"Your lips are bruised."
Peyton was roused from her thoughts. She looked up to Nathan, sitting on her bed, staring at her.
"Hmmm?"
"I said your lips are bruised."
Peyton raised her fingers to her lips as her heart raised to her throat.
"…what you mean?" She said, getting up and walking to the mirror.
She felt sick, looking at herself. Her bottom lip, discolored where Lucas's mouth had been. Their kisses had been brutal, so...
"What happened?"
"I don't know…" She said in what she hoped was a genuine tone.
Nathan shrugged, becoming preoccupied with his phone…
Peyton's eyes shifted across the room—her shirt and shorts crumpled in a ball on the floor…covered in dirt and grass.
Nathan slept through the whole thing by the grace of something or other.
Peyton's hand touched the outside of her pants pocket where she had put a page out of the yellow pages minutes before…
Madam Contessa…Psychic Readings…
……………………………
It wasn't easy inhabiting a mortal body that was not your own.
He didn't ask for it, no.
He'd been sleeping. For hundreds of years he'd been sleeping in a horrific nightmare until one day…
He was awake.
Like a newborn baby-scared…alone…and weak.
He couldn't do anything at first. In fact, he slept quite often. But he discovered, after a time, that as he slept—this Lucas, a complete doppelganger for himself, he could move. First a finger, then a hand…arms…legs…head…
He could see his dreams. Sometimes they were distracting—all of the anger, resentment and sorrow deep within this boy. And then one day…he saw it.
It was a flash—so brief that it could have passed by him…but he saw. It was her. And then it all came back…all the memories…the ache…the longing.
Perhaps if there was one like himself—this Lucas, there was one of her…of his Peyton.
He never forgot the first moment he saw her. She was standing with a dark haired fellow—quite familiar. He was screaming inside her with all his might, willing himself to lift a hand…something. But nothing.
Then finally, he has his moment. It was by the lake…trading venomous words that pained him. Their hands—they touched for just a moment and with everything inside, all his love, all his pain, his finger brushed over her. It was such a small triumph. But he saw a look in her eyes. And he knew. He knew she was there.
………………………………
It was a small, unimpressive building—the plaster crumbling along the walls.
Peyton walked into the building and was greeted by an elderly woman.
"Um…I have an appointment. Peyton Sawyer?"
The old woman smiled and stood.
"You're right on time." She beckoned her along a hallway. At the end was a doorway, no door. She led her inside and motioned her to a chair
Peyton sat and the woman sat across from her.
Peyton looked around, confused.
"Um...are we waiting for Madam Contessa?"
The old woman smiled. "I'm Contessa."
"Oh," Peyton said slowly…maybe this was a bad idea…
"Have faith, Deary," she said sweetly.
The woman took her hand, just a moment, before recoiling.
Peyton looked up, startled.
"What?"
The woman stood. "I see nothing. I cannot help you, I'm sorry."
Peyton stood up, "What? No. Ill pay you whatever--"
The woman threw up her hands, "Your money is no good here. I'm sorry."
Peyton walked towards her and held the woman's wrist—she watched her flinch.
"Please…"
The woman looked at her, almost fearful, yet forlorn.
"She was asleep inside you." She said softly. "He woke her up."
She gently pulled away from Peyton, leading her out towards the door.
Peyton was confused. "What do you mean sleep? Who woke up whom?"
The woman's hand, wrinkled with age, touched Peyton's face and she took a deep sigh.
"Don't deny your fate, child. Don't deny yourself." And she closed the door behind her.