Burn

Eighteen

Visits

Royce wakes me up by screaming in my ear until everything is ringing, loud and painful.

My head is split open, pouring slush onto the baby-blue pillowcase. I'm a very bad girl for bleeding all over the hotel nice bedding and I sit up, brain matter pouring down my spine, pooling under my butt-cheeks.

Royce is grinning wide, teeth flashing, shark-tooth sharp; his t-shirt is covered in clotted blood, the scratches on his face gleaming vanilla in the light. "Stupid bitch, get up. Your boyfriend is here." He looks sour and bitter, arms crossed.

"Chloe?" It's Gil, knocking on the door, pushing it open without waiting for my reply.

I 'm still bleeding all over the bed sheets, staining my hair pillowcase sweatshirt, everything.

Royce laughs, thrusting his pelvis into Gil's face as she walks in, right through his crotch. He's wheezing now, hysterical.

Gil's completely blind to the torrents of blood gushing out of my brain, out of every pore, my eyes lips nose ears. "Derek is here to see you." She's smiling, but it's strained.

Something bad has happened, I'm sure of it. I push myself out of the bed, spraying blood everywhere, splattering across her cheeks but she's immune to noticing it; instead, she stands in the doorway, watching me pull my wet sweatshirt off. It plops to the floor.

My arms are bleeding through the gauze, gushing, pumping out my sweet blood.

She doesn't realize it—no, she doesn't want to.

"I'll wait outside," she says, pulling the door shut behind her as she backs out.

Royce is yelling, cupping his mouth. "Get the hell out! We don't like your kind!" as I watch the door close with a solid click, note of finality. Head bobbing on his bony shoulders, he turns to me and watches me with half-lidded eyes.

The carpet is soaked now, squishy under my bare toes, wet, soaking the bottom of my sweats. Padding through the sea of blood, I wade to the dresser, dingy and broken handles with names carved onto the top, and pull out a brand new sweatshirt. This one is pink and flowery, made for sweet little girls and it picks at my skin when I slide it over my head.

"Chloe, let's play." Royce is in front of me, staring, grinning; his eyes are bloodshot, the look of a stoner, of a drunk, but his smile is feral; there isn't a tic in his right eye like when he's been downing a bottle or inhaling a joint. He is one hundred percent sober. Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure ghosts can't even drink.

"I don't want to play. I want to see my boyfriend." I'm throwing Derek in Royce's face and he reacts the way I want him to: hysterical.

His face gets sunburned red, eyes bugging as he starts to freak. His hands rise, fall mid-strike; he realizes he can't touch me. He frowns at me. "Stupid bitch," he says but I don't rise to the bait.

I don't feel tears weld up inside my eyes or my throat tighten; I just feel cold. Ice replaces my bloodstream.

"Go see your little boyfriend," he tells me, snapping his fingers and the picture frame goes flying off the dresser, sailing through the air.

The corner hits my shoulder, hard, and I lurch, stumbling, trying to catch my balance. My knee hits the edge of the bed frame, blood welling up under the surface. There's a bruise now, red with a blood blush.

Royce stares and stares and stares at me, at the fallen picture frame, at his hands and then he smiles, slowly, a vein in his temple popping out.

I scramble to my feet as the door opens.

An orderly with short hair fills the space. He scowls at me, at the picture frame, and then jerks his head back.

Gil hovers behind him.

"Let's go," he snaps in a thick voice and my legs work without my brain, scurrying me forward.

I catch a glimpse of the picture frame, sunlight gleaming off the glass, reflecting Royce's smile. I am cold all over now, fingers toes nose frozen, frostbite burning holes into my skin and not once do my teeth stop chattering. He's a ghost. He can't touch me.

Somehow, it doesn't comfort me.

Derek's hard, hot arms wrap around me the minute I step into the visitation room, choking me, knocking away the frostbite and biting cold.

I shiver in his heat, basking in it. He smiles into my hair, breathing me in. I must smell okay if he doesn't say anything like "you have BO," or something.

He shoves me away, holding me at arms length, eyes trailing up and down. Checking to see if I'm dying still, if I'm bleeding.

Obviously he can't see that I am, gushing all over the floor, all over my sweatshirt. I'm standing in a rose-colored puddle, soaking my sweats and my toes and Derek's clunky sneakers. It's a miniature lake we're in.

He doesn't notice the wet floor, slick and slippery, or Royce, twirling something shiny and sharp behind him. I catch a glimpse of the syringe before I lurch forward, pretending to trip and slam Derek into the floor hard enough to knock the breath out of him.

I feel the air rush above me, inches from my hair, and the syringe clatters loudly, noisy, to the floor, dragging the orderlies attention.

"Chloe?" Derek's voice is warm and soft, deep. It's like drowning in a lake of sensuality.

"Hey! What's…"

The frowning orderly squints at me, scowling, as Derek sits up.

"She tripped and, unfortunately, I tripped too." He sounds so sincere.

"What's that? On the floor?" My words come out shaky and frightened.

The other orderly, a tall, bright-eyed black man with a tattoo of roses on his neck, bends down and picks it up. His hand goes to his vest pocket. "This…this was in my pocket before," he mutters, shaken.

"Must've dropped it," Derek says, rubbing up and down on my arms like he knows why I'm shaking.

I want to tell them about my ex-boyfriend's ghost grinning behind them, sliding through their stomachs, and laughing hysterically in their faces, scratches on his face vanilla and gaping, stretching wide, but they'll fill me up with cold serum if I speak, if I try to tell them the impossible, and haul me away fast asleep.

"Something here isn't adding up." The orderlies keep glancing at us as we stand.

"It was Royce," I whisper to Derek.

He looks at me, looks back at the orderlies, and says, sharply, "Chloe, stop. There's no such things as ghosts." And then, even sharper, "You really are crazy. No wonder they stuck you here."

That hurts, piercing me like a million daggers. His eyes are cloudy, and I can't read his impassive face so my body turns around.

"Take me back."

I'm choking up now, big, hot tears filling my eyes, my throat tightening.

"Ch—" He's staring at me, shocked.

"Don't touch me. Would hate for you to catch my crazy." The words are snapped, striking a chord inside of me, vibrating viciously. I can't see him through a blur of tears.

"It's okay," says the rose-necked orderly.

"It's okay. This is where you belong."

Royce is smiling.

I don't believe either of them.