Sun Poisoned (The Sunshine Series)

by Rae, Nikki

  “You didn’t sleep last night,” he states after a minute. He stands, adjusting the blanket around my shoulders, though I have it wrapped tightly around me.

  “No point.” I close my eyes just so I don’t have to think about where to direct them.

  “You should let me help you.” His voice comes from somewhere in front of me.

  I sigh, rolling over on my back so I can stare at the ceiling instead. I wish I hadn’t done that. Sighing only causes a few left over tears to break loose, which I quickly swipe away.

  “I’m not saying you’d feel better. Just that it might make it…easier.”

  “I don’t want to sleep,” I squeak out, taking another deep breath.

  “You don’t have to.” I feel him lean on the edge of the bed, so I have to look at him. He’s staring at the comforter beneath his hand. “But I can make it stop.”

  I sit up more so my back is against his headboard. Immediately, I think back to the last time I was in this bed. That seems like ten years ago. “What do you mean?”

  Myles glances at me for a second. “The sadness. I can make it go away.”

  I want to take time to think about it, but I can’t. I can’t think anymore. “Okay.”

  He scoots over and I move over so he has room. Myles stares straight into my eyes, the blue of them seeming to shine in the dying light. “Just close your eyes.”

  I do as I’m told, getting one last good stare in at the ceiling before my eyes shut. Myles lies next to me, just like last time.

  “Now what?” I choke out.

  “Clear your mind the best that you can,” he says close to my ear. “I know it’s hard, but just try.”

  I take in a deep breath then blow it out. I imagine that I’m still staring at the ceiling or the wall, determined to make my mind as white and clean as their surfaces.

  “Good,” Myles says quietly, touching the top of my head with his palm.

  I blink. Concentrate harder.

  Then I start to feel it.

  The edges around whatever was anxious, sad, and scared begins to blur before fading, then disappearing altogether. I try to think about Stevie, Jade, any of it, and the thoughts get pushed back. Instead I feel lighter, better.

  Myles takes his hand away and moves it to my face, stroking my chin. I open my eyes so I can look at his face studying mine.

  “Okay?” he asks.

  I remove his hand from my face and sit up slowly. I blink again.

  I don’t feel upset, or sad, or angry. But I don’t feel right either.

  “I don’t like this.” It barely leaves my lips.

  Myles moves closer so his arm is behind me now, his hand closes in on the back of my head, gently cradling it. “I didn’t take enough.”

  I flinch, jerking my head away. “No. It worked,” I say. “I don’t like how it feels.” I shake my head, trying to get rid of this light, easiness that’s worming through my brain. It’s no use, I still feel clouded.

  Myles lets his hand fall to the blanket between us. “What’s it like?” he asks gently.

  “I don’t…feel the way I did,” I say. “But,” I have to pause to think of how to describe what I’m experiencing. I’m supposed to be missing Stevie right now. I’m supposed to be worried about my brother.

  Remembering the look on my brother’s face when he came out of that room.

  Does Jade have some magical cure to not feel bad? Will he ever be able to forget what it was like when they told him that the person he loved more than anything would never hold him, kiss him, speak to him again?

  “I feel guilty.” I finally realize it.

  After a long stretch of silence, Myles speaks. “What can I do?”

  “Just. . .” I start. I don’t want any of this. I just want to disappear. “Just knock me out, okay?” I tell him. “I don’t want any dreams. Nothing.”

  He nods once. “Okay, lie down then.”

  So I do. His hand grazes my temple, turning everything almost instantly black. That’s all I remember about existing for a while.

  Pink and Black

  Chapter 12

  “To know me as hardly golden is to know me all wrong”—Band Of Horses

  It’s like being held under a heavy, warm, blanket. I try to think, wrap my mind around myself, but it just doesn’t happen. Every time I try to grasp onto one thing or another, they turn to dust in my fists, only for those grains of thought to get swept up into the darkness.

  Then I’m awake.

  One minute I’m weightless, floating in the dark fog. The next, I’m slammed back down into my body and everything that’s happened in the past few days.

  It’s sunny as far as I can tell through the curtains in Myles’ room. I’m still covered, groggy, and warm in his bed. I try fighting off the onslaught of fear that wants to break its way through my clouded mind, and when it keeps stabbing at me, I sit up.

  Myles is nowhere to be seen. The door is shut. It’s quiet.

  In case I still have a fever, I climb out of bed carefully. The bandage is still there when I reach up to check, but it doesn’t hurt anymore.

  Myles is in the living room, sitting on the couch when I venture out of his room. The TV is on, a laugh track playing, but he’s looking at me.

  “You’re awake,” he states.

  I nod, wrapping my arms around my waist.

  He makes a move to turn off the TV but when I glance at the action he decides against it. It’s better than no sound. Then he stands, coming toward me but not touching. I don’t think I’d be able to handle that right now anyway.

  I have to clear my throat before I speak, and when I do, my voice comes out gravelly. “How long was I asleep?”

  I notice now that Myles is in different clothes than he was wearing when I went to sleep. “Two days.”

  I begin to panic. Where is Jade and what’s happening? Is there a funeral? Does anyone else know? What do people think Myles and I are doing?

  My heart must be beating a little faster with all of these questions forming because Myles says, “It’s okay.”

  When I can’t ask the questions, Myles continues talking. “There’s uh. . .” he says, thinking of how to word it. My eyes dart to the white carpet beneath my socks. “A service this afternoon.”

  “A service,” I whisper. Like saying it out loud will make it any more real or easy to deal with.

  I see him nod out of the corner of my eye.

  “Where does everyone think I am?” I ask, my voice raising a little.

  “I told them the truth,” Myles says, taking another step forward. “And Jade noticed you were hurt.”

  I swallow. Then I suddenly realize what day it is.

  Monday.

  The Radiohead show.

  “What about tonight?” I ask, my voice tight.

  “I talked to Jamie,” he says. “They moved another band into your spot.”

  I let out a breath, and I’m not sure if it’s relieved, but I don’t deserve to feel disappointed about it. Not when all of this is going on.

  I’m about to dive head first into all of the reasons I should feel either way when Myles’ voice breaks through and distracts me. “Can I see?”

  He’s staring at my neck and shoulder, inspecting me. I nod.

  His fingers trail around the Band-Aids, settling on the one at my collarbone where he bit me. I haven’t had the strength to remove it.

  “Do you want to leave this one?”

  I shake my head.

  The Band-Aids are slowly peeled off, and when the air hits my skin it only stings for a little bit. When I glance down there’s red and irritated blotches that I was expecting on my shoulder, but there’s nothing on my collarbone. No trace of how close we were days before.

  “Does it hurt?” he asks.

  The question makes my eyes well up. I have to squeeze them shut so the tears don’t fall.

  I nod.

  “Where?” he asks.

  I can’t tell him. I can’t begin to
describe what this is like. How do you tell someone that part of your life will be missing from now on? That you have to look at the face of someone you love and see that they feel the same void, that they can see the same hole punched into you? That we’ll all be walking around as people with missing parts from now on?

  My hand slowly raises, settling on top of my chest.

  Without hesitation, Myles places his cool palm flat against the back of my hand. He moves in, eliminating the fraction of distance that remains between us. We don’t need to say anything, but he speaks anyway.

  “It’s still there,” he says.

  He’s right. It is. But I don’t want to think of what shape it’s in. Or how Jade’s heart is, either.

  “Why don’t you take a shower?” Myles says after a while, staring into my puffy eyes. It’s not a demand, just a gentle nudge. He kisses my forehead like it’ll convince me further. “Maybe you’ll feel a little bit better.”

  I don’t answer but I follow him into the bathroom when he starts walking.

  “Okay,” Myles says. “Adam dropped off some clothes for you.” He gestures to brown a leather suitcase on the tile floor. “And you can use any of the towels over there.” He points to a shelf with green fabric neatly folded on it. His voice is soft, like he’s afraid to jolt me into reality too fast.

  “What time do we have to leave?” I ask, my voice deep and hoarse from not talking for days.

  “It starts at three, we have plenty of time.”

  I nod.

  Myles steps out of the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind him.

  The first thing I do is open the suitcase. The clothes inside are plain, dark. Adam also packed a small cosmetics bag that I’ve had lying around my bathroom at Stevie and Jade’s from when I would sneak over for a weekend here and there.

  It seems like such a long time ago.

  I pull back the shower curtain, turn on the water as hot as I can stand it, and jump in, remembering to strip off my clothes only moments before.

  I don’t realize that I’ve brought the little plastic pink razor inside the shower with me.

  I’m not sure if I can trust myself with it right now, but to prove that I’m okay, I shave my legs carefully, making sure to not get one nic or cut; and I succeed. The only red that washes down the drain is from the streaks in my hair.

  It’s not until I’m out of the shower with a towel wrapped around me that I take a second to glance at the razor.

  It’s like I’m moving through yet another dream, one I’ve had many, many times before. I bend the baby pink plastic until it turns white and gives way to free what’s inside. I pick what my body wants out of the plastic that was holding it in place with my fingertips. I let the cool, flat, shiny razor come to rest in my palm.

  “Sophie.”

  I know Myles has opened the door. I know he’s here to stop me, but there’s no need for that. I’m not going to do anything.

  “I just want to hold it,” I whisper back.

  I hear him take a few steps forward, reach around me, and turn off the water. Then he places another towel over my shoulders, but it’s not enough to block the light from glinting off of the metal, causing it to smile at me.

  Several long minutes pass without any speaking, without any movement.

  Myles kneels down in front of me. Instead of taking the razor away, he reaches around my shoulders for the towel and begins to dry my hair with it. Gently, like each strand will snap because they’re just as weak as I am.

  He lets me hold my hand out in front of me and stare at the shiny, sharp object. He lets me think about how good it would feel to take its edge and slide it across my skin. Maybe on my thigh, where it would feel at home, maybe somewhere else where it would go as equally unnoticed. He lets me imagine the red line it would cause, slick and burning and then throbbing until it felt like nothing, the only evidence being the mark.

  He doesn’t look at me or try to get me to talk. He only dries my hair, painstakingly slowly.

  When Myles stops, my hair hangs in magenta, pink, and rusty waves around my face. He takes the towel and sets it on the floor. I brave a quick glance at him, and that’s all it takes to make the tears start. They’re silent, small, warm things, but they flow steadily. They blur my vision and then disappear, only to start all over again.

  Myles holds his hand out. “Let me see?” he asks.

  With one glance at the razor and then back at him, I nod.

  He takes the metal from me, placing it in his open palm the way I had. Then he closes his fist so suddenly, I wouldn’t have realized it if not for the blood.

  “No!” comes out of my mouth, and I’m moving toward him.

  Myles holds up his free hand, and I back away. He opens his palm, taking the crumpled razor out of it like it’s made out of tinfoil and wiping the blood away on the towel next to him.

  “I’m fine,” he says, holding out his palm to me so I can see that there’s no blood, no wound.

  Then I turn my attention to his other hand, where the bent up object is.

  “It’s just a piece of metal,” he says softly. “If you choose to hurt yourself with it, you’ll feel better for a moment. Then you’ll return from wherever you’ve been and you’ll realize that your life is still the same as it was before.” He holds out his palm to me. “This can’t change anything. It doesn’t have to have any power over you.”

  I swallow, wiping what’s left of the tears away from my cheek.

  “But,” Myles says placing one palm on top of the other and sandwiching the mangled blade between them. Bright red seeps through his fingers again and I hold in my gasp. He repeats the same process of wiping off his hands and the now flattened razor on the towel.

  “It’s your decision.” Myles says, placing it on the edge of the tub. The metal is slightly beaten up now, but it’s still capable of getting the job done.

  Myles steps out of the bathroom, shutting the door behind him and leaving me alone with my monsters.

  ***

  I walk back into the kitchen a few minutes later, after I've gathered myself as much as I can in order to keep from falling apart yet again. I dressed in the clothes that were packed for me. I don't really know who picked them out, but it doesn't really matter.

  Whoever it was chose a plain black dress shirt and matching skirt. They’re the same clothes I wore to one of my great uncle's funeral a few years ago. I haven't been to that many funerals, but if the few I've been to in the past are any indication of what I'm about to step into, I don't think I'll ever be prepared.

  The razor is still in my hand when I sit down next to Myles at the table. I place it on the dark surface, smooth metal against cool wood. Without comment, he slips the object into his palm and chucks it in the trash can beside the sink.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  I shrug. Not really. Does it matter?

  Does anything?

  Myles turns and opens a cabinet behind me. He places a granola bar and a cup of what I'm guessing is tea by the little white string hanging out of it in front of me.

  I wrap my hands around the dark blue mug, letting the heat seep through to my skin.

  Myles sits down directly across from me.

  I know that he's probably studying me, waiting for me to do or say something. I'm slightly aware that he has his own mug in front of him, sipping from it every now and then, but I know his eyes are trained on me.

  Just to break the silence, I start unwrapping the cereal bar in front of me. The bright orange paper crinkles and fills the space between our words—words that I'm not sure will come.

  But eventually, after I've taken half of a bite and let it scrape down my throat, I start to ask him questions I wasn’t even sure I had until this moment.

  “Could you feel what he felt?” My voice fades just as abruptly as it had appeared.

  Myles sets his mug down. I don't look up from the steam rising from mine, but I can see that he's folded his hands on top o
f the table.

  “Yes,” he answers, and his voice is almost as flimsy as mine.

  “Did it hurt?”

  “No.”

  “Couldn’t. . .” I have to clear my throat, making sure that I really want to ask what I'm about to ask. “Could you have . . .” I lose my nerve before I can finish the sentence.

  “Turned him?” He seems to know just how to finish it for me. “Is that what you want to know?”

  I was afraid there would be something in his voice that would hint at him being offended, or confused, but there isn't. It's just a question he needs to ask in order to answer mine.

  I nod once. I squeeze my eyes shut as I start to feel new tears welling. It works. They crawl back to where they came from.

  “No.” Myles' voice is even softer when he answers. “His injuries made him too weak. Even if he had wanted me to, he most likely would have not survived turning.” I can tell by his tone that he's concentrating hard on sounding like he's only describing the process of things to me.

  It's like I'm made out of fine china and he holds the hammer. He doesn't want to swing it hard enough to shatter me, but there's no way he's going to be able to explain things without causing a few cracks.

  “Did you talk to him?” I ask.

  “I checked on him while I was there.” A pause, then, “He couldn't communicate all that well.”

  I take in a deep breath, and it's like there are particles of barbed wire in the air around me.

  “What did you say?” I whisper. I keep my eyes focused on the mug in front of me. If I even glance at anything else, I know I'll come undone. Unravel at his feet.

  Myles clears his throat and shifts in his chair like he's thinking of the best way to word things for me.

  “I just told him that it was okay,” he says. “I asked him if there was anything he wanted me to do and he told me to take care of you and Jade.”

  “He did?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see him nod.

  I sniff.

  “He loved you like a sister,” he says, and those words—words that I have always known in my heart, things that I never questioned feeling—are almost enough to push the tears out of my eyes and onto my cheeks, but I hold them in well.