Burn
Crisis
Eight
Chloe's gone quiet, especially since Royce. She doesn't want to talk about it, she says quietly to everyone during breakfast this morning. She eats enough to barely fill up a baby bird, picking at her breakfast like a bird, and retreats into her room when she excuses herself.
Dad's getting worried, I can tell by the way he stares vacantly at her seat.
Hell, even Tori's worried about Chloe. And Tori never worries about anyone, at least not outwardly.
"Chloe?" I knock on her door.
A sniffle.
A sob.
My heart breaks.
"Chloe," I say, firmer.
"Go away," she begs.
Something crashes to the floor.
She moans low and then begins to cry brokenly, like she's upset.
"Chloe!" I slam into the door. It swings open as I ram forward and I check myself, stumbling back.
She is a ghost, her pale hair cascading down her back, her gaunt face staring up at me, sunken eyes hollow; her face is vacant, expressionless.
Chills slide down my spine as I stare at her over sized sweatshirt that hung off her, baggy tights rolled up over her bony ankles three times.
She looks like a skeleton, her cheekbones cutting her skin and every bone visible. She reminds of one of those anorexia posters during health class, sad, blank eyes and gaunt faces, able to fold themselves into a desk drawer; she looks nothing like the girl I've known.
"What?" Even her voice is feathery, soft. She wipes her nose on her sleeve.
"Chloe," I murmurs as I lean down and grab her face, stroking her jutting cheekbones with my thumbs. A lump forms in my throat as I feel the fragile bones, the soft skin, translucent with spider-web veins spreading across the pale sea. A sob rips in my chest, tearing it into halves.
A little life flickers in her eyes as she shushes me and strokes my hair out of my eyes. Her bony fingers make my throat ache; her collarbone is like hollowed out bowls, deep enough to collect rainwater.
A noise chokes out of my mouth as I drop to my knees and wrap my arms around her waist.
Her hipbone digs into my cheek like the handle of a butter knife.
I can feel every bone in her back, the little knobs of her spine, the planes of her shoulder blades. She's tiny—and not in the good way.
I breathe in her scent as my face presses into her belly; she smells clean and moist, like hot water.
Her fingers stroke down my skull, down my neck, traces something onto my shoulder blades. "Derek, what's—" she begins but I cut her off.
"We're all worried about you. You never eat, all you do is sleep. Cry. I can hear you talking to someone."
"It's no one."
My head lifts. Rest my chin on her belly.
She takes a deep breath, lets out in a sigh. It ruffles my hair and smells like humid air.
"No one?"
When she nods, I clench my jaw.
She's fucking blank lying.
"I think I'm going crazy," she whispers as she presses her cupped hands against her eyes and begins to cry.
I shoot to my feet.
She shrinks back like she's afraid of me, shook her head and presses a thin, bony hand against her mouth. Tears fill her sad eyes.
"You aren't," I say firmly.
Uncertainty dances across her face as she shuffles back and slams the door.
I knock.
Once.
Twice.
No response.
"Chloe," I say tightly, my voice straining.
Knock, knock.
Silence.
It's like talking to a ghost, a corpse with alive eyes.
The first uppercut hits the bag's left side, sending it reeling. The next pushes it into the wall.
My headphones are on and I'm gone, gone, stuck in that space I live for, breathe for.
I bounce on my feet, drop kicking the punching bag. The bar that I've installed to hold it up rattles dangerously.
Plaster falls thickly to the ground.
I swing hard and the chain snaps, sending the bag flying into the door. I pull off my headphones and wipe the sweat from my cheeks, swallowing hard as I gulp down air.
"Derek?"
My eyes drift to the empty doorway, watching the bony fingers clutching the frame as Chloe fidgets. Her nose is bright red and her cheeks are tear-stained; she looks off kilter. Her eyes are glazed and she looks sweaty, gnawing on her top lip. Is she sick?
"Ch—" I begin but she interrupts me.
She takes one step forward…and falls to the ground.
My heart stops the minute she collapses; hoarsely, I scream for Dad. I scrabble closer to her and sink to my knees, frantically searching for a pulse. It's weak, beating against my fingertips like a butterfly's wing.
That's when I notice it. Blood soaks her sleeves and pools under her arms.
Holding my breath, I push up her sleeve and nearly break down.
Her arms are a ragged, tangled mess of cuts, bleeding profusely; she's so thin, I can see every bone in her hands and wrists.
Her veins stand out like vibrant blue rivers, a map under translucent skin, like a porcelain doll.
"Oh my god," whispers Tori as she gapes down at Chloe.
"Give me your shirt," I say.
She looks shocked.
"Give me your fucking shirt! I need to staunch the blood!" I snap and she whips it off, leaving herself in only a bra. Hands shaking, I wrap the fabric around the exposed arm and the blood stains it horribly.
Tears fill my eyes and blurs my vision as Dad arrives and drops down beside me.
"What…what happened?" he asks me weakly, licking the sweat from his top lip. He looks like he was going to be sick.
"She came in, to talk to me I guess, and—and she collapsed." My voice comes out thin and wary as sweat drips down my face.
"Call 9-1-1, Simon. Now," Dad orders loudly.
I glance at him, shocked. Never once had he ever raised his voice, never yelled or bellowed; a chill settles into my chest as I stare at Chloe's pale face.
Sweat gleams on her skin as she breathes slowly, like she's sleeping. My fists clench. How could this have happened? I bite my tongue until I taste blood.
"You did this."
I whip around and spot Royce standing there, eyes blazing; his hair is damp and his clothes wiped down. A red stain blossoms on his chest, where he'd been shot.
"What?" I hiss.
"This is your fault, you big dumbass."
My jaw clenches.
"You drove her to this," he sneers back and smoke peels off his skin is wisps.
"What're you—" I growl.
"Derek! Who're you talking to?" Tori asks, looking half-angry half-afraid.
My head swings her way and then back again.
Royce is gone.
He is all in my head.