Burn

Seventeen

Bullet

They say there's been a murder-suicide near this place. A crowd of kids huddle in front of the TV, watching with excited eyes in the dark, the glow of the flickering images casting scary, angry shadows on the wall behind them.

I'm sitting between Ramon and Brady, who hold hands behind my neck and whisper silly things in my ears.

"…Thirteen year old Austin Banks and eleven year old Kari Waters were found this morning in the abandoned school near Lyle House for the Mentally Disturbed. It seems he was tied down and tortured by the younger girl until she finally shot him at point blank range before turning the gun on herself," the reporter says but I don't—can't hear her voice, hear the wind whipping passed her, being picked up by the boom mic or hear the kids whispering amongst themselves. I can see her mouth moving and I read her lips.

Austin, with his downy, soft hair and freckly face, so utterly different compared to his brother. His smile always made my day.

A sharp breath catches in my throat, cold water pouring over me as I spot Royce in the corner, looking more haunted than ever, his face gaunt, his frame skeletal. His dark eyes meet mine as a cloud of snow flakes flutters out of his bruised, blue lips.

I'm frozen, all sharp glass and bruises, sinking into the expanse of the couch cushions. My stomach is twisting, churning like a great wave.

"Chloe?" It's Brady hovering.

"I'm fine." My voice sounds mechanical. Lies, lies, lies. Who cares? You don't fucking CARE. You're a STUPID BITCH who doesn't care about anyone but herself.

"My stomach just hurts."

Which it does, but only because my ex-boyfriend's littler brother got killed by Beth's little sister.

Oh Jesus Christ, my hands won't stop shaking and I'm clawing at my skin, driving my nails into it. My short nails scratch against the threads of my stitches, holding me together, a good little doll staying all in one piece.

The skin on my face is bubbling and hissing, spitting out acid so thick and hot. Snot drips down my face, down my lips, burning and carving into my skin at it goes.

Hundreds of eyes stare at the crazy girl on the couch, losing her mind, far more crazy than any of them and I lurch off the couch. My knee scrapes against the edge of the coffee table, painful and oozing blood.

"Sweet little Chloe," Royce whispers and the words reach me in a cloud of icy air, frost crawling up my arms.

My breath puffs out, painfully cold as the icy tendrils burrow into my flesh, digging tunnels and worming into my bird-light bones, filling them with pockets and replacing my with bad memories and cold slush that oozes black tar. It's seeping out of my eyes, out of my ears, from my nose. The front of my sweater is plastered with it, making everything sticky.

I manage to teeter to my room without slipping in the tar or bleeding all over everyone else.

"It wasn't me." The smile is cold and calculating, all sharp teeth and angry eyes. Pale skin stretches taut across his gaunt cheekbones, shadows dancing across his face.

I flop down onto the bed, springs squeaking in protest as my body bounces. The sheets and blankets rub my skin raw. "Oh Jesus," I whisper, clutching my head.

He laughs, a short, humorless one at that, and settles down beside me. He is cold and whispery and everywhere his skin touches me makes me burn, threads of spidery-thin black crawling across me.

I'm rocking gently, hugging myself as the sheets and pillowcase crackles like static.

"At least," he pauses, hands waving as he wiggles his fingers, spidery and long, "not this time." He chuckles, his breath casting spiderwebs inside my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

He smiles when I start to struggle, buck up. He's trying to kill me all over again, his hands crushing me, my skin, nails biting and tearing, beads of blood rising.

My face feels warm, hotter and hotter as something black slips down his cheeks, splattering my face. When I trash about, he pins my arms.

He is all ice and glass, his eyes glittering. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out what he says, what he's still saying, his voice drowned out by the life flowing in my veins, pumping fast and dangerous.

I can feel the vibrations of someone knocking on my door and Royce glances up casually, as though we've been made but he isn't bothered. My arms and legs are strapped down with two hundred pound weights; he's cutting open my chest and my black-tar blood is spilling out, my heart pounding. I'm gushing all over the nice, blue blankets and it looks like a scene from a horror movie.

"Chloe?"

The door creaks open.

Royce barely spares Dr. Gil a glance while I throw my arms across my middle.

My hipbones my ribs my bony wrists dig into each other.

"Are you okay?" she asks, pushing the door open wider even though I haven't told her she can come in yet.

I'm screaming, my bones vibrating with the crying and sobbing going on inside my body while she looks at me with worried rat eyes, arms crossed firmly over her chest.

"I'm fine." I'm finefinefinefinefinefineFINEFINE pretty FUCKING FINE for a girl who's being tortured.

Royce dips a finger into the gunshot wound in his chest, letting blood pool onto my toes and warm them, make the skin peel away and drop to the floor in chunks. It's like acid.

"You sure? Mila said—"

My eyes narrow at her. "I'm just tired." The words are punctuated by a loud yawn.

Outside, there's a loud crash and a wailing sob. Maybe Mila choked on something again and is lying in a pile of blubbery bitch mess, her shiny hair hanging around her while her glazed eyes gaze up. A girl can only hope.

"Chloe, are you sure?" She holds my eyes, like it'll magically make my super glued lips peel open, words pouring out, about the scared little girl trapped in my bedroom back home, her lungs filling with rusty smoke, her eyes burning with tears.

Her daddy is in his room, sleeping his pain away with his pretty, shiny white pills doctor prescribed to keep his monsters away and the hungry, angry sadness at bay.

Auntie is struggling to open the door, screaming and crying—crying so loud that it makes the window tremble and vibrate.

"Yes." I think she can tell I'm lying. It's either that or I'm putting on my best Hollywood Actress face, shoulders back, eyes lidded.

Royce is laughing, his face twisted.

Dr. Gil turns and walks out. "Mila!"

I hope the bitch chokes on all those sneaky things she says to the doc and I hope Royce will die soon because I don't want to see him anymore, don't want to have his laugh ringing and ringing in my ears, no more cold hands on my skin, tearing gaping holes in my flesh, filling me with more tar.

I roll over, think about my daddy's .45 handgun sitting in the bottom of his desk at the hold house, and I dream of putting that cool metal against my burning temple, fire eating away at my skin, and pulling the trigger. My brains will splatter and decorate the walls like morbid, gothic art. Auntie will scream and cry and wonder "how the fuck did this happen?" but no one will be able to answer it.

Royce's laugh bounces in my skull, shattering it into fragments while I slip under into the requiem of dreaming, even if it is the fucked up kind about blowing your brains out with your daddy's revolver and having them be used as wallpaper in your any eleven year old's wet dream bedroom of pinks and purples and stuffed animals bleeding fluff everywhere.