Burn

Twenty-Eight

Monster

My aunt obviously disapproved of the nap Ramon and I took upstairs, curled around each other like puppies, with the blinds and door open. She scowls at me as he flops back down onto the bed, cocooning himself in my blankets while I rise to deal with my aunt's quiet anger.

"Chloe," she says tightly, her eyes narrow as I close my bedroom door behind me. "I can't believe you did this."

"It's not like we were having sex. The door was open and so were the blinds," I explain, already tired, my skin pebbled with goosebumps as the air conditioning blows over me. I'm wearing an over-sized sweatshirt and sweats but even that doesn't ward off the cold in my bones.

She shakes her head. "How am I supposed to trust you when you do shit like this?" she demands, pointing a finger at my closed bedroom door.

Like this. Like cutting yourself up like a turkey, making her worry, being haunted, making her look bad, right? A flicker of anger sparks inside the pit of my stomach, hot and boiling.

"Like making you look bad at work because of my headaches?" I whisper, knowing she'll hear me, and the wounded look that flashes across her tired face gives me the taste of blood. There's an angry, black monster crawling up from the depths of me, ragged and bone weary, and it's making itself known in this moment. I don't have the strength to stop myself.

"Of course not!" There's a guilty expression on her face, her eyes avoiding mine; I'm pretty sure she's lying. Just the thought that she's upset because I might've tarnished her reputation — her image — makes the monster grow and spill over the edges.

"I know I've been awful. What, with my headaches and mystery illnesses. Maybe I'm just faking it, right? I sure love the attention." With every word, her faces grows paler and paler. Her features became taut, her lips pressing into a thin line, angry. The gray-blue of her eyes narrowed.

She steps up to me and grabs my shoulder tight enough that the glass bones that replaced the porcelain creaks. The monster is not having any of it, forcing me to step backwards, and vitriol drips from my cracked, dry lips. "Don't fucking touch me. I know you think I'm just lying. I'm making everything up," I say quietly, but the venom in my voice makes her stop stone still, dropping her hand off my shoulder.

"Chloe," she says in a twisted whisper. Her eyes squeeze shut.

I'm breathing hard, tired and hurt, my arms itching, my skin crawling. Every inch of me — the fiber of my entire being, including the red-eyed monster — is shutting down. My bed is calling my name. Ramon's arms are enticing me to the sweet darkness The inside of my mouth tastes like blood, like vomit, and the air smells stale.

Lauren crosses the space between us cautiously, balancing on a thin tightrope, and the look in her eyes pulls at me, at the blackest parts of my soul. Tears blur her face, drop down my cheeks like red hot fire, and she reaches me, pulling me in tightly.

My bones protest, and the monster rears its head, spilling out of me, expanding and covering me. My hands — the monster's — reach up and cup Lauren's chest, a moment of utter stillness, the door opening, and I shove her, hard as I can, and she stumbles backwards, her mouth open.

"Chloe!" Ramon's hand touches my arm, boiling against my ice-cold skin, and I scream. I scream a blood-curdling shriek that rattles my bones and shakes the black monster. The monster is all over the place, half me, half Royce, and my head hurts so bad it's hard to breathe, and I can feel my ribs pressing into my skin when I inhale.

Ramon meets my eyes with hawkish dark ones. "Chloe, what's wrong?"

"I don't know. God, what's happening to me? Am I crazy? There's a monster inside of me and it's clawing out of me and I'm so fucking angry, and I don't know why." I pull out of his grasp, his nails leaving four long welts across the upper part of my bicep. "I'm fucking losing my mind over here."

Lauren looks at me from the floor. "Chloe, wait, please."

I turn away from the both of them and head down the stairs, ignoring when I trip in favor of staggering to my feet, feeling the scratches on my arm throb, the stitches itch and the scabs beg to picked off. My head feels fuzzy, and my hands are clumsy when I push open the back door, heading for the woods.

"Chloe, where are you going?"

I don't know, but I need to breath. Maybe...I can drown the monster.