Burn
Tongue
Seven
The boys and Tori grow accustomed to seeing me in their house and Aunt Lauren has given up, surprisingly.
I stay out of Derek's room unless he's in there; I hate being alone where they killed Royce by myself.
At first, Tori doesn't seem to like another female in the house or, more accurately, "Derek and his girlfriend playing tonsil hockey" (I blushed and assured her we weren't anything of the sort), but she slowly grows to the idea of having another girl in the house, extra estrogen she told me.
Simon's happy to have someone else to babble about comics to and Derek, well, I don't know what he thinks of me staying in his house.
As for the shooting, it's reeling in my brain still. Whenever I close my eyes, I see Royce's lifeless body, lying there, Officer Liam holding his gun out, smoke thinning out, my ears ringing. The smell of blood soaks my lungs. The smile on Royce's lips flashes.
"Chloe?" It's Derek, poking his head into the laundry room as I fold the laundry, holding one of Tori's thongs. "Dad's running out to buy some milk and sweets. Want anything?"
"Marshmallows."
He grins at me, so fast that I'm not sure I've seen anything and steps into the room. His nose wrinkles at the sight of his sister's underwear. "Ew."
I snicker and quietly fold the underwear into her pile. I hold up a sail of a t-shirt and glance at the faint pit stains and add it to Derek's pile.
"Do you want to talk about it?" He's aiming for nonchalance but the continuous wiping of his palms on his jeans gives his anxiety away. His leg bounces as he hops up on the counter.
"I don't know," I answer honestly because, well, I don't.
I don't know how to feel about Royce being dead; it isn't that much of a shock, more of a relief. I know I should feel traumatized over watching a boy get shot but I feel lighter, lighter than I had been in a very long time. The weight that has been shadowing my every step, every move, is gone.
"I'm glad he didn't shoot you," I tell Derek, picking up one of my bras and sliding it under a tanktop.
"It's not like it'd matter," he mutters and I whip around to face him.
"Don't you ever say that," I hiss and his eyes flicker down to me, surprise lingering in those green orbs.
"Why?" he asks in a sort of tight voice.
"Because you mean so much to me, to the family, to everyone. You…you're my best friends and I-I don't know where'd I'd be without you," I say.
He shakes his head, disbelieving.
I get to my feet and grab his shoulders, standing on my tiptoes to reach them. I rattle him.
"Don't say that. You mean everything to me; if we hadn't met, I probably would've killed myself. I lost my mom, my dad, my skin…I can't lose you, too. I can't. I lost Royce too but I don't care. I care so much about you and-and I would've killed myself. I don't have anything to live for. My aunt's never home…my family is dead…the one man I thought I loved is dead."
Tears flood my vision and the lump jammed in my throat keeps me from speaking anymore.. I wipe at my eyes but the tears keep coming, rolling down my cheeks, burning my skin, leaving trails of black in their wake.
Derek coos to me softly and wraps me in his warmth.
I continue to cry. "So don't say you aren't worth it, okay? C-Cause…I don't want to lose y-you."
"I'm sorry." His breath tickles my ear as he rocks me, stroking my hair. "I'm sorry," he repeats as I cry and cry, until I'm close to heaving and have to suck in lots of air to keep from vomiting all over him. I pull away and wipe my face.
"Here."
He dampens a washcloths and wrings it out for me; he hands it off and I press it against my face, thankful for the cooling water. Minutes crawl by. I peel off the cloth and feel my face; it's warm and splotchy and my eyes are throbbing.
"I'm sorry." I wring my hands.
He pinches my chin between his thumb and the knuckle of his pointer finger and tilts my face up, looking down into my eyes.
I can get lost in those green depths, shining with affection. My breath hitches as he licks his lips and leans down.
He's close enough for his breath to fan across my lips as I close my eyes, willing for him to kiss me.
I want his lips on mine, mouth soft and touching mine, his hands on me, holding me close. I've wanted it since he stumbled across me all those months ago, grass in my hair, hidden in the folds of my sweater. And then he isn't there anymore, cold air attacks me and I wish he was there, filling the iciness with his heat.
"I…" he begins and the look on his face, the regret, the sadness but mostly—mainly the guilt, makes my heart drop to my toes.
"I-it's f-fi-ine," I mutter, ducking my head down.
"Chloe, I—" he begins softly and my heart's stomped on my a soccer team wearing cleats with metal spikes.
"No, no, I g-g-get i-it," I say and quickly scoops up the laundry. I brush passed him and try to blink away the tears gathering in my eyes.
"Chloe," he calls after me as the tears begin to fall.
I dump the laundry quickly at their respected doors and kick the basket into the laundry room.
Derek's gone.
I head up to the bathroom and lock the door behind me.
"Chloe?" It's Simon, tentatively knocking on my door.
I ignore him as I begin to peel out of my clothes, wanting to wash away all the day, all the week, down the drain. Royce's bloodless body flutters behind my eyelids when I blink and I want to claw my eyes out, drag his image out of my brain, sear it out.
"Chloe?" Louder, louder. The pounding grows into door-shuddering blows.
"I'm fine." My voice comes out steady as I look at my reflection, a boney girl with dead eyes and washed-out hair, and touch the mirror. She smiles at me.
"Chloe, please, open the door."
"No."
"Chloe…"
"No."
Derek lets out a growl as I run the water, combing out my hair (like it would make a difference), watching the water rise and rise in the bathtub. Clear.
I'll scrub all my filth off and it'll turn dingy, dirty, just like me.
I'm soiled, so filthy and dark, tainted from the dead boy behind my lids.
"…Chloe…"
I screw my eyes shut as I sink into the water, ignoring Royce's voice. "You whore," he hisses softly, staring at me with blazing eyes, stripping me nude, bare to his eyes. "You lied to me. You said we'd be forever."
He comes closer, his steps leaving smoldering footprints. His lip curls. "You filthy bitch."
I cried, I think.
I talk.
I even sing for a while; anything, anything, to drown out his voice, drown out his screaming and yelling.
I scream back, too; I scream and curse and then I just…grow quiet.
He stands in a corner, wearing his bloody shirt, his eyes watching me like an animal, a predator, ready to tear into me, make me bleed.
"Ghosts can't hurt the living," I say to him because it's the only thing keeping his hands from drowning me, his hands on my breasts, holding me under the water while the air fights to get to my lungs.
His eyes glow as he smiles darkly. Blood stains his teeth, like red paste. "No, but the living can."
I slip under the water to drown out his voice, thankful he can't touch me. No, but the living can.
No, but the living can.
No, but the living can.
The living can.
Living can.
A chill works up my back.