up with you?"
Addie snickered suddenly, and fear flashed inside me for a moment. She didn't normally act up in front of other people. Raising an eyebrow, Alex replied, "Not much. What's so funny?"
"Uh, nothing. Just thinking about a joke. You wanna hear it?"
He shrugged. "Sure."
"Oh, not this one again!" Addie groaned loudly. "She tells this all the time."
His eyebrows furrowed. "What?"
I laughed weakly. "You like my ventriloquism? I've been trying to throw my voice but it's not really working out."
"You do that scarily well," Alex said. "I swear I didn't see your lips move at all."
"Yeah well, I've been practicing."
Addie suddenly shouted a string of profanities that I didn't even know, and my cheeks flushed. Staring at me oddly, Alex shoved his hands in his pockets. "Are you okay, 'Reen? You never curse."
I fiddled with my watch, nerves rattled. "What is wrong with you?" I murmured as viciously as I could. "Settle down, would you?"
"Scared, huh?" she purred. "You don't know what I can do."
He glanced around as we pushed through the heavy doors. "What are you doing, Noreen?"
"Sorry, I, um - "
Addie interrupted, "Why don't you go away and stuff yourself with more chocolate, fatso?"
His eyes flared and he abruptly turned and walked away. "Call me when you're going to act like a normal person."
Ignoring the stares around me, I ran into the bathroom and locked myself in a stall, making sure that no one was around. "What was that?" I yelled. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I want to get out," she screamed back. "I'm sick of it in here, and I want to get out!"
"You can't! You know it'll kill me!"
She seethed for a moment, her anger rippling through me, before shouting, "Good! I hope it does!"
Chills trickled down my spine, and she suddenly stumbled out, a copy of me. White flashed in front of my vision, and I slid down to the damp tiles, sweat coursing down my face. "Addie," I said hoarsely. "Get back."
The world spun rapidly and I rested my head against the cold metal of the door, feeling like I'd blow away in any second. My throat was suddenly parched and my mouth dry, and everything ached. She sneered at me. "How would you like to live inside of me, freak? Not be able to control anything, not be able to live your own life?"
I moaned quietly, dark bruises appearing on my pasty skin. "You can do that," she said. "You'll live that way. Alive, but then again, not really." Addie tossed her hair. "I'll be different from you. I won't let you regain control. Believe me, Noreen, things will be different."
"Stop," I whispered, squinting up at her. The lights were so bright all of a sudden.
She stared back at me contemptuously. "Or you can die here. You see, I don't need you. I'm strong enough to survive on my own, half a soul."
I cradled my head in my hands. "No, you can't," a voice rasped. It couldn't be mine, could it? I couldn't be me, not this whimpering, dying girl in a bathroom stall. "You'll be okay for a while, but you can't live long. A month at most, then you'll start to..." I coughed. "Then you'll start to fade, until you're gone."
Addie smirked. "You just want control. Your petty tricks won't work. Goodbye, Noreen." She sauntered out and strode down the hall, and I swallowed, with difficulty. Blood dripped out of my mouth and splashed on the floor, and I studied my mottled skin until everything went black.
I Said Yes
I hate the way I have become, the fragility of me, as if I wasn't a healthy twenty-year-old, as if I was a porcelain doll. I shuffle through the house by day, feet making a gentle rasping noise on the floors, small and hunched over against the bitter winds flung towards me. And then other times, I'm almost like myself. I smile and laugh and sometimes he's not even in my mind, not even hiding around the deepest corner, and then someone will say something. Something that seems innocent, but the pain will burn fresh and tears bubble over. The slightest touch will topple me over until I'm lying, shattered in the familiar jagged pieces I was not so long ago.
I hate the way they look at me, their eyes so pitying, but how can they understand? How can their happy minds comprehend my feelings, when I can barely comprehend them myself? Oh yes, some of them have lost their loved ones, but they have never lost what I have. They have never lost their heart, their soul, their very reason for existing. Their gentle words and comfort - it means nothing. Bright wrapping around an empty box, presented with a hug; they mean well but they don't know. How could they?
I hate the night more than I do the day, the way the sheets stick to my sweating skin, how they rustle as I roll over. The unbearable noises from outside, the jingling of the crickets, buzzing of the insects, and squawking of the birds, rushes into my ears, and I'm sure it's amplified. He had called it a symphony, finer than Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart combined, because he said it truly described what they could only attempt to do. It's not a symphony. It's a cacophony, an abomination, whose only purpose is to torture me further.
I hate the slippery tears that slide down my cheeks, the quiet ones especially. I sit in the rocking chair and let them fall, let them drip onto my sweater and fade into the carpet. Not so much as a sigh escapes from me as I sit, utterly still, staring straight ahead. And then other times I can only cradle my head in my arms as I gasp and whimper, tears flowing freely, and then I can't control them. Whenever I had cried in the past, he was always there, gently wiping my tears away and pulling me closer to him. But now there was no one to hold me, no one who refrained from telling me it would be okay, no one who could understand what and how I was feeling more than I did myself.
I hate the cookies, the muffins, the cakes, and the presents they bring, the sweetened clumps of nothing they shove down my throat. They don't know what I like, and bring all the wrong things. I've never liked chocolate chip cookies or cheese cake or Godiva chocolate. I like sugar cookies sprinkled with just the right amount of cinnamon, and Hershey's milk chocolate without any nuts. He knew what I liked. He would bring me pieces of chocolate with the most extravagant wrappings, brilliant colors and minute bows, and it would turn out to be just good old Hershey's. We would both laugh, and then maybe watch a movie, with him feeding me popcorn, one by one.
I hate him. When we were little, he would tease me for my freckles, my buck teeth. He would pull my braids and put frogs and spiders in my schoolbag. Sometimes he stole my homework and wouldn't give it back, and he would break my toys and get my new dresses dirty. Every prank there was, he did it on me.
I hate him. When we got older, he shyly asked me to come to the dance with him. I said yes. We danced the whole time, and it was so much fun. He whirled me around until I got dizzy, and made sure I wasn't thirsty or hungry in the least. At the end we were dancing in the center, everyone circled around us and cheering us on. A few weeks afterward I went to the movies with him. It was a terrible movie and he was so sorry, but I didn't mind. Truth be told, I didn't even watch the movie. I watched him. And it was great.
I hate him. When we graduated from college, he proposed to me in the restaurant. He got down on his knee and held out a ring I knew he couldn't afford and asked me to please marry him. I said yes. The wedding was elegant, with me in the most beautiful white dress and him in a tux that fit him better than I imagined. Ever since then I've worn the ring every day, even now.
I hate him. I woke up in the night and saw him throwing clothes in a suitcase, and I asked him where he was going. He glanced at me, but his gaze wasn't the soft, loving one I was used to, but hard and irritable. He said he was going away, and that he would maybe come back. I felt like my stomach was punctured and asked him why, why was he leaving me, why? And he said he had to, that he couldn't stay, and wouldn't say anything more. I followed him outside, in the pouring rain, and grabbed his arm and beseeched him to at least tell me why. Was it another girl? Did he just...grow tired of me? My tears rained more heavily than the sky, but he only sharply told me to let go. I clung for another moment, eyes desperate, heart thudding, and then, I said yes. My fingers slipped off his coat sleeve, and he smoothed it out, before hurrying onto the bus. He didn't look back, but I stared until the bus went out of sight. Dressed in a bath robe, in the pouring rain, lost, alone, and confused.
I hate him. I didn't know him. I never did. I didn't know who he was, what he was like. I could tell you his favorite color, candy, clothes, drink, food, his favorite everything, but I can't tell you who he is. I don't know. He was my heart, but I wasn't his. And when he left me, he took my heart away and never gave it back.
I hate him. I got the phone call one day, and they said he was dead. Suicide, they said. He was found on the train tracks, body damaged beyond all recognition, except for the driver's license they found on his body. But I know they're lying. He wasn't found dead at all. He's out there somewhere, I know he is, because I found his note on my kitchen counter: Say yes. I knew it was him, I know his handwriting. He was there and alive but I still didn't know him.
I hate him. But I said yes. Because I love him.
I hate the way they look at me, their eyes so pitying, but how can they understand? How can their happy minds comprehend my feelings, when I can barely comprehend them myself? Oh yes, some of them have lost their loved ones, but they have never lost what I have. They have never lost their heart, their soul, their very reason for existing. Their gentle words and comfort - it means nothing. Bright wrapping around an empty box, presented with a hug; they mean well but they don't know. How could they?
I hate the night more than I do the day, the way the sheets stick to my sweating skin, how they rustle as I roll over. The unbearable noises from outside, the jingling of the crickets, buzzing of the insects, and squawking of the birds, rushes into my ears, and I'm sure it's amplified. He had called it a symphony, finer than Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart combined, because he said it truly described what they could only attempt to do. It's not a symphony. It's a cacophony, an abomination, whose only purpose is to torture me further.
I hate the slippery tears that slide down my cheeks, the quiet ones especially. I sit in the rocking chair and let them fall, let them drip onto my sweater and fade into the carpet. Not so much as a sigh escapes from me as I sit, utterly still, staring straight ahead. And then other times I can only cradle my head in my arms as I gasp and whimper, tears flowing freely, and then I can't control them. Whenever I had cried in the past, he was always there, gently wiping my tears away and pulling me closer to him. But now there was no one to hold me, no one who refrained from telling me it would be okay, no one who could understand what and how I was feeling more than I did myself.
I hate the cookies, the muffins, the cakes, and the presents they bring, the sweetened clumps of nothing they shove down my throat. They don't know what I like, and bring all the wrong things. I've never liked chocolate chip cookies or cheese cake or Godiva chocolate. I like sugar cookies sprinkled with just the right amount of cinnamon, and Hershey's milk chocolate without any nuts. He knew what I liked. He would bring me pieces of chocolate with the most extravagant wrappings, brilliant colors and minute bows, and it would turn out to be just good old Hershey's. We would both laugh, and then maybe watch a movie, with him feeding me popcorn, one by one.
I hate him. When we were little, he would tease me for my freckles, my buck teeth. He would pull my braids and put frogs and spiders in my schoolbag. Sometimes he stole my homework and wouldn't give it back, and he would break my toys and get my new dresses dirty. Every prank there was, he did it on me.
I hate him. When we got older, he shyly asked me to come to the dance with him. I said yes. We danced the whole time, and it was so much fun. He whirled me around until I got dizzy, and made sure I wasn't thirsty or hungry in the least. At the end we were dancing in the center, everyone circled around us and cheering us on. A few weeks afterward I went to the movies with him. It was a terrible movie and he was so sorry, but I didn't mind. Truth be told, I didn't even watch the movie. I watched him. And it was great.
I hate him. When we graduated from college, he proposed to me in the restaurant. He got down on his knee and held out a ring I knew he couldn't afford and asked me to please marry him. I said yes. The wedding was elegant, with me in the most beautiful white dress and him in a tux that fit him better than I imagined. Ever since then I've worn the ring every day, even now.
I hate him. I woke up in the night and saw him throwing clothes in a suitcase, and I asked him where he was going. He glanced at me, but his gaze wasn't the soft, loving one I was used to, but hard and irritable. He said he was going away, and that he would maybe come back. I felt like my stomach was punctured and asked him why, why was he leaving me, why? And he said he had to, that he couldn't stay, and wouldn't say anything more. I followed him outside, in the pouring rain, and grabbed his arm and beseeched him to at least tell me why. Was it another girl? Did he just...grow tired of me? My tears rained more heavily than the sky, but he only sharply told me to let go. I clung for another moment, eyes desperate, heart thudding, and then, I said yes. My fingers slipped off his coat sleeve, and he smoothed it out, before hurrying onto the bus. He didn't look back, but I stared until the bus went out of sight. Dressed in a bath robe, in the pouring rain, lost, alone, and confused.
I hate him. I didn't know him. I never did. I didn't know who he was, what he was like. I could tell you his favorite color, candy, clothes, drink, food, his favorite everything, but I can't tell you who he is. I don't know. He was my heart, but I wasn't his. And when he left me, he took my heart away and never gave it back.
I hate him. I got the phone call one day, and they said he was dead. Suicide, they said. He was found on the train tracks, body damaged beyond all recognition, except for the driver's license they found on his body. But I know they're lying. He wasn't found dead at all. He's out there somewhere, I know he is, because I found his note on my kitchen counter: Say yes. I knew it was him, I know his handwriting. He was there and alive but I still didn't know him.
I hate him. But I said yes. Because I love him.