Burn
Two
Shadow
The moonlight pierces my eyelids and wakes me in the early morning hours.
Aunt Lauren is asleep, seeing at the blurry, digital clock on my nightstand reads the time is 2:30 AM.
Groaning to myself, I sit up.
A quick glance outside tells me it's darker than black outside, the moon suspended by an invisible thread in the sky, glowing bright, bright yellow-white. It's beautiful.
My skin is covered in goosebumps, the sheets sticky and cold with damp sweat. A nightmare—no, a dream, a memory—is replaying in the back of my head: He's giving me a beautiful smile while holding my smooth, perfect hand, the ring on his finger, his family crest he told me, gleaming in the light. He swept back his hair, long and curly with natural highlights from the sunshine, and smirked at me. With a smile that unsettled me to the car, he turned to the beach.
The memory is warped, twisting, changing.
I can hear myself crying—or was it him? I remember tasting blood, my cheek stinging—had I fallen or had he pushed me?
The memory changed to something else: he was curled up on the floor, crying hysterically. I came to break up with him. He turned it around on me, blaming noone but himself, crying and dripping snot all over his face.
He'd wanted me to feel sorry and take the blame and just stay goddamn it.
There was rope under the bed, curled in a figure eight. My face was burning with the heat of my tears; he clawed at his arms and started to scream at me.
"Get a hold of yourself, Chloe," I whisper to myself, rubbing at my eyes. Tears have trickled down my burnt cheeks and make my chapped lips sting.
You aren't a child. I push back my too-heavy comforter and let my feet brush the floor; I swing my toes as they search for my slippers.
I give up after a few minutes have gone by with no slippers in sight.
The house is silent. Outside, the wind is a low murmur of a whispery breeze; crickets sing quietly and bats squeak to each other, to their lovers and children and family, alive in the nighttime.
I slide on a sweatshirt over my pink flannel pajamas, which are made more for a little kid than a fifteen-year-old.
Maybe I'll take a little walk. I look out the window, staring down. My heart stops when I see him, staring up at me with that stupid grin I saw on his scratched-up face last time I saw him, his own doing.
I scramble back, heart pounding as hot tears flood my eyes. When I peek over the windowsill, he's gone. Maybe I'd imagined it? He can't know where I am; I didn't tell anyone I was leaving, so he can't know. He doesn't know.
Shaking my head, I make my way downstairs. The porch is quiet and I'm close enough to the house that I can relax. I kick my feet; let them dangle off the edge of the railing.
"It's lovely out," breathes a voice and I jump, rocking myself off balance.
I lurch forward off-balance.
A pair of strong, strong arms—no, I think to myself even as his strong arms wound tight around me after our first time together (mine, not his) floats to the surface of my mind—wind around my stomach and a shoulder nudges me back onto the railing.
"He didn't mean to scare you," says another voice, much different than the first. Softer, muted.
When I open my eyes, I see Derek's eyes and a pair of almond-shaped brown ones.
The other boy is lean and wiry, with a big grin and his arms stretched over his head.
"Roxxie!"
I hop off the railing, my legs shaking. I'm still shaken up from the window incident or am I still fluttery after Derek's rock-hard arms around my waist?
"Come here," I say softly, letting her sniff my fingers. Her pink little tongue washes my burnt skin, not minding the discoloration.
"My name's Simon," says the blonde boy.
I eyeball his outstretched hand. "Chloe," I mutter back, ignoring his polite hand.
Simon's smile falters a bit at the corners of his mouth; I remember watching his mouth do that if I said something he didn't like.
"I see Roxxie's taken a liking to you," he continues conversationally, like I'm not completely ignoring the humans and focusing on the cute dog that's sniffing at my neck. Her cold nostrils touch my skin. I let my fingers slide through her fur, soft, warm skin humming with energy under long, scruffy fur. She feels like the dogs I used to work with back home—I shut down the thought immediately; home is where he is.
"And she speaks," Derek grunts.
I look at him from behind my bangs.
He's standing calm, arms crossed like he's angry—he'd do that too, when he didn't like someone, cross his arms, when I disappointed him, when I said the wrong thing—I clench my fists tight and distract myself with the pain.
"What brings you here to Lyle?"
I ignore Simon and stand up, my legs prickling as the blood rushes back into them. "I have to go." A gush of wind blows my hair around and Roxxie starts to bark viciously at something behind me as I gather my hair away from my face.
"Chloe…Chloe…my precious little Chloe," his voice says on a breeze.
I whip around and my stomach drops down to my feet.
He's standing behind me, smiling wickedly, holding the rope from our breakup night.
My legs are weak and then they give out, causing my body to hit the ground hard. I feel like I'm going to be sick.
Roxxie braces herself in front of me and continues to bark, saliva flying from her sharp canines.
He smiles wider, his strong hands—I remember them clawing at my legs as I escaped down the stairs, him screaming after me—pulling the rope taut. His muscles are hard with anger, his handsome face dark with it.
"Chloe!"
I can hear a man's voice calling me. I squeeze my eyes shut and tug at my hair, little chunks drifting to the ground.
Male hands curl over my fists, prying my fingers away from my hair.
My heart is thumping fast, like a frightened animal's; I can taste tears and snot on my tongue from crying. My breathing is short, panting. I can't seem to get enough oxygen.
"Chloe, just focus on my voice. Breathe in, out. In, out. Like this." The voice demonstrates. Slow, deep breathing puffs in my ear.
I try to copy him. When I crack my eyes open to slits, he's not there, only damp grass.
Trembling, I crawl to my feet and scowl to myself as my face warms; I'd wet myself. Unable to look them in the eye, I flee to the house and close the back-door behind me. I lock the doors. I double-check the windows and even the attic window.
From my bedroom, I can see Derek and Simon calming down Roxxie, whose fur is still on end.
Simon leads Roxxie away.
Derek lingers, surveying the landscape. He looks back at me. His hand lifts up in a wave. And then he walks away.
I strip down, tossing my ruined panties and pajama bottoms into the hamper; I feel filthy. "I hate you," I whisper as I sit under the scalding water at 3:20. I cry a little, scrub my skin raw. I sit under the water until it runs cold before I get out, ignoring my skin as I towel off.
I don't smell like urine; I smell like body wash. I'm sliding into a new shirt, a Barbie one, when I hear my aunt rattling around.
"Chloe?" she asks, knocking on the door.
"You okay? I heard the water running." I forgot it's too early for me to be up.
I don't want to worry her so I blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind. "I'm fine. I just started my period though."
She sighs, obviously relieved. "Okay." Her heels click on the floor as she walks away.
I slide under the covers and feel the cool, now dry sheets. Tears drip out of my eyes as I cry. My eyes are heavy and gritty and swollen.
Was it a dream?
Was it just my paranoia kicking in?